Ben on the Job

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  But this time he went on bouncing, with the object of bouncing as far away from the back door as possible. He bounced across a dim space, through another doorway, across a black passage, up eight stairs, into a wall, down eight stairs, and then after a dark interval which left no memory, down a stone flight to a basement.

  Finally, just to round the incident off, he came to roost on the body of a dead man.

  This was an obvious situation for a further bounce, but by now Ben was beyond it. Instead, he removed himself carefully, and then gazed, panting, at the thing he had removed himself from.

  It was a well-dressed man lying flat on his back. He had pale cheeks—whether they were normally pale it was impossible to tell—and across one was a very ugly mess. Without this mess, as far as one could judge, the face would not have shown any special distinction. The lips were rather thick and loose, the features rather characterless, though here again judgment could not be final since the spirit behind the features had departed. Light hair sprayed untidily over a bruised forehead … Oh, yes! The man was dead. No doubt whatever about that. Ben was an expert on corpses. They just wouldn’t let him alone.

  He recalled the first corpse he had ever come across. He had jumped so high he had nearly hit the ceiling. But now—though, mind you, he still didn’t like them—they usually had a less galvanic effect upon him. He could feel sorry for them as well as for himself. They must have been through a nasty time. This bloke, for instance …

  He heard somebody coming down the stairs. The somebody from whose footsteps he had been flying. The somebody who had barged into the pail outside. But Ben did not move. He wasn’t going to run no more, not fer nobody. Not even fer the ruddy ’angman. You get like that, after a time.

  ‘Hallo! What’s up?’

  It was a constable’s phraseology, but it wasn’t a constable’s voice, nor was it the voice of the passer-by who had been with the constable. Someone new. All right, let ’em all come! Ben turned his head slowly, and in the dimness saw a tall, bony man descending towards him. His big boots made a nasty clanging sound on the cold stone. His trousers were baggy. Not neat, like the trousers on the corpse. He had high cheek-bones, which looked even more prominent than they were as they caught the little light that existed in the basement. The light came through a small dirty window set in the wall at the foot of the stairs. His eyebrows were bushy. His hair was black. His nose was crooked. A boxer’s nose. That was a pity.

  ‘What’s up?’ repeated this unattractive individual.

  ‘Doncher mean, wot’s dahn?’ replied Ben.

  Anyhow, it was easier to talk to this chap than to a bobby.

  The newcomer regarded the prone figure on the ground with frowning solemnity. Having reached the bottom of the flight he did not move or speak for several seconds, and suddenly conscious of the length of the pause Ben blinked at his companion curiously. He was not reacting to the situation in a quite normal manner, although Ben could not have put it in those terms. What he would have said was, ‘’E don’t seem ter be be’avin’ nacherel like, if yer git me?’

  ‘Looks dead,’ the man said at last.

  ‘’E more’n looks dead,’ replied Ben. ‘’E is dead.’

  ‘Oh! You know that?’

  ‘I won’t stop yer, if yer want ter find aht fer yerself.’

  The man removed his eyes from the dead to the living.

  ‘Did you kill him?’ he inquired.

  ‘I wunnered when that one was comin’,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘Corse I did. I pops orf anybody ’oose fice I don’t like. That’s why I carry a pocket knife.’

  The bushy eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Bit of a comic, ain’t you?’

  ‘Fair scream. ’Aven’t yer seen me on the telervishun, Saturday nights?’

  ‘I must look out for you. Meantime, suppose we stop being funny. What would you do if I went for a policeman?’

  ‘Well, there’s nothink like tryin’ a thing ter find aht, is there?’

  ‘True enough, but I reckon I’ll find out a bit more before I try! What did you kill him for?’

  ‘You carn’t learn nothink, can yer?’

  ‘Meaning you didn’t kill him?’

  ‘Corse I didn’t!’

  ‘You told me just now that you did.’

  ‘Well, fancy you arskin’. Wot abart me arskin’ if you killed ’im?’

  ‘How could I, as I’ve only just come?’

  ‘Sez you!’

  ‘What’s that mean? All right, all right, let’s get on with it! If you didn’t kill him, what are you doing here?’

