Ben on the Job Read online

  ‘Yes—recently—until only a few months ago.’

  She jerked herself out of her reverie, though her eyes remained on the fire. She had no idea how long she had been silent. Ben could have told her. Two slices and the top half of a small cake crowned with pink icing. You ate the top half by itself, because you got a fuller sweetness if it was not handicapped by the bottom half, and you ate it first because if you suddenly died, and one never knew, that was the best way to make sure of it.

  ‘Eh?’ blinked Ben. ‘Tha’s right. Er—wot ’appened then?’

  ‘That girl happened,’ answered Mrs Wilby.

  ‘Yer mean Maudie?’

  ‘Yes, though I didn’t know it was Maudie at the start. In fact, I don’t think I can tell you just when the start was. I think it was a letter. I think it had an Australian stamp on it, though I’ve never been sure of that. Anyhow, I remember my husband seizing it, and when I asked him who it was from he said it was an advertisement, and changed the subject. I dare say I could have pressed him, but I felt a little annoyed and I wasn’t going to be curious. It just seemed to me a silly unnecessary incident. An advertisement from Australia! Well, I let it drop.’

  ‘But yer wasn’t sure it was from Orstralyer,’ Ben reminded her.

  ‘No, I wasn’t sure it was from Australia.’

  ‘And even if it ’ad bin, couldn’t it of bin abart one o’ them Lotteries?’

  ‘It might. You’re doing very well. But the rest won’t be so easy. Some weeks later the same thing happened again. Another letter came that he didn’t want me to see. I wondered how many other letters there might have been in between! I tried very hard not to be suspicious.’

  ‘Was this ’un from Orstralyer, too, mum?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I noticed the stamp this time—and the postmark. It was Southampton. And—as I say—again he wouldn’t let me see it. Or, rather, tried to hide it, and then when he couldn’t mumbled something about it being only a business letter, and was so palpably lying that it was humiliating to pretend to believe him. So I didn’t pretend. I just let the matter drop, as before. But—naturally—I felt worried, and my husband’s nerviness only made things worse. I found him not only watching for the postman, but also hurrying to the telephone every time the bell rang, as though anxious to get there first, and as most of the calls were for me—he got his business ones at the bank—well, it became clear that he was only answering the ’phone like this because he expected one—and one morning, just before he left for the bank, it came. I was upstairs when the bell sounded and I let him answer it as usual, and when he didn’t call me I knew of course it was for him. I could hear by his quick voice that he wanted to end the conversation before I came down, so I didn’t hurry, and I didn’t come down till he’d rung off and called up good-bye to me.’ She gave a short hard laugh. ‘It wasn’t till the front door slammed that I remembered I hadn’t replied.’

  Ben asked: ‘But yer ’adn’t ’eard nothink o’ the conversashun, ’ad yer?’

  ‘Only the end of it,’ she answered.

  ‘And wot yer ’eard hupset yer like?’

  ‘He said—to whoever it was: “Yes, yes, I’ll meet you there, three o’clock, but you must promise never to ’phone me up here again.”’

  ‘I git yer.’

  ‘Yes, if you’d heard that, what would you have thought?’

  ‘Same as you, mum. But it mightn’t of bin nothink.’

  ‘It mightn’t, and when he came back that evening you’d have thought it had been nothing. Until that day he’d been terribly nervy, as I’ve told you, but now his nerviness seemed to have gone, and he was all smiles. I’d almost decided during the day to have it out with him—I can hardly believe I’m telling you all this, but I’ve got to finish now—yes, when I heard his latch-key in the lock I was primed for a row. But the moment I saw him I realised the change, and when I asked him if he’d had any good news he replied yes, he had, and that we were going to a theatre on the strength of it. He said some of our shares had soared. I think—I think that was the last time I believed him.’

  Still defending the dead man, Ben remarked that it could have been true. ‘And that there telerphone in the mornin’, mum, might ’ave bin jest abart them shares doin’ wot yer sed ’e sed, on’y p’r’aps ’e didn’t want the bloke ter go on telerphonin’ ’ere bercorse ’e wanted ter surprise yer like.’

