Number Nineteen Page 5

  ‘It mikes yer sweat,’ he admitted, when he had licked the tin clean, ‘but, lummy, it’s good!’

  What happened next was not quite so good. The front-door bell rang.

  7

  Conversation on a Doorstep

  Ben’s first feeling on hearing the bell was one of resentment. Wasn’t he ever to be let alone? This was what he had meant to safeguard himself against when he had tried to get Mr Smith to define and limit his working hours.

  If the person who had rung the front-door bell was a house-hunter, this was a most unreasonable time to call! How can you expect to see a house properly if you’re shown over it by candle-light? On the other hand, if the person were not a house-hunter, then there would probably be other good reasons against answering this late summons.

  ‘They’ll ’ave ter ring twice,’ decided Ben, ‘if they’re goin’ ter git me!’

  They did ring twice, and the second ring was followed by the sound of the door-knocker. Lummy, he s’posed he’d have to go! But if he had any say in the matter, which was of course a moot point, he did not intend to make himself pleasant.

  Managing to keep his eyes from straying along the passage towards the room with the locked door—he was trying hard not to think of that—he left the kitchen and mounted the basement stairs, candle held before him, his shadow sliding up behind. When he reached the hall he was tempted to desert his duty and to continue mounting up to the top, but he knew that the candle-light would be betraying its flickering presence in the fanlight above the front door, so he could not pretend that nobody was in the house. Taking a deep breath—it sort of steadied him like—he went to the door, transferred the candlestick from his right hand to his left, grasped the door-knob, paused, then turned the knob quickly and pulled the door open.

  His action was so sudden that the feeble flame of the candle failed to survive the draught of air that came through the doorway, and went out. There was no unkind trick that had not been played on Ben in moments of tenseness. He had had even this one before. The dim figure standing before him on the doorstep might be anybody from the Archbishop of Canterbury to a devil with a forked tail. The voice that addressed him, however, clearly came from neither.

  ‘Perhaps if you relit it,’ said the voice, ‘we could see each other.’

  It was a woman’s voice. Apart from a certain strained tenseness in it, it was not unpleasant. Feeling that, so far, things were not as bad as they might have been, and might soon become, Ben fumbled for his matches. Then it occurred to him that after all there might be some advantage in darkness, and it would be as well to delay lighting up.

  ‘’Oojer want?’ he asked.

  ‘I prefer to see who I’m talking to,’ came the response.

  ‘Oh! But if yer’ve come ter the wrong ’ouse—’

  ‘Isn’t this Number 19?’

  ‘Well, yus.’

  ‘Billiter Road?’

  That destroyed his happy hope.

  ‘That’s right,’ he answered. ‘But it’s a bit laite fer callin’, ain’t it?’

  ‘If it were earlier,’ replied the woman, ‘we would not need that candle to talk by. Aren’t you going to light it?’

  He supposed he would have to, and he did so with an inward sigh. He struck a match, applied it to the wick, and the little flame glowed again. By its insufficient illumination Ben saw that the woman was young and rather attractive, if not exactly his meat. He preferred ’em plump and fair, and this ’un was dark and slim. Nice neat dress, anyhow. In fact, you shouldn’t call her a woman, really. She was a lidy.

  All at once Ben switched off her on to himself. He stopped thinking of what he was looking at and thought of what she was looking at, and a wave of self-consciousness swept over him. This was the first person, not counting his employer, who had seen him in his new guise, and quite apart from getting used to being seen like he wasn’t, it set up a pretty problem. Should he try and talk like he thought Marmaduke would, or go on being natural like? His natural voice certainly did not fit his neat attire. A cat as audience didn’t matter, but this was a very different cup o’ tea.

  ‘Thank you, that’s better,’ said the young lady.

  ‘Don’t menshun,’ returned Ben.

  ‘Then I won’t.’ There was something odd in her voice, a hardness which somehow Ben did not think natural. Was she playing a part, too? But Ben did not quite believe that, either. Probably there was some other reason, and not a nice one. ‘May I know who you are?’

