Murderer's Trail Read online

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ growled the slow voice.

  ‘P’r’aps I didn’t either,’ muttered the other.

  ‘Getting nervy, eh?’

  ‘Nerves your hat!’

  ‘Then what was it?’

  ‘A blankety rat, probably, running across the coal. Oh, shut your mug and let’s get back to it! Do you think you can find your way here all right? That is, supposing you have to?’

  ‘I suppose so. But wouldn’t you be coming with me?’

  A contemptuous snort followed the question.

  ‘Bit of a darned fool, aren’t you?’ said the curt voice. ‘How am I going to manage that?’

  ‘How am I going to manage fourteen ladders and seventeen corners and ninety-six passages?’ came the retort, delivered with warmth.

  ‘You may have to!’ The warmth was reciprocated. ‘Anyway, Sims would manage the first half of the journey for you.’

  ‘What! With that load?’

  ‘Yes, with that load! Sims has muscles. And d’you expect I’d have taken you on board if I hadn’t seen yours?’

  ‘Maybe one of these fine days you’ll feel ’em!’

  ‘Maybe elephants grow grass on their heads! You’re a useful sort of a tyke, aren’t you? How the blazes could I get away? It’ll be all hands on deck if this little business comes along, don’t you worry!’

  ‘Yes, but s’pose—’

  ‘Do you suppose an officer can afford to be missing during an affair of that sort?’ cried the officer under consideration. ‘God, you used your brains at Hammersmith, didn’t you?’

  Hammersmith! Ben stopped breathing. Hammersmith …

  ‘I used something else, as well, at Hammersmith,’ snarled the other; ‘and you’re going the right way to get a taste of it.’

  ‘Say—have you ever been at a murder trial, and seen the old man put on his black cap?’ asked the curt voice, after a momentary pause. ‘I reckon you’re going the right way to get something too. Now, listen! We’ve been here long enough. Get back to your quarters, Mr Hammersmith Stoker, and lie low till you’re wanted. And if you think of using that pretty little spanner I see in your hand, just remember the black cap.’

  There was a silence, and the sound of moving feet. Then the slow voice observed, contemplatively:

  ‘We’ve all got to die some time, you know.’

  ‘Like hell, we have,’ agreed the curt man. ‘But there’s ways and ways. I prefer a bed to a rope.’

  The voices were farther off. Now they ceased altogether. But Ben did not move. His spirit was lying, frozen, in Hammersmith.

  A whisper close to his ear brought him back to coal.

  ‘For God’s sake, let’s get out of this before we suffocate!’ it said. ‘You and I’ve got to talk!’

  Thud-thud! Thud-thud! Thud-thud!

  4

  Confidences in the Dark

  ‘’Oo are yer?’ muttered Ben.

  ‘Wait till we’re out,’ came the whispered response.

  ‘Yus, but ’ow do we git aht?’ Ben whispered back.

  This time a brilliant little light answered him. It illuminated the improvised coal cavern, and revealed it as considerably smaller than he had imagined it to be. A few points and sharp edges dazzled close to his eyes; then, as the little light became more distant and the shaft changed its direction, shadows shot towards him from the points and edges, which now became blurred outlines beyond moving pools of black.

  Suddenly the little light went out, and all was darkness again. Ben tried to hold his breath, and discovered that he was already holding it. When terrified, he had not the power to keep anything in reserve. That was why he frequently went beyond the reserve. Five long seconds ticked by. He thought he heard them ticking, but couldn’t be sure. Then the light was switched on again, almost blinding him.

  ‘Wotcher put the light aht for?’ he demanded weakly.

  The situation was complicated by the fact that he did not know whom he was talking to. He was entirely vague as to what attitude he ought to adopt.

  ‘I thought I heard them coming back,’ replied the person who held the light.

  ‘Oi!’ said Ben. ‘Yer got yer foot in me marth.’

  The foot moved away. So did the rest of the little warm bulk to which it belonged. Cautiously, Ben followed.

  By painfully slow degrees, the journey proceeded. It seemed a mile long, but actually its length was only a yard or two. The foot that had been in his mouth proved, subsequently, of use as a sign-post. It was small and shoeless, and Ben developed a strange affection for it. While he saw it, there was hope. When it disappeared, overwhelming loneliness descended upon him, accompanied by a kind of panic. It must be remembered that Ben had been through a lot.

