‘All right now?’ inquired the driver. ‘I’ll take you along to your house, if you like?’
‘No, I can manidge,’ answered Ben, the coins now secure in a pocket that functioned. ‘Good ’ealth!’
The driver got back into his seat, gave Ben one more glance to make sure he hadn’t been dreaming, and drove off, Ben filling in the time by inserting a fag-end he had found with the coins between his lips and sucking it. That is all you can do when you have used your last match.
Alone again at last, and trying not to feel anxious and depressed—an impossible effort—Ben began to walk slowly along Drewet Road. He found himself at the low-numbered end, which meant that No. 18 was not far off. He came to it, in fact, in less than a minute, and as he turned his head to the front door it opened, and a lady came out.
It was the lady of the photograph.
4
The Lady of the Picture
There was no mistaking her. Ben recognised her at once, not only by her dark hair and smart appearance, but by that indefinable ‘something’ in her atmosphere which he had discerned even in the photograph. This was all the more surprising since her mood at this moment was entirely different. There was a hardness in her expression, her lips were tight, and some inner excitement seemed to be causing the rapidity with which she slammed the door behind her and ran down the front steps. In her hand was a small suitcase.
As she came to the bottom of the steps she looked quickly up and down the road. Then she caught sight of Ben.
‘I wonder if you could get me a taxi?’ she exclaimed.
Ben’s taxi by now was completely out of sight. For this he was doubly grateful. It wasn’t going to help if she popped off the moment he’d opped along.
‘I ain’t seen one, mum,’ he answered.
‘No, but could you get me one?’
‘Well, mum, that ain’t goin’ ter be easy in this fog—’
‘All right, don’t trouble,’ she interrupted, with a slight frown. ‘I only thought you—I’ll get one myself.’
She was about to move when Ben stepped in her way.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, mum—’ Her frown deepened. ‘Could I ’ave a word with yer?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry!’
‘Yus, but—’
With a quick shrug, she began to open her handbag.
‘No, mum, it ain’t that,’ said Ben. ‘I ain’t arskin’ fer nothink.’
‘Then what do you want?’ she exclaimed. ‘And please be quick—you heard me say I was in a hurry!’
‘Yus, mum, and I wouldn’t stop yer, not if it wasn’t himportent. Yer—yer ain’t goin’ off like, are yer?’
Her dark eyes blazed with indignation.
‘You’re impudent,’ she cried. ‘Please don’t stand there in my way. Ah—there’s a taxi!’
‘Oi! Don’t tike it!’
In the stress of the moment Ben placed a grubby hand on her sleeve, but as the neatness of the sleeve emphasised the grubbiness of the hand he hastily whipped it off, while the indignation in her eyes changed to utter astonishment. The astonishment was so utter that the taxi which had suddenly grown out of the mist went by, and was now beginning to get lost in the mist again.
‘Taxi!’ she called.
But she was too late. Now her indignation returned in full force.
‘You’ve made me miss it!’ she cried, wrathfully. ‘What’s the meaning of all this? In a moment I won’t be looking for a taxi, but a policeman!’
‘I wouldn’t do that, mum!’ muttered Ben.
‘Wouldn’t?’
‘No, mum. And—and p’r’aps it was a good thing yer didn’t git that taxi!’
She moved a step closer, and stared at him hard. Then she asked shortly:
‘Who are you?’
‘Well—if I told yer me nime, that wouldn’t git yer nowhere.’
A sudden idea seemed to occur to her. Still regarding him with searching eyes, she demanded:
‘Are you a friend—an acquaintance of my husband?’
The change of word was made with scorn, a scorn which Ben had no means as yet of understanding. Indeed, at this moment he was not attending to the change. It was the word ‘husband’ that had pinned his attention.
‘’Usband,’ he repeated, in a mutter.
‘Answer me at once, or go!’ she blazed.
‘It—it ain’t so easy, mum. I ain’t wot I think yer think, on’y—well, see, I got some noose fer yer, and I’m afraid it ain’t good.’
