Detective Ben Page 6

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do they worry you? Do they tear you? Can the sight of a knee—a particular knee, of course, not just any knee—can it sweep every other thought from your mind, and bring down your resolutions like a pack of cards?’ He spoke with a queer intentness. He paused and considered. Thoughtfully, he continued, ‘No. An amendment. Let us say—can it change your philosophy—your sense of values—your estimation of that abused term, Duty—your belief in Oliver Cromwell? I hope you are noting, Mr Lynch, that although I would put up a poor show against a flea with a toothache, I can still talk—still use good phrases—still show a brain. And that brain, reverting to a woman’s knee that will one day crumble to dust, asks whether—meanwhile—it can open the gates that lead you into fields of lovely colours? Lovely scents? Lovely sensations? That make all else seem futile?’ He paused again. ‘Or are women just cattle?’

  Ben broke a little silence to observe:

  ‘Yer don’t mean yer’ve stopped?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Mr Sutcliffe. ‘It’s your turn.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed if I know wotcher torkin’ abart.’

  ‘Then let us talk about something else. Your happy holiday here is over. You are going, as the fortune-tellers say, on a long journey. You had better get up.’

  ‘But yer don’t mean I’m goin’ now? Ternight?’

  ‘I think it highly probable. I did not let the visitor in, but I heard him arrive, and I caught a glimpse of him—very impressive—and I listened, as usual, at the door.’ He held up a finger suddenly. ‘Hark! Do you hear that soft metallic purr? My finger-nails are very bright tonight.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Going—going—gone! Namely, the visitor. That was the lift descending. There is not a sound here I cannot interpret, not a silence I cannot read. If things were slightly different I would be a great man. Wait! Don’t move! This is a tragic time. You are slipping away, Mr Lynch—slipping away. So solid now. And soon, just a memory! Did I talk to you? Did I touch you? Were you ever really here, with your “Eh?” and your “Oi”? I feel like Juliet.’

  He vanished from the room. Ben got out of bed, feeling himself to make sure he hadn’t melted yet. In less than a minute Mr Sutcliffe was back again.

  ‘It is as I predicted,’ he said. ‘My visit now is official. You are to get up. You are to go to the second door on the left for the last time. Our Fred is also getting up. But he will return.’

  ‘Don’t you never git up?’ grunted Ben, making for his trousers.

  ‘I believe I did once last January,’ replied Mr Sutcliffe, ‘but I can’t quite remember. Thinking backwards is so difficult.’

  He departed once more. Ben dressed quickly. In the passage he saw a dim, stodgy figure gliding across the hall. It was Fred, going to the lift.

  When Ben entered Miss Warren’s room he found her sitting up in bed exactly as he had seen her on the first morning. Deep blue dressing-jacket. Deep blue boudoir cap. (He had seen that only a few moments ago in his dream.) Lace-edged pillow. Perfect picture of composure. Regarding her, Ben felt almost indignant at her attractive appearance at that time of night. ‘Don’t she never git messy?’ he wondered.

  ‘Well, Mr Lynch,’ she began, in a businesslike manner, ‘this time it’s good-bye.’

  ‘That suits me,’ replied Ben, ‘if the job’s on.’

  His heart was beating rather fast, for he was on the verge of learning the great secret at last, and once he knew that, he merely had to wriggle himself free and report to Scotland Yard. He managed to retain his outward composure, however, and to appear as composed as she.

  ‘I thought it would suit you,’ answered Miss Warren. ‘This flat is hardly your natural environment. Your next lodging may be more appropriate.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Fred will take you there.’

  ‘Yus, but where is it?’

  ‘You will know when you arrive.’

  ‘’Ave it yer own way,’ muttered Ben, concealing his disappointment. ‘Wot’s the job?’

  ‘You’ll know that later, too.’

  The disappointment exploded.

  ‘Ain’t I ter know nothink?’ he exclaimed. ‘I s’pose I’ll ’ear wot the job is arter I’ve done it!’

  ‘You will hear before you do it,’ Miss Warren promised calmly, ‘and you will remember meanwhile that knowledge can be a dangerous thing.’

  ‘Meanin’ yer don’t trust me! Yer puts me through wotcher calls a test with a bogus bobby ter see if I’ll give yer away—I come through that O.K., didn’t I—?’

