Detective Ben

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Gradually, as Ben stood transfixed—last time he had leapt, but this time he felt glued—the gathering darkness completed its work and blotted the gruesome sight out. But he knew it was still there, just a few feet behind the intangible wall of blackness; that he could still touch it, if he stretched out his hand; and that the morning light would revive its vividness, developing it into stark solidarity once more …

  ‘’Ere, this won’t do!’ he told himself. ‘I gotter do somethink!’

  The only question was—what?

  Report the matter at Muirgissie? ‘Fahnd ’im dead in the car, jest like that. No, I dunno ’oo ’e is—never seed ’im afore.’ ‘That’s odd, for somebody saw you in the car with him.’ ‘Oh, yus, that’s right, I fergot. ’E give me a short lift.’ ‘A short lift? Somebody saw you together near Boston.’ ‘Oh, yus, that’s right, ’e drove me from Borston, so ’e did.’ ‘Where was he taking you to?’ ‘Muirgissie.’ ‘Why didn’t he reach Muirgissie? Why did you get out before Muirgissie? Did you quarrel? What are those eight new one-pound notes doing in your pocket? And who are you, anyway?’

  Such a cross-examination as this resolved behind a damp forehead, and it led to only one culmination—the arrest of Ben, alias Lynch, alias Wilkins, for the murder of Mr Smith, of Boston … if he reported the murder of Mr Smith, of Boston.

  ‘Well—s’pose I don’t?’ he reflected.

  In that case, he would leave Mr Smith where he was. He would proceed as though he had not turned his head at the forked road—‘and arter orl,’ he argued, ‘I mightn’t ’ave, mightn’t I?’—and he would complete his interrupted journey to the Black Swan.

  Perhaps the Black Swan would not prove quite as black as it sounded. Perhaps he would find it a temporary sanctuary in which he could at least bathe his head and see if that did any good.

  ‘There’s one thing, any’ow,’ he thought. ‘When things is so bad they can’t git worse, well, they can’t git worse …’Allo! I’m movin’!’

  Unconsciously he was putting the second alternative into operation, and was walking again towards Muirgissie. When his head failed, his legs often decided for him.

  11

  At the Black Swan

  A girl stood under the faintly creaking sign of the Black Swan as Ben came round a corner and entered the single straggling street of Muirgissie. But for the light of a window behind her, she would have been invisible against the gloomy background of the inn. The light, a dim glow percolating through a thin red curtain, outlined her golden hair, and the curve of her neck, and the top half of her neat, attractive figure.

  Just as, a few minutes earlier, Ben had not been able to believe in the dead Mr Smith, of Boston, so he was now unable to believe in this live girl of Muirgissie. She should not have been neat and attractive. She should have been untidy and ugly, pale and toothless! Instead of those pleasant eyes—pleasant despite a certain unsettling anxiety in them—she should have had sinister orbs looking at you through narrow slits; and her expression, while watching Ben approach, should have been suspicious or crafty. On the contrary, it possessed an almost friendly quality in it, and friendliness was the last thing Ben expected to find at the Black Swan.

  The inn was on the right-hand side of the road. Beyond it, on the same side, were one or two other dark, low buildings, showing dim lights that marked their considerable distance from each other. There were no houses on the left. Only blackness that might be anything. If this comprised the whole of Muirgissie, it was a mere tiny village.

  ‘Evenin’, miss,’ said Ben, as he reached the girl.

  ‘Good evenin’,’ she answered. She had a nice, rather rich voice, with a pleasant Scotch accent.

  ‘This is the Black Swan, ain’t it?’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Muirgissie.’

  ‘Ay. The Black Swan, Muirgissie.’

  ‘Boss in?’

  ‘That’s my uncle, but he’s no hame. Will ye come in and wait? I’m thinkin’ he’ll no be long.’

  She smiled at him. It was the first direct smile he had received for many days. The simplicity of it almost overwhelmed him.

  ‘That’s very kind of yer,’ said Ben. ‘I could do with a sit dahn.’

  She smiled again. His accent was as odd to her as hers was to him. Turning, she shoved the front door wide, and he followed her into a large hall. On a wall was a stag’s head. Over a door was a glass case containing an enormous stuffed fish. A fishing-rod was in a corner.