Now she looked puzzled.
‘Have you come from my husband?’
That was a nasty one. Ben replied to the question with another.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, but might I arsk—are yer Mrs Wilby?’
‘I am.’
‘Oh! Then—in a manner o’ speakin’—I ’ave come from yer ’usband. Don’t fergit—on’y in a manner o’ speakin’.’
‘Then you’d better come in,’ she said, with a little shrug which was an attempt to conceal anxiety. ‘You’ve obviously got something to say that can’t be said out here. Only, if I find you’ve been wasting my time—’
‘I ain’t goin’ ter waiste yer time, mum. Do I look as if I was?’
She shook her head and, turning, led him into the house, and into a small drawing-room. When he had awkwardly accepted her invitation to sit down, he was wondering how to make a start when she made it herself.
‘Before you say anything, and I haven’t the least idea what it is, I’m going to say something. I’m not interested in gossip, and there’s nothing whatever to be got out of me. I want to make that quite clear. But if what you’ve got to tell me is really important—and true—and if your reason for telling me is genuine—’ She looked at him with sudden curiosity, as though trying for the first time to read what kind of a man he was. She went on: ‘If your motive is good, then I’ll listen. Not otherwise. Do you understand all that?’
Ben nodded. He understood, and he felt sorry for both of them. But he still couldn’t get started, and while he was fishing for the right words his troubled confusion brought a new expression into her eyes.
‘Is it as difficult as all that?’ she asked him, almost kindly.
‘Yus, mum,’ mumbled Ben. ‘Yer see—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I ain’t sure as ’ow yer’ll tike it.’
‘There seems to be a lot we’re both not sure about.’
‘Yus, mum.’
‘Would you like to begin by telling me just what your motive is?’
Her tone was still kind—very different from her tone at the start of their interview—and he almost wished it hadn’t been. Somehow it made his job all the harder.
‘This is orl wrong,’ he complained. ‘You’re tryin’ ter ’elp me, when I come ’ere ter try and ’elp you!’
‘Did you? Is that true?’
‘Corse, mum. Wot other reason would I ’ave?’
‘I could think of others, but if I thought them about you I see now I’d be wrong. You must forgive me if I’m completely baffled! What do you want to help me about—and why should you want to help me?’
Here was a possible lead in.
‘Well, see, mum, it was the photo.’
‘Photo?’
‘Yus.’ Lummy, he was in now!
‘What photo?’
‘’E ’as it on ’im.’
‘Who?’
‘Your ’usband. Mr George Wilby. That’s right, ain’t it?’
‘Mr Wilby is my husband. And this photo, I suppose you are going to tell me, was of—some woman?’
Her tone was getting cold again.
‘Yes, mum, it was of you,’ answered Ben. ‘That’s why I come. That and the address. ’E ’ad it on ’im, and I—well, I dunno zackly why, but seein’ the photo—corse, that’s ’ow I reckernized yer comin’ aht o’ the door—and, well, things bein’ like they was, I felt a bit sorry fer yer, like, if yer git me, so I thort “I’ll come along and tell ’er f
ust sort o’ quiet like,” espeshully knowin’ orl I does and thinkin’ she orter know that, too, lummy, that’s goin’ ter tike a bit o’ time, but mind yer it was a risk, in fack I nearly didn’t come, ’cos, see, if the pleece find me ’ere I’m for it, I’ll swing, doncher worry, though it’s Gawd’s truth I never done it, but jest found ’im like ’e was in that hempty ’ouse—’
He paused, breathless, as a car stopped outside. There followed a few moments of deathly silence. Mrs Wilby sat rigid, her eyes staring, her cheeks pale, the knuckles of her tightly clenched hands showing white in her lap. Then came steps, and then the front-door bell.
Neither had to look out of the window to feel convinced it was a police car.
5
Ben Gets a Job
The bell rang again, followed this time by the sound of the knocker. Mrs Wilby got up from her chair, steadied herself at a little table beside it, and then walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.
