He looked at her stupidly for a moment, while she looked stupidly back. ‘Git on with it!’ he chided himself. ‘Yer ain’t doin’ nothink!’ He felt suddenly weak. He had been running very hard on a very empty stomach, and he was still suffering from bumps.
‘You’re ill! I’ll call the doctor back!’
Jean’s voice revived him. Nice to hear it again. Nice to see her friendly unantagonistic eyes. Nice that she seemed concerned about him … So that had been the doctor …
Her expression changed abruptly. She noticed his hands.
‘Where is ’e?’ gasped Ben.
But she could not take her eyes off his hands.
‘Never mind abart that! Where is ’e? The boy? Where is ’e?’
The vehemence of his questions whipped her into practicality. Sensible girl, Jean …
‘He’ll be all right. The doctor said so. His parents are lookin’ after him.’
‘Where’s the room?’
‘He’s—he’s not to be disturbed—’
‘Where’s the room? Never mind the bricelets. You know I’m stright, don’t yer? Quick! Up ter the room!’
‘But we canna—’
‘Gawd, do you know wot they’re doin’? Murderin’ ’im!’
Her eyes dilated. She turned and sped up the stairs. Ben stumbled after her. He saw her open a door without knocking, and he heard a sharp exclamation from inside.
‘What’s the meaning of this!’ cried a familiar voice.
‘I’m the meanin’ o’ this!’ bellowed Ben, hurtling past the girl before she could answer.
A scene in which there had been movement suddenly became static, saving for the new character who had abruptly shot into it. The boy lay on a bed. The woman was holding up the boy’s head. The man was standing by them, with a glass. The next moment the glass was smashed to smithereens.
‘So you’ve escaped?’ said Paul, quietly.
‘Don’t worry, the pleece are arter me,’ panted Ben, ‘and I’m waitin’—’ere!’
‘You shall certainly wait here,’ answered Paul, after a quick glance at Helen. ‘Come—we must report this!’
For once Ben’s speed was outmatched. He made a grab, and as he missed something hit him and he toppled to the ground. Then the ground hit him. Then he heard lightning footsteps, and a door close, and a key turn; and then he heard himself laughing. He couldn’t make out at first why he was laughing. All at once he discovered.
‘This is why,’ he explained to Jean’s face, through a thickening haze. ‘Lovin’ parents ’ave left their kid with a murderer. ’Ow’s that fer a joke? Where are yer? Oi! Yer’d better git ’old o’ me somewhere—I b’leeve I’m gittin’ concunshun.’
29
Sir Ben
For two days, in a pleasant bedroom of the Black Swan, Ben endured a period of luxurious discomfort.
The discomfort at first was considerable. It involved nightmares, in one of which he was burning in a long candlestick while the dead detective watched him and told him to stick it out. When he had stuck it out, and slipped from the nightmares back to reality, his head ached, his wrists ached, his bones ached, and his bumps ached. ‘In fack,’ he murmured once to his nurse, Jean, ‘the on’y bit o’ me that don’t ache is me missin’ tooth.’
‘Dinna talk!’ retorted Jean. ‘Have I no’ told you before?’
That was part of the luxury. He wasn’t to talk, and he wasn’t to move, and he wasn’t to think. He was just to eat things and drink things when they were brought to him, and lie quietly when they were not. ‘The way that gal’s nursin’ me,’ he reflected, ‘yer’d think I was a bloomin’ quad!’ It was through her that the luxury exceeded the discomfort, and that Ben’s opinion of illness underwent revision. This was enough to make a bloke fall ill on purpose.
The one bump of his many that was not sufficiently attended to was his bump of curiosity. He wanted to know things, but the moment he began asking questions Jean jumped his head off. Ay, everything was all right. Ay, everybody was all right. Dinna worry!
‘The fairst thing the doctor asks me is, “Are ye keepin’ him quiet?” and wha’ will I tell him?’
‘Is the boy orl right?’ inquired Ben.
‘If I hae told you aince, it’s a dozen!’ she retorted. ‘He’s fine!’
‘Well, can I see ’im?’
‘Ye canna see naebody!º’
‘Wha’ aboot your uncle?’ grinned Ben, and then stopped grinning because it hurt.
‘He’s no mendin’ so quick as you, but he’s mendin’, and now will I put the pillow over your mouth?’