  Another poser! Ben wasn’t sure himself.

  ‘My nime’s Jones,’ he stated, ‘if that’s anythink, thing, to yer.’

  ‘No—I don’t think we’ve met.’ Yus, something very odd about that voice. For all its hardness and confidence, was she so sure of herself, after all? She was thinkin’ ’ard—yer could tell that. ‘You live here, don’t you?’

  That was a funny question. You call at a house, somebody opens the door, and you ask if he lives there!

  ‘Well, that’s right,’ agreed Ben, watchfully.

  ‘Alone?’

  Should he admit it? And—was he alone? Lummy, what did she want? Obviously she was not a house-hunter.

  ‘Well, that’s one way o’ puttin’ it,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh! And what would be another way of putting it?’

  This wasn’t any good! He was getting in a tangle. He tried to untangle himself.

  ‘Wot I means, miss,’ he said, ‘is I ain’t the owner of this ’ouse.’

  He found her looking at him curiously, and a little more closely.

  ‘No—I suppose not. One of the—staff, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, I answers the bell.’

  ‘Of course. How stupid of me. You would be the man-servant here. Tell me, you’ve answered the bell to—to—’ Her voice wavered, then suddenly it grew firm again. ‘You’ve answered the bell to a Mr Bretherton, haven’t you?’

  Mr Bretherton? What did he say to that?

  ‘Haven’t you?’ she repeated, sharply.

  Bretherton. Now who was Bretherton? Would that be Mr Smith’s pal? Or—lummy!—the statue? Or, come to that, was the statue the pal? Or would it be the bloke on the floor, sayin’ ’e was the larst caretaiker—or even sayin’ ’e wasn’t?…

  ‘What’s the matter with you!’ exclaimed the young lady.

  ‘’Arf a mo’—I got a toothache,’ muttered Ben, trying to get back. ‘See, miss, yer got it a bit wrong. I’m the caretaiker o’ this ’ouse, and it’s ter be sold, see, and, well, all I does is ter answer the bell and let people go over the plice. It’s a bit laite, so I don’t s’pose you’ve come to go over it? ’Ave yer?’

  Now she seemed a little lost for an answer. It was a nice exchange.

  ‘And, any’ow,’ went on Ben, pressing his advantage, ‘I ain’t supposed ter show nobody over not withaht they come from Waivell and Son—’

  He stopped abruptly as a spasm flashed across her face. Or was it just the candle flickering? A few seconds went by without either of them speaking. Then she said, in a low voice:

  ‘Yes, of course. Wavell and Son. Yes. It would have been from Wavell and Son that Mr Bretherton would have come here. Are you sure you don’t remember the name?’

  ‘Afraid not, miss,’ replied Ben.

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t give his name? You may recognise a description? Rather tall—’

  ‘Brahn ’air, and a small brahn mustache?’

  ‘No!’

  Then it wasn’t Mr Smith. For a moment Ben had thought it might be.

  ‘Greyish hair,’ the lady went on, ‘though I don’t mean he was old. He hadn’t any moustache, he was clean shaven. Rather a—well, solemn looking man, with a rather quick, abrupt way of speaking—’ She paused, with a little helpless shrug. ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t tell you much.’

  ‘It don’t tell me nothink,’ answered Ben, ‘and any’ow I wouldn’t of seed ’im even if ’e ’ad called.’

  ‘Why not? Didn’t you say you were the caretaker
here?’

  ‘Yus, but I was on’y took on this arternoon, and you’re the fust person wot’s called since I took on the job.’

  The lady frowned disappointedly.

  ‘I see. Then, of course—he may have been here, only you wouldn’t—’

  Her voice trailed off. She seemed to have come to a dead end. Taking her eyes from Ben’s face, she looked beyond him into the hall, as though trying to pierce its dimness. Then her eyes returned to Ben.

  ‘So you can’t help me,’ she said.

  Her voice was no longer hard. All at once Ben found himself wishing he could help her.

  ‘P’r’aps if yer told me a bit more,’ he suggested, ‘I might be able ter?’

