‘Found yourself?’ she inquired.
‘I’ve fahnd you,’ replied Ben.
‘Only me?’
Ben stared at the picture for a few more seconds, then laid it down.
‘The bloke with yer,’ he said.
‘With his arm round my shoulder,’ nodded Maudie.
‘Yus!’
‘Know him?’
‘Looks like we both knows ’im, miss.’
‘That’s when I last saw him. When did you last see him? Was he alive—or not?’
Ben did not answer.
‘And when did you last see Oscar Blake?… God!’ All at once she burst out. ‘Have you lost your tongue? Did Oscar kill Mr Wilby? Tell me, tell me, tell me!’
‘Wot I needs,’ thought Ben, ‘is ter be a bit more clever like! This is gittin’ me beat!’
And then, more by instinct than by reason, he took a chance and gave up bluffing.
‘Lummy, let’s ’ave a spot o’ truth!’ he exclaimed. ‘No, I don’t think ’e done it, but I think ’e knows ’oo done it, ’e sed so, and that’s wot I’m ’ere ter find aht a bit more of!’
She stared at him, trying to take it in.
‘He—said he knew?’
‘Yus.’
‘But it was Oscar who sent you here.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But if he knows—’
‘Ah ’e didn’t send me ’ere fer that, ’e’s got some gime on, like I told yer, and I’m s’posed ter wait ’ere fer the next move like.’
‘Was it Oscar who telephoned to the police?’
‘’Im? Lummy, no!’
‘It was you, then?’
‘Yus.’
Things were moving a bit fast, but there seemed no stopping them now.
‘Did Oscar tell you to?’
‘To telerphone?’
‘Yes! Was that part of his game?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I see it wasn’t—you did it on your own!’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why?’
Ben replied to the challenge with another dose of truth. The reply, to him, was obvious.
‘Nah, listen, miss,’ he answered. ‘I come acrost the body haxerdental jest afore Bushy Brows—that’s Blake—turns up. When ’e goes orf agine, can I leave it there and say nuffin’? Would you of? You ain’t got no wings, that’s heasy ter see, don’t git ’uffy, nor’ve I, but wotever we are we ain’t murderers, we bar that, don’t we? And if yer ain’t no murderer yer carn’t leave corpses lyin’ abart. That’s right, ain’t it? So I ’phones up the pleece, and—’ He stopped short. No, in this spate of veracity there was one thing he would leave out. Perhaps he had said too much already, but there was to be no mention to Maudie of his visit to Mrs Wilby until he knew a little more about that picture of Maudie and Mrs Wilby’s husband. ‘And—well, ’ere I am,’ he concluded.
‘Yes, here you are,’ muttered Maudie. ‘So what?’
Clearly undecided, she removed her eyes from Ben’s and lowered them to the picture. Then she took the picture up and returned with it to the drawer. ‘Fillin’ in time while she’s thinkin’,’ reflected Ben. Aloud he said, to her back:
‘I could tell yer wot, if yer’d listen.’
‘Well?’
‘Yer ain’t killed nobody, ’ave yer?’
‘If you say that again, I’ll scream!’
‘Don’t do that or we’ll ’ave yer muvver back. I like the sahnd of it—wot I sed—but the next ain’t so good, miss. Yer in a mess.’
‘Thanks for the news!’
‘And if I don’t know the ’ole of it, I know a part of it.’
‘What part?’
‘The part yer’ve showed me. That pickcher yer’ve jest put back in the drawer. Yer’ve been seen abart with the corpse’s arm rahnd yer neck—afore ’e was a corpse, o’ corse—and yer pally with this bloke Blake the pleece wanter see, so if yer don’t watch yer step yer’ll hend up like I sed when I fust come ’ere larst night—in the witness-box or in the dock. P’r’aps yer can see yer way clear? Can yer? ’Ow much longer ’ave I got ter tork to yer back?’
She turned round from the desk.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Let’s suppose I can’t see my way clear? Well?’
‘In that caise, yer want somebody ter ’elp yer to work it aht.’
‘I see. And you’re telling me you’re that person?’
‘So long as yer ain’t done nothink ter put me orf yer proper—yer know wot I mean, ’urtin’ children or anythink like that—wozzer matter?’