After all, since these essentials were satisfactory, why worry over the rest, saving for the fun of drawing her sauce? He would know the lot, he expected, before long.
But one point, which he did not mention, continued to perplex him. He had been arrested, and he had escaped handcuffed. Surely a policeman or two should be popping about? The absence of officialdom in any form was almost uncanny.
But on the evening of the second day, an official called. Ben did not know he was an official when Jean announced his name, for Stephen Gerard might be anybody. ‘Sounds like telerphones,’ he thought as Jean disappeared to bring the visitor in. He closed his eyes, and wondered vaguely whether he’d got into some new entanglement with a telephone exchange. Then he opened his eyes, and found Stephen Gerard standing by his bed.
‘Lumme!’ he muttered, and shut his eyes again quickly. He fought dizziness. Was the concunshon returning? He was in the long candlestick once more, and the dead detective was watching, telling him to stick to it. He opened one eye. The dead detective was still there. He opened the other eye. Even that didn’t banish him.
‘Go on!’ he murmured weakly.
‘Take it easy,’ said Gerard.
‘If yer can find a plice where it don’t ’urt,’ answered Ben, ‘will yer pinch it?’
Gerard smiled.
‘Well, Ben, whatever you’ve been through, it hasn’t changed you,’ he remarked.
Jean behind his shoulder was also smiling.
‘You’ve chinged,’ replied Ben, now facing reality more clearly. ‘Arm in a sling … That’s funny! There was somethink wrong with yer arm when I saw yer in the nightmare.’
‘What nightmare?’
‘One of ’em. One o’ the fust. There yer was—’
‘Yes, there I was,’ interposed Gerard, turning his head for a moment to glance at Jean. ‘You were babbling about a long candlestick.’
‘Eh? ’Owjer know that?’
‘Because I was really there, Ben,’ said Gerard. ‘I’d just arrived. But I had to go away again almost at once—on some business. And now I’m back.’
‘Yus, you’re back orl right,’ muttered Ben. ‘Tork abart resuserterlashun!’ He paused. ‘Business, eh? P’r’aps I can guess it?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Did yer catch ’em?’
Gerard turned to Jean again. ‘All right for the patient to talk?’
‘Just to you, I’m thinkin’,’ she answered. ‘He’ll burst if he doesna!’
‘You’ve got an understanding nurse,’ said Gerard.
‘I’ll tell yer somethink,’ answered Ben. ‘When she’s nursin’ yer, it’s a pleasure ter be ill.’
Jean coloured.
‘Well, you’ll no be wantin’ your nurse the now,’ she retorted, ‘so I’ll leave you.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ exclaimed Gerard, definitely. ‘You’ll sit down. And so will I. I’ve got a bit of understanding, too, and he needs both of us. I’m not going to be left alone with him if he goes off into any more nightmares!’
‘You look as if you’ve ’ad a few,’ returned Ben, as they pulled up chairs. ‘Why ain’t you dead?’
‘Yes, let’s begin there. I am not dead because I can get over a bad bump as well as you can. I was shot in the arm, and a crack on the pavement finished me. When I came to—well, you’d gone.’ His voice became grave. ‘You were ca
rrying on.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Ben. ‘Like I said I would.’
‘Did you?’
‘Didn’t I? Well, any’ow, when I saw yer lyin’ there—I thort I would.’
‘And then wot ’appened?’
‘Are you bein’ funny?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If yer arsked me wot didn’t ’appen, I might be able to tell yer! Everythink ’appened, and then some! The bloke wot shot yer come along with a woman and I goes orf with ’em in their car like I was Joe Lynch, see, they thort yer was goin’ ter shoot Joe Lynch yerself, the way yer raised yer gun—’
‘I did kill Joe Lynch,’ interposed Gerard, grimly.
‘Eh? Oh, yus, the real ’un!’
‘Well, and then?’
‘Then we was chiced by the pleece, and I thinks, “Lumme, wot’s goin’ ter ’appen ter me if we’re copped?” See, I thort you was dead, so there wasn’t nobody ter speak fer me.’
‘You took a big risk, Ben.’
‘Yus. Arsk me why, and I couldn’t tell yer!’
‘I know, without your telling.’
‘Go on! Why?’
‘Well—you might be a fairly decent chap.’
‘I’m thinkin’ the same,’ murmured Jean. Ben began to feel uncomfortable.