  An odd moment followed. She looked at him with a new expression, a puzzled expression. Then the faintest smile came, so faint that in the candle-light you could hardly see it.

  ‘One of your side-whiskers is coming off,’ she said.

  ‘Gawd!’ gasped Ben, and then blushed at the giveaway.

  ‘You think side-whiskers suit you, perhaps?’ she asked.

  ‘See, it was like this,’ he answered, struggling to recover his lost ground. ‘I allus wears ’em, but this mornin’ I shaved one orf by mistake like, so I ’ad to stick another on ter fit the one I still ’ad.’

  ‘I see. When you applied for this job. That is the most delightful lie I have ever heard. You don’t really expect me to believe you, do you?’

  ‘Yer can do as yer like abart that.’

  ‘Thank you, I will. You mentioned a man with a moustache.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, jest some’un, miss. Yer wouldn’t know ’im.’

  ‘Did he engage you?’

  ‘Well, s’pose ’e did?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘Yus, but might I arsk why?’

  She drew a little closer to him. She was prettier than he had thought. Yes, but what was the use of dwelling on that if you hadn’t been born a toff?

  ‘I thought you were willing to help me?’ she said.

  ‘Yus, but yer’ve fergot somethink,’ he reminded her. ‘I sed if yer told me a bit more.’

  She hesitated, and suddenly twisted her head round to glance at the dark street behind her. Some way up the street was a lamp post, but the light only reached the vicinity of No. 19 as the faintest glow.

  ‘What more do you want to be told?’ she asked, turning back to him.

  ‘Well, I wanter know why yer wanter know, like I sed,’ he replied. ‘And then, this ’ere Mr Bretherton? I ain’t ’eard yet ’oo ’e is, or why yer wanter find aht if ’e’s bin ’ere?’ He took a risk. ‘’Ow abart comin’ in fer a minit? There’s one o’ the rooms we could tork in. That is, yer know, if—’

  Footsteps came along the street, and as they drew closer panic seemed to seize her.

  ‘Not now—later!’ she whispered.

  And the next moment she was gone.

  Panic is catching. Ben quickly closed the door. The approaching footsteps drew up to the house, ceased for a few seconds, and then continued on again.

  8

  The Thing

  This time Ben did not return straight to his bedroom. He stopped at the floor below, went into the bathroom, and put his head under the cold tap. The water came out yellow. He had a vague recollection of a towel somewhere in the bedroom, but as he could not wait for it and there was no towel here, he gave his dripping wig a preliminary dry on a soiled window-curtain, and then mounted to his room to complete the job. He had to turn the cat off the towel to do it.

  ‘Yer know, yer orter leave my things alone, Sammy,’ he remonstrated, dwelling for the moment on minor troubles in order to postpone the contemplation of major ones. ‘That towel was put there fer Marmerduke, not fer you. Cats don’t need no towels—they jest licks theirselves and leaves the dryin’ ter nacher.’

  The reference to Marmaduke took him to the mirror to see whether ablutions had washed away any of his second self. He discovered that Marmaduke was still all there—materially, if not quite mentally—saving for the disarrangement of one side-whisker, and it was while he was working it back into position that his mind reverted to the lady who had first drawn his attention to the side-whisker’s inclination to stray. He sighed on to the mirror, blotting Marmaduke out with his breath. There was something in a good sigh, after all.

  ‘Now ’ow many ’ave we got?’ he communed. ‘Feller dead on a seat. Another feller dead on a floor. A movin’ stacher. Me, Gawd knows ’oo. And, laitest, a lidy on a doorstep wot bunks when she ’ears footsteps.’

  But who had indicated, he recalled as he remembered her last words, that she would be coming back again.

  ‘Oh, and jest one more, fer fun. ’Oo’s the footsteps?’

  A sudden yearning for sleep seized him. Not because he was tired, though he was, but because sleep blots out all. He moved towards the bed in which he had awakened from his last slumber. That was a very different slumber from the slumber he hoped for now. It had been forced, and he had been deposited on the bed. This sleep would be natural—he yawned, to make sure of it—and he would get on the bed by his own decision.

