Ben on the Job Read online

  ‘What was he like?’

  The question was asked quietly, but Ben was too absorbed in his story to note its tenseness.

  ‘Well, mum, I ain’t much good at dessercripshun, but ’e was a big feller with big ’ands and feet, and a crooked nose, and ’e ’ad black ’air and heyebrows like a couple o’ birds’ nests. I don’t suppose you know ’im, do yer?’

  ‘No,’ she answered, and as he had missed her anxiety, so now he missed her relief. ‘Go on! What took him to the house? Was he running away, too?’

  ‘No, mum.’

  ‘Then he wasn’t the man who dropped the jemmy—’

  ‘Lummy, no, I never saw no more of ’im, but I don’t know why this hother feller come. Corse we both begun with a pack o’ lies, and when ’e tikes the money orf the body, yus, and hoffers me one o’ the notes—well, then I gits proper suspishus, and seein’ as ’ow ’e was a wrong ’un I thort I’d pertend ter be a wrong ’un, too, ter see wot more I could git aht of ’im—not meanin’ more notes, o’ corse, but infermashun. Mind yer, it was a risk, but then that’s life, ain’t it? If yer git me? Yer born ter die. Any’ow, that’s wot I done, and when ’e sez ’e knoo ’oo done the crime—’

  ‘What!’

  The anxiety that had been quelled by Ben’s description of the man returned. She tried to recover her composure while Ben blinked at her.

  ‘But, of course,’ she suggested, ‘he might—he could have said that just to put you off!’

  ‘Ter put me orf thinkin’ ’e did it ’imself? Yus, I thort o’ that,’ agreed Ben, ‘on’y sometimes yer can sorter smell when yer ’earin’ the truth, even when it’s liars wot’s tellin’ it, and I smelt ’e was torkin’ the truth that time. ’E knows, that I’d swear ter, but ’e didn’t go no further with it, ’e didn’t say ’oo it was, but soon ’e gits torkin’ abart some gime ’e’s got on, and ’ow if I went in with ’im I could do a bit o’ good ter meself—and so—well, yer see ’ow it was?’

  Mrs Wilby did not answer for a few moments. She was sitting very still, staring rigidly across the room, as though afraid to move.

  ‘Or doncher?’

  ‘I think it will be best to tell me,’ she answered at last. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Well, see, mum, wot I ’ad ter decide,’ replied Ben, ‘was if ter brike with ’im, or if ter go on pertendin’? I’d never learn no more if I said “Nuffin’ doin’,” but if I didn’t I might, ’speshully as ’e gives me an address ter go to where ’e’d been stayin’ and where I was ter stay meself till I ’eard from ’im agine. ’E said ’e ’ad ter go away fer a bit.’ Ben dived into a pocket. ‘This is the address wot ’e give me. ’E wrote that. And so I sez okay, and then arter ’e went I telerphoned ter the pleece, like I said, and then I come on ’ere ter you.’

  He held the paper out to her, and she took it and read its message: ‘Mrs Kenton, 46, Jewel Street, SE. This is to introduce Mr Eric Burns, a pal of mine. As you know I have to go away, and I want him to occupy my room till I come back. Ask no questions, etc. Love to Maudie. O.B.’

  She read it through two or three times, as though to memorise it, and then handed the paper back.

  ‘I thought your name was Ben,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Ben, ‘but ’e got callin’ me Heric fer a joke, though I never knoo wot the joke was, and then ’e tacks on Burns ter mike it complete like.’

  ‘And he is O.B.’

  ‘That proberly don’t mean no more on ’is birth certifikit than wot Eric Burns does on mine. Well, mum, there we are, so wot do I do?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Well, come ter that, I s’pose wot’s best.’

  ‘Best for—’

  He filled in her pause.

  ‘Fer you, mum, wouldn’t it be?’ he said. ‘I mean that’s wot I come ’ere for, ain’t it?’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘It’s a waiste ter try. I was tryin’ ter work it aht meself once when somebody said it couldn’t be done.’

  ‘I believe they were right. But let us forget ourselves for the moment—what do you think we ought to do?’

  He noticed that it was ‘we’ this time, not ‘you’. He thought hard, so he would make no mistake.

