Читать книгу The House Opposite - J. Jefferson Farjeon - Страница 4

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‘Gawd!’ muttered the temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street. ‘That’s done it!’

He was eating cheese. His dining-table was a soap box. His view was peeling wallpaper. And his knife, fork and spoon were eight fingers and two thumbs. Not, of course, that one needs a knife, fork and spoon for cheese. Eight fingers and a couple of thumbs are sufficient for anybody.

Despite his primitive accessories and his faded, dilapidated view, the temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street had been quite content until this moment. He had lived in more empty houses than any one else in the kingdom, and he knew a good one when he came across it. Beginning with No. 17, he had worked upwards and downwards, numerically, until his addresses had included every number under fifty. The usual method was to enter the houses slowly and to leave them quickly—and he had left the last one very quickly. But No. 29 had suggested a longer stay. Its peeling walls and rotting staircase had whispered comfortingly, ‘No one has been here for years and years, and no one will want to come here for years and years.’ This was the message of welcome one most appreciated ...

But, now, this bell!

‘I ’aven’t ’eard it,’ decided the diner. ‘ ’Cos why? It ain’t rung, see?’

He continued with his cheese. The bell rang again. Again, the cheese halted.

‘Wot’s the good of ’is ringin’ like that when no think ’appens?’ grumbled the diner. ‘If ’e’d got any sense ’e’d go away and know there was nobody ’ere.’

The bell rang a third time. The diner concluded that Fate was not going to let him have it all his own way. When people rang thrice, you had to decide between the alternatives of letting them in or ’opping it.

You could ’op it, in this case, through an open window at the back. It would be quite easy. On the other hand, it was a nice house and a nasty night. Sometimes boldness pays.

The bell rang a fourth time. ‘Gawd, ain’t ’e a sticker?’ thought the diner, and decided on the policy of boldness.

He had selected for his meal the front room on the second floor. He always liked to be high up, because it made you seem a long way off. Moreover, this was the only room in the house that was furnished. None of the other rooms had any soap boxes at all. Still, there was one disadvantage of being on the second floor. You had to go down two flights of creaking stairs to get to the ground floor, which you didn’t exactly hanker after in the evening. And then, murders generally happened on second floors.

The temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street faced the discomfort of the creaking stairs, however, because he felt he couldn’t stand hearing the bell ring a fifth time, and he felt convinced that, unless he hurried his stumps, it would. He hurried his stumps rather loudly. No harm in being a bit impressive like, was there? He even cleared his throat a little truculently. The world takes you at your own valuation, so you must see it’s more than tuppence.

Reaching the front door, he paused, and at the risk of his impressiveness called:

‘ ’Oo’s there?’

The bell rang a fifth time. He fumbled hastily with the latch, and threw the door open.

He had vaguely expected an ogre or a fellow with a knife. Instead he found a pleasant-featured young man standing on the doorstep. For an instant they regarded each other fixedly. Then the pleasant-featured young man remarked:

‘Say, you’re a little streak of lightning, aren’t you?’

‘You bin ringin’?’ blinked the little streak of lightning.

‘Only five times,’ answered the caller. ‘Is that the necessary minimum in your country?’

The little streak of lightning didn’t know what a necessary minimum was, but he was interested in the reference to his country. It suggested that it wasn’t the caller’s country. So did the caller’s bronzed complexion. Still, this wasn’t a moment for geography.

‘Wotcher want?’ asked the cockney. ‘No one lives ’ere.’

‘Don’t you live here?’ countered the visitor.

‘Oh! Me?’

‘Yes; you. Who are you?’

‘Caretaker.’

‘I see. You’re taking care of the house.’

‘Yus.’

‘Well, why don’t you do it better?’

‘Wot’s that?’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yus.’

‘Then why did you say “Wot’s that?” ’

‘ ’Oo?’

The visitor took a breath, and tried again.

‘Our conversational methods seem at some variance,’ he said; ‘but perhaps if we try to like each other a little more we may meet somewhere. When I asked why you didn’t take care of the house better I was referring to its condition. It doesn’t look as though anybody ever took care of it at all.’

‘It ain’t exactly Winsor Castle,’ admitted the tenant.

‘And then, you were the devil of a time answering the bell, weren’t you?’

‘P’r’aps it didn’t ring proper?’

‘I’m sure it rang proper!’

‘Well, and now I’m ’ere proper, so wotcher worryin’ abart?’

‘To tell the truth, old son, I’m worrying about you,’ answered the visitor. ‘Rather queer, that, isn’t it?’

‘If yer like.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I tole yer.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Caretaker.’

‘Oh, yes! So you did! But what’s your name?’

‘Wotcher wanter know for?’

‘Trot it out!’

‘Ben—if that ’elps.’

‘It helps immensely. Well, Ben—’

‘ ’Ere, gettin’ fermilyer, ain’t yer?’ demanded the cockney. ‘ ’Oo’s give you permishun ter call me by me fust name?’

