‘Do you think it was the wind?’ whispered the old man.
‘No,’ Ben whispered back.
‘Then why suggest it?’ murmured the old man. ‘You do not get wind and mist together.’
Now the old man crept cautiously towards the door. It seemed to Ben, watching anxiously, that the wise thing to do was to creep away from the door, and in spite of the snub he had just received he offered a warning.
‘Look aht!’ he advised. ‘Some’un may spring at yer!’
‘Sh!’ hissed the old man.
He clearly had no intention of permitting anybody to spring at him. Instead of opening the front door when he reached it he bent down, gently lifted the flap over the letter-slit, and peeped through. His eye remained at the slit for several seconds. Then he lowered the flap, straightened himself, and came back again.
‘See anyone?’ asked Ben.
‘No one,’ answered the old man.
‘’Owjer know?’ inquired Ben.
‘What do you mean? I would know if I had seen anybody, would I not?’
‘Not in this mist, yer mightn’t?’
‘Then why did you ask?’
‘In case yer did.’
The old man glared.
‘Do you ever speak sensibly?’ he exclaimed. ‘The invisibility does not extend to the porch! There is no one in the porch!’
‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Then ’oo knocked?’
Deciding that further conversation with Ben was useless, the old man went to the window without replying. The mist gave him little more than his own reflection in the glow of four candles, the flames of which made four illogical glows in the wiped-out garden. Then he left the window and, taking a key from his pocket, crossed to the second door of the room at the back. Unlocking it, he left the room, locking the door again after him.
‘Wunnerful ’ow I’m trusted,’ reflected Ben.
Well, though he was imprisoned once more, a prisoner at least has solitude for thought, and the first thought of this prisoner was the anomalous one that, after all, he was not imprisoned. Only one door was locked. The other was his to open—if he chose to open it.
The question was, did he choose? Probably the old man had assumed that the answer would be an obvious negative—that the mist and its menacing secrets would form as secure a wall as a locked door.
‘Corse I ain’t goin’ ter open it,’ decided Ben, deriding the idea.
For how could he possibly profit by the audacious operation? If no one was there, as the old man had said, it would be waste of time, and if someone was there it would be madness!
‘But there must ’ave bin some reason fer that there tap,’ thought Ben. ‘It’d settle yer mind like if yer knew it.’
He discovered he was walking towards the door. He stopped the moment he discovered it. One of Ben’s troubles was that the various portions of him lacked co-ordination. This was why he had once nearly prostrated a dancing-instructress. His mind did one thing while his body did another, and often his body disagreed even with itself. More than once his legs had run away while his fists were heroically hitting.
Now his mind and body went through a tussle. It was a confusing tussle because neither could decide which side to take. He reached the door while the unsatisfactory argument was still raging.
Well, being there, he might as well follow the old man’s example and take a peep. No, he wouldn’t open the door. He would just take a peep. Not even a long peep. The old man had risked a bullet or a hooked nose, and Ben was not going to risk either. Just a quick squint—bing there, bing away again. You know—just in case MacTavish was outside, needing a hand …
‘Mind yer,’ thought Ben, ‘’e’s a durn rotter, if ever there was one, and the way ’e was ready ter share blood-money turns yer sick. I mean, when yer the uncle of a gal like ’is niece. Corse, a uncle ain’t so close … but if ’e’s ’urt or anythink, and ’ad a tumble …’
Bing there! Bing away again! And, as the first bing proved satisfactory, as far as one could judge from its short duration, bing there again!
‘’Ooray!’ thought Ben. ‘Nothink but a draught!’
No, two draughts. One in his eye, and another at his feet. The other came through a crack under the door.
Ben removed his eye from the source of the first draught, and looked down at the source of the second. Vaguely, it disturbed him, because it gave him a new idea. Perhaps, if he lay down, he could get another squint of the porch, from a new angle. A squint along the floor of it. What good would that do? Well, if MacTavish, say—or anybody else, for that matter—had tapped, and then fallen, you mightn’t see them from the letter-box, might you? But you might from the bottom crack, if they were on the ground.