  ‘I expeck it’s like this, mum. If we was ter go by the copybook—you know, “I must be good,” “I mustn’t tell no lies,” “I must wash arter meals,” then p’r’aps I orter tike this bit o’ paiper ter the pleece, tell ’em me story, and let ’em git on with it, never mind the risk. I’ll do that if yer say so—on’y, some’ow, I don’t think yer want ter say so.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Ah, there yer are! I’m givin’ yer feelin’s, not reasons.’

  After an instant of hesitation she asked: ‘But—don’t you think I would want the person who killed my husband to be caught?’

  Ben’s eyes opened wide. ‘Well, nacherly, mum,’ he answered. ‘But arter wot I’ve told yer, yer may think—like me—that p’r’aps I got a better charnce o’ bringin’ it orf than the pleece—things bein’ like they are like?’

  She nodded, then suddenly glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece and jumped up from her chair.

  ‘Wait a moment!’ she exclaimed.

  She ran out of the room, and Ben got an impression during her short absence that she was telephoning. He thought he heard a faint voice coming from some other part of the house, and although he could not hear any words the voice had that odd, telephonic quality as though the speaker were talking to a wall. When she returned, something had changed in her mood. She spoke swiftly and urgently.

  ‘We must hurry!’ she exclaimed. ‘They will soon be back for me. Would you go to that address?’

  ‘Yus,’ he answered. ‘Okay.’

  ‘There may be some risk—’

  ‘Well, it’s gotter be one kind of a risk or another, ain’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps—I don’t know. But—if you learn anything—well, what would you do?’

  ‘Come ter you with it.’

  ‘You’d do that? Whatever it was?’

  ‘I carn’t see why not, mum? See, if we git on ter ’im defernit like, you could pass it on ter the cops as well as me, couldn’t yer?’

  She regarded him uncertainly, then said: ‘Yes—I could. And now you must go quickly—Ben. But there’s one more thing. How are you off for money?’

  Ben blinked rather sheepishly.

  ‘Well, mum, strickly speakin’, I got fourteen shillin’s and threepence, and that’s more yourn than mine. See, it’s the chinge I got orf the taximan arter givin’ ’im your ’usbin’s pahnd note fer the fare.’

  ‘You must keep that for expenses. But is that all you’ve got?’

  ‘Tha’s right.’

  ‘You must have more. Now that—now that I’ve engaged you, you’ll need something to carry on with your job.’

  ‘Oh! Yer engaigin’ of me?’

  ‘Yes. You’re my private detective.’

  He watched her while she opened her bag and took out her purse.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘On’y—I wasn’t doin’ this fer money, if yer git me?’

  ‘I know that, but you’ve got to have money if you’re going to be of any use to me. It’s because you haven’t been doing this for money that I trust you. Take this, and if you need any more you must let me know.’

  She handed him five pounds in notes.

  ‘Go on!’ he exclaimed, incredulously. ‘Mike it a couple!’

  But she insisted, and he stowed the notes away anxiously in his one sound pocket.

  Then, in a sudden panic in which he joined, she packed him out of the back door while a car drew up at the front.

  6

  The Kentons at Home

  In spite of the glittering name of its thoroughfare, the front door of 46, Jewel Street had less appeal to the visitor than the front door of 18, Drewet Road. In fact, it had no appeal at all. It was in the middle of an unbroken row of a do
zen front doors which were equally spaced in a long low width of depressing, time-worn bricks. Each door had a small square window beside it and a smaller square window above it. In some of the windows were uncheerful birds and gasping plants. The door of No. 46 had once been red, but had now faded to a pale and indeterminate hue, like the lips of an ill, disillusioned girl who no longer had the energy or interest to use a lipstick.

  But, as Ben discovered the moment the door was opened, a very vivid lipstick was used on the other side of the door. Indeed, for an instant he was conscious of little else in the dimness of the narrow passage. Then two bright hard eyes bored inquiringly into his from beneath a glow of blonde hair. It was the lipstick’s triumph that the blonde hair had not been first noted.

  This, Ben guessed, would be the Maudie he was supposed to take to the pictures!

  ‘Good evenin’, miss,’ he began, summoning the best smile he could manage. But what were Ben’s smiles going to signify to a girl like this?

  Maudie responded coldly, without any smile at all: ‘Are you sure you’ve come to the right house?’

  ‘Number 46, ain’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, but we’re not in need of any carpet- sweepers.’

  Hardly a beginning likely to end up at the pictures! But Ben refused to be cowed.