  Once he caught hold of the foot just as it was vanishing, and hung on to it like an anchor.

  ‘What are you doing?’ came the sharp whisper.

  ‘Not gettin’ fresh,’ mumbled Ben; ‘but I ain’t got nothin’ helse ter go by.’

  The foot slipped out of his grasp. He glued his eyes on it. Then it slipped over a precipice and vanished.

  ‘Oi!’ chattered Ben.

  As there was no immediate response, he repeated his observation, and then a voice whispered up from somewhere below him.

  ‘You seem to love that word,’ said the voice; ‘but I wish you’d say it a bit softer.’

  ‘Where are yer?’ asked Ben.

  ‘On the ground.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Be quick! Want any help?’

  ‘Yus. Me boot’s got on top of me some’ow, and seems to ’ave caught on a ’ook.’

  Two small hands appeared from the precipice over which his companion had vanished. He stretched one of his own hands towards them, giving the hooked boot a jerk at the same time. There was a crackle overhead, and the roof descended upon him.

  Fortunately the roof caved in where it was thinnest, or Ben might not have replied to the anxious question, ‘Are you hurt?’ As it was, he was able to answer, ‘Dunno,’ and to feel about himself to find out. He couldn’t feel very fast, because heavy things lay all about on top of him, but the two small hands were deftly removing them, and when his back had been cleared he was able to report, to his considerable astonishment, that he was still alive.

  ‘On’y I think me spindle’s broke,’ he added.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked his companion.

  ‘Dunno,’ blinked Ben. ‘Ain’t I got one?’

  The only thing he was certain of was that he wouldn’t want anything more to eat for a week.

  The two hands gripped him, and assisted him down to the ground; but when you reached the ground it wasn’t easy to keep your feet. You swayed, and had to catch hold of something. And then you missed the something, and it caught hold of you …

  As Ben stared at the something that caught hold of him, he had a confused sensation that history was repeating itself, only inversely. Yes, there had been a situation similar to this only a few hours ago! A few hours? More like a few years! In that previous situation, however, it was Ben’s outstretched arms that had received a tottering form. Now, the form he had received was supporting him!

  The same hair, the same eyes—bright this time with concern, not with terror—the same slight, girlish figure, the same short brown skirt, now much blackened, the same soft warmth …

  ‘’Corse, miss, this beats me!’ muttered Ben dizzily.

  ‘Beats me too,’ responded the girl. ‘Don’t move for a jiffy, if you’re groggy.’

  Ben overstayed the jiffy. He did feel groggy. Then he leaned back a little, tested himself without her, and found that, with great care, it could be done.

  ‘O.K.,’ he reported. ‘I got me legs back. And, now—’oo bloomin’ are yer?’

  ‘Who are you first,’ she answered.

  ‘Oo am I?’

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘’Corse yer does!’ nodded Ben. ‘Heverybody wants ter know. That’s the way, ain’
t it? Hothers does the haskin’, and I does the tellin’.’

  ‘Please don’t get huffy.’

  ‘Oo’s ’uffy? Well, ’ave it yer own way. I’m Hadmiral Beatty. Now fer your’n!’

  A faint smile flickered in the torchlight. Then the smile vanished as the light was snapped off sharply. Admiral Beatty swung round with a gulp.

  ‘Keep steady, admiral!’ said the girl’s voice, through the darkness. ‘It just occurred to me that we’ll be fools if we show our lights.’

  ‘Yus, that’s orl right,’ complained Ben; ‘but don’t do things so sudden—’

  ‘Or if we raise our voices,’ continued the girl. ‘Sometimes you forget there’s a war on!’

  ‘It’s never orf, fer me!’ muttered Ben. ‘But wot’s the pertickler war yer torkin’ abart?’

  ‘Meaning you can’t guess?’

  In the darkness her hand stretched out, and took hold of his sleeve again. He was beginning to know the touch of those firm little fingers. He liked the touch of them. At least, when he got a bit of warning it was coming.

  Could he guess? He tried hard not to. Then he faced it.

  ‘’Ammersmith?’ he whispered sepulchrally.

