‘Wot! The nipper?’
‘Do you remember asking the ’tec just now why he hadn’t told you who he was at the inn when you gave him the letter, and he said you hadn’t given him time?’
‘Yus. See, Blake ’ad jest gorn off, and if I’d ’adn’t follered ’im quick I’d of lorst ’im.’
‘Yes, and when you bolted like you did, the detective guessed the reason for your hurry, and so instead of holding you up and wasting valuable time he—as he put it himself to you—did something better.’
‘Wot was it?’
‘He got hold of a small boy who was hanging around to follow you!’
‘’E never!’
‘I’m telling you.’
Ben rubbed his eyes. ‘Coo! Wot a gime!’
‘And after he’d done that he went to the station to meet Mrs Wilby and yours truly with the letter, and then carted us back to the hotel to wait for Tommy’s return, like I said. We had to wait some time, and while we were waiting the ’tec got busy and ’phoned to the local police station, and a sergeant and a constable came along. I call that pretty smart work on the ’tec’s part, because you see it meant that we were all set by the time the boy returned. You see, he returned with Blake on his heels.’
‘Wot!’
‘Yes—Blake ran plumb into the arms of the law!’
Ben’s mind reverted to the moment when Blake had dashed out of the cottage and he had dived behind a bush to avoid him. But it had not been Ben Blake had spotted, it had been this little nipper—and the little nipper had won the race back to the hotel!
‘So that’s why ’e never come back!’ he murmured. ‘If that ain’t a fair knock-aht!… And then wot?’
‘The rest is easy,’ concluded Maudie. ‘Blake lost his head, and the sergeant hauled him off to the police station for questions while the rest of us came on home. And now, as you’ve heard, Ma Blake’s been hauled off, too. I don’t know what they’ll be charged with, but after the police have got all their evidence—and you and I’ll be roped in for statements, I expect, and yours will be prettier than mine!—there should be at least two charges for them to answer—blackmailing and kidnapping.’
‘Yus, the pleece’ll ’ave ’em on those, if on nothink else,’ agreed Ben. ‘They kep’ Mr Wilby locked up, and they knocked ’im abart, and they drugged ’im. Yer’d think that’s enough ter go on with! Corse,’ he added, after a pause, ‘they won’t ’ave nothink on Mr Wilby.’
‘I hope not,’ Maudie answered.
‘’Ow can they? ’E on’y killed ’is brother in wot’s called self-defence, and ’e didn’t mean ter do that—like I didn’t mean ter sit dahn on me gun. ’E ain’t done murder no more’n I’d of done suissicide. Why, lummy, ’e was bahnd and gagged afore the flare up!’
‘Well, you seem to know, Ben, so what will the police have on me?’
‘They won’t ’ave nothink on you, Maudie,’ he retorted. ‘Yer carn’t be ’ad up fer goin’ abart with a bloke! Orl there’ll be on you is wot yer ’ave on yerself—if yer see wot I mean?’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Maudie.
A few moments later they heard steps on the creaky stairs, and Mrs Wilby came into the room. She was pale but composed, and Ben realised that this was the first time he had seen happiness in her eyes. But there was also some anxiety in them as she glanced quickly at him.
‘Orl alive, mum,’ he reassured her. ‘There’s nothink wrong o’ me.’
‘Thank heaven for that!’ she exclaimed, and then turned to Maudie. ‘Miss Kenton, would you go up to my husband?’
Maudie looked scared. ‘What does he want me for?’
‘Don’t be worried. Perhaps he wants to show you how much better he is than his brother—and I think I’d like you to find that out, too. Would you mind?’
‘Yes! No! Of course.’
She jumped up, and left the room rather flurriedly. Mrs Wilby turned back to Ben.
‘One reason I sent her up,’ she said gravely, ‘was because I wanted a few words with you. You know that everything’s all right now between me and Mr Wilby?’
‘I knoo it would be, mum,’ answered Ben, ‘once yer got torkin’.’
‘And you know that we owe it mainly to you?’
Ben shook his head.
‘No, mum—or if I ’ad anythink ter do with it, it was just the charnce that took me inter that there cellar. But it’d of come right, any’ow.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well—don’t you?’
She did not answer at once, and suddenly he guessed what was in her mind. It was something which recent events had made him forget. After a few seconds she asked:
‘I suppose Miss Kenton has told you everything?’
‘She tole me orl she knew,’ replied Ben guardedly.
‘But there was something she didn’t know, wasn’t there?’
‘Was there?’
‘Something that only you and I know.’
Ben nodded. ‘I knows wot yer means, mum,’ he said; ‘but I’ve fergot it.’
‘I shall forget it, too, Ben,’ she replied; ‘but before I do I have to tell you the end of it. You remember, don’t you, that I was worried about the sudden absence of—that friend?’
‘That’s right, mum—but corse we knows now that it wasn’t fer—well, fer wot we thort it might be.’
‘Yes, but now I know more than that. I know why he went away. He went to Paris to make certain arrangements, and he telephoned from Paris just before I left London yesterday evening. He asked me to join him there.’
‘And you told ’im “Nothin’ doin’,” didn’t yer?’
Mrs Wilby smiled.
‘I told him something stronger than that,’ she answered. ‘He’s gone out of my life—and Mr Wilby has come back into it.’
Ben smiled back.
‘It’s like I orlwise sez, mum,’ he responded. ‘Everythink comes aht okay so long as yer ’angs on. That’s right, ain’t it … Oi! There’s our car.’
THE END
About the Author
Son of novelist Benjamin Farjeon, and brother to children’s author Eleanor, playwright Herbert and composer Harry, Joseph Jefferson Farjeon (1883–1955) began work as an actor and freelance journalist before inevitably turning his own hand to writing fiction. Described by the Sunday Times as ‘a master of the art of blending horrors with humour’, Farjeon was a prolific author of mystery novels, with more than 60 books published between 1924 and 1955. His first play, No. 17, was produced at the New Theatre in 1925, when the actor Leon M. Lion ‘made all London laugh’ as Ben the tramp, an unorthodox amateur detective who became the most enduring of all Farjeon’s creations. Rewritten as a novel in 1926 and filmed by Alfred Hitchcock six years later, with Mr Lion reprising his role, No.17’s success led to seven further books featuring the warm-hearted but danger-prone Ben: ‘Ben is not merely a character but a parable—a mixture of Trimalchio and the Old Kent Road, a notable coward, a notable hero, above all a supreme humourist’ (Seton Dearden, Time and Tide). Although he had become largely forgotten over the 60 years since his death, J. Jefferson Farjeon’s reputation made an impressive resurgence in 2014 when his 1937 Crime Club book Mystery in White was reprinted by the British Library, returning him to the bestseller lists and resulting in readers wanting to know more about this enigmatic author from the Golden Age of detective fiction.
Also in this series
No. 17
The House Opposite
Murderer’s Trail
Ben Sees It Through
Little God Ben
Detective Ben
Number Nineteen
About the Publisher
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Ben on the Job Page 21