  ‘I see yer ketch tiddlers ’ere,’ remarked Ben.

  The remark beat her, and she opened the door under the stag’s head. He entered a parlour full of solid comfort. She waved to a chair, and as he sat down stood before him, making no attempt to hide her curiosity. But it was kindly curiosity.

  ‘Have ye walked far?’ she asked.

  Unconsciously she put the first awkward question. How far had he walked? Two miles or twenty? Or two hundred? He’d got to be careful! From now onwards, everybody he spoke to was a potential witness in a murder trial.

  ‘I ain’t no good at countin’,’ he answered.

  ‘Ower the moor?’

  He thought it best not to deny that. He could have come from the moor without having seen Mr Smith’s body.

  ‘That’s right, miss.’

  ‘Wha’ from?’

  ‘Eh? Well, that’s easy, ain’t it?’

  ‘I’m gey fond o’ guessin’, but I’m no clever at it.’

  ‘Gey ’oo?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, but yer tork so funny—well, that’s bein’ ’ere, o’ course—I can’t unnerstand orl yer say.’

  ‘I’ve aye a notion that you talk funny yoursel’,’ she retorted, and suddenly threw back her head and laughed.

  Ben stared at her. Then he laughed, too. Might as well. It made a change.

  ‘You’re no thinkin’ me unkind,’ she exclaimed, abruptly sobering.

  ‘Lumme, no!’ he answered. ‘I shouldn’t think yer could be unkind ter nobody.’

  She looked surprised. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, see, I can judge fices.’

  ‘Maybe I can, too.’ She paused, then added after a moment of hesitation, ‘Ay, and see whaur there’s trouble!’

  ‘’Oo’s in trouble?’ said Ben anxiously.

  ‘I’ve no said anyone’s in trouble,’ she replied. ‘Will I light the fire? It’s a cold nicht, I’m thinkin’.’

  She ran out of the room for a moment, and returned with matches. It certainly did seem a little cold. This crisp mountain air was very different from the stuffy atmosphere of the London flat. Took a bit of getting used to. And a wind had started blowing outside, too, with a doleful sound that added to the sense of chill. He watched her as she stooped and applied the match to the already laid paper and wood. In a few moments there was a crackling blaze. ‘Wunnerful wot a bit o’ warm can do jest when yer want it,’ thought Ben. But he was not referring to the blaze.

  ‘Now will you be answerin’ me,’ said the girl, as she straightened up again.

  ‘Wot? Ain’t I?’ replied Ben.

  ‘I was speerin’ at you whaur you’ve come from?’

  ‘So yer was, if that means wot I tike it ter mean. That’s right. We’re back at the berginnin’ agine. But didn’t I tell yer?’

  ‘You said it was easy, and I said I was no clever at guessin’,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Lumme, you don’t need no Pellimanism, the way you remember! Well, so it is easy. If I was ter meet you in England I’d say, “She comes from Scotland,” by the way yer tork, see, so if you meet me in Scotland you orter say, “’E comes from England,” by the way I tork, that’s right, ain’t it?’

  She smiled, and shook her head.

  ‘England’s a big place! Well, are you tellin’ me why you’re here, or may I no ken that before my uncle is hame?’

  ‘Corse, I carn’t mike yer out,’ answered Ben. ‘Not that I mind yer questions, nacherly—seein’ I know yer a
in’t arskin’ ter trip me up, like some people would—besides, ’oo said there was anythink ter trip me up abart, any’ow?—but, well, miss, this is an inn, ain’t it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And if a bloke drops inter an inn, well, that’s orl in order, ain’t it? ’E wants a drink or a bed, don’t ’e?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Well, then, where’s the puzzle?’

  ‘You havna asked for a drink or a bed,’ she answered.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You havna asked for a drink or a bed.’

  ‘Oh! I’m waitin’ fer the boss, ain’t I?’

  ‘You dinna think you can ask me?’

  ‘Oh!’

