Detective Ben

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Then the boy came out with another suggestion.

  ‘We need a stretcher,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s the stretcher?’ inquired Ben.

  ‘There’s a loose seat in the boat.’

  ‘Lumme—you’re the goods orl right! We’ll git it.’

  The question arose, who should get it? Ben quickly vetoed Konrad’s suggestion that he should descend alone.

  ‘Why not? It would be quickest,’ said the boy, his practical mind working.

  ‘Fust, ’it ’d be ’eavy to bring up alone,’ answered Ben. ‘Nex’, yer mightn’t come back agine!’

  ‘I would!’

  ‘Corse yer would, but yer mightn’t.’

  ‘We’d better all go down,’ suggested Mr Hymat.

  But Ben again vetoed that obvious suggestion.

  ‘See, we gotter perserve our strength,’ he pointed out, ‘and we’ll need it on the nex’ trip!’

  Mr Hymat nodded. His strength seemed already spent. He sat down weakly, and stared at the distant water.

  ‘’Ow abart this?’ said Ben, producing the only alternative that remained. ‘I carn’t go alone, becos’ not knowin’ the best way, I mightn’t come back agine, but if ’is Majesty and me goes tergether, then we’ll be sure to come back, on’y would you mind waitin’ ’ere by yerself? It ain’t, well, cheerful like. ’Corse, you must ’ave yer gun back, so’s if you sees anybody not nice you can put a round ’ole in ’em.’

  The old man roused himself as Ben held out the revolver.

  ‘No, you keep that,’ he said. ‘You may need it more than I will.’

  ‘P’r’aps yer right,’ agreed Ben. ‘Funny ’ow things chinge, ain’t it? When I fust called, yer was ’oldin’ me up with this ’ere little gun!’

  The water was still an unkind distance away, and it took Ben and his guide nearly an hour to reach it, although the last forty yards Ben managed in a split second. After the loose seat had been secured—for the boat, despite fears, was blessedly present, moored to a post—the return journey took them over an hour. It was well past lunch time when Mr Hymat was rejoined. But no one mentioned lunch. Either they had forgotten hunger, or were so conscious of it that they feared to refer to it.

  ‘Any trouble while we was gorn?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Mr Hymat.

  ‘Wot abart—’as ’e moved?’

  Mr Hymat shook his head. Ben examined MacTavish again. The heart was still beating.

  ‘I don’t know how we’re going to manage it,’ muttered Mr Hymat.

  ‘As fur as I can work it out,’ replied Ben, ‘if yer stop ter think, yer carn’t manage nothink, but if yer jest goes on some’ow, it gits done. Do yer s’pose if I’d stopped ter think I’d ’ave come up ter Scotland? Lumme, no! But I’m ’ere, ain’t I, and we ain’t dead, are we? And MacTavish ain’t dead. So let’s git ’im on the stretcher, and then see wot ’appens.’

  In this spirit they continued with their work, and in this spirit they brought MacTavish down the mountain; taking turns, changing shifts, sometimes carrying the improvised stretcher, sometimes sliding it, many times resting through sheer exhaustion. Mr Hymat had wondered how they were going to manage it. When they had managed it, they still could not have explained how. At the edge of the loch they stared back at the mountain down which they had come with their grim, roped burden. ‘Go on!’ thought Ben. Yet here MacTavish was, lying in the bottom of the boat, and his heart was still beating.

  Thought had remained still during the greater part of that strenuous, hazardous journey. Each new obstacle had been overcome by refusing doggedly to dwell upon it. But occasionally while they rested, the bursting mind behind Ben’s perspiring forehead had reverted to other moves in this queer game, and he had wondered how those other moves were progressing. Where were the ‘Enemy’ at this moment? Had they reached Muirgissie? Were they waiting there, or travelling on beyond? Had they returned to the house of the four candles?… Funny, how he kept on thinking of those four candles! They had nothing to do with the case, yet they stuck in his mind, illuminating a constantly-recurring vision of the lonely room with its small toy battlefield invaded by poisoned sweets … And what was happening at the Black Swan? Had Jean grown anxious yet, or was she waiting unconcernedly for her uncle’s return? And the police—what were they doing? And Mr Sutcliffe—what was he doing? Waiting, also? For the return of Helen Warren? While manicuring his nails?