  Now what was the answer to that one? Ben pondered.

  ‘Come along! Out with it! You’ve been running like a bloody hare—’

  ‘Well, wasn’t you arter me?’

  Ben thought that quite good, but it did not seem to satisfy his interrogator, who thrust his face closer to Ben’s. It was a nasty face, you couldn’t get away from it—and you wanted to get away from it!

  ‘You’re a queer cove, if ever I’ve seen one,’ grunted the man. ‘Is anybody else after you?’

  That was a teaser, but Ben evaded it. ‘Ain’t one enough?’ he retorted. And then to divert further questioning on the point and to clear himself generally, he burst out, ‘’Ave a bit o’ sense! Yer chaised me in ’ere, didn’t yer, so if I’ve on’y jest come in ’ere ’ow could I of ’ad time ter kill that bloke, let alone ’ow I did it and why? Orl right! Now yer know why I’m ’ere, but yer ain’t said yet why you’re ’ere—’

  ‘I’m here because you’re here, you fool!’ exclaimed the man impatiently. ‘Haven’t you just said yourself I chased you in? Or would the right word be “back”? If you’d been here before you’d have had plenty of time, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and so’d you,’ returned Ben, ‘with nobs on!’

  Now, of course Ben knew he had not been here before, but—yus, come ter think of it serious like—he did not know that this unpleasant bushy-browed individual had not. Suppose he had? After all, in regard to the reason for their presences here at this moment, both were lying. Ben was not here through being chased by this man since it was not this man who had chased him. Therefore the man must have accepted Ben’s version for his own convenience, and his presence must be due to some other cause! Lummy, it was a fishy business from the word go! Because—another thing—here was a deader on the floor, and neither of them was making any move to get a policeman!

  Suddenly the man’s mood changed. Or seemed to. ‘Don’t let’s lose our wool,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out who this fellow is, shall we? And how about picking up that broken chair?’

  He moved forward and began to stoop over the victim of the as yet unsolved tragedy. His large hands groped about the dead man’s clothes. Ben glanced at the broken chair but did not pick it up. A piece of rope lay near it.

  ‘You wanter be careful,’ Ben warned his companion.

  Ben’s mood was changing, also, although he could not decide just what it was changing to or whether the change would last. Bushy Brows had not become any more lovable, but his mood certainly seemed less threatening.

  ‘What do I want to be careful about?’ asked Bushy Brows. ‘He’s not going to jump up and bite me!’

  ‘Yer never know—I seen a chicken run abart withaht its ’ead,’ retorted Ben, ‘but I wasn’t thinkin’ o’ that. Wot I meant was—well, seein’ as ’ow this ain’t like jest stealin’, but a bit more serious like, and seein’ as ’ow you and me ain’t done it, sayin’ we ain’t—’

  ‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Yes. I’m torkin’ abart not bein’ supposed ter touch the body, that is, not afore—’

  Bushy Brows interrupted with a laugh, and then looked at Ben hard.

  ‘You’re a caution, and no mistake,’ he said. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before!’

  ‘Tha’s right—nobody ’as,’ agreed Ben.
<
br />   ‘I believe it! In fact, old boy, I’m beginning to think this meeting may turn out a good thing for both of us—but we won’t go too fast, eh? It’s nice and quiet here, and there’s plenty of time, and you’ve only just come in, and I’ve only just come in—that’s how it is, isn’t it?—so we’ve nothing to worry about while I find out what’s in this fellow’s pockets! Have we?’

  Nice and quiet—plenty of time—nothing to worry about? Hadn’t they? ‘Tork abart fishy!’ thought Ben, unhappily. ‘Lummy, wot’s this leadin’ ter? I—wunner—?’ He tried to stop wondering, for wondering can be exceedingly troublesome. It leads to thinking—or is it the thinking that leads to the wondering? Whichever way it is, just when you’re wanting peace and rest it comes along and throws a spanner into the works. Gives you—what do they call it?—a sense of responsibility like …

  And there was something else that Ben was wondering, though this had nothing to do with Bushy Brows. He was wondering why there was something familiar—or seemed to be—about the dead man on the ground? He’d never seen him before, he’d swear himself pink he hadn’t, and yet—

  ‘Ah! Here’s something!’ said Bushy Brows.

