Ben on the Job

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘I see,’ said Blake.

  ‘Good! That saives a lot o’ trouble!’

  ‘But she comes back for lunch.’

  ‘Oh, yer knows that?’

  ‘You’re not forgetting I’ve been staying there?’

  ‘Tha’s right, so yer ’ave.’

  ‘What did she do when she came back to lunch? Did she say anything then?’

  ‘Not ter me.’

  ‘And her mother?’

  ‘’Er mother! She ain’t got no more sense’n ’er parrot!’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Wotcher mean?’

  ‘About Maudie’s outburst?’

  ‘Blimy if I knows wot yer arskin’ orl this for! Wot did she do? Wot did ’er mother do? Wot did I think? Well, if yer want it, wot I thort was that she’d bin up ter somethink that was ter do with the Wilbys, though I couldn’t fit you in, ’cos when you come acrost that card on the corpse yer didn’t seem ter reckernize the nime, or yet the pickcher of the woman. Any’ow, ’ow many more times ’ave I gotter tell yer that wasn’t my bizziness, so I lets Maudie alone and keeps on waitin’ like, and when she comes to me with yer messidge I ses to meself, “Okay, Eric, yer bin a good boy, and ’ere’s yer prize,” and so I leaves ’em and along I comes and ’ere I am. And—well, that’s the lot, so nah I reckon it’s your turn!’

  But Blake did not seem to think so.

  ‘Not just yet, old boy,’ he answered. ‘There’s a bit more before I’ve had the lot. You haven’t told me yet just what they put in the papers. It’s a bit out of the world up here, and even when the papers do arrive we don’t get the London editions. Did you bring a paper up with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a pity. What did they say?’

  ‘Ain’t I told yer? Jest that the body was fahnd, and then ’oo it was arter it ’ad bin idenchified.’

  ‘Who found it?’

  ‘Mr Attlee.’

  ‘Don’t play the fool!’

  ‘Well, I arsk yer, ’oo fahnd it! The pleece, o’ corse.’

  ‘Not so much of the of course! You and I found it, didn’t we, and we weren’t the police? Was that of course?’

  ‘Wotcher gittin’ at?’

  ‘I want to get at who found the body after we did …’

  ‘Lummy, ain’t I told yer? The pleece—’

  ‘And how they got to know? You and I know how we got to know—just by chance—’

  ‘Was yourn by charnce?’

  ‘Oh! And what does that mean?’

  ‘Nothink if yer don’t think so.’

  ‘All right. Leave that. But it’d be funny if a policeman came upon the body by chance if he wasn’t looking for it! It might have stayed in that cellar for days before anybody found it. Were they suspicious for any reason, or did anybody else put them on to it? Did the papers say anything about that?’

  ‘Oh, I git yer,’ answered Ben, thinking hard. ‘No, they didn’t say nothink abart that, leastwise not in the paiper I saw. Corse, there might of bin more in others. Yus, some’un else might of come acrost the body and told ’em, but wot’s it matter?’

  ‘I don’t ask questions that don’t matter,’ retorted Blake. ‘Damn it if I know whether you’re the world’s biggest mug or not! Was there any mention of any clue?’

  ‘If there was, I missed it.’

  Blake looked exasperated, then gave it up and tried something else.

  ‘How did you get up here?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it was a bit of a walk,’ replied Ben, ‘so I come on a efilunt.’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Well, ’oo’s the mug this time? I come on a trine.’

  ‘Fancy that! Now see if you can answer the question properly. How did you pay for your ticket? I seem to remember I only left you a pound. P’r’aps you’ve got a large banking account.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Ben. ‘If yer didn’t think I could rise the money, wot was the good of arskin’ me ter come?’

  ‘I’m asking now how you did it, you damn fool! I couldn’t telegraph the money! How did you? Any reason for not telling me?’

  Ben had a very good reason for not telling him, so he quickly invented another.

  ‘Orl right—but it don’t go no further?’

  ‘This is a private conversation.’

  ‘Okay. I ’ad ter pick a pocket.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yus, and orl o’ cause o’ you, so doncher fergit it!’

  Blake smiled. ‘I won’t—and thanks for the tip. I’ll have to look after my pocket! I thought p’r’aps Maudie had lent it to you.’