Don’t be silly! If there was a body on the ground on the other side of the crack, it would block the draught, and there wouldn’t be any!… Don’t be silly! It mightn’t be plumb up against the crack, or it might only be blocking a part of the crack, and then there would be a draught, or part of a draught …
‘Part of a draught,’ repeated Ben in his mind. ‘Wot’s wrong with feelin’?’
He lowered his hand to the bottom of the door. Left half, draught. Good. Right half—where was the draught? Not so good.
‘’Ell,’ he muttered, and went down flat.
As his hand had predicted, the left half of the crack was clear and white; the right half was blocked and dark.
Convinced now that MacTavish lay outside, and that unless he opened the door at once he would never open it, Ben leapt up and turned the handle. An instant later the door was wide, and something slithered at Ben’s feet. But the space ahead of him was a white blank, and the thing that had slithered at Ben’s feet when the door against which it had leaned had been suddenly removed was not MacTavish. It was not, in fact, anybody. It was a packet.
‘I’ll be blowed!’ muttered Ben. ‘Postman?’
He bent down. If a postman had delivered the packet, he must have been a very knowledgeable postman. The name on the packet was the name of one Charles Wilkins, and there was no address.
Suddenly Ben raised his head from the packet. Was the space ahead of him a white blank? Or were there shadows in it? Seizing the packet, Ben closed the door quickly.
‘Funny ’ow things git wuss when yer didn’t think they could,’ reflected Ben, as he stared stupidly at the packet in his hand. The packet had been stationary outside, but now it had a bad case of the wobbles.
Well, what next? Open the packet, he supposed. Bet something would go pop! Still, it had to be done.
Before doing it, however, he went to the window, stooping low as he went, and peered through the bottom edge for further evidence of those flitting shadows. All he saw was what the old man had seen before him—four stately candle-lights, reflected nonsensically in the misty garden. They were unpleasantly reminiscent of unwinking eyes.
He walked to the back of the room, deciding not to open the packet near the window. He chose the corner where the small table was. He didn’t like fighting, even in fun, yet this toy battlefield was the warmest spot in the room.
He studied the writing on the packet, trying ostrichwise not to recognise it, but the instructions he had received from the chauffeur Fred before being passed on to Mr Smith of Boston rose with painful vividness in his mind. It was a bulky packet. Too bulky to have gone through a letter-box. Brown paper and string …
All at once he stopped staring at it and whipped the string off. He must open the parcel and digest the contents before the old man returned! In a trice the wrapping paper had been torn away and the contents were revealed. A box of chocolates, an envelope, and another small packet. The box of chocolates looked as incongruous in this room as the candle reflections out in the garden. Yet little boys who played with soldiers liked chocolates …
He opened the envelope, and read the note inside.
‘The manner in which you are receiving this will prove that matters have not gone as smoothly as they should,’ the note
ran. ‘But for bungling, you would have collected this at the post office, as arranged. Fortunately it was realised before the packet was posted that it could not be called for. You will have gathered already from certain incidents that bunglers are not given long to regret their errors.
‘See that you give no cause now to regret any of yours.
‘It is assumed that you have received and opened this discreetly.
‘Tell your host, Mr Hymat, that you left the packet in the car, that MacTavish, who developed nerves, must have brought it to the door, knocked, and then returned to the car to wait for you.
‘Actually, you will not be troubled any more with MacTavish.
‘Give Mr Hymat the £10,000 in notes. He will expect it.
‘Give the chocolates to the boy.
‘Do not ask for any information that is not volunteered. Suggest that you are not interested. You are just doing your job, for which you are being paid, and the less you know the better. This, being the fact, can also be your attitude.
‘But note that the giving of the chocolates is more important than the giving of the money. You are fond of children. You have some of your own, so know what they like. Make the boy promise to eat the chocolates himself—and see that he does!
‘Do not be tempted yourself either by the money or the chocolates. Neither will do you any good.
‘Do not attempt to leave the house until an hour after the boy has eaten his chocolates. Then report yourself at the gate with your news.