  The grip on his sleeve tightened. He was answered. The answer wound round them as they stood there motionless, binding them grimly and inexplicably together. It sifted through the blackness, coiled through the unseen coal, and journeyed on invisible sound-waves to the engines, wedding itself to their muffled thudding.

  ‘Yus, but—you ain’t done it?’ muttered Ben, in a sudden sweat.

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘I do bar that!’

  Her voice came in a sudden choked hiss. Something in the vehemence of the denial brought consolation to Ben. Wot—she done a murder? This bit of a gal? There’s a blinkin’ idea! Still, it was good to be sure.

  ‘It was done by the bloke wot was ’ere jest nah, wasn’t it?’ said Ben.

  ‘How do you know?’ shot out the girl.

  ‘Well—you ’eard wot they sed.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I heard! But—is that all?’

  ‘I don’t git yer.’

  ‘As far as you are concerned?’

  ‘Oh, I see. No, it ain’t. It’s never all as fur as I’m concerned! Things jest go on ’appenin’ as soon as they sees me comin’ and I can’t stop ’em. Gawd, they’ve ’appened ternight orl right!’ He shuddered. ‘It is ternight, ain’t it?’ Then, suddenly becoming conscious again of the fingers gripping his arm, he went on, ‘Yus, and you’re one of ’em, miss. Ain’t yer never goin’ ter tell me ’oo yer are, and ’ow yer got ’ere?’

  ‘What else has happened to you—tonight?’

  ‘Tork abart oysters!’

  ‘Please! What else happened? Why did you come on this boat? Were you following me?’

  ‘’Corse not!’

  ‘Well, you might have been. After the way I blundered into you like that.’

  ‘Yus, that did git me thinkin’, miss. But yer was too quick. Like a rabbit. Any’ow, I didn’t know you was on this ship.’

  ‘Then why are you here? Stowaway?’

  ‘That’ll be the nime, when they finds me. And you too, eh?’

  ‘They’re not going to find me!’

  ‘I ’ope yer right.’

  ‘I’ll see I’m right!’ Then she added quickly, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll give me away?’ She paused for a moment, and ran on, ‘I’ve done you a good turn, you know. Don’t forget that! When you pitched down from the ladder I got you under the coal with me. Some job! I—looked after you.’

  Ben nodded. He knew that he owed his present security to her, and he also knew why she was informing him of the fact. She was trying to enlist his gratitude.

  That puzzled him. Why should she do that? Wasn’t it obvious that he would not give her away? Bit of dirty work that’d be, wouldn’t it? The world had got its heel on both of them, and he’d hardly turn upon a fellow-sufferer. Perhaps there was something else, though! Yes, there might be something else. Perhaps …

  Ben thought hard for several seconds. He was trying to straighten things out with insufficient material to work upon. He fell back upon a generality.

  ‘Look ’ere, miss,’ he said, and the simple solemnity of his voice was not lost upon his companion, ‘you’re in trouble, ain’t yer? Well—so’m I. Ain’t that enuff?’

  There was a little silence. Then the girl answered, in tones equally solemn.

  ‘Seems as if I’ve found a pal. You’re white, aren’t you?’

  ‘Like blinkin’ snow,’ replied Ben uncomfortably. He never knew what to do with compliments. He hadn’t had much practice. Then, partly to change the conversation, and partly to settle the point that was worrying him most at the moment, he asked, ‘Wot are yer runnin’ away for?’

  ‘I’ll tell you as soon as you tell me why you are?’ Ben reflected. Why was he running away? The nightmare reverted to him in all its horror—the nightmare that was still to be played out.

  ‘Some’un went fer me, miss,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the stummick.’ No, that wasn’t right. ‘In the dock.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There you are!’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘P’r’aps ’e thort I’d seed too much.’

  ‘Oh! What had you seen?’

  ‘Well—it ain’t pretty, miss.’

  ‘Life isn’t pretty.’

  ‘Ah, but this—this wasn’t life. No, miss. This was—the hother thing!’

  He was conscious that she shuddered. He felt her draw closer, as though for comfort.

  ‘You mean—someone—dead?’ she whispered.

  ‘I might ’ave bin mistook,’ he murmured, unconvincingly.

