The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  The moment of stunned inactivity was over—the moment that had embraced his second death and all its attendant thoughts. Now the cold water took effect, and his hands flew out. They touched rough brick. Moist, foul-smelling, and concave. One hand slid and scraped. The other, flung upwards as well as outwards, was luckier. It found a projection, and grasped it desperately. There was a great lurch. His shoulder seemed to be struggling to escape from its socket. But the hand held on, the water remained at his waist, and the descent was checked.

  The check would have been merely temporary, and the water would have mounted to his neck and head, if the other hand had not become busy. In trying to join its companion at the projection, it found an iron staple sticking a little way out from the brickwork. If Ben had struck this staple as he had dropped by, it would have written ‘Finis’ to his career; but by the grace of a few inches he had fallen clear of it, and now, instead of spelling his doom, it spelt his possible release. For he found that there was room for both hands to grasp it, and that, when one had hung on for a bit and regained a little breath, one could hoist oneself up a few inches.

  This doubtful security would probably have been of very transitory value to you or me. To Ben, used to a ship’s internals, the value was inestimable. The few inches led to a few more inches. Feet as well as hands came into play, and when once they had wriggled themselves out of the ooze they found niches in the brickwork, pressed into them, and levered up from them. The hands working upwards also, utilised every slightly protruding brick, every cleft, the very roughness of the wall itself. Inch by inch, Ben rose.

  And, as he rose, hope began to glimmer again, though, it was still a very far-off glimmer, and his brain began to clear. He discovered, definitely, that he was not dead. The slimy one-eyed monster sank back into the dank water beneath him. The route to the nether regions became a vertical tunnel, a well-like drop that ended in a subterranean water-way. Probably the water-way connected with the local canal, to which it was designed he should have eventually found his way. But he had not found his way there, and no policeman or small boy would make a gruesome discovery from the canal bank on the morrow. He was finding his way up the vertical tunnel, the top of which was in a cupboard in No. 29 Jowle Street. And when he got to the top and battered a door down, somebody was going to hear something.

  By now Ben’s feet had contrived to reach the iron staple which his hands had gripped, and his hands were clawing at the brickwork higher up. Had the iron staple given way, Ben would have returned to the water, and the policeman or small boy would have eventually made his sensational discovery. Happily, however, the iron held, and was sufficiently firm to support Ben’s full weight while his hands explored the darkness above him; and, when the exploration proved barren, the firmness of his support even permitted him to execute a series of jerky jumps, so that his fingers might explore a few inches higher.

  The first of the jumps proved futile. So did the second and the third. Ben was afraid to jump too far up from his base, lest he should not return to it. But the fourth jump, a trifle more adventurous, gave one of his fingers the impression of an edge—an edge that might be gained if one’s fifth jump were a little more adventurous still. The matter needed thought. To leap up with all one’s might would be to leave the iron staple for ever. If the leap was lucky, he would have one chance in a thousand of descending again upon the iron staple, and one chance in ten thousand of maintaining his equilibrium even if he did descend upon it. Thus, it would be a final leap for life, with the life distinctly problematical. On the other hand, if you stand on an iron staple in a dark hole indefinitely, you will eventually starve, and meanwhile it will be exceedingly monotonous. There was no jam and honey either way.

  And there was another thing. While he stood on the iron staple and starved, an Indian would be killing a beautiful girl. Not only for Ben’s own sake, therefore, but for the sake of the beautiful girl, must Ben call all his courage for this final effort!

  So he decided to leap. And he bent down, to gain impetus. When he straightened himself, he found that he had not leapt. ‘Funny!’ he muttered, and bent down again.

  He bent down and up six times before he worked up the necessary degree of pluck. Then he leapt. Darkness concealed the most terrified face since the Flood. It also concealed the most amazing spraying of limbs. No legs had ever kicked nothingness so hard before, no arms had ever slashed out on either side of a parent body with such velocity. By all the rules, they should have jerked themselves free of the body and attained a separate existence. Instead, they descended on damp, cold flatness, while the legs dangled beneath and tried to kick goals…

  ‘’Allo—I’m still ’ere!’ thought Ben, astounded.

  He was. For the damp, cold flatness came towards him on either side as far as each elbow, and when the legs grew still, he discovered himself hanging there as securely as a float.

  He had executed the most amazing jump in history.

  Where was he now? Six inches from the top or sixty yards? He was too limp to inquire, or to do anything for a long while but just hang. Seconds went by, or minutes, or hours. Again, he couldn’t tell. Time was just as difficult to define as space. But suddenly he raised his drooping head. Voices! Voices…

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted.

  No sound came from his throat. His voice seemed to have gone, like. He shouted again. Again, it was merely a loud thought. But the other voices droned on. A little way off. A little way above him.

  One voice was that of the Indian. The other was that of the girl. They were talking together—doubtless, in the hall—and as Ben listened his eyes opened wide, and his mouth opened wider, and queer things happened to his heart.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A QUEER ASSOCIATION

  THE Indian closed the cupboard door and regarded it reflectively.

  He had just sent a fellow-being through the door into dank water, thereby carrying out the designs for which he had entered the house; he had known his victim would be in the house, having received proof of the man’s queer tenacity, and it had become necessary to settle with him definitely and finally. But the Indian’s expression betrayed neither satisfaction nor regret. Only the whites of his eyes gleamed a little more brilliantly than usual to record the fact that he had done what he had done, and that what he had done had to be done.