‘If you fail, your work will be completed by others, and by other means, and it will be your last job. If you succeed, you will receive £50, as arranged, at the gate, and will be free to return to your own headquarters. We shall have no further use for you.
‘But, till then, you can regard yourself as under observation.’
That was all. And quite enough.
Ben turned his head and glanced towards the door. How many were out there, keeping the other side of the door under observation? Three, he reckoned, at least. Miss Warren, Fred, and the mysterious Unknown, the Jack of Clubs. He did not include Mr Sutcliffe in the list. He could not picture that strange young gentleman outside the silent flat, or in any costume other than a dressing-gown. He included the Jack of Clubs because he had long divined that his were the real brains of the party, and that those brains would not be far off at the crisis.
‘Joe Lynch,’ he thought, grimly, ‘yer well out of it! Why, if I was really Joe Lynch, wot charnce’d I ’ave? If the old bloke didn’t git me, or if the pleece didn’t git me, those blighters out there’d git me—yus, if I succeeded or if I didn’t! See them partin’ with fifty quid when the job was finished! I’d be given a bullet, more likely!’
He turned back to the table with the soldiers. He looked at the prone warriors. Funny how people ran away from horror, yet how they enjoyed playing at it! But, of course, a little boy—he wouldn’t have had a chance of learning yet, anyhow, would he?
‘No, and ’e ain’t goin’ ter learn now,’ muttered Ben, ‘not if I knows it!’
‘Don’t move! Stand still!’ piped a voice behind him. ‘You’re under fire!’
21
Development of a Game
With a curious sensation that the toy soldiers had suddenly come alive while the living enemy outside had died, Ben stood rigid. The speaker—by his voice some little distance in the rear—clearly had to be obeyed. After a few moments, during which the next move had to be decided on, the voice continued:
‘You are my prisoner!’
‘That’s right,’ answered Ben.
‘What?’
‘I sed, that’s right,’ repeated Ben. ‘I’m yer prisoner.’
There was another silence. For some reason Ben’s move did not appear the right one.
‘Don’t you mind?’ demanded his captor.
‘Not a bit,’ replied Ben.
‘Why not?’
‘Cos’ I knows yer treats prisoners proper and don’t ’urt ’em.’
‘But I might shoot you!’
‘I knows yer won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can tell by yer voice yer ain’t that kind. Orl yer’ll do is ter clap me in prison with a ’ot-water-bottle and give me jam fer tea.’
A very unmilitary sound issued from his captor, but the next moment it was swallowed by discipline.
‘Let me see your face!’ ordered the boy.
‘It’s a funny ’un,’ warned Ben.
‘Turn round!’
‘I carn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘’Cos yer told me not ter move.’
‘Yes, but now I’m telling you to turn round!’
‘Well, see, I’m a soljer, ain’t I?’
‘Are you?’
‘Ain’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Orl right, then is that the way ter speak to a soljer? ’Corse it ain’t! Wot do yer say to a soljer when yer want ’im ter stop?’
‘Halt!’
‘Yus, well—’
‘Right wheel!’ cried the boy. ‘Right wheel! ’Shun!’
Ben turned with such violent smartness that he nearly toppled over. His conqueror again emitted the unmilitary sound.
‘There y’are!’ grinned Ben. ‘I told yer it was a funny ’un!’
Before him now stood a small boy with large dark eyes. Normally the eyes were serious, and even behind their present smile lurked a strange gravity. His hair, like his eyes, was dark, and his little body was very erect, although the gun that should have been terrifying the prisoner was held rather loosely.
He was standing in the doorway that led to the other portions of the house—he must have unlocked the door very quietly—and his outline, illuminated by the candles, was framed in the dimness of the hall beyond. But suddenly a second outline darted into the frame. The old man appeared behind him, his face white.
‘Konrad!’ cried the old man. ‘Where have you been?’
The boy lowered his gun with a frown, but Ben answered for him.
‘’E’s caught a prisoner,’ he said. ‘You’re out o’ this fer a minute, Mr ’Imat.’ The old man moved his head sharply at the name. ‘Tike my advice, and let ’im ’andle me—’e’s doin’ fine!’