  ‘And I ain’t sellin’ any,’ he answered, ‘but I know where to find Nylong stockin’s fer people I tike a fancy to.’

  ‘Nylons?’ repeated the girl, with a slight change of tone.

  ‘And they don’t ’ave ter pay through the nose fer ’em.’

  She peered at him a little more closely.

  ‘I don’t see your little case,’ she said. ‘Do you get ’em out of a hat like rabbits?’

  ‘Oh, I ain’t brort ’em,’ returned Ben, ‘they’ll come laiter if yer good. It’s yer mother I wanter see this time. Mrs Kenton, ain’t it?’

  ‘That’s my mother. But who are you?’

  ‘Oh, I got a note that’ll say that. It’s signed O.B., if that means anything to yer?’

  ‘O.B.?’ she repeated, and then suddenly her expression changed completely. ‘Come in! Why didn’t you say so at once?’

  She backed and pushed a door open at her side. Behind her was a dark flight of stairs, and she turned and called up as Ben went through the doorway.

  ‘Ma! Someone to see us! Come down!’

  Then she turned again, and followed Ben into a living-room which seemed to be under the control of a baleful parrot in a large cage. The cage was in the middle of a red-clothed table, which had room for little else.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Maudie.

  ‘’Oo?’ replied Ben.

  ‘Oscar—the man who wrote your note? Let me see it!’

  ‘It’s fer yer mother.’

  ‘Same thing here! Don’t be the limit! Where is he?’

  ‘Yer’ve got me instead.’

  It was only the arrival of Mrs Kenton that prevented an explosion. Maudie Kenton had a temper. So, Ben guessed, had the parrot.

  Mrs Kenton was a large untidy woman, as careless of her appearance as her daughter was particular. She looked as though she had just got up, and then not completely, or as if she had come off second-best in an encounter with the parrot. She moved slowly, with an almost swaying motion; but whether this were due to the amount of flabby flesh she carried or to the fear that too rapid movement might cause some of her clothes to come off, was a debatable point. As a household to live with, Ma Kenton, Maudie and the parrot would not have been everybody’s choice. They were not even Ben’s. But, he reminded himself, he had not come here for personal enjoyment.

  ‘And who is this?’ she breathed as she entered.

  ‘This’ll tell yer,’ replied Ben, and fished out his note.

  ‘It’s from Oscar!’ exclaimed Maudie.

  ‘Oh! Oscar?’

  ‘Yes, and he won’t say where Oscar is. Do read it, and then let me see it! What’s happened?’

  Ma Kenton took the sheet of paper. Like Mrs Wilby, she read it through twice, while her daughter watched her impatiently; and although it was to her daughter that she spoke when at last she laid the sheet down, Ben felt that her little pig-eyes were watching him closely out of their corners.

  ‘Oscar’s had to go away, lovie,’ she said. ‘He told me he’d have to before he went out.’

  ‘And why didn’t you tell me?’ cried Maudie. ‘What’s the matter with everybody today?’

  Her shrill voice penetrated to the parrot, and as she snatched the note and began to read the bird fluttered its feathers as though sharing her indignation.

  ‘You’ve only been home a few minutes, dearie,’ her mother reminded her. ‘I should have told you. But he’s coming back, and till he does—’

  ‘Yes, I’m reading it, I’m reading it, can’t you see?’ snapped Maudie.

  For the first time Ma Kenton turned to Ben directly and they exchanged understanding glances, although Ben had not the least idea what he was supposed to understand. When Maudie had finished reading she crunched the paper up and threw it into a corner. The parrot, growing more and more interested in the drama outside its bars, fluttered its feathers again, and eyed the scrunched paper balefully to see that it did not come back.

  ‘Mr Blake was going to take her to the pictures tonight,’ said Mrs Kenton.

  Ben made a note of the name. Blake. Oscar Blake. In his mind he added: ‘I don’t think!’

  ‘Wot abart me tikin’ ’er?’ he suggested.

  Maudie swung round and stared at him open-mouthed. The parrot made an uncomplimentary sound. Then, all at once, Maudie laughed.

  ‘Why not, Eric?’ she replied. ‘But you wouldn’t mind washing your neck for me?’

  ‘If that’s orl, it’s a date,’ grinned Ben, and then addressed the mother. ‘Well, mum, ’ow do we go? Can I ’ave this ’ere Oscar’s room, or ’as ’e arsked too much of yer?’