  ‘Wot?’ asked Ben.

  Bushy Brows did not answer at once. He was counting coins and notes. When he had finished he reported, ‘Five pound eight and six. Would you like the eight and six?’

  ‘Nah, then, none o’ that!’ replied Ben.

  Bushy Brows grinned.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me, Eric, you’ve never made a bit on the side?’

  ‘’Oo’s Heric?’

  ‘He was a good little boy.’

  ‘Was ’e? Orl right. I’m Heric.’

  ‘As you like. Then I’m to have the lot?’

  ‘Oi!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You better put that back!’

  ‘If I did, what would be the good of having found it? It’s no good to him any more, is it? Come off it, Eric! We’re getting to know each other, and you can’t pull that stuff on me!’

  He grinned again as he pocketed the money.

  Getting to know each other? Again Ben wondered. Was this a trick to catch him out? He’d known it played before. A ’tec comes along, mikes yer think ’e’s crooked, cheats yer orf the stright, and ’e’s got yer! Not that anybody had ever got Ben that way, because by that odd kink in his character Ben was straight, but he’d seen it done, and orf goes the poor bloke to the lock-up, and orf goes the ’tec to promotion … Lummy, here was an idea, though! Why shouldn’t he play the trick? Beat Bushy Brows at his own game, if it was a game, and if it wasn’t, see how far he could make him go? Corse, it’d be a bit of a risk if things went wrong, but this bloke on the floor was getting on Ben’s nerves, and ’e must of ’ad a ’orrible time afore ’e got lookin’ like ’e did! Blarst this wunnerin’! Fair blast it! But Ben knew he would not learn anything from Bushy Brows unless he won his confidence, and what he had to decide was whether to play for dangerous knowledge or to cling to the bliss of ignorance.

  ‘What’s going on behind your film face?’ asked Bushy Brows. ‘You and I wouldn’t do anybody in, would we? We’re not the murdering sort—but didn’t you say yourself just now that stealing was a different thing? Even if stealing’s the right word for taking a bit of loose change from a man who won’t need it any more! After all, in this naughty world, there’s no saying how he got it!’

  Bushy Brows was smiling, but Ben detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. In a flash, his friendly mood might change again. This was the moment when Ben had to give up the game or continue it, and to go on playing it harder.

  ‘Bit slow, guv’nor, ain’t yer?’ he responded.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well—fer one thing, when I meets a bloke wot I ain’t never seed afore, I don’t put me cards plump dahn on the tible!’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Yer’ve said it!’

  ‘And for another thing?’

  ‘Fer another thing, yer gotter be careful wot yer tike orf a bloke wot’s been killed. See, even if yer didn’t do it, it might mike some think yer did!’

  ‘Quite a brain, Eric!’

  ‘Oh, I got one, even if sometimes I keeps it dark!’

  ‘And for another thing? Or is that the lot?’

  ‘There’s another.’

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘Eight and a tanner! I arsk yer!’

  Bushy Brows laughed.

  ‘Not enough?’

  ‘Wot do you think?’

  ‘How about this, then?’ He dived into his pocket and brought out one of the pound notes. ‘Will that do for the moment?’

  ‘If yer mike it a short moment!’

  Ben snatched the note, donning an expression intended to convey the fiercest greed. As it was entirely spurious, and occurred on a face surprising enough even without it, Bushy Brows had never seen anything like it before.

  ‘After you’re hanged, Eric,’ he commented, ‘there’ll be a three-mile queue outside Madame Tussaud’s! Now let’s see what else we can find?’

  He continued his search, while Ben watched him closely. That Bushy Brows was a wrong ’un was now beyond all possible doubt, and this confirmed Ben’s determination to maintain his pretence of being a bird of the same feather. But just how much of a wrong ’un Bushy Brows was remained in doubt. Murder was not yet proved.

  ‘Ticket for the Odeon,’ said Bushy Brows. ‘Or, rather, the counterfoil. Best seat. Hallo!’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Now, this is interesting!’