  ‘And you’ll come through your job O.K., too,’ she interrupted sharply, ‘if you continue to obey orders in the future as you have obeyed them in the past. Not otherwise!’ Her voice relaxed. ‘Don’t make trouble, Mr Lynch. Remember you were engaged on the definite understanding that you asked no questions, and only a few minutes ago in this very room I had to give my oath—to quite an important personage—that so far you had no inkling of your business.’

  ‘Oh—did yer?’

  ‘If I had not been able to give that oath, Mr Sutcliffe would not have wakened you up. The important personage, when he visited your bedside before Mr Sutcliffe did, would have made sure that you did not wake up at all.’

  Ben swallowed quietly, and tried to get rid of another vision of the Jack of Clubs.

  ‘So regard your ignorance as your protection, as well as ours,’ she went on. ‘When the time comes, your—particular genius will have full scope for its expression. Meanwhile, other minds will direct you—and watch you.’

  ‘I see. The Jack—the himportant persernidge, eh?’

  ‘I said minds.’

  ‘Oh! Well, wot did the himportant persenidge come inter me room for?’

  Miss Warren smiled.

  ‘He couldn’t quite believe my description of you. He wanted to be quite sure that you looked the right man for the job.’

  ‘Yer carn’t tell wot a man looks like with ’is eyes shut! Why didn’t ’e wake me?’

  ‘It suited him to see, but not to be seen. Well, I think that’s all. Oh, no—something else. Money.’

  ‘Yus, don’t leave that out,’ remarked Ben.

  ‘You have already received three pounds. Mr Sutcliffe is waiting in the hall to give you five more, which will carry you on till the next instalment. I gather from something Mr Sutcliffe said that he wants to kiss you good-bye. Better not keep him waiting. You will forgive me if I myself am a little less effusive—though I admit,’ she added, as she lay down, ‘you have been refreshing. Good-night.’

  She turned away, snuggling her head into her expensive pillow. But as Ben left the room he could not rid himself of the impression that she was still watching him.

  Mr Sutcliffe stood waiting in the hall outside. He looked like a pale executioner in his dead black robe, and his doleful expression was equally indicative of the end of things.

  ‘Here is largess for you,’ he sighed, sadly presenting an envelope, ‘and I am to tell you that your financial interests will be safeguarded all along the route—with, of course, the Big Plum at the end, provided you ever reach the end. Apart from that, my ignorance is as colossal as yours. Think of me sometimes. Oh, by the way, today I drove an apple into a saucepan with an inverted umbrella. Holed out in one. Record for the course. Still, it exhausted me. Now you have gone I shall have to fall back on horse-racing. Can you give me a tip for the Lynch Stakes? Perhaps one day, in return, I’ll give you a tip for the Sutcliffe Stakes.’ A queer look entered his eye for a moment, then vanished. ‘Good-bye, Mr Lynch. Say something funny, please, to remember you by.’

  ‘If yer think I’m feelin’ funny,’ answered Ben, ‘it’s one o’ them roomers.’

  ‘That’ll do nicely,’ replied Mr Sutcliffe, as he slid the lift gate open. ‘Step inside, dear. Down for the basement bargains.’

  A moment later Ben was alone, descending the narrow shaft to his next adventure.

  8

  Northward through
the Night

  Fred was waiting at the bottom. His attitude, as usual, was surly.

  ‘Thought you were never coming!’ he grunted, as Ben emerged from the lift. ‘Think we’ve got all night?’

  ‘Wot I like abart you,’ answered Ben, ‘is yer so cheerful.’

  ‘Now, then, don’t waste time!’ snapped the chauffeur.

  ‘’Oo’s wastin’ time?’ retorted Ben. ‘You’re standin’ there grumblin’, not me!’

  ‘You’ve got some bloody cheek!’

  ‘If I told yer wot you’d got, I’d still be torkin’ next Christmas!’

  A black coupé stood by the curb. Postponing further argument, they entered, and a few moments later were gliding swiftly through the dark streets.

  For awhile they were as silent as the roads they travelled. The chauffeur was in no mood for conversation, while Ben was busy with his thoughts. But presently it occurred to Ben that perhaps he was missing an opportunity, and that it might be worth while trying to pierce the sultry atmosphere, even at the expense of a little pride. Before long he would be deposited in some new world, equipped only with ignorance. The ignorance may have saved his life in the flat, but outside he preferred the protection of a little knowledge.

