Number Nineteen Page 9

  ‘Try. Have a shot.’

  ‘I tell yer, I didn’t. When some’un’s standin’ in the darkness with a torch, orl yer sees is wot the torch is on. It was on the corpse. I saw ’im!’

  ‘Rather a thin man?’

  ‘Well, most of ’em looks thin when they’re dead. Sort of like they’d bin punchered. But the one with the torch, ’e was orl in the shadder.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ suggested Mr Smith, ‘I expect you saw enough to know it wasn’t a giraffe or an elephant?’

  ‘Eh? Oh! Well, corse! Wotcher gittin’ at?’

  ‘Or whether it was a man or a woman?’

  ‘It was a man.’

  ‘So you did see him a bit, then. Was he tall? Short? Bald? Hairy? Did you see his feet?’

  Feet? What did he want to know that for? And why did the question vaguely worry Ben? Feet—something about feet. What was it?

  ‘I carn’t tell yer nothink not more’n I’ve told yer,’ replied Ben, ‘so it’s no use goin’ on arskin’. But wot I wanter know is where did ’e come from, and where did ’e go ter, seein’ ’e ain’t there now, no more than the corpse is! I can see you know ’oo ’e is, so ain’t it time yer told me? Wot do I do if ’e comes poppin’ aht arter me when you’ve gorn?’ Feet … Feet … ‘Yus, and wotcher want ter know abart ’is feet for? Is anythink wrong with ’em?… Lummy, does they sahnd like a wet sponge when yer ’ears ’em?’

  Mr Smith did not answer. He seemed to be thinking rather hard. So was Ben. He was thinking of the crunching sound of the footsteps he had heard in the night.

  ‘Nah, listen!’ he said, earnestly. ‘I can stand a lot, well, ain’t I done it, and play fair with me and I’ll do the job I’m ’ere for, but there’s one thing I bar. I ain’t goin’ ter be left ’ere alone with no monnertrocity! I see a cubberd in the cellar. I wancher to open it, jest ter show me it ain’t there. See, yer sed yer’d got a gun, so if it is there and mikes trouble yer’ll be able ter deal with it when I couldn’t. That mikes sense, don’t it?’

  Mr Smith shook his head.

  ‘The most sensible thing to do,’ he answered, ‘will be to let sleeping dogs lie for the moment—or perhaps I should say cats—and get back to the kitchen to finish our conversation there.’ He moved to the cellar door as he spoke and relocked it. ‘There’s not much more. And then you can have your breakfast.’

  ‘Yus, and wot do I do if the monnertrocity comes in while I’m ’avin’ it ter join me?’ replied Ben.

  ‘He won’t. Don’t argue. I’ve got to get back to my own breakfast. Come along!’

  Back in the kitchen, Mr Smith took a small sealed packet from his pocket, and handed it to Ben.

  ‘This morning, at half-past ten,’ he said, ‘someone will call to look over the house. The house-agent will be with him. If the agent asks you whether you have anything for him, give him that packet, and then be ready to assist him in any way he may require. And when I say any way, I mean any way. Do you get that?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘He may not require your help. In that case you will go up to the top room and wait until he comes for you, or until he goes. After he has gone, just carry on here as usual until you get your next orders. Now is all that clear?’

  ‘Clear as ditchwater,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Just to make sure, repeat what you’ve got to do.’

  ‘At ’arf-past ten the bell’s goin’ ter ring and I’m goin’ ter let in a ’ouse-’unter and a ’ouse-agent. I’m ter give the ’ouse-agent this ’ere packet wot ’e arsks for, and if ’e arsks me ter ’elp ’im from lendin’ ’im me pocket-’ankerchiff ter ’ittin’ the ’ouse-’unter on the ’ead, I’m ter ’elp ’im, but if ’e don’t want no ’elp then I’m ter go up and sit on me thumbs till the clouds roll by.’

  ‘Admirable!’ exclaimed Mr Smith. ‘I think you’ll do! To be quite frank with you I have had my moments of doubt, but I believe that you know by now which side your bread is buttered—’

  ‘And I’m waitin’ fer the jam!’

  ‘You shall have it, if you behave.’

  ‘I be’aved orl right, didn’t I,’ Ben reminded him, ‘when that bobby called larst night?’