  She would have if Ben had got that idea first. He wished he’d thought of it.

  ‘’Ow many more questions?’ he complained. ‘I’m gittin’ dizzy!’

  Blake got up from his chair and walked to the window. He stood there for a full minute while Ben regarded his broad back and wondered what he was thinking. He also wondered how long this interview was going to last, and whether they would be through with it before Maudie turned up. A clock on the mantelpiece did not help him, for across its cracked face the hands stood immovably at thirteen minutes past five.

  At last Blake turned, and came back to his chair.

  ‘You’re up here because you want to make a bit of money—is that right?’ he began.

  ‘There ain’t no other reason,’ answered Ben. ‘Yer told me there might be a job, and that’s wot I’m ’ere for.’

  ‘Well, if you’ll do all I say, and ask no questions, you’re in for a nice little pile.’

  ‘Wot do yer call a pile?’

  ‘Would fifty quid interest you?’

  ‘Fifty quid?’

  ‘That’s what I said. It might work up to as much as a hundred, or more. It all depends on how I work it, and whether you carry out my instructions to the letter.’

  ‘That sahnds OK ter me. Wot’s the instructions?’

  ‘I want you to go back to London—’

  ‘Wot, when I’ve on’y jest come ’ere—’

  ‘With a letter. It’ll be sealed, and if you break the seal you’ll not only lose your pay, but you’ll be for it.’

  ‘’Oo’s the letter to?’

  ‘Mrs Wilby.’

  Ben blinked. ‘Yer don’t mean—as I’m ter call on ’er?’

  ‘That’s what I do mean. How can you give her the letter if you don’t call on her?’

  ‘Oh! Well, wot’s in the letter?’

  ‘You’ll learn that later.’

  ‘Oh! Well, why not nah?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions, Eric. Just do as you are told, and remember what you’ll lose if you don’t. She will give you a reply, which will also be sealed.’

  ‘When yer say sealed, do yer mean jest stuck dahn?’

  ‘I told you not to ask questions, but that’s a damn-fool one! Sealed with sealing-wax, and if the seal’s broken when you return to me with it, your game’s up. And I may as well tell you that—not being a damn fool myself—you’ll waste your time if you do break the seal, because there won’t be any money. Not this time.’ Blake paused, looked at Ben hard, and then continued: ‘You can know this much, Eric. My letter will contain certain information, and all I’m asking for this trip is her reply. When I get that—if the reply is what I expect—we’ll get cracking.’

  Ben rubbed his nose.

  ‘Do I—git yer?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t say before I know what you’ve got,’ replied Blake.

  ‘Will the letter I’m ter tike ’er say ’oo done it?’

  ‘It will, Eric.’

  ‘And then yer goin’ ter bleed ’er?’

  ‘What a nasty word! But you have the idea.’

  Ben rubbed his nose again.

  ‘Wot I don’t see,’ he said, ‘is why Mrs Wilby should give yer money fer not lettin’ on ’oo killed ’er ’usband?’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t see, Eric,’ Blake answered, and drew the debated letter from an inside pocket. There was a h
eavy smudge of red seal over the flap. ‘This letter will give her more information than just who did it. Don’t try and puzzle it out. Just accept the fact that Mrs Wilby will probably be willing to pay all she’s got—and she has plenty, though Mr Wilby had gone beyond his last bean—and that the information won’t be worth a cent to you until I give it to you myself, after you’ve come back here with her reply. How much money did you net in that little pickpocketing job?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘And did you buy a return ticket?’

  ‘Yus! No! Wot?’

  ‘Let’s have the truth. I can easily turn out your pockets if I want to.’

  ‘I bort a return,’ said Ben quickly, ‘and I got enuff ter git another back ’ere agine.’

  ‘Then take this now, and see you don’t lose it,’ said Blake, handing him the envelope, ‘and if you wonder why I’m trusting you, I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m taking no risk, and because I’m satisfied you know which side your bread’s buttered. That’s all. There’s nothing more.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You can get a train back in twenty minutes. See you get it. You’ll be in London tonight, and you’ll go straight to Mrs Wilby. Sleep where you like, but keep clear of the Kentons, make sure you’re not followed, and return here on the first morning train. It gets in at seven-thirty. Come straight here, and wait for me. And now, Eric,’ concluded Blake, jumping up suddenly, ‘I’m off to never mind where.’