‘This is the finish,’ decided Ben. ‘Well, when yer on the hend o’ the rope, it’s quick!’
He heard the front door open. Mug he’d been to take that pound note. What help was it going to be that Bushy Brows had all the others? Bushy Brows had vanished and would never be heard of again, and if Ben mentioned him to the police they’d say he’d made him up. Corse they would! That was what murderers did, wasn’t it? Made somebody up! And here were the policemen who wouldn’t believe him, here in the hall just the other side of the drawing-room door, He could hear their voices, though not their words. He was glad she had closed the door, but it wouldn’t stay closed for long. In a moment it would open, and then … Yus, he ought never to of took that note—and he ought never to of took that cab! That fair made him the mug of mugs, because of course the police would get on to the taximan, and was the taximan going to forget he’d received a clean new one-pound note from a bloke like Ben? If he didn’t have the note on him he’d know who he passed it on to, and seeing Mr Wilby probably got it from the bank where he worked you could bet it would be easy pie to trace the number …
Why didn’t the door open, and get it over? Ben’s eyes were glued on it, but it remained shut. Was they still torkin’? He listened, but now he could hear nothing. Lummy, that was queer, wasn’t it? Where’d they gone?
A minute went by. Then another. Unable to bear it any longer he tiptoed to the door. Not a sound came from the hall, and after a moment of hesitation he turned the handle and softly opened the door an inch. Peering cautiously through the crack he saw that the hall was empty, but faintly-heard voices sounded behind a door on the other side of the hall.
‘She’s took ’em in there fust,’ he decided, ‘ter ’ear wot they say, and then they’ll come along ter me, and good-bye, Ben!’
A few feet to the left of his projecting nose was the front door, and he nearly succumbed to its temptation, but two reasons dissuaded him from a dash for liberty, and as he closed the drawing-room door again and returned to his seat he could not have told you which of the reasons had been the dominant. One was the police car outside. There would probably still be the driver in it, in which case he’d be caught before he’d begun, and would be self-convicted. He had already had one example that afternoon of the trouble you could get into by running away before you were charged. Of course, there might be nobody in the car (he did not go to the window to look, lest temptation should return, or his own face be seen), but even so they’d probably catch him in the end, with all their clues, and then ask, ‘If you were innocent why did you bunk?’
The second reason that had brought him back into the room was, perhaps, less explainable—but there it was, you couldn’t get away from it. Mrs Wilby must have known that, by leaving him alone, he would have his chance. So—well, she’d sort of trusted him like not to take it. Unless—another thought suddenly intruded—she had meant him to take it? Had she led the police into the room across the hall to give him this opportunity to escape? Well, even so, he couldn’t work it. He’d got a lot more to let her know, and he couldn’t do that from five miles off.
Four or five minutes must have gone by before he heard sounds in the hall again, and at last the door opened. To his surprise, only Mrs Wilby came in, and she only stayed for an instant. She gave him a quick glance, revealing nothing by her expression, took a handkerchief from the table beside the chair she had been sitting in, and then left him once more to himself.
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he thought. ‘Wozzat mean?’
Another period of waiting had to be endured. It lasted about as long as the first. Then the door across the hall opened, the fact revealed by the renewed audibility of the voices—one was saying, ‘Very well, Mrs Wilby—in half an hour’—footsteps moved towards the front door, and the front door opened and closed.
Ben listened in surprised relief to the sound of the departing police car, and the sound had not died away before Mrs Wilby returned to him. She looked pale, but composed.
‘Well—they’ve gone,’ she said.
‘Yus. I ’eard,’ answered Ben. ‘Why didn’t yer bring ’em in ’ere?’
‘Did you want me to?’
‘Gawd, no!’
‘Then I expect that’s why I didn’t. You’ve got some more to tell me, haven’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Tha’s a fack!’
‘I want to hear it—and of course you will want to hear what the police said. I didn’t mention you—’
‘Go on!’
‘Surely you must realise they’d have come in here if I had?’
‘Yus, only I thort p’r’aps you’d menshuned me but jest said I’d come and gorn, like?’