‘Corse, I see wot yer mean,’ he mumbled, ‘on’y—well, it wasn’t nothink like that. See—well, if yer want it stright, I knows meself, but sometimes, jest once or twice, things git on top of yer, and yer do things yer never thort yer would, in fack, yer ’ardly know yer done ’em till yer done ’em, if yer git me?’
‘I get you,’ answered Gerard. ‘I get you exactly. And then?’
‘Eh? Oh, then we goes to a flat, there was a play once called “The Silent ’Ouse,” I know becos’ I uster pass it, there was a corfee shop near, p’r’aps yer know it, well this orter’ve been called “The Silent Flat,” tork abart quiet, if yer dropped a pin it banged—’
‘Can you tell me where it was?’
‘Afraid I carn’t. See, I was took there in the dark, and when I left it was dark. There was a ’arf-dotty chap there wot lived in a dressing-gown, but ’e didn’t seem to ’ave nothink to do with anythink, I put ’im dahn as one o’ them giggliots.’
‘Giggliot?’
‘You know, them French chaps wot, well, ’ang about,’
‘What happened at the flat?’
‘Nothink. Jest waitin’. And then one night I was took orf in a car to a plice called Boston—’
‘Boston?’ exclaimed Gerard.
‘Yus.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was goin’ on. And in Boston I was passed on like to a man wot drove me ’ere—’
‘Smith?’
‘Yer know ’im?’
‘Tell you in a minute. Yes?’
‘Then you know ’e was killed?’ Gerard nodded. ‘And ’oo killed ’im?’
‘You’re telling this story.’
‘Yus, and I thort you was goin’ ter!’
‘Mine’ll come in a moment. Who killed Mr Smith?’
‘Well, I wasn’t there. See, I on’y come upon ’im arter they’d done it. I’d left ’im jest afore, when ’e’d give me a card with my next nime on it ter show—’
He stopped abruptly, and looked at Jean.
‘To show my uncle,’ she finished for him. ‘You needna hide what’s known a’ready.’
‘Well, ’ere’s somethink that’s gotter be knowd,’ said Ben. ‘Wotever ’er uncle was up to—and as fur as I can mike out, ’e was on’y, well, tryin’ to mike a bit, sime as Mr Smith—she didn’t know nothink abart it. Lumme, she was near orf ’er ’ead with worry, and if anybody tries to mike it out any dif’rent, then by Gawd there’ll be another murder!’
‘Jean is as straight as you are, Ben,’ replied Gerard, smiling. ‘She is not worrying now about anything.’
‘How could I, wi’ such friends?’ added Jean, her eyes suspiciously bright.
‘I reckon she knows ’ow to be a friend,’ answered Ben. ‘If she ’adn’t—well, bin like wot she is—that boy’d ’ave bin killed. It was she wot sived ’is life, and don’t nobody fergit it! My throat’s gittin’ dry. Wot abart a spot o’ water?’
She jumped up and brought him a glass, while Gerard looked at her thoughtfully. Then he turned back to Ben, and said:
‘You were followed to Muirgissie—in fact, right to the end—by the people who killed Mr Smith.’
‘That’s right,’ gulped Ben.
‘And who claimed they were following you to protect their son—Konrad—but who actually were not related to him at all.’
‘Corse they wasn’t!’
‘And whom you prevented from killing Konrad by a split second—’
‘No, that was ’er.’ Ben jerked his head towards Jean. ‘Anybody else would ’ave stood in me way. Orl I did was ter knock the glass dahn when I got there.’
‘Well—we’ll award the medals later … And who then bunked down to their car, where the chauffeur was waiting, touched seventy or eighty for half a dozen miles, and then—’
He paused.
‘Yus?’ asked Ben.
‘Escaped by aeroplane.’
Ben stared.
‘Yer don’t mean—arter orl we done—they got away?’ he exclaimed.
‘The boy has been saved.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mr MacTavish has also been saved. His convalescence will be considerably longer than yours, but he will live to be a wiser and a better man.’
‘I’ll see he does!’ nodded Jean.
‘Jean is happier than when you first came here. A poisonous organisation that was even poisoning the good mountain air of Muirgissie has been broken up. It doesn’t seem to me, Ben, that we have done so badly?’
‘So we ain’t,’ agreed Ben. Then added, ‘And you didn’t do so bad to git on to it! ’Ow did that ’appen?’