  ‘Don’t hide anything, please. Nothing’ll help but the truth. The—person you saw—was dead?’

  ‘As a door nail,’ Ben confessed. ‘’E’d bin done in orl right. Funny—’ow yer can tell.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Oo?’

  ‘What did you do, after you came upon him?’

  ‘Oh. Well—I tikes a little walk rahnd, see?’ There was no need to mention that it had been rather a rapid walk. ‘And when I comes back agine, the deader’s gorn.’

  ‘Gone!’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m tellin’ yer. ’E was gorn. “’Allo!” I ses. “That’s bad.” And then I ’ears a splash. Like wot—well, then I ’ears a splash.’

  He paused. He didn’t like the story. The girl made no comment, and he decided to get the rest of it over in one sentence.

  ‘Well, arter that, this hother feller comes along and goes fer me, and so I ’ops it—well, ’oo wouldn’t, and I comes on another feller and I shoots onter the ship, see—well, ’oo wouldn’t?’

  He paused again. For a while the girl made no comment. The throbbing of the engines seemed to grow louder and more ominous. Then, suddenly, she shot a question.

  ‘Do you know how long you’ve been on this ship?’ she asked.

  ‘Couple of hours?’ guessed Ben.

  ‘Couple of days,’ she replied.

  Ben gasped.

  ‘Wot—couple of—days?’ he murmured. ‘Are you tellin’ me, miss, that you’ve bin lookin’ arter me fer a couple of days?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she nodded. ‘Hospital nurse and general provider. Part of the time, you were off your nut.’

  Off his nut! Wasn’t he still off his nut! His mind swung backwards and forwards. Then, suddenly, it stopped swinging, and he shot a question.

  ‘That fust feller—that feller wot was called Mr ’Ammersmith Stoker,’ he said. ‘Is ’e arter you too?’

  ‘Like hell, he is,’ answered the girl. ‘He’s killed two people, and if he finds me, I look like being a third!’

  5

  What Happened at Hammersmith

  Ben received the bad news numbly. For one thing, although it shocked him, it hardly surprised h
im. For another, his brain was getting a little dizzy and stupid. Two days …

  ‘Arter you too, is ’e?’ he muttered. ‘Wot for?’

  ‘P’r’aps—I’ve seen too much, like you,’ suggested his companion.

  ‘Ah!’ blinked Ben. ‘Sight ain’t always a blessin’. Wotcher seen?’ As she did not reply, he made a guess. It was a nasty guess, but they’d got to get straight with each other. ‘Was it—at ’Ammersmith—wot you seen?’ he inquired.

  She nodded. He detected the faint movement of her head against a ghost of light that dimly marked the position of the iron ladder mounting above them. His sympathy for her grew. And for himself.

  ‘Yus, but you didn’t do it,’ he said, as though he were informing her of a fact she did not know.

  Now she shook her head. She was quite aware of the fact.

  ‘Then you ain’t got no cause ter fear the police,’ went on Ben.

  ‘Haven’t I?’ she replied.

  It was an unsatisfactory reply. It told nothing, but it implied a lot. He put himself in her position—as much of her position, at least, as he knew—reviewed himself from her angle, and then advised her.

  ‘If I was you, miss,’ he announced, ‘I’d tell me.’

  ‘It mightn’t do you any good to hear,’ she answered.

  ‘There ain’t much I can’t stand,’ he retorted, ‘in the way of ’earin’. If you was ter say Windser Castle was blowed hup, I’d ’ardly notice it.’

  ‘You know, but for our tight corner,’ said the girl, ‘you’d make me laugh! I hope I meet you one day at a party. Meantime—well, let’s see if you can stand this! That—murdering fellow is my working partner.’

  ‘Is ’e?’

  ‘Well done! You’re sticking it! Want some more?’

  ‘Well, we’re orf now like, ain’t we, miss?’

  ‘You’ve said it! We’re off! And the next tit-bit is that I was in on the Hammersmith affair.’

  ‘Was yer?’

  ‘Feel!’

  He heard a swift little rustle, and a wad of paper was thrust against his hand. He guessed correctly, with a shiver. A dead man’s notes.

  ‘’Ere, you must git rid o’ them!’ he gasped, diving straight to the kernel.