  Smart, she was! Or was he just a mug? Bit o’ both, p’r’aps. But his head was numb like. What with being up all night, and never knowing where he was or who he was, and talking to dead men, and then bumping all of a sudden into a girl like this—it made you a bit silly … And the warmth, too … What he’d really like would be to take her to the pictures—you know, give her a good time—and go to sleep while she sat in the next seat and enjoyed herself. And then bring her back, p’r’aps, and treat her to a bite of supper—cheese, smoked salmon, anything she liked—and then go to sleep again in this comfortable chair by this warm fire while she ate it … And forget about dead people … and forget … forget … Yes, but it wasn’t easy to forget about Mr Smith, of Boston! Out there in the wind! Dead as a door-nail. Waiting for somebody to find him! Who would find him? And who had killed him? Poor bloke, p’r’aps he wasn’t so bad. Just thought he’d close his eyes and earn a bit of money, and now his eyes were closed for good. What’s this about closed eyes? Somebody’s eyes closed? They were open … open … Eh?

  He opened his own eyes, and found the girl bending over him.

  ‘How lang is it since you was in bed?’ she asked.

  ‘Go on!’ blinked Ben.

  ‘You didna know you was asleep?’

  ‘Wot? Popped orf, did I? We orl do in my fambily. Tikes us sudden. Once my father went ter sleep in the middle of eatin’ a bernarner, and when ’e woke up and finished it ’e didn’t know ’e’d stopped … Oi! Wot’s the matter?’

  His little story about his father ought to have made her laugh. He knew she could laugh. She was made for it. But, instead, she looked worried.

  ‘Will you no tell me why you’ve come to see my uncle?’ she asked, with the first note of pleading in her voice.

  It was a new voice. It fitted her expression before she had forgotten her own troubles to think of his. And yet—there was something very odd in her atmosphere—she seemed to be thinking of him as well as herself.

  ‘Well—why not?’ answered Ben. ‘Yus, arter orl, why not?’

  It was terribly depressing to have to lie to this girl, yet unless he risked the success of his whole enterprise there was no alternative. What a relief it would have been if he could have confided in just such a person as this!

  ‘I’m out o’ work, see?’ he explained. ‘And I’ve bin told there’s work ter be picked up ’ere.’

  ‘Who told you?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, miss, it was like this. One night some of us got torkin’ at a pub. “The plice fer jobs is Scotland,” ses one. “And the plice in Scotland is Muirgissie,” ses another. “Is that a fack?” I ses. “It’s a fack,” they ses. “Orl right,” I ses, and ’ere I am.’

  She regarded him doubtfully as she replied, ‘I’m feared you’ve been gi’en bad advice.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I’ve no heard o’ any work near here.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘What made you ask for my uncle?’

  ‘I thort ’e’d know if any work was goin’. Or, p’r’aps—’ He paused, and watched her covertly. ‘Or, p’r’aps, ’e might ’ave a job for me ’isself?’

  She removed her eyes from his face for a moment or two and stared into the fire. He could see she was thinking hard. He watched her lips suddenly press together. ‘She’s mide up ’er mind ter somethink,’ he reflected, ‘and it ain’t goin’ ter do me any good!’

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, turning back to him.

  ‘Charlie Wilkins,’ he answered.

  She had evidently not heard the name before, because she ran on:

  ‘Would you tak’ some advice, Mr Wilkins?’

  ‘Well, that derpends on wot it is, don’t it?’

  ‘Ay, but it’s guid advice. Mr MacTavish—that’s my uncle—he’ll not have any work for you.’

  ‘Doncher think so?’

  ‘I ken he wilna. And—and he’s got the temper on him that’s no safe.’

  ‘I’m much obliged fer the warnin’, miss, but I can look arter meself.’

  ‘Ay, but you havna met Mr MacTavish!’

  ‘But ’e won’t go fer me afore I open me marth, will ’e? And orl I’m goin’ ter arsk ’im is if ’e knows of a job.’

  She frowned, and suddenly came closer.

  ‘Mr Wilkins,’ she said earnestly. ‘I said you hadna met Mr MacTavish.’

  ‘That’s right. Yer did.’

  ‘But you havna said you dinna ken him.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Wot? Ken ’im?’ Ben stared. ‘Lumme, wot’s got yer, miss? I’ve never met ’im in me life!’

  ‘That’s the truth?’

  ‘Nah, git this,’ said Ben. ‘If Mr MacTavish, wot I never knew ’is nime even till yer told me jest nah—if ’e was ter walk inter this ’ere room, I wouldn’t know it was ’im, strike me purple, I wouldn’t! There, that sounds good enough, don’t it?’