For she had leapt towards the door as a clock with a cracked face on the mantelpiece began striking.
‘I’m late!’ she gasped. ‘I can’t stop! But I come back here for lunch—I’ll tell you everything then!’
The next moment she was out of the room.
12
Waiting for Maudie
During that trying morning, while waiting for the information which Maudie had promised him on her return to lunch, Ben found the parrot a better companion than Mrs Kenton. Indeed, until just before lunch time Mrs Kenton kept studiously away from him, giving him none of her companionship at all. This had its points. The parrot, on the contrary, provided him with some entertainment after he had eaten a cold kipper which he assumed had been intended for his breakfast, together with three pieces of equally cold, hard, unadorned toast and the remains of two other kippers to which, in their preoccupation with larger matters, Mrs Kenton and Maudie had done scant justice.
He hoped that his spell with the parrot might prove profitable as well as entertaining, and it was not merely through lack of other company that he drew his chair up to the cage and sat down to study the bird. ‘Parrots repeat things they’ve ’eard,’ ran his thought, ‘so let’s see if we can git this ’un ter repeat somethink worth ’earin’.’
For twenty minutes the parrot paid no attention to him. He might not have been there, and he felt a little hurt. He wondered what parrots thought about when staying so still that they might be stuffed or dead. Other parrots? That seemed most likely till you worked out that it couldn’t be. Parrots who lived all their lives in a cage by themselves didn’t know any other parrots, so they couldn’t think about them. What else, then? There didn’t seem much else beyond counting their bars. Must be dull like, being a parrot. Though, mind you, restful.
Then Ben recalled Conversation, in which the present parrot was proving so lacking. Yes, when they talked, that must liven ’em up a bit. They probably did it out of sheer boredom, because there was nothing else to do. So why didn’t they all talk? He recalled a parrot on a ship that had never stopped talking till a stoker had thrown it overboard, but this one—was it dumb? No, it had made a few remarks on the previous night, Ben remembered. Perhaps it just needed encouragement?
‘Come on, Polly, let’s ’ave a jaw,’ he said. ‘Jest you and me. Owjer like this fog?’
For a while it proved a one-sided jaw, and Ben’s voice evidently had a soporific effect, for the parrot gave up staring at nothing, and closing its eyes, sank into deep sleep. But when it suddenly opened one eye and told Ben to lock it up, hope revived.
‘Lock what up?’ asked Ben.
‘Lock it up, lock it up, lock it up,’ replied the parrot.
The remark gave Ben an idea. He went to the drawer from which Maudie had taken the picture of herself and Mr Wilby looking at a film star, and in which she had replaced it. Perhaps he would find something else worth looking at in the drawer? But Maudie had locked it up. Which, after all, was only to be expected.
Returning to the parrot, Ben continued to address it, and after hearing Mrs Kenton’s footsteps ascending the stairs and moving overhead, he risked some direct questions.
‘Does the old lidy hupstairs know orl Maudie’s goin’ tell me?’
No answer.
‘Does Mrs Wilby know abart ’er ’usband’s goin’s hon?’
A look of contempt.
‘I see wot yer mean. If she’d knowd, she’d ave kn
owd where I was comin’, ’stead o’ not knowin’ ’oo lived ’ere no more’n me?’
The open eye began to close.
‘’Old it, ’old it! She might know abart the gall withaht knowin’ the address? The gall knows ’er address!’
‘Duck him dry!’
‘Wozzat?’
‘Duck him dry!’
‘’E’d be wet arter yer ducked ’im, wouldn’t ’e?’
No answer.
‘Duck ’oo dry?’
‘Dilly fool, dilly fool, dilly fool!’
‘Silly fool yerself! Carn’t yer pernounce yer s’s?’
Insulted, the parrot refused to talk any more, and went to sleep for the morning.
When at last Ben gave up, and wondered whether to follow the bird’s example, he asked himself what he’d got out of it. Lock it up—that made sense. Probably the bird had heard that said many times in this room. Duck him dry—that didn’t make sense. Dilly fool! That was easy. Another remark the parrot often heard, but it couldn’t say its s’s. Not at the beginning of a word, anyhow—it had spat one out clear enough last night when it had told Ben to kiss Maudie! Dilly fool—silly fool! Duck him dry—suck him …
‘Suck ’im dry!’ muttered Ben. ‘Lummy—that was it! Suck ’im dry! Where does that tike us?’