  The next moment he was gone.

  21

  Ben Listens to the Impossible

  ‘Loony, that’s wot I was, yer carn’t git away from it,’ Ben admitted afterwards when trying to describe his actions during the next sixty seconds, ‘but, see ’e’d suddinly gorn bing! And I didn’t wanter lose ’im, but I ’ad ter git that letter ter Maudie, didn’t I, and ’ow was I ter do it and ter foller ’im at the sime time? It ’ad orl ’appened too quick, ’im doin’ the vanishin’ act, and I ’adn’t ’ad time ter work nothink aht. So when I lef’ the room meself wunnerin’ ’ow ter work it, and gits another surprise by bumpin’ inter the country bloke wot was torkin’ ter me in the trine, and when ’e sez, “Wot, are you in trouble, too?” it came over me suddin could I mike any use of ’im? So I sez “Yus, are yer stayin’ on ’ere?” and ’e sez, “Yus, my sister ain’t turned up, so I gotter waite till she comes,” so then I gits me idea and jumps on it like a mouse on cheese, yus, and fergittin’ that sometimes the mouse gits caught, and so any’ow I sez, “Well, I’m expectin’ some’un, too, on’y I carn’t waite, she’ll be ’ere soon on the nex’ trine from Applewold.” “I see,” ’e sez, “and yer wants me ter give ’er a messidge?” Well, I arsk yer, wasn’t that ’andin’ it ter me on a plite? “I want yer ter give ’er this letter,” I sez, “and ter arsk ’er ter tike it ter where she’ll know, would yer?” “’Ow’ll I know ’er?” ’e sez. “Wot’s ’er nime?” “Miss Kenton,” I sez, and ’ands the letter ter ’im quick. ’E took it, sayin’ ’e was orlways glad ter ’elp anybody, and while ’e was lookin’ at it with wot I thort was a funny expreshun I ’opped it afore ’e could chinge ’is mind. I told yer it was loony, I mean a letter like that, and givin’ it ter a strainger, but wot with wantin’ not ter lose Blake so’s I could foller ’im, me brine was orl of a wobble, that’s a fack, and any’ow that’s wot I did, and even when ’e calls aht, “’Arf a mo,” I never stopped, and was aht o’ the ’otel in a blink!

  ‘Yus, and I was on’y jest in time, and if I’d stopped fer ’is ’arf a mo’ I’d of lost Blake! But there ’e was, at the bottom of the ’ill, and ’ad turned a corner and was aht o’ sight the momint I clapped me eyes on ’im. There was three laines away from the staishun, and if I’d bin a second laiter I’d of ’ad ter guess.

  ‘Did I run dahn that ’ill? Lummy, I was at the bottom afore I started!’

  And again Ben was only just in time, for the next stretch before two more turns was only a short one, and he reached it just as Blake was once more vanishing round the turning to the left. After that the going was easier. The lane narrowed, and although it contained many twists it now offered only its own direction, which was mainly uphill. Ben gained the impression that he was wriggling up a mountain.

  The mist, which increased with the gradient, had both its virtues and its vices, for while it forced Ben to keep closer behind his quarry than he cared for lest the back he was following should dissolve, it also served as his own protection. Once, indeed, he would probably have met his Waterloo without it. Blake stopped, and turned his head. Ben saw it coming round, and just had time to go flat, as in an air-raid, so that Blake’s gaze went over and beyond him. Ben’s prostrate form may have looked to Blake, if he saw it, like a vague shadow, but it was a shadow that sweated while it pasted itself to the ground. ‘Lummy, that was a fair let orf,’ described Ben, ‘and when ’e goes on agine and I ’ops up I goes dahn agine ’cos me legs ’adn’t quite got over it like.’

  He managed to keep standing at the second attempt, but another bad moment followed at the next twist of the lane. Blake had stopped again, this time to light a cigarette, and Ben nearly walked into his back. The match which Blake tossed behind him landed on Ben’s sleeve.