  She looked relieved.

  ‘Wot mide yer arsk?’ he inquired, glad that on this occasion, at least, he had been able to avoid a lie.

  ‘I believe—he’s expecting someone,’ she replied, hesitating.

  ‘Oh! Do yer?’ murmured Ben. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. ‘Bit ot’ like, ain’t it? Did ’e tell yer ’e was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And yer—yer don’t know ’is nime, or nothink?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then ’ow—’

  ‘We won’t mind about that. But as you’re not the man my uncle’s expectin’, I’m thinkin’ it will be best for you to go. I’m sorry, it’s a sair pity, but I’m speakin’ for your guid.’

  Ben answered her, after a short pause. ‘There’s one thing, miss, I carn’t mike out. If yer think yer uncle’s expeckin’ some ’un, though proberly yer on’y think it ’cos yer want a ’oller-day livin’ in this, well, gloomy sort o’ plice, well, it is, ain’t it, though mind yer why shouldn’t ’e expeck some ’un—where am I, oh, yus. If wot I sed, why didn’t yer think I was the bloke right from the start, see? Or did yer?’

  ‘No, I didna think it was you at the start,’ she responded, when she had sorted the question out.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was guessin’ you wouldna be that sort o’ man.’

  ‘Wot, a wrong ’un?’

  ‘Maybe ay, and maybe no.’

  ‘Orl right. But yer chinged yer mind. Fust I wasn’t, then p’r’aps I was. Eh?’ She nodded. ‘Wot ’appened ter mike yer chinge yer mind?’

  ‘Do you ken you talk in your sleep, Mr Wilkins?’

  ‘Gawd! I mean, lumme!’

  ‘You said something when you were asleep just now.’

  ‘Wot was it?’

  ‘I only heard four words.’

  ‘Let’s ’ave ’em?’

  ‘“Dead as a door-nail.”’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘And then, when I woke you up, Havers, how you jumped!’

  Ben swallowed, then grinned.

  ‘Corse I jumped, miss! I was dead as a doornail, wasn’t I? And I expeck I was jest menshuning the fack when yer brought me ter life agine!’ He squinted at her, to see how she was taking it. ‘Me father torked in ’is sleep, too. That time I told yer abart—“Cut ’im in two,” ’e ses. But, corse,
’e on’y meant the bernarner.’

  He missed the little glow of pride and satisfaction that ought to have accompanied this nimble lying. The girl’s eyes were too grave and honest.

  ‘I am sure you are not ane to do wrong,’ she answered, ‘and that’s why I’m no wantin’ you to get in trouble.’

  ‘Well, there’s more’n one sort o’ trouble,’ he replied, ‘and I’ll tell yer one kind I ain’t keen on.’ He glanced towards the red-curtained window. ‘’Ark ter the wind! If I go, where am I goin’ ter? I don’t fancy wanderin’ abart orl night!’ The wind rose suddenly to a high moan through which some other sound percolated. As the wind decreased, the other sound grew louder, taking its place. It was a car.

  ‘’Allo—is that yer uncle?’

  ‘No,’ said the girl, now turning her eyes also towards the window. ‘He’s walkin’.’

  They waited in silence for the car to pass. Its pace slackened, and it stopped.

  ‘’Nother visiter?’ inquired Ben.

  The girl did not move. Again they waited in silence, this time for a ring or a knock. Again, the expected did not happen.

  ‘P’r’aps they rung and we didn’t ’ear,’ suggested Ben, uneasily.

  Why did he feel so uneasy? Nothing in a motorcar stopping outside an inn, was there? But the girl seemed to share his uneasiness, and all at once, with her eyes still fixed on the window, she raised her hands convulsively and clasped them. An eye had appeared in the little narrow space between the edge of the red curtain and the window-frame.

  It was there only for an instant. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

  ‘Lumme, wot was that?’ gasped Ben.

  He lurched from his chair and ran to the window. He pulled the curtain aside as the car started to move again. He saw the back of the car just before it slipped out of the small patch of light cast by the now uncurtained window. He let the curtain go, his brain spinning.

  It was the Ford which, when he had last seen it, had contained the dead body of Mr Smith.

  A few moments later the front door slammed. Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. The parlour door was opened, and a tall, sandy-haired man walked in.

  12