  Well, all these questions, saving perhaps the last, would soon be answered, and meanwhile a boat had to be rowed across a loch.

  Mist still swathed the mountain-tops surrounding the loch, but the water itself was clear in the afternoon sunlight that slanted through the lower hills towards Muirgissie. It was, in fact, a perfect afternoon for a boating expedition if moods had been in tune. Ben took the oars. One of his few qualifications, relic of his Merchant Service days, was that he could row.

  It was a silent journey, with a queer, uneasy peace as its background. No one knew what lay ahead. That knowledge was happily spared them. But, for a short while, plans did not have to be formed or decisions made, while the procedure once they reached Muirgissie was simply and obviously expressed in two words: Doctor—Police.

  Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but to keep the boat going.

  Once Ben caught the boy’s expression as he stared at the innkeeper’s prone figure.

  ‘’E ain’t dead,’ Ben reminded him.

  ‘No,’ answered Konrad.

  He had fallen into the habit of accepting everything Ben said, whether he really believed it or not.

  ‘’E’s jest got wot they calls concunshun,’ said Ben. ‘Yer gits it at football when yer ’ead ’its the goalpost instead o’ the ball. I’ve ’ad it dozens o’ times.’

  ‘How long is it before you wake up?’ asked Konrad.

  ‘That derpends on’ ow ’ard yer was ’it,’ replied Ben. ‘Once I got ’it in July and come to fer Christmas.’

  ‘I mean, really,’ persisted the boy, refusing this time to smile.

  Perhaps he was right. Ben often made jokes at the wrong time. But when the time was wrong, it was hard to know.

  ‘Yer can be subconshus fer days, and that’s a fack,’ he answered solemnly. ‘I knew a feller once wot never moved fer three. I give ’im the knock, so I counted. When ’e come to, ’e give me a knock. Mr MacTavish’ll be orl right, yer Majesty, once we git ’im to a doctor.’

  Presently, while hugging the left shore, they came round a bend, and Muirgissie grew with startling suddenness. A stone wall now ran along the water’s edge, with a road beyond, and about fifty yards ahead was a squat projection that was obviously the landing-spot. A low building was by the landing-stage, and Ben twisted his head round to scan it.

  ‘Don’t see nobody,’ he reported.

  ‘No, it’s empty,’ answered Mr Hymat. ‘That’s just as well.’

  ‘Yus, we don’t want no recepshun,’ said Ben.

  A minute later he had shipped his oars, reached the landing-stage, and jumped ashore.

  Figures slipped from the low building.

  ‘That is your man,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Mind his gun.’

  Two constables shot forward. Ben found himself in handcuffs.

  27

  While the Moments Ticked by

  What happened next was a series of brilliant, darting stars followed by a black blank. When Ben came out of the blank he was in a small, white-washed room, and a stranger was sitting opposite him. By the stranger was one of the constables who had produced the stars. He had had a few himself, by the look of him.

  ‘Comin’ to,’ reported the constable.

  ‘Ah,’ nodded the stranger, and waited a few seconds till Ben came to a little more.

  Ben glanced muzzily at his wrists. They were still handcuffed.

  ‘If you want them off, you’ll have to behave,’ said the stranger.

  ‘Where’s the boy?’ muttered Ben.

  ‘Yes, we’ll talk abo
ut that, when you’re ready.’

  ‘Where is ’e, where is ’e?’ shouted Ben, jumping up.

  The constable pushed him down again. He went down quite easily. The stranger frowned.

  ‘That sort of thing won’t help,’ he said severely. ‘If you want any questions answered you must behave quietly—and answer some yourself.’

  ‘Where is ’e?’ whispered Ben.

  ‘Safer than he was with you,’ answered the stranger.

  ‘Sifer’n ’e was—wot? But I was sivin’ ’im!’

  The two others exchanged glances.

  ‘Wot d’yer mean? Me ’ead’s goin’ rahnd. Wot d’yer mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ came the reply, ‘that the boy is now safe with his parents—’

  ‘WOT?’

  He jumped up again. Again he was shoved down, this time less gently.