  Sammy was momentarily in possession. Why it had temporarily left the bed’s comfort for a towel in a corner was beyond Ben’s reasoning, not fitted to cope with feline logic, but as it seemed a shame to keep on disturbing it, he decided there was room for two.

  The next thing to decide was whether to take off any clothes. There were not, as a rule, many to take off, but it was Marmaduke going to bed this time, not Ben, and there was no knowing how much Marmaduke had on underneath. It might be interesting to explore? On the other hand, if he took them off tonight he would only have to put them on again tomorrow. So he let them stay.

  Lying beside his unusual bed-companion, Ben closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but when he found himself drifting into a museum filled with statues armed with bread-knives he opened his eyes and tried to keep awake. This was not fair! Sleep should come first, and the dreams or nightmares afterwards.

  Presently he tried again. Ah, this was better! Now he was floating on a dark quiet river. Nice, this was. He hoped he’d go on floating like this for ever. P’r’aps this was what you did in heaven? Jest float! But then, of course, it wasn’t likely that chaps like Ben would ever get to heaven. Well, was it? And, even if he did get there, he’d prefer the river a bit wider than this one—in fact, more of a sea, like—because he was a bit too near the bank, and he could hear something walking along the bank with a sort of a scrunch-scrunch. What would it be? A cow? Yes, p’r’aps a cow. Some animal, anyway. At least … would it be an animal? Crunch-crunch. It—it couldn’t be a person, could it? Or—a stacher? Lummy! He tried to stop floating so the Thing by his side would get ahead of him. It took an awful effort. You had to clench your teeth and curl your toes. But—thank Gawd!—at last he did it! He had stopped moving …

  A moment later he realised, with a sinking heart, that he had thanked God too soon. He had certainly stopped, but so had the Thing beside him! In vain he listened for the crunch-crunch of steps fading away in the distance. He strained his ears till they nearly burst. He could not hear whatever stood so near him, he could not see it, but he knew it was there. He felt its presence, pinning him to the spot where he lay, and it was looking down on him. An effort to start floating again proved abortive. You cannot float on a river that is no longer there; and you cannot float on a bed.

  If he had been asked how long he lay there with eyes tightly closed, pinned down by an unseen presence and waiting for something to happen without the least idea what, he could have given no answer. It might have been five seconds or five minutes. But when at last he could stand it no longer and was forced to put an end to his ignorance by opening his eyes, he saw only darkness. Not the utter darkness that tells you nothing. It was a darkness faintly alleviated by a percolating dimness which would have revealed any looming shape beside the bed had it
been present.

  Ben was perfectly certain it had been present. And suddenly he heard the sound which earlier he would have welcomed. Crunch-crunch. In the passage. And gradually fading away down the stairs. Whoever or whatever was responsible for those sounds had left the bedside before he had opened his eyes, and had been waiting outside the door until this moment.

  Fear can hold you still or set you in movement. Now it set Ben in movement, for he felt he had to know what the Thing was that had entered his nightmare and then continued outside it. He rolled off the bed, picked himself up from the floor, made for the door, then changed his direction and ran to the mantelpiece. He was going down, but not without a candle. When the little flame had glowed to its full dimensions he received another small shock. The cat was no longer on the bed. Was the Thing the cat? He quickly dismissed the absurd idea, for no cat could make such sounds unless it had swelled to fantastic size! He tried to call to it, but no words came. His throat had gone on strike.

  Now he was out in the passage, the candle held high. That was the way to reduce the shadows, and a shadow is no man’s friend. But you can’t hold a candle up aloft all the time, and half-way down the stairs his arm came down, and his shadow shivered beside him along the wall. ‘Go on, am I wobblin’ like that?’ he thought. He hoped it was due to the flickering flame.

  No sign of anything, or anyone. Aside from himself and his black counterpart. Down one flight. A swift glance along the landing towards the bathroom. Down another flight. Still nothing. No—half a mo’! Wasn’t that a sound on the basement stairs?