  ‘Keep on like that, and you won’t hear any complaints,’ answered Mr Smith.

  ‘Yer sed ’e wasn’t comin’ back.’

  ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘But yer never sed wot it was yer done ter ’im?’

  ‘You’d be surprised!’

  ‘I wunner! Well, ’ere’s me guess, any’ow. Wotever yer done ter ’im, nobody won’t see that bobby no more!’

  ‘You couldn’t have put it more beautifully!’ smiled Mr Smith.

  This time, Ben smiled, too.

  13

  Cobwebs

  After the departure of Mr Smith—Ben watched him depart from the doorstep to make certain he had not turned back—Ben gave his attention to breakfast, and the change of occupation was so comforting that he decided to concentrate on it and, for the time being, to exclude less pleasing matters from his thoughts. It was not easy. As he sat at the kitchen table filling himself with bread and margarine and marmalade and tea—the fare was simple but there was plenty of it—he kept on glancing towards the door in case the monnertrocity should suddenly appear. The Stacher and the Thing had now merged in Ben’s mind into this new single menace, and if it came, Ben promised, it would get the teapot in its face. It was just unfortunate that the kitchen door would not close, and that the slightest draught or movement swung it to and fro, about an inch at a time. Then the vision of Sammy lying dead in the cellar was hard to dismiss. Cheese or pineapple might have done it, or a chocolate ice sitting on a pancake. Ben had never had a chocolate ice sitting on a pancake, or even seen one, but being of an original turn of mind he had always thought the combination would be intriguing. Marmalade did not stand high as a gloom-queller.

  Still, judged comparatively, breakfast proved a pleasant occasion, and he drew it out to make it last as long as it could. And when at last it was over, he felt a little more able to contemplate the day ahead of him, with its first high light—or low light—at 10.30 a.m.

  ‘Well, ’ow do we stand nah?’ he asked aloud.

  Immediately afterwards he wished he had not asked it aloud. Instinctively he had glanced towards the floor at his feet for the companion cat that was not there. For an instant he felt sick, and wondered whether he were going to bring his marmalade up. But it survived the dangerous moment, stayed where it was intended, and was forgotten as Ben answered his own question—but this time not aloud.

  How did he stand? What progress, backwards or forwards, had been made in his situation since he had last gone into conference with himself?

  Item, on the debit side, Sammy was dead. That, in Ben’s summing up, came first. The death of the cat had affected him personally far more than the death of the man on the seat, ’orrerble though that was, or the death of the man on the cellar floor. That was ’orrerble, too, though in a different way. He had not been present at the occasion, so had been spared that, but the death of his predecessor in the role of caretaker had a special significance for him, since what had happened to the first caretaker might so easily happen to the second! Or were they the first and second? Maybe they were the third and fourth! Not a very nice thought, that. He hastily put it aside.

  Item, also on the debit side, the monnertrocity. Or was that wholly on the debit side? Convinced, without positive proof, that the Stacher and the Thing were now the Monnertrocity, that reduced the enemy by one. Yes, that certainly was a point in the Monnertrocity’s favour. He couldn’t suddenly come upon you from both ends of a passage. You only had to keep your eye on one door—though, true, he might choose the other! But bad as a Stacher and a Thing were, a Monnertrocity in Ben’s conception was infinitely wuss. And particularly a Monnertrocity who slooshed along like a wet night in a dark alley, and who killed cats.

  Coming to the credit side, there was the item of the bogus bobby. Here was an incident
which might have trapped Ben into catastrophe, and indeed was designed with a view to that possibility, but instead it had ended in increased prestige! This morning’s conversation with Mr Smith had proved to Ben that he had fooled the fooler. It was a pity he had to keep his victory to himself. It would have been pleasant to crow about it. ‘Yer thort yer was smart, old cock, didn’t yer? Well, see, I was smarter!’ Well, perhaps a time would come when he would be able to take Mr Smith and his pals down a peg or two, and show ’em that they weren’t the only clever ones!

  No, by golly, they weren’t! Because what about the lady, too? Mr Smith had spotted her, but Ben had put him off with a yarn. Fooled him twice over. ‘I wunner,’ reflected Ben, ‘if I’m quite sich a mug, arter orl?’