  ‘Wot is?’ asked Ben.

  ‘The date. What’s today?’

  ‘I never trouble.’

  ‘It’s the thirteenth.’

  ‘Corse it is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look wot’s ’appenin’!’

  ‘I get you, but superstition never worried me. Anyhow, where’s the bad luck? Aren’t we making a bit?’

  ‘’E’s ’ad the bad luck.’

  ‘But we’re not him! What I’m interested in is the date on this counterfoil. It’s today’s date, so it looks as if our friend was at the Odeon this afternoon.’

  Ben considered the point.

  ‘Well, why not?’ he replied. ‘’E ’ad ter be somewhere!’

  ‘You—don’t—say!’ retorted Bushy Brows. ‘You know, Eric, we’ll get on faster when you drop your pose of being a mug! It’s a good wheeze—I’ve used it myself—but there’s no need to keep it up with me!’

  ‘Orl right,’ answered Ben, ‘I’ll work it aht fer yer if yer want ter see me brine. ’E goes ter the cinema, and ’e sees a fillum, and then ’e comes on ’ere ter think abart it, and when ’e’s ’ere ’e bumps inter somebody ’oo murders ’im but wot we’ve agreed atween us ain’t you or me. Is that orl right or ain’t it?’

  Bushy Brows narrowed his eyes, as though all at once considering Ben again.

  ‘You’re quite, quite sure it wasn’t you he bumped into?’ he said.

  ‘It wern’t me if it wern’t you,’ returned Ben. ‘So was it?’

  Bushy Brows looked exasperated, shrugged his shoulders, and bent down over the body again. He came up next time with a letter-case.

  ‘Nah we’ll know,’ said Ben.

  ‘If there’s a card in it,’ answered Bushy Brows. ‘Or a letter.’

  There was a card. Bushy Brows slid it out of its special little space and contemplated it with thoughtful eyes. He contemplated it for so long that Ben took a peep over his shoulder, and although the light was so dim he could just make out the name inscribed upon it:

  Then something else attracted Ben’s attention, something that had fallen out of the case while Bushy Brows had extracted the card and that now lay near the dead man’s foot. Ben stooped and quietly picked it up. It was a photograph of a woman. Rather a good-looker. Not one of your film stars, but a face you didn’t mind looking at, that was a fact. Indeed, the more Ben looked at it, the more he didn’t mind, without exactly knowing why. She was smart, and h
e was more at home with holes and patches. She had dark hair, and as a rule he preferred ’em blonde—if it was nacherel, mind, and not on one o’ them tarts. This wasn’t no tart! You could tell she was the sort that would draw away quick if she saw Ben coming. There was nothing to suggest that the admiration would be mutual.

  One reason why the face appealed to him was that behind the photographic smile there was a hint of trouble which neither the photographer nor his subject had been able to eliminate. Possibly neither was aware of it. But Ben had a subconscious sense for trouble, and an instinctive sympathy for all who encountered it. Lummy, didn’t he know?

  Bushy Brows’ voice brought Ben’s head up from the photograph.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  ‘Pickcher,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Oh! Where did you get it?’

  ‘Fell aht o’ the case, I reckon.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Rather reluctantly Ben held it out, and the man took it. He seemed as interested as Ben, if from a different angle. When he had finished examining it he slipped it back into the letter-case.

  ‘Did yer put the card back, too?’ inquired Ben.

  ‘Don’t worry. You shall have the chap’s name and address if you’re good.’

  Deciding not to let on that he already knew them, Ben asked innocently:

  ‘Yer know ’oo it is, then?’

  ‘I know more than that, Eric.’

  ‘Oh! Yer do?’

  ‘I know who put the bullet through his head.’

  ‘Oh! It was a bullet wot done it?’

  ‘I never really thought it was a penknife. But you’re not going to pretend now, are you, that you never guessed he’s been shot?’

  ‘Where’s the gun?’

  ‘If you’d shot him, would you have left the gun behind?’

  ‘Tha’s right, and as I ain’t got no gun on me that shows I didn’t shoot ’im, so now yer can tell me ’oo did?’