  ‘Look here, if you can’t stay quiet, I’ll leave you and we’ll resume our conversation later. Perhaps your head won’t be going round quite so violently in an hour’s time!’

  ‘I’ll be quiet,’ muttered Ben. ‘See, me ’ead’s stopped. On’y—that boy—’oo’s with him now? That’s wot I wanter know!’

  ‘And that is what I have told you. His parents.’

  ‘They ain’t ’is parents!’

  ‘No? Well, we won’t worry about them for the moment, it’s you we’ve got to talk about—’

  ‘But I tell yer, they ain’t, they ain’t! Lumme, are you a detective?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘Then go orf and cop ’em quick, afore they do the boy in! It’s them wot wants the bricelets, not me! ’Ow long ’ave I bin like this? Where’s the old feller—Mr ’Imat—ain’t ’e told yer?’

  ‘Come, come, pull yourself together!’ ordered the detective sharply. ‘This isn’t helping you!’

  ‘And he’s a good one to talk of doin’ in!’ observed the constable. ‘I suppose he means sweets!’

  The detective frowned, but before he could reprimand the constable for the unsolicited comment, Ben exclaimed:

  ‘Sweets? Wot do you know abart sweets?’

  ‘What do you?’ retorted the detective. ‘Something, evidently?’

  Ben stared.

  ‘Does it help your memory, Wilkins,’ the detective went on, ‘if I tell you that sweets understood to be poisoned have been found at Mr Hymat’s house, where the boy was staying? The information did not come from Mr Hymat, but from the boy’s parents. Also, some ransom money—notes—’

  ‘Flash ’uns—’

  ‘Oh, you know that, too?’

  ‘Well, yus! See—’

  ‘Wait a moment. I dare say I see a good deal. Perhaps you took those false notes to Mr Hymat’s house yourself?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You need not answer unless you want to.’

  ‘Why not? Well, as a matter o’ fack, I did tike ’em, on’y—look ’ere, wot are yer gittin’ at?’

  ‘I am getting at the fact that, if Mr Hymat was given those notes, he may not have been pleased when he found they were false. And that you may not have been pleased, either, when Mr Hymat informed you. And that, having failed in your design, the sweets alleged to be poisoned might have been used—if the boy’s parents had not arrived in time to put you to flight.’

  ‘Like that, eh?’ gulped Ben. He raised his manacled hands and wiped his wet forehead with them. ‘So that’s wot we did?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Tried ter poison ’im—and then they come—and we’ops it?’

  ‘I put the question?’

  ‘Well, put this ’un! If we was doin’ that, why didn’t we finish the job when we ’ad the boy on the lake, and pop ’im in? Yus, and the innkeeper, too! Did we kill ’im?’

  ‘If you made the attempt, it did not succeed. A doctor is with him now.’

  ‘Thank Gawd fer that, any’ow!’ The detective raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, corse, I fergot I’m a murderer. But some murderers ’as kind ’earts. Did I murder Smith o’ Boston, too?’

  ‘Smith of Boston?’ repeated the detective slowly. ‘Do you mean the man who was found last night about a mile from here—shot?’

  ‘That’s the bloke!’

  ‘Yes, and that’s the case that originally brought me here. We circulated his description, but the first theory that he was—not Smith of Boston—was confirmed only a few minutes ago. His name is Wilkins. Like yours. Coincidence, eh?’ Suddenly the detective’s eyes hardened. ‘Wilkins—who has been identified—was engaged to bring those false notes to the Black Swan, from where MacTavish would lead him to the house of the kidnapped boy. The boy’s parents were behind Wilkins, and hoped to trace their son by this trick. But somebody killed Wilkins. Somebody took those notes to MacTavish, and forced him to complete the journey to the kidnapper’s house. Then somebody tried to kill MacTavish by pushing him down a mountain. The rest, I’ve already told you. Now, then, let’s have your story? Perhaps they’ll fit? And who is this Smith of Boston?’

  Even Ben’s unsubtle mind was able to realise the devilish ingenuity of the manœuvre by which the enemy had turned the tables and safeguarded their skins. Of course there were flaws in their tale, and time would reveal some of them. When MacTavish recovered he would be able to deny that Ben had been his aggressor—provided MacTavish had seen his aggressor. Mr Hymat would be able to disprove the accusation that he was a kidnapper—provided he was not a kidnapper. Someone would come forward and identify the dead man as Mr Smith of Boston—provided he was Mr Smith of Boston.