  Final item—final, at least, of those now considered—was the advance information concerning the impending visit at half-past ten. Which side of the ledger should that go on? Well, that was how you looked at it. Whatever happened at half-past ten was not going to be a picnic. On the other hand, it would be something definite, and that alone would be a relief after all the unsettling occurrences in which he had so far not actually participated. Things merely heard, things only seen through keyholes, bogus interviews that were merely preparation for realities to come—these had hitherto been his fate. Now reality for him was about to begin, and he meant to try and make the most out of it, and to learn the most from it. Yes, ten-thirty, whatever it brought, should go down on the credit side.

  He took from his pocket the little packet Mr Smith had given into his temporary charge, and eyed it speculatively. A pity about all that sealing-wax! If he opened the packet, as he longed to do, the broken seals would give the show away and he would immediately be suspected, and bang would go all the misplaced confidence in himself he was trying to build up. Of course, there was the odd chance that the contents of the packet would reveal information worth the risk. He doubted, however, whether Mr Smith would have trusted him quite to this extent, and any false move now might prevent him from obtaining the full information he was after.

  And so Ben resisted temptation, and replaced the packet unopened in his pocket.

  ‘It might even be another of ’is blinkin’ bobby tricks,’ he thought, ‘with nothink in it bar a piece o’ soap! And ’e might of sed ter the agent wot’s goin’ ter call, if the seals is broke send ’im up ter ’is room and I’ll deal with ’im nex’ time I come, like them other caretaikers, but if the seals ain’t broke ’e’s okay, and ’e’ll do wot yer tell ’im.’

  Yes, and what was that going to be? His mind harped back to Mr Smith’s precise words: ‘Be ready to assist him in any way he may require. And when I say any way, I mean any way. Do you get that?’

  Ben had got it.

  Well, how was he going to fill the time before the acid test? He was tired of thinking. Thinking was something like walking. You couldn’t go on for ever. You got tired after a bit, and if you were walking you sat down, and if you were thinking you shut down. But the idea of doing nothing, often so attractive, did not appeal to Ben in the kitchen of No. 19 Billiter Road. If he did nothing he would start thinking again, and he had got as far as thought would take him. His mind was like a train that had reached the buffers. If it were set once more in motion it would just push and get nowhere. So now he tried to find some simple, peaceful occupation—a nice one that would remind him of home, like. Not that Ben had had any home for many a long year. And as he gazed round the kitchen, it suddenly gave him his answer.

  ‘You could do with a lick and a polish couldn’t yer?’ he said. ‘Let’s ’ave a go at the cobbiwebs!’

  He found the necessary weapons in a cupboard, and began the attack with a long broom. At first he found the work a little disappointing, for as the filmy conglomerations came festooning down, frequently making their landing on his upturned face, he felt a mutual sympathy with both sides in the conflict. It was not merely that he disliked the taste of mouthfuls of cobwebs, but he felt for the cobwebs themselves, or for their disturbed inhabitants. These cobwebs were their homes—they knew no others—and after they had established their claims by long squatting, up came a bristling thing without any notice, and bing! their home was gone!

  ‘’Oo’d like it?’ he enquired of one of the displaced inhabitants, a fellow all legs and no body. ‘I expeck yer was comforble up there. Sorry, mate!’

  But presently, as the battle grew hotter, he overcame his initial sympathy, and began to take pride in the improved appearance of the kitchen. He did not know Carlisle’s definition of dirt as matter displaced, but he did realise that matter had to be displaced if the dirt was required to go elsewhere, and he had no doubt that, in due course, such of the worried population as survived would emigrate to become the pioneers of new empires.

  He was endeavouring to reach the top of a very tall dresser by standing on one of the kitchen chairs when an ominous crack gave its warning too late. His broom swooped upwards while he swooped downwards, and for a few moments the kitchen became a revolving sphere. When the revolutions ceased he found himself, very obviously, on the floor entangled in the chair.

  He did not move for a little while. You always have to wait a bit to find out if you are dead. When he found out he was not, he disentangled himself and sat up to explore for lesser damage. Surprise and relief intermingled. The chair was broken, but he was still whole. Fate did you a good turn sometimes—to make up for all the bad ones.