‘Why did you wink?’ demanded the boy, his activity reviving abruptly.
‘’Oo wunk?’ inquired Ben innocently.
‘You did!’
‘Go on!’
‘I saw you!’
‘Then I must of. It’s a ’abit. Arter the Battle o’ Waterloo. A cannonball ’it the top o’ me eyelid and weakened the joint.’
The boy looked astonished. So did Mr Hymat. It occurred to Ben that perhaps he was becoming too flippant. He had a real game to play.
‘Well, question the prisoner,’ he went on. ‘I might be a spy.’
‘Are you?’ asked the boy.
‘Yus.’
‘A spy!’
‘That’s right.’
‘But spies are shot!’
There was a complimentary concern in the statement. Ben eased the situation.
‘On’y when they won’t speak,’ he pointed out. ‘See, I might ’ave some infermashun!’
He risked another wink over the boy’s shoulder. The boy attributed it to Waterloo, but Mr Hymat, by his tense expression, realised that it had a more contemporary inspiration.
‘Have you?’ asked the boy.
‘Yus, I ’ave,’ replied Ben, ‘so if yer shoot me yer won’t find out!’
‘What is it?’
‘Must I tell yer, sir?’
‘Yes, you must!’
‘Orl right. It’s abart the Enemy.’
‘Ah! Where are they?’
‘Ahtside!’
‘What! In the garden?’
‘Yus! And s’pose they looked in?’
The boy turned suddenly to Mr Hymat. Perhaps he wondered whether the old man was still interested in the game. It was obvious that the old man’s interest was cons
iderable.
‘The Enemy must not see us!’ cried the boy. ‘Close the curtains!’
Mr Hymat obeyed with alacrity. While he was doing so, Ben observed:
‘I can see yer know ’ow ter plan a battle. This ain’t the fust one yer goin’ ter win ter-day!’ He glanced at the toy soldiers. ‘Four agin’ six, and beat ’em! So three agin’ three orter be easy.’
‘Do you mean there are three of the Enemy outside?’ asked the boy.
‘Well—that’s wot I think,’ answered Ben, glancing towards Mr Hymat.
‘But we’re only two,’ said the boy.
‘No, three,’ corrected Ben. ‘See, yer’ve got me, nah.’
The boy frowned.
‘I don’t like deserters,’ he muttered.
‘Well, strickly speakin’, no more don’t I,’ agreed Ben, ‘though sometimes yer can fergive ’em, yer know, the way they’re treated.’
The boy considered the question of forgiveness, then shook his head gravely.
‘I wouldn’t desert, whatever anybody did,’ he responded. ‘They could boil me.’
‘I’m with yer agine,’ nodded Ben, ‘on’y, see, yer’ve got me wrong. I ain’t no deserter! I’m your side! I wouldn’t desert, not if they stood me on me ’ead barefoot, and tickled me!’
‘You say funny things,’ smiled the boy. ‘I think I’m glad you’re not a deserter. But if you’re not a deserter, why are you ready to fight on my side?’
‘Ah!’ murmured Ben, and glanced towards the old man. ‘Yus, we are ready ter fight on ’is side, ain’t we?’
‘Eh—of course!’ jerked the old man. ‘What—what does that mean?’
‘I’ll tell yer wot it means,’ replied Ben, while the effects of Waterloo once more registered themselves on his loose eyelid. ‘It means that I’ve bin shoved inter this ’ere gime—wot we’re orl playin’, see?—and that when I’m shoved inter a gime I don’t drop it not afore I seen it through. Yer wouldn’t think it, not ter look at me—’
‘I would,’ interrupted the boy.
‘Go on! Would yer?’ exclaimed Ben. ‘Orl right, that settles it! ’Cos when anybody thinks yer play the gime, well, then yer’ve gotter, ain’t it? Yer on yer honour. So the gime this time is that—that the King’s in dinger, see—dinger orl rahnd the plice, see?—and we’ve gotter git ’im aht of it. That’s right, Mr ’Imat, ain’t it? Nothink helse cahnts, not afore we’ve got ’im aht of it? Do yer tike me?’
Detective Ben Page 14