  With a faint smile, Mrs Wilby nodded.

  ‘I was ready to think something like that. Yes, even up to then, and during the next two days.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then came another call. On a Sunday afternoon. You don’t do business on Sundays. We were chatting together in this room, and the ’phone was here—we’d moved it in from the dining-room. He lifted the receiver, and it might have been red-hot he dropped it again so quickly. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Wrong number,” he answered … The world just turned black!’ She pulled herself up. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean to get emotional.’

  ‘That’s orl right, mum,’ replied Ben solemnly. ‘I seen it go like that, on’y mine ’as red spots in it.’

  A quick frown faded as she studied him and realised he was not trying to be funny but was responding to her with a simple, sober fact. There was no middle course with this quaint fellow. You had to take him or leave him.

  ‘And, corse, mum, that put the lid on?’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘And then you ’ad the row?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. I couldn’t have borne it. I just left the room, and we didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day … Well, I’m not going into all the details. It isn’t necessary. I knew after that he was meeting somebody secretly, and presently stories began to come to my ears. I expect you can guess the kind?’

  ‘Easy. People loves ’em!’

  ‘Unless they are the subjects of them.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Unless the stories are about themselves.’

  ‘Oh, I git yer. I s’pose these was abart Mr Wilby?’

  ‘And a girl.’

  ‘Maudie.’

  ‘We know that now, but I didn’t know it then. It was just “a girl” Mr Wilby had been seen with at various places—at a race meeting, at a night club, in the park. There was no doubt about it. One weekend when I was away there was a bad scene in the West End where they both figured. Even if all the stories weren’t true, some were, and on the only two occasions I spoke to him he wasn’t able to give me an alibi, though he swore the tales weren’t true.’

  ‘Wot was that ’e couldn’t give yer? Lullerby?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘Eh? ’Ave I sed somethink?’

  ‘No! Never mind! An alibi is proof that you were somewhere else when—’

  ‘When yer wasn’t where yer was,’ Ben finished for her. ‘Hallerby. Corse, that’s it, on’y I fergot. Hallerby. Jes the sime, mum,’ he went on, seriously, ‘yer carn’t orlways berlieve them hallerbies, becorse—well, s’pose yer spends orl day in a room by yerself, ’oo’s there ter prove it for yer, but that don’t mean it was you chucked the body in front o’ the trine! P’r’aps Mr Wilby was by ’iself?’

  ‘You’re certainly working hard for him,’ answered Mrs Wilby, with an appreciative smile, ‘and I wish I could believe you were right, but he wasn’t by himself when those photos you and I have both seen were taken!’

  ‘Yer carn’t git away from it,’ Ben admitted gloomily.

  ‘And—if further proof were needed—I found out myself, never mind how, that he’d used up nearly all his savings. He’d been spending heavily, and there was no clue to what he was spending it all on.’

  ‘Yer mean ’e was spendin’ it on Maudie?’

  ‘Doesn’t that seem clear?’

  ‘Yer’d think so, yus, but mind yer, there’s often a ketch in these things, and ’ere’s one thing I’ve thort of wot—well, don’t seem ter fit like.’

  ‘What is it?�
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  ‘Well, mum—them letters wot seems ter ’ave started it orl off. The fust was from Orstraylyer, didn’t yer say?’

  ‘I said I thought so.’

  ‘Well, Maudie ain’t bin in Orstraylyer. Leastwise, it don’t seem likely like. She lives at ’ome with ’er ma, and she works at Woolworth’s, so where does Orstraylyer come in?’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Mrs Wilby, ‘now we’ve identified the girl as Maudie.’

  ‘So ’oo’s Orstraylyer?’

  ‘The second letter came from Southampton.’

  ‘Yus, she might of bin there, and then agine she might of done the telerphonin’,’ conceded Ben, ‘and that fust letter from Orstraylyer mightn’t of ’ad nothink ter do with it, but wot I carn’t mike aht, mum, is—’

  ‘Yes, but let me finish,’ interrupted Mrs Wilby. ‘I want to tell you something more about—yesterday. Something you don’t know yet.’ She paused. ‘This is going to be difficult, but—yes? What is it?’