  Whether Fred would supply the knowledge was another matter. Certainly it would be impossible to pump the surly chauffeur unless his unbending mood were altered.

  ‘Got a new car, I see,’ remarked Ben presently, attempting to effect the transformation. ‘Buy it out of yer pocket-money?’

  Fred made no reply.

  ‘I never ’eard wot ’appened to the old ’un,’ he tried again. ‘Did yer leave it in a ditch, like wot she told yer?’

  Equally ineffective.

  ‘Pity yer so chatty,’ murmured Ben, giving up.

  ‘I suppose you couldn’t stop talking?’ growled the chauffeur.

  ‘Easy,’ answered Ben. ‘But yer a mug. I was jest goin’ ter tell yer somethink Miss Warren said abart yer afore I left ’er room.’

  After a moment the chauffeur bit.

  ‘What was it?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘“If yer wanter git on in the world,” she ses, “watch wot Fred does and do the hoppersit.”’

  That ended the conversation for a hundred miles.

  During the hundred miles Ben concentrated on trying to keep awake. There were several good reasons for the effort, one being that he wanted to have some check on the time, distance, and direction when he got to the other end—he deduced they were travelling north—and another being that he wanted to keep a check on his companion. He did not imagine the chauffeur would do him any bodily harm, for Ben was travelling under the protection of his mission—but you never knew, did you? In a sudden wave of emotion Fred might fling open a door and tip his passenger out!

  But after awhile resolution began to weaken, and the strange lullaby of speed and night played on his frayed senses. Gradually the dark lanes dissolved into bottomless pools of blackness, the car lost its imprisoning solidarity, and Ben’s soul escaped into the confusion of limitless space. This would have mattered a little less (though it would still have mattered; Ben loved an anchorage) had the Jack of Clubs not escaped with him. Together they floated about nocturnal cosmos in uneasy collaboration, till they descended into a vast, salty ocean.

  Salt was everywhere. Salt and sea. Or was it salt and river? Or was it merely creek? Yes, probably it was creek, choked with weeds and grasses, for that would explain the decreasing speed … and the speed was undoubtedly growing less …

  He opened his eyes with a guilty jerk. The Jack of Clubs resolved into the form of Fred, the chauffeur.

  It was still dark, but the inky outlines of small scattered buildings, and one tall spire pointing a ghostly finger heavenwards from a flat black earth, were faintly visible. Ben’s nose, doing duty for his eyes, informed him that he was in a land of dikes and marshes.

  A damp chill in the air added to the general sense of desolation.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re still alive,’ came the sarcastic comment in his ear.

  ‘If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t be fer long,’ answered Ben, groping back towards consciousness.

  ‘That’s the only reason you are,’ said the chauffeur.

  They slid slowly through the outskirts of a little town. Presently, after two or three twists, the car stopped.

  ‘’Ome?’ queried Ben.

  ‘Near enough,’ replied his companion, and handed him an envelope.

  ‘Wot’s this?’ asked Ben, warily.

  ‘Open it and see,’ answered the chauffeur. ‘It won’t bite.’

  ‘We do love each other, don’t we?’ said Ben, as he opened the envelope and extracted a sheet of paper.

  The paper was headed, ‘Further Instructions,’ and Ben read them by the light above the control board:

  ‘You are now in Boston, Lincolnshire.

  ‘You are no longer Harry Lynch. You are Charles Wilkins, looking for work.

  ‘You have not been in a car. You have walked from London, and you are dog-tired.

  ‘You will knock at the door of a cottage pointed out to you by Fred. Fred will not accompany you to the cottage, and you will not knock till he has gone.

  ‘There will be a light in a window of the cottage. That will explain why you have ventured to knock.’

  At this point Ben raised his eyes instinctively from the sheet and glanced through the windscreen along the road. The car’s lights were out, but a faint beam of yellow radiance streaked across the road from a dark smudge some fifty yards ahead on the right. He lowered his eyes to the paper again, and continued:

  ‘A man with grey hair and a grey moustache will open the door to you. Tweed suit.

  ‘You will explain your position to him. He will accept your story without question.