‘I see. Yes, I could have done that. And if you had gone I might have mentioned you. I came back in the middle of our interview to find out whether you were still here or not.’
‘Oh! Not fer yer ’ankerchiff?’
‘That was just my excuse. Tell me, why didn’t you go?’
‘There was a police car ahtside, wasn’t there?’
‘Nobody was in it.’
‘Oh! Well, I didn’t know that.’
‘You could have seen from the window.’
‘I dessay, but—well, there was hother reasons, too. If I’d done a bunk, yer might of thort, “’E done it arter orl, or ’e wouldn’t of bunked.” That’s wot the pleece’d of thort, any’ow, so it seemed it’d be best ter stay ’ere—you ’avin’ trusted me, like.’
In spite of the distress she was controlling, she smiled faintly.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Eh? Ben.’
‘Just Ben?’
‘Nobody never troubles abart the other part.’
‘Then I won’t either. Yes, I do trust you, and perhaps I rather need somebody I can trust at this moment. I—I’m grateful that you caught me before I—before I left the house just now.’ He noticed that her eyes wandered for an instant to her suitcase, which she had put down on the floor beside the table when they had first entered the drawing-room. ‘Before you tell me what you have to say, would you like to hear what the police said?’
‘Yus, mum.’
‘They said somebody had ’phoned from a public ’phonebox, telling them to go to a house in Norgate Road where they would find a—a dead man. Do you know who that was?’
‘It was me, mum.’
‘I guessed so.’
‘Did they guess?’
‘How could they, if you didn’t tell them?’
‘Tha’s right. Funny wot silly questions yer arsks sometimes when yer mind’s goin’ rahnd. But if yer’d brort ’em in, I hexpeck they’d of knowd me voice.’
Again the faint smile appeared, though it was very faint.
‘I expect so, but so far they have nothing to go upon—oh, yes, they have,’ she corrected herself, ‘and perhaps I’d better tell you. They found fingerprints on the receiver at the telephone booth.’
That was nasty.
‘’Ow do they know I didn’t wipe mine orf?’ he said.
; ‘Did you?’
‘No, but I might of, and then wot they found’d be some’un helse’s, wouldn’t they?’
‘Have you ever had your fingerprints taken—or is that a rude question?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never been copped fer nothink, if that’s wot yer mean, mum,’ he answered.
‘That’s fortunate, because they’ve also found fingerprints on some of the things on my husband’s body.’
Ben nodded gloomily. ‘There yer are! And I told ’im not ter touch it—’
‘Told who?’ she interrupted sharply.
‘Eh? Oh! A bloke ’oo come along jest arter I fahnd it in the cellar. See, that’s wot I’ve got ter tell yer abart.’ She stared at him. ‘Was one o’ the things a letter-caise?’
‘Yes!’
‘With a visitin’ card in it, and that photo of you, but no money?’
‘Yes, yes, but who is this person you’re talking about?’ she exclaimed, with a new anxiety in her voice. ‘Tell me quickly! I have to go and identify my husband—they’re coming back to take me there—and I must know everything before I go! Somebody came to the house after you did? Who was it? And what took you there?’
Once more Ben noticed the direction of her glance. This time it was towards a photograph on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a good-looking man with a small dark moustache. But the glance meant little to Ben, and his mind was too occupied with other details to associate the photograph with the suitcase on the floor by the table. There was no reason why he should do so, although there was something in Mrs Wilby’s attitude he could not quite understand. You’d have thought she might have shed a few tears like?
‘What took me there, mum,’ be began, ‘was—well, I better go back ter the start, didn’t I? If yer’ve got ter ’ave it, I was runnin’ away from a cop arter a chap bumps inter me wot drops a jemmy, see, it wasn’t mine but the cop thort it was so I ’oofs it and slips inter this hempty ’ouse ter git away from ’im. And it was there I fahnd—wot I fahnd, and then this other bloke comes along, and we each thinks the other done it. If yer git me.’
Ben on the Job Page 4