‘Well, while you were on the heels of two of our party, the police were already interested in the third, who had arrived from the Continent—’
‘The Jack o’ Clubs!’
‘What’s that?’
‘Eh? Oh, on’y my pet nime fer ’im. Go on.’
‘Let’s keep it, though I don’t see the connection. The Jack of Clubs came from a rather disturbed part of Europe, and he was traced one day in Boston, talking to our friend Smith. Then we lost the Jack of Clubs. Then we lost Smith. And just as I was getting over my little indisposition, a description of Smith was circulated among all stations in an attempt to identify him and find his murderers. Disobeying doctor’s orders, I came to Muirgissie at once—but, of course, the birds had flown.’
‘You wouldn’t ’ave disobeyed doctor’s orders, not if you’d ’ad my nurse!’ grinned Ben.
‘Do you know, I believe I would—even your nurse,’ answered Gerard, slowly. ‘You see, Ben, I had a hunch—from little details—that if I came to Muirgissie and traced your Jack of Clubs, I might also trace you. And I’d damn well made up my mind to find you.’
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ murmured Ben.
‘I found you babbling about candlesticks. I cleared you with the local police, and gave instructions that you were not to be bothered. Jean saw that my instructions were carried out, while I chased—unsuccessfully—the people we were after. I believe she kept the local constable off once with a toasting fork! And now I’m back … And have brought somebody with me.’
He rose suddenly. ‘You look tired, Ben. But do you think you could stand one more visitor tonight, for just three minutes? To—meet the somebody. A rather small boy?’
A funny thing happened to Ben. You couldn’t always tell from his remarks just how he was feeling—which is the same, after all, with the rest of us—and he often didn’t know himself. He knew now that he was tired, but he did not know why the mention of that rather small boy brought a sort of a lump into his throat. For a moment he wondered whether he could stand those three minutes. But he wasn�
�t going to miss them, even if he couldn’t.
‘You bet!’ he muttered.
A few moments later the small boy came into the room, and the others melted out of it.
‘Hallo, Royal Spy,’ said the boy.
‘’Allo, Yer Majesty,’ answered Ben.
‘I really am a King,’ replied the boy.
‘Corse yer are,’ nodded Ben. ‘A proper one.’
‘Have they told you, then?’
‘They didn’t need ter. I got funny bones, and they told me. There’s one be’ind me left knee tells me anythink if I arsk it.’
The boy bit his lip. Then he stood very straight.
‘Someone’s come for me,’ he said. ‘I’m going back.’
‘That’s why the lump came,’ thought Ben. ‘See I knew that, too.’ Aloud he said, ‘Vivy le Roy.’
‘Mr Hymat’s going with me,’ Konrad went on, after a pause. ‘He’s been very good. You see, my father was killed, and when I got away he was supposed to kill me, too. They paid him a lot of money to. But he didn’t. He hid me here, and used the money. Then he—he let them know I wasn’t dead, and sent for some more. You see, he hadn’t any left, and he’d had to borrow some from Mr MacTavish. I don’t quite understand it. But that’s how everybody got to know. They tried to kill me again the first time. You see, there is what you call a usurper. But the second time you came, and you saved me, so, well, I must make you that knight.’
He stretched out his hand and put it on Ben’s head.
‘What’s your real name?’
‘Ben.’
‘It is now, Sir Ben.’ He kept his hand there for a second, to press the knighthood well in, and then withdrew it. ‘I—I suppose—you couldn’t come with us, Sir Ben?’
Sir Ben’s heart took a silly leap, and then settled down.
‘I wouldn’t be no good aht there,’ he answered, smiling. ‘But I’ll tell yer wot. If yer ever in any more dinger, jest let Sir Ben know, and ’e’ll pop along.’
The boy bit his lip again. Three minutes was going to be ample for both of them.
‘What will you do?’ he asked.
‘Well, I never knows, fer certin,’ replied Ben. ‘But p’r’aps I’ll stay on ’ere fer a bit. You know, ’elp with the pots and pans. See, now you’re orl right, there’s some ’un else wot might like a ’and. The gal ’ere. Did they tell yer, yer Majesty—it was ’er wot really sived yer life? If she ’adn’t bin quick, like she was—well, see, orl I did was jest ter knock—I mean, well never mind. Any’ow, wot abart mikin’ ’er Lady Jean?’
Detective Ben Page 19