  ‘Oscar could never ask too much of us, could he, dearie?’ said Mrs Kenton. ‘Any friend of Oscar’s, I’m sure, is a friend of ours. Er—where did you meet him, Mr Burns?’

  ‘Mr ’Oo?’

  ‘Wasn’t that the name? Have I got it wrong?’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s me,’ exclaimed Ben quickly. ‘Burns. See, I thort yer said another one.’

  ‘Where did you meet him? Have you known him long?’

  ‘Wot, Oscar? ’Ave I knowd ’im long? Yer might prackertally say we was born tergether!’

  ‘He has never mentioned you to us—’

  ‘Ah, there’s plenty Oscar and me don’t menshun—but that don’t surprise yer, does it, Ma?’ He winked at her. ‘’Aven’t yer fergot somethink? Wot was wrote at the hend of ’is letter? No questions arst?’

  He winked at her again. Did the parrot wink at Maudie? Ma Kenton winked back.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course! That’s so like Oscar! Isn’t it, dearie? A man of mystery! But then—well—you’re rather that way yourself, aren’t you, Mr Burns?’

  ‘Yer’ve sed it,’ agreed Ben darkly.

  ‘But—’ She paused, and glanced at Maudie, who was playing with her over-ripe lower lip as though it were a guitar-string. ‘Wasn’t there any message? I mean, besides what he wrote? Wasn’t there—surely—wasn’t there anything else at all to tell us?’

  Maudie came back into the conversation like a boomerang.

  ‘You bet there was!’ she cried. ‘And he’ll tell it to you, Ma, the moment my back’s turned or I’m out of hearing! And that’s nice for me, isn’t it, after all I’ve done for him! Could he have got on without me! Oh, but of course, I’ve done nothing—nothing at all. What an idea, I must have dreamt it!’

  Ben discovered himself growing more and more interested in Maudie. Clearly, he must keep on her right side.

  ‘You got it orl wrong,’ he said soothingly. ‘I ain’t got nothink ter tell yer Ma that I ain’t tellin’ you.’ Mrs Kenton looked disappointed. ‘Yus, and yer can tike it from me I ain’t fergittin’ wot yer done fer ’im—�
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  He paused at her sudden searching expression.

  ‘Do you mean, you know?’ she asked.

  He tried to work out the right answer quickly. If he said he knew he wouldn’t be able to ask what it was, but if he said he didn’t that would imply that his alleged friend-from-birth, Oscar, had not possessed the confidence in him to trust him with the knowledge. Wisely he adopted a middle, non-committing course, and responded:

  ‘We’ll ’ave plenty ter tork abart, I reckon, afore we’re finished, missie, but the fust thing I want if I’m goin’ ter tike yer ter the pickchers is that wash! Do I do it in the kitching, or would yer like ter tike me ter me room?’

  Maudie accepted the situation. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up,’ she said sharply. ‘And what about our meal, Ma? P’r’aps you’d start it while I show Mr Burns our castle!’

  Mrs Kenton accepted the situation with less enthusiasm.

  ‘So I’m to do the meal! A lot of help one gets these days from one’s daughters!’

  ‘Well, I’m showing him up, aren’t I?’ retorted Maudie. ‘I can’t cook on the stairs!’

  She jerked her golden locks at Ben and ran from the room, while Ma Kenton frowned. Feeling it necessary to keep in with both, Ben asked:

  ‘’Ave I your permish?’

  ‘Who am I?’ she demanded. ‘All I did was to bring her into the world!’

  ‘Doncher worry, Ma! I can see you and me’ll be ’avin’ a ’eart-ter-’eart one o’ these days!’ answered Ben, and escaped.

  As Ben followed his blonde guide up the dark staircase at the back of the passage he realised that though he might need a wash it was less for looks than for the refreshment of it. Arter orl, when you was tired like he was, there was something in soap and water, and he wondered whether he’d feel fresher like if he patronised them more often? He certainly was tired now, not only in body but in mind, for his mind was simple and here he was trying to play a subtle game. These two women, he could see, were going to play old Harry with what was politely called his brain if he was going to get what he wanted out of them! What he wanted most at this moment was half an hour on a bed looking up at a ceiling. He liked ceilings. They were nice and quiet. Nothing happened on ’em. And sometimes you found sort of maps …