  ‘He will make a suggestion. You will agree to the suggestion. It will concern a place beginning with the letter M. You will then leave the rest to him.

  ‘He will tell you in due course that his name is Smith, but do not address him as Smith until he has told you.’

  (‘Some ’un thinks I’m a mug!’ reflected Ben.)

  ‘Speak to him always as Charles Wilkins, never as Harry Lynch. He has never heard of Harry Lynch, so will be unable to satisfy Harry Lynch’s curiosity.

  ‘Read these instructions through until you know them thoroughly, and them burn them in the presence of Fred.

  ‘Remember that invisible eyes are watching you.’

  With this veiled threat the instructions ended.

  Ben read them through carefully three times, and then looked up to find the chauffeur holding a lighted match.

  ‘Carry on,’ said Ben.

  The chauffeur applied the match to the paper. Ben held the paper till the little flame reached his corner, then dropped the corner and put his boot on it.

  ‘O.K.’ said Fred.

  ‘Sime ’ere,’ replied Ben. ‘And now, I s’pose, orl we gotter do is ter kiss.’

  ‘The cottage,’ answered Fred stiffly, ‘is the first one along the road on the right. You can see the light from here.’

  ‘Thank yer fer nothink,’ returned Ben. ‘I’ve seed it already.’

  The chauffeur stretched his arm across Ben and unfastened the door. Ben was assisted out by a sudden, vicious shove. As he picked himself up from the ground the car swung round. But Ben picked up a stone as well as himself, and smashed the windscreen with it while the car was gathering speed.

  ‘’Ave a nice warm journey ’ome, Sunshine!’ he called.

  And then turned towards the cottage.

  9

  Mr Smith, of Boston

  With a sensation that he was getting farther and farther from his spiritual as well as his geographical base, Ben walked along the dark lane towards the ray of light that streaked across the road. He did not walk quickly because, although he had memorised his instructions, he still had a little thinking to do. In addition, a slow pace was consistent with the alleged f
atigue of Charles Wilkins, unemployed.

  ‘Let’s git this straight,’ he communed with himself. ‘Now I’m Ben pertendin’ ter be ’Arry Lynch pertendin’ ter be Charles Wilkins, and the chap I’m doin’ this larst pertend to ain’t never ’eard o’ the fust two. Orl right. ’Arry and Ben go back in the box. But is the chap I’m goin’ ter pertend to goin’ ter do any pertendin’? ’E expecks me, so ’e knows somethink’s up. Is ’e really Smith, or is ’e Robinson pertendin’ ter be Lloyd George pertendin’ ter be Smith? Arsk me another!’

  Havng reached this unsatisfactory point, he asked himself another.

  ‘Wot sort of a bloke is this Charlie Wilkins to be? I gotter think ’im aht, ain’t I? Nice or narsty? I ’ope there ain’t a real Charlie Wilkins, else I’ll be ’ad up fer libel! Corse, there was a real ’Arry Lynch, but ’e’s dead so that don’t count. Better mike ’im nice, ter be on the sife side—then if I’m ’ad up I can say I was doin’ ’im a good turn. Right, ’e’s nice. Quiet like. Should I mike ’im funny? No, don’t think I’d be any good at that. ’E might like riddles.’

  Then an idea struck him that, by its simple brilliance, made him stop dead.

  ‘Lumme, I’m out o’ work, ain’t I?’ he thought. ‘Corse, not countin’ me present job. And this Smith bloke’s never ’eard o’ Ben! Why not be me, and ’ave done with it?’

  The immediate future brightened. The cloak of complexity fell from him. Charles Wilkins should be like Ben, and the actor would act himself!

  He resumed his way in a happier frame of mind.

  Reaching the ray of light, he paused in it, donned his most fatigued expression (it was not difficult), and turned towards the cottage, wondering whether Mr Smith was looking out. The fatigued expression was to cover that possibility, and so was the little scene that followed.

  ‘Lumme, I’m fair done in!’ he muttered loudly. ‘Don’t seem as if I can walk another step! ’Allo, wot’s that? A light? Somebody’s up!’

  He stared at the cottage window. He decided to totter. He tottered. He did it so realistically that he fell over. ‘I’m blowed!’ he thought, as he picked himself up. ‘I b’leeve I’m really done in!’