  The strange uneasy journey continued without further incident until a rough stone wall was reached just before the narrow lane petered out into a steep track. The wall ran along the right-hand side of the lane, and a small gate came into view rather unexpectedly, for the region seemed too remote and isolated for human habitation. The gate led to the bare untidy garden of a tall square cottage, and without pausing Blake passed through. But Ben paused, and all at once ducked below the wall. He did not now have only Blake to guard against. There might be eyes at windows!

  Because of his precautionary manœuvre he did not see Blake enter the cottage. He merely heard a door open and close. He waited for a minute, then raised his head cautiously till his eyes were just above the level on the wall top. Beyond the intervening mist the cottage looked dead. He had never seen a cottage less inviting. But some sort of life must go on inside it, and somehow or other Ben had got to find out just what that life was.

  Allowing another minute to go by, and discovering that it produced no catastrophe, Ben became bolder, though he still kept low as he groped his way to the gate. The gate afforded him less protection from watching eyes, if there were any, and he kept his own eyes fixed on the windows for the possible unwelcome appearance of a face. There were wide gaps between the rotting wooden slats of the gate. Indeed, two of the slats were missing, forming a gap wide enough for a small ’un like Ben to slip through.

  And all at once he did slip through, urged by a new panic. He had been concentrating on the view ahead, but his panic was due to a sound behind, and before he had time to think an entirely new situation had developed which left him gasping.

  The sound behind drew closer, causing him to slither swiftly aside and wedge himself between the wall and a bush. As he did so the cottage door flew open and Blake came rushing out. ‘I’m done—’e’s spotted me!’ thought Ben, in black despair. But Blake did not make for the bush, he made for the gate, and then Ben realised that he had spotted someone else. He heard a mad scramble, and gathered that the person who had been approaching the gate behind him had turned and fled, with Blake after him; and in a few seconds the sound of the chase died away.

  Lummy! What now?

  The answer was painfully obvious. It was the open cottage door. Ben accepted its most unpleasant invitation, lurched away from the bush, and sped through. A woman’s voice called down shrilly from the top of a flight of stairs.

  ‘Who was it? Did you catch him?’ Then the tone suddenly changed, becoming sharp and angry. ‘Ah! Would you? Get back, or you’ll know what’s coming to you!’

  Ben did the right thing. He did not wait. If he had waited he would have stayed stuck at the bottom of those stairs, for obviously he would find nothing but trouble at the top, but before hesitation could weaken him he raced up three stairs at a time, and when he
arrived he found trouble in plenty. On a small landing were two people. One was an old woman holding a revolver. She was bony and hardvisaged, and even in that first swift moment Ben recognised her likeness to Oscar Blake. The other was a man standing in a doorway. His cheeks were pale, and he looked desperately ill, but in spite of his pitiable condition Ben recognised him, also. He had not, after all, been at his best in their one previous encounter.

  Ben’s startlingly rapid ascent had a second virtue. Surprise is an invaluable weapon, and Ben had undoubtedly delivered one. The old woman stared at him as though he were something that had popped out of an impossible dream, and before she could recover from her shock he had dashed the revolver out of her hand and dived after it as it fell to the floor.

  The woman, partially recovering, dived with him, but Ben got there first. Seizing the weapon he brandished it at her, and she backed tottering to a wall. Beside her was a second open door leading, Ben gathered from his glimpse, into a back bedroom.

  ‘Git in there!’ gasped Ben.

  ‘Who are you?’ the woman gasped back.

  ‘That don’t matter—git in there!’ he retorted, and waved the revolver perilously.

  The woman shrieked. ‘Be careful—it’s loaded!’

  ‘Yus,’ shouted Ben, ‘and yer in the wrong plice if it goes orf! Git in, git in, I ain’t tellin’ yer agine!’

  Terrified, the woman slid backwards into the room. Ben slammed the door on her, and as he did so he beheld a sight that nearly made him weep for joy. It was the key, obligingly on the outside. He turned it with a sigh of relief.

  Then he turned to the man standing in the other doorway. The man had not moved. He just looked dazed.

  ‘Quick! Let’s ’ear! Do I git yer aht of ’ere, or wot?’

  The man did not answer, but he swayed slightly, and all at once Ben realised that, however desirable it might be to get him away, it would be impossible. The man’s legs were beginning to sag, and he seemed to be losing whatever strength had brought him to the door.

  ‘Come on, yer better sit dahn or somethink,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll ’elp yer.’