‘You haven’t told me your last,’ the visitor reminded him. ‘What is it?’

‘Moosolini.’

‘Thank you. But I think I prefer Ben, if you don’t mind. How long have you been the caretaker here?’

‘Eh?’

‘Who engaged you—?’

‘ ’Ow long ’ave I gotter stand ’ere answerin’ questions?’ retorted Ben. ‘I’m goin’ ter ask you one, fer a change. ’Oo are you? That’s fair, ain’t it?’

‘Who am I?’ murmured the visitor, and suddenly paused.

‘ ’E don’t want me ter know,’ reflected Ben. ‘Fishy, the pair of us!’

The next moment he realised that there was another reason for the pause. A door had slammed across the street. The visitor had turned.

The door that had slammed was the front door of the house opposite. The number on it was ‘26.’ For an instant Ben stared vaguely at the number, as the movement of a figure in front of it rendered it visible after a second of obscurity. A girl’s figure; she appeared to be leaving hurriedly. But Ben found himself less interested in the girl on the doorstep of No. 26 than in the man on the doorstep of No. 29, for the man suddenly left the doorstep and made for the pavement.

‘Wot’s that for?’ wondered Ben. ‘Wot’s ’e arter?’

He appeared to be after the girl. The girl was hastening towards a corner, and the young man looked as though he were going to hasten after her.

‘Lummy, ’e don’t waste no time!’ thought Ben.

But if the young man’s intention had been to follow the girl he abruptly changed it when she had turned the corner and disappeared. Instead of following her, he veered round towards the house she had just left. No. 26 Jowle Street. Ben watched him from No. 29.

‘Well, ’e’s fergot me, any’ow,’ reflected Ben. ‘If ’e wants me ’e’ll ’ave ter ring agin!’

He closed the door quickly and quietly. A bang might have brought the young man back. He waited a few seconds, just to make sure that the young man wasn’t coming back again, and then began to ascend the stairs to resume his interrupted meal.

It has been said that Ben had lived in many empty houses. He had. But he had lived in them for reasons of economy rather than of affection, and it depressed him that he had not really and truly grown to love them. Perhaps this was because he had had a bad start. His first empty house, ‘No. 17,’ had given him enough nightmares for life. But it must be admitted, and you had better know it at once, that Ben was not one of the world’s heroes, and if there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was creaks. ‘Give me the fair shivers, so they does,’ he confessed to his soul. (Ben had a soul—you had better know that, too, lest in what follows you may be tempted to be hard on him.) Yes, even in his able-bodied days he had hated the creaking of ships. Even when he had been surrounded by fellow-seamen. But all alone, in empty houses ...

‘In the langwidge o’ them psicho-wotchercallems,’ decided Ben, ‘I got a creak compress.’

The creaks seemed rather worse going up the stairs than they had seemed coming down them. Somehow or other, the visit of that young man, his rather odd behaviour, and the sudden termination of the interview, had worried Ben more than he cared to admit. The shadows seemed deeper. The creaks louder. The subsequent silences uncannier.

But he reached the second floor without accident, and he found his room just as he had left it. There were no corpses about, and no one had been at his cheese. If he’d had a cup of tea, he could have soon got back to his condition of lethargic, vegetable comfort. Well, he’d have to get back just on cheese.

‘P’r’aps I better ’ave a squint outer the winder fust,’ he thought. ‘ ’E may be comin’ back again.’

He crossed to the window. There, immediately opposite, was No. 26, growing moist in the drizzle. Looking down, he saw his late visitor on the doorstep. This rather surprised him. He’d been on the doorstep some while. By now, surely, he ought to be either in or out?

Ben stared. The front door was open—no, half-open—well, same thing—and a bit of an argument seemed to be going on. Couldn’t see the fellow inside the house, but the fellow outside appeared to be very determined. He was taking something from his pocket. He was handing it to the fellow inside. A bit of a pause now. Who was going to win?

Then, all at once, Ben’s eyes were attracted by a movement closer to him. Not in his own room—thank Gawd fer that!—but it gave him a start, like. In the room immediately opposite. The second-floor front of No. 26. An old man had backed to the window, as though to get a better perspective of something he was gazing at. And what he was gazing at was a figure on the floor!

‘That ain’t nice,’ thought Ben.

An instant later, however, the figure got up. The old man shook his head, and pointed to another part of the floor. The figure lay down again. The old man nodded, and the figure got up again.

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ muttered the watcher.

He stared down at the front door. It was now closed. The young man had got in. At least—had he? Ben hadn’t seen him go in. He might have left, of course, and be walking now towards the corner.

Ben twisted his head and stared towards the corner. If the young man had gone to the corner he had now vanished, as the girl had vanished; and in their place, regarding No. 26 with contemplative eyes, his dark skin rising incongruously above his European collar, was an Indian.