  But time was the essential factor. And, with all its flaws, the story was more creditable than the story Ben had to tell. With no living soul to corroborate him, would any- one believe Ben’s story, even if he possessed the lucidity and memory to tell it?

  While the detective waited for him to speak, a dull despair stole over him. The thought that the boy had been captured, and that the game in which they had both put their faith was lost, made every bone in his body ache, and his heart leave its cavity. He recalled once more, while the horrible, fatal seconds ticked by, the lonely room with the four candles, and now in the torturing vision the candles had nearly burnt themselves down and were flickering and spluttering in their sockets. In a few moments they would go out, and the table on which stood the last game of soldiers would be blotted out by darkness …

  Konrad! Yes, what about Konrad? Surely he had supplied the flaw in the Enemy’s story? A boy knows his own parents!

  ‘The kid—wot’s ’e say?’ challenged Ben suddenly.

  ‘He has not said anything,’ answered the detective, rather dryly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If you had been less busy trying to maim the police force, you would know why not. He fainted as his father lifted him out of the boat, and he hadn’t come to when they reached the inn.’

  ‘Fainted!’

  ‘Hardly surprising. He’s been through a stiff time—’

  ‘’E’s bin through a stiffer time than you know anything abart!’ shouted Ben, leaping up, and this time the constable could not push him down. ‘And ’e ain’t the kind wot faints! The inn, eh? Is that where they’ve took ’im. Git aht o’ me way! Git orf me! I’m goin’ ter see if ’e’s still alive, if you ain’t! Orl right—yer’ve arsked fer it!’

  He went into a spin. No one in Muirgissie, or possibly in the whole of Scotland, had ever seen it happen before. As he spun round he extended his clasped hands, and the handcuffs revolved into the constable’s face. When the constable rose, the prisoner had gone, and the detective also. But the prisoner was leading.

  28

  Last Lap

  Five days previously—five days that seemed like five months—Ben had told the detective on the bridge that the only thing he was really good at was running away. Whether or not he possessed any other qualifications for the queer, uneasy battle of life, this one undoubtedly came first. His experience in fleeing was unrivalled, and was only mitigated by the fact that he did not flee solely in his own cause.
Once he had fled a mile to divert a mad dog from an old woman. It was not his fault that the dog belonged to the old woman, and that, after obediently chasing him the mile, it had proved to be saner than Ben.

  Now, for the sake of a small boy he had known only a few hours, he performed his pièce de résistance. His pace at first was impeded by his handcuffs, since it is difficult to keep your balance at top speed when you cannot swing your arms; but he even made use of this handicap, and just as his pursuer was overtaking him he used his imprisoned wrists to execute another spin—the method was to hurl them round and yield to their weight—and while the detective was spinning round after him he was up a turning.

  Then he got into his stride. He was rounding another turning almost before his pursuer had rounded the first. Scurrying footsteps and angry shouts grew more distant. He dived through a padlocked gate, bounced into a low haystack, slid over it, and shot into a shed.

  The scurrying footsteps and the angry shouts came closer again, but they passed the gate, and faded out.

  Well, that was that. For the moment.

  He crept out of the shed and took his bearings. The field was on a slope, and at the bottom was the road that ran beside the loch. Somewhere along that road was the Black Swan.

  He crept to the bottom of the hill. Just before emerging on to the road he tried to dispose of his hands, lest they should arouse the curiosity of anyone he met. He could not put them in his pockets, nor could he hide them behind his back, but he managed to fold them inwards against his chest and to obtrude his elbows as though he were dancing the sailor’s hornpipe. The only trouble was that, if he actually danced the hornpipe, this would attract more attention than the handcuffs.

  Luck was with him on the road. He met no one. This was partly due to the fact that he covered the distance to the inn in less time than it had ever been covered in before. As he reached it a figure emerged.

  He stopped abruptly and pressed himself into a wall. The figure—a man in a black coat, carrying a small brown bag—glanced vaguely in his direction, then walked away in the other. An instant later Ben was in the hotel. Two arms caught him. He stared into the face of Jean.