He was about to try and discover where it took him when he changed his mind. Wasn’t Maudie coming back in two or three hours for a heart-to-heart? Why worry his head when she’d save him the trouble? What Maudie told him would cover more than could be deduced from a parrot, and those kippers were sitting sort of heavy like on his stummick. The parrot was asleep again. He’d join it. Rest up for the trouble that was coming!
So he made himself comfortable, and was soon as oblivious to the fog as the large green bird beside him.
When he woke up he noticed a slight difference in the room. What was it? It disturbed him. Fog just the same. Parrot just the same. Table—oh, it had been cleared. Mrs Kenton must have been in and took the things away. Wunner what she’d thort, findin’ ’im asleep? The idea of her hovering around him while he was unconscious—why, she might feel in ’is pockets and steal some of ’is ’oles!—decided him not to go to sleep any more. A minute later he was snoring.
He woke up again. This time someone was at the front door and he guessed that must have woken him. ’Oo? Copper? Sahnded like one. And the other voice was Mrs Kenton’s …
‘What do you want to see her for?’
‘Oh, we’d just like a word with her.’
‘What about?’
‘We’ll tell her that.’
‘I see. I’m only her mother, so I needn’t know! Well, she’s not here!’
‘You’re quite certain of that?’
‘Certain? Wouldn’t I know? She’s at her work, but if you don’t believe me you’d better come in and look!’
Ben’s heart gave a bound. So did his body. He heard the rest from under the table.
‘She works at Woolworth’s, doesn’t she?’
‘She works there, yes.’
‘And—you believe—that’s where I’ll find her?’
‘Believe? Why not? But if you think it’s the right thing to go disturbing a girl at her work—’
‘When will she be back here?’
‘After her work, wouldn’t she?’
‘I had an idea she returned here for her lunch?’
‘Well—yes, that’s so.’
‘Then I can find her here if I call again between one and two?’
‘Why not?’
‘Thank you. Oh, by the way, have you heard anything more of your lodger? Oscar Blake? Has he been back, by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing from him? Or of him?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’
The control Mrs Kenton had just managed to keep gave way, and now nervous anger quivered through her voice.
‘What are you asking for? Wouldn’t you know? We’ve no telephone here, and I expect you’re watching the postman! A nice thing that is, isn’t it, for a respectable woman’s house? Mr Blake’s gone, you’ve been told that, and I don’t know anything about him, or want to know anything about him, or to have any more to do with him. Do I have to stand here all the morning answering your questions? Is this my house or isn’t it? I’ve got my work to do!’
Sternly came the response to this outburst:
‘And I am doing mine, Mrs Kenton. I’ll be back here at half-past one. If your daughter returns, see she stays here till I call. Good morning.’
The front door closed. Ben leapt from under the table, and stood facing the parlour door, ready to tell Mrs Kenton what he thought of her for asking the policeman in, but she went by the door and he heard her entering the kitchen. He swallowed, and wiped his brow.
‘Dilly fool!’ muttered the parrot, in its sleep.
‘Ah, shurrup!’ retorted Ben.
He did not sleep any more. The clock on the mantelpiece informed him through its cracked glass that it would soon be one o’clock, and that it was getting too near the time for action. Precisely what the action would be was less certain, but shortly after the clock struck Maudie would return from Woolworth’s, which presumably was not far off, and shortly after that the policeman would also return. Maudie looked in for a busy time—and so, with little doubt, did Ben.
Sitting now with his eyes wide open, he tried to work out what the busy time would involve. Zero hour was one o’clock, and it was in the thirty minutes after this that so much would have to be crammed. As far as Ben was concerned, the events would begin with the arrival of Maudie and end with the departure of himself, for he did not mean to be present when the policeman paid his next call. His luck might not last, and he was by no means sure that, in an attempt to whitewash herself with the police, Mrs Kenton might not hand him over. But could he learn what Maudie had to tell him and make his escape in thirty minutes, with Mrs Kenton hovering around and the business of lunch to be attended to? He could imagine Mrs Kenton’s voice rasping, while he and Maudie were trying to manoeuvre their tête-à-tête, ‘What are you two up to? Have your lunch, or that policeman will be back in the middle of it!’