  Where was the broom? He and the chair had been accounted for, but the broom seemed still to be missing. It couldn’t have swooped up to the top of the dresser and stayed, could it? It was a wide flat top, the portion nearest the wall concealed from sight from the floor. You’d have to get on a chair to see it, and Ben wasn’t going to do that. Nor, he discovered a moment later, was there any need. It had swooped along the unseen top and come down at the other end. There was the handle, sticking out from the wall along the floor by the wide bottom part of the dresser, the part that had drawers in. Might as well pick it up, after Ben had picked himself up, though he wasn’t going to do no more cobwebs. He’d call it a day.

  He moved to the spot where the broom lay and bent down to pick it up. Something white was under the broom end. What was it? Bit o’ paiper. Yus, bit o’ paiper. If there wasn’t nothink on it, he’d keep it for the next time he wrote to the Lord Mayor.

  Must of come dahn from the top. There wasn’t no paiper there afore, that he’d lay to. See, he’d swep’ that spot, so he knew. Yus, the broom must of brought it dahn when it was wooshing acrost. Looked a bit dusty. Wunner ’ow long it ’ad been up there? But that wasn’t the only reason the paper was not suitable for the Lord Mayor. There was already writing on it.

  ‘Let’s ’ave a squint,’ thought Ben, and took it to the light. ‘’Allo! Wot’s this?’

  On the paper was written, in pencil:

  ‘I’d better not see you again. Too damn risky. But I’ll get this in the post the next chance I have to slip out, because now I can tell you all you want, and all what’s going on here. My God, it’s more than we thought! After you’ve read this, I think you’ll agree with me that you’d better give this place a wide berth until’ …

  And there it broke off.

  Ben read it through three times, and then sat down on one of the surviving kitchen chairs to think about it.

  Who had written it? One could only guess, but Ben’s guess was the former caretaker. All right. Say it was the caretaker. Never mind if it wasn’t. Say it was. Who had he written it to? One could only guess again, and this was a harder puzzle to solve, but a disturbing answer suggested itself, and suggested itself in a disturbing way. A vision of the man at the other end of the park seat came to him. Came of its own accord, like. He didn’t harp back to it. It came forward at him, and he tried to push it away. He tried to push it away because he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. See, if this was him, and the other was the other—well, both of ’em was dead, wasn’t they?

  And this would
mean that what he had in his hand was part of a letter from a dead man to a dead man. ’Oo’d never got it, no’ow! No, it wasn’t nice.

  Why hadn’t he got it? Well, that one was easy! He hadn’t got it because it hadn’t been sent. All right. Why hadn’t it been sent? Easy again. It hadn’t been sent because it hadn’t been finished. All right, again. Why hadn’t it been finished? Because—because—well, that would mean an interruption, wouldn’t it? Someone had come along. Who?

  Now another vision made an ugly smudge in Ben’s mind. A vague vision, but bearing an identity not in the least vague. It was the vision of the Monnertrocity, and its effect was so alarming that Ben swung round in his chair and shot an anxious glance towards the door. No one was there, but in his imagination he heard the soft echo of those crunching feet … as the writer of the letter might have heard them … And then, what would he do? The caretaker? Leap on the dresser, and toss the paper over the top?

  And now Ben did hear a sound, and he stuffed the paper quickly in his pocket. It was a soft tapping, and it came from the back door.

  14

  Overture to 10.30

  Who now? What new character was about to be added to the growing list? New it must be, for it could not be the Monnertrocity, already somewhere on the premises, or the agent and his client, who would not tap at the back door but ring at the front, and it was not yet half-past ten. Mr Smith could be ruled out because he had a latchkey.

  Ben waited for the tap to be repeated, and when the repetition came he decided to wait for just one more. No further repetition sounding, life began to grow brighter again. Whoever had come had given up, and gone.

  Still, you wanted to make quite sure, so after counting thirty very slowly Ben tiptoed from the kitchen to the back door and cautiously opened it. The lady who had called on the previous night stood outside. Mug, not to have thought of it!

  ‘Corse! It’s you!’ gulped Ben.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she answered. Her voice was anxious but relieved. ‘Is it all right to come in?’