  For Ben had begun to mumble.

  ‘Well—it was jest this,’ he answered. ‘Yer’ve told me a lot, and o’ corse I knows why yer done it—I mean, not becorse I orter know it but becorse we’re sorter tryin’ ter work it aht tergether like, ain’t we, but I don’t want ter ’ear nothink more wot yer doesn’t want ter tell me—’

  She interrupted him again, exclaiming nervily: ‘You know so much that what does the rest matter? Listen, and let me get it over! Yesterday afternoon we went to a film—yes, Mr Wilby and I together. If that surprises you, it surprised me, because we hadn’t done anything together for weeks. This is how it happened. I’d mentioned that I was going to this film if I could book a ticket—that was the day before yesterday—and in the evening he returned with two tickets. I expect he meant it as a sort of peace offering—you see, quite often he tried to make it up, but I wouldn’t play—that seems rotten now when I think of it, as you may perhaps understand—so this time he took the matter in his own hands and bought the tickets.’ She turned her head away, and her voice became a little unsteady, and as she went on Ben suddenly recalled the counterfoil he and Blake had found in the dead man’s pocket. ‘He had managed the afternoon off from the bank, and we were going to leave together, but about an hour before the time to start he suddenly came to me and told me he’d forgotten a business appointment, and would have to join me at the cinema, and might be a little late. He looked terribly worried—but that was nothing new—and of course I didn’t believe him. How could I? But I didn’t say anything, because what was there left to say? So I went alone—he had left the house at once—and—he was late. The feature film had begun before he slipped into his seat beside me in the dark. I paid no attention to him. We didn’t exchange a word. But I knew he had been drinking—I could smell his breath—and once he gave a—a kind of chuckle, as though he thought it funny. That finished me. I left my seat quickly and came home. I don’t know whether he tried to stop me, or whether he followed me. I was too angry to notice. But he didn’t follow me home, and when I got back here I was in such a state that I just wanted to end it. I—was ready to do anything.’

  She stopped, and caught her breath.

  ‘Yer—yer don’t mean—’ murmured Ben.

  ‘No, not that!’ she exclaimed, quickly and bitterly. ‘I left that solution to George! You remember when you came along? You remember the moment?’

  ‘Eh? Yus, o’ corse.’

  ‘I was just leaving the house, and I had a suitcase.’

  ‘And yer wanted a taxi.’

  ‘Yes, and if it hadn’t been for you I’d have got one. You came along just in time to prevent me. You couldn’t possibly guess where I was going!’

  But the next moment, as Ben’s head twisted involuntarily towards the mantelpiece, she wondered. Ben’s mind had flashed back twenty-four hours, and in the light of his new knowledge small details that had previously passed almost unnoticed now impressed themselves. Foremost among them was the photograph of a good-looking man with a small dark moustache at which Mrs Wilby had glanced during that previous interview. The photograph was no longer on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘I’m waitin’ ter ’ear,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Do I have to tell you?’ Ben looked uncomfortable. ‘Was I wrong when I said you couldn’t possibly guess?’

  ‘Well—I just ’ad a thort, but I’d sooner not say it, in caise I was mistook.’

  She replied evenly: ‘If it was that I was about to leave my husband for a friend, you weren’t mistaken. Are you shocked?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘Fair’s fair,’ he muttered.

  ‘That was how it seemed to me. For a long while this man had been—interested in me, but it never occurred to me to take him seriously until this unhappiness began with my husband, and two days ago when he called—my husband was out—I very foolishly told him about it and he—just as foolishly—asked me to go away with him. And then yesterday, after that awful time at the cinema and after I’d got home, everything seemed to get on top of me and I acted like a lunatic … Am I acting like a lunatic again in telling you all this?’ She did not give him time to reply, for she went on rapidly: ‘But there’s a reason, and now I’m coming to it. Do you remember when I left this room to telephone? It was after the police had gone. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yus,’ replied Ben. ‘Was it to ’im?’