And would they have thirty minutes? He tried to work out the time-table. Say Maudie left Woolworth’s at one sharp, though it was more likely to be a couple of minutes past, and say the shop was five minutes away, or say seven, better allow a bit more in case you’d allowed a bit less, all right, that made it she’d arrive back here at when? Well, say ten past, and say the policeman turned up at twenty-eight past, because when you wanted people to be punctual they were late and when you wanted them to be late they were early, that was life, this would leave what? Twenty minutes, no, eighteen, weren’t it, ten off twenty-eight was eighteen. Okay, so you’d only have eighteen minutes for the lot, with bobbies watching back and front, that was, if they were …
The door opened, and Mrs Kenton came in.
‘Oh! You’re here?’ she said ungraciously.
‘You’re good at guessin’,’ answered Ben.
‘And I’m supposed to provide your lunch for you, as well as your breakfast and your supper?’
‘Tell us wot a cold kipper corsts, and yer shall ’ave it.’
He did not mention his intended departure. For one thing he thought it would please her too much, and for another, he could not say yet whether the departure would be temporary or permanent. That depended on circumstances still to be resolved.
‘I don’t want any more of your backchat,’ answered Mrs Kenton. ‘You don’t seem to realise anything! Did you hear that policeman at the front door just now, or were you still asleep?’
‘I ’eard ’im,’ replied Ben, ‘and I ’eard you, too, arskin’ ’im in ter search the plice!’
‘Oh, you did!’
‘I did! And s’pose ’e ’ad?’
‘He wasn’t looking for you,’ she snapped.
‘No, but ’e might ’ave fah
nd somethink ’e wasn’t lookin’ for, sime as ’e might lars’ night,’ retorted Ben, ‘and then wot would ’ave ’appened?’
She scowled at him in desperate anger.
‘How do I know?’ she exclaimed. ‘How do I know? Why don’t you go? How long have I got to add hiding you to the rest of my troubles? If you heard all that then you heard me say I didn’t want any more to do with your friend Mr Blake, and the same applies to you! I’m not going on for ever like this.’ He watched her apprehensively as she worked up again. ‘I won’t stand for it—no, and that’s what I’m going to tell Maudie when she comes back! I won’t stand for it! Do you want to bring the lot of us to the gallows?’
The terror which had been behind her outburst over breakfast and which she had struggled to suppress since now re-entered her eyes. Ben hardly recognised her as the slow-moving, superficially cowlike woman who had greeted him on arrival as she spun round after this fresh outburst and abruptly left him.
‘It may be dull fer yer,’ said Ben to the parrot, ‘but I’d chinge plices!’
Mrs Kenton did not return. Even when one o’clock struck, the hour for which he had so anxiously waited, she did not come to lay the cloth. What did that mean? Lunch in the kitchen? Well, that would not affect him if he was not going to be there to eat it. All he hoped was that it would be a lunch he could miss without tears, and would not include, say, Welsh Rabbit that tickled yer nostrils or Termerter Soup that was good all the way down. He dreaded succulent smells from the kitchen that might weaken him into taking risks!
Fortunately, none came while he fixed his eyes on the clock and watched the slow movement of the minute hand. He watched it move to one-past and two-past—was Maudie now leaving Woolworth’s?—and after another couple of minutes he began to listen for her rapid clicking steps. Maudie’s steps clicked, he’d noticed that.
The minute hand continued its slow but insistent progress, but Maudie’s steps from the street were as non-existent as the succulent smells from the kitchen. Oi, Maudie, wot’s keepin’ yer? The large black hand—rather a rusty black, and slightly bent, like a patient old man carrying on with his job of recording the very time that was destroying him—moved to five-past and ten-past. Lummy! Eleven—twelve—thirteen—git a move on, Maudie! There’s a copper comin’ ter see yer, and I gotter see yer fust …
Ben on the Job Page 10