  ‘You’re good at the guessing game! It was, and I found that if I’d gone to his house he wouldn’t have been there. He’d left suddenly two or three hours before. I telephoned again after I’d been to identify my husband—horrible!—but the contents of his pockets were recognisable!—and he hadn’t returned. I ’phoned again today. He’s not back yet, and no one seems to know where he is.’ She paused, and fixed her eyes upon Ben quizzically. ‘Well—does that suggest anything to you? Or not?’

  But this time Ben refused the fence.

  ‘I ain’t doin’ no more guessin’, mum,’ he answered. ‘Wot did it serjest ter you?’

  ‘I wondered whether his absence had anything to do with my husband’s death,’ replied Mrs Wilby, ‘and, if so, whether he was the man Blake—rightly or wrongly—had in mind?’

  ‘I git yer,’ murmured Ben. ‘Yus, I git yer. Corse, yer ain’t told the pleece abart ’im?’

  ‘Hardly!’

  ‘Corse not. That wouldn’t be no good ter nobody.’

  ‘At present, it certainly wouldn’t! But if I found he had had anything to do with it I’d tell the police then. Whatever my husband may have done, I wouldn’t shield his murderer.’

  ‘I’m with yer, mum. I don’t ’old with killin’ barrin’ it’s fer yer country, and then I’d sooner some’un else did it. Do the pleece think it’s murder?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s to be an inquest, of course, and but for what you’ve told me about this man Blake I’d believe they thought it was suicide. I might have thought so myself.’

  ‘But no one fahnd no gun,’ said Ben, ‘and if yer shoots yerself the gun wot yer did it with don’t run away!’

  ‘Exactly, so they could hardly think it suicide. And then as they’re trying to find Blake, doesn’t that suggest they’ve got some clue?’

  ‘That’s right. You didn’t put ’em on ter ’im, mum?’

  ‘I? No! If I’d done that I’d have had to put them on to you, too. I told you, remember, that I hadn’t mentioned you at all.’

  ‘Yus, and I ain’t fergot it. It was nice of yer, though if I gotter come inter it, I gotter. But wot I carn’t mike aht is ’ow they got onter Blake if you and me ain’t told ’em nothink.’ All at once, forgetting such manners as he possessed, he gave a low whistle. ‘I wunner?’ he murmured. ‘I wunner?’

  ‘Wonder what?’ she asked.

  ‘Fingerprints! Yus, now, ’ow abart fingerprints?’ He considered the notion intently. ‘Corse, mine was there, too, but then I ain’t never bin in quod, it’s a fack, so mine ain’t bin took, but if Blake’s bin in quod, and ’e was
the sorter chap wot mide yer think a cell wouldn’t look nacherel withaht ’im, then they’d ’ave ’is fingerprints at the Yard, and that’d ’elp ’em ter trice ’im and foller ’im up. See, they got ways we don’t know abart.’

  ‘Do you mean that once people go to prison they are watched when they come out again?’

  ‘Well, corse I dunno orl abart it, mum, ’cos I never bin inside, like I sed, but I was torkin’ once to a bobby, yer can once yer know they don’t want yer, and I arsked ’im if I was ever clapped in gaol if they’d foller me arterwards till I was in the ’erse, and ’e sed no, not if it was me fust offence and on’y a little ’un and they thort I wouldn’t do it agine, but if I was one o’ them ’ardened sort wot’s got a long write-hup in the dosser, then they might keep an eye on where I was, sayin’ they could, so if Blake was that sort and they spotted ’im by ’is fingerprints—well, they might ’ave knowed ’e was stayin’ at Nummer 46, Jewel Street, mightn’t they? If yer git me?’

  After a few moments of silence Mrs Wilby got him, but before she could make any comment a bell sounded below. Ben glanced at his hostess with apprehensive inquiry.

  ‘Back door,’ murmured Mrs Wilby, with a frown. ‘As the maid’s out, I’ll have to answer it.’

  16

  Face to Face

  ‘’Arf a mo, mum!’ muttered Ben as Mrs Wilby moved towards the door.

  She stopped and looked at him sharply.

  ‘Do you mean you know who it is?’ she asked.

  ‘No, it’s ’cos I don’t know we gotter be careful—unless o’ corse yer know yerself?’ She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t be the fish?’