  But, all at once, his inscrutable attitude changed. He turned sharply from the cupboard door and raised his head, extinguishing his torch at the same moment. A sound had fallen upon his quick ears. Somebody else was in the house—somebody else to be reckoned with!

  He stole to the stairs. The sound was some way above him, and seemed to be connected with a key or a door-knob. For an instant he hesitated. Then, deciding on his course of action, he flashed up the stairs without pausing until he gained the second floor. As he did so and switched on his light again, the key of a door was wriggled out of its hole and dropped with a little clatter on to the bare boards.

  The Indian stood and regarded the key. It lay in the little arc of radiance produced by his torch. Then he raised his eyes and regarded the door from which it had fallen. Somebody on the other side of the door, having got the keyhole free, was now trying to manipulate the lock.

  Off went the Indian’s light again. In the darkness he drew a knife from the concealment of his sleeve, and stood waiting by the door. He waited nearly three minutes, while the person on the other side of the door continued the attempt to open it.

  The Indian could have opened it, or could have rendered the attempt abortive by replacing the key in the keyhole and fixing it. He did neither, however. He wanted very much to know who was on the other side of the door, and he was far too intelligent to sacrifice the advantage of surprise. The twisting and scraping sounds continued. Then, at last, came the significant little click the Indian had been waiting for, and which marked the person on the other side of the door as a person of some skill. And now the Indian stepped back a little and gripped his knife firmly. The d
oor began to open.

  Then the Indian’s torch flashed once more. It flashed full in the eyes of the person emerging from the room—full and blindingly. The person gasped. But the Indian’s expression also registered surprise. The eyes that were momentarily dazzled and rendered useless by the torch’s rays were the eyes of a girl.

  ‘Nadine!’ said the Indian, in a low voice.

  The girl did not answer. She was leaning against the door frame, striving to regain her lost composure. The Indian regained his first.

  ‘How are you here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Wait!’ answered the girl. ‘Let me get my breath!’

  The Indian waited. Then he repeated his question, and there was a touch of impatience in his voice.

  ‘I am here, because you are here,’ replied the girl. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘It was agreed you should ask no questions,’ frowned the Indian.

  ‘I am human,’ said the girl.

  ‘And that you should not follow me.’

  ‘Even if you were followed?’

  The Indian frowned more deeply, but there was a new quality in his frown.

  ‘Who is following me?’ he asked.

  He saw her eyebrows go up.

  ‘Don’t you know—really?’ she retorted. ‘Haven’t you met him?’

  ‘Please!’ said the Indian. ‘It is I who request informstion.’

  ‘But I don’t like the look of your knife, Mahdi.’

  ‘You need not fear it!’

  ‘I know that. Still, put it away. Then we can talk. It makes me shudder!’ He regarded his knife, and she drew a step closer to him, as though fascinated. ‘I see you have not used it,’ she remarked, staring at it also.

  ‘You would not see if I had used it, Nadine,’ he returned.

  ‘Then—have you?’

  ‘You insist on your questions?’

  ‘I think I have earned the right!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Why—by being here, Mahdi—for your protection!’

  Now the Indian drew a step closer, and looked full in the girl’s eyes.

  ‘My protection?’ he said slowly. ‘You care so much, then?’

  ‘Hasn’t our friendship proved it?’ she answered, turning her own eyes away.

  ‘Friendship!’ he exclaimed quickly. ‘Yes, only that!’

  ‘You are impatient.’

  ‘What will patience bring?’

  ‘And also crude, Mahdi, at times. How long have we known each other?’

  ‘It is ten days since you passed me the salt in the restaurant in Soho,’ he said.

  ‘Ten days! And you think you are not impatient! My friend, we are in Europe, and friendship here does not move as quickly as your knife. Be satisfied that I came here for your protection—to warn you—and do not ask any more of me—yet.’

  He considered the advice. Then he nodded slowly, and concealed his knife from view.

  ‘Well, let it be so,’ he answered. ‘You came here to warn me. That I was being followed. And you still have not told me who this follower is.’

  She shrugged her shoulders, and now her own voice reflected a little impatience.

  ‘Why will you pretend to be dense?’ she complained. ‘Why do you persist in hiding your cleverness from me? The man who was following you is the man who locked me in this room, of course! Who else?’

  ‘So—he locked you in.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘He knew you had come to warn me?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? Why should he have locked me in otherwise?’

  ‘And, after locking you in,’ continued the Indian, thoughtfully, ‘he came down—to me!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know why he did that?’

  ‘I would like you to tell me.’

  ‘You have no guess?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I have a guess!’

  ‘Let me hear it.’

  ‘Well, then—he was a spy?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘In the disguise of a ragged fellow?’

  ‘That is your guess, eh?’

  ‘But why should he be a spy?’ she exclaimed suddenly.

  ‘Ah! Why?’ nodded the Indian, and now he watched her very closely. ‘I am waiting to know why you thought he was a spy?’

  She hesitated. She knew he was watching her closely. She plunged.

  ‘Ever since we have met, Mahdi,’ she said, ‘you have acted, in certain things, strangely. If you complain that I could give you more of my confidences, I might make the same complaint of you. Isn’t it natural that—if our friendship is to lead anywhere—we must know all about each other? But what do I know about you? Nothing! And so—’

  ‘Yes? And so?’ he prompted.

  ‘I have had to guess.’

  ‘And your guess?’

  Suddenly she laughed. ‘It is a very romantic guess, Mahdi! You are the head of some secret organisation! You have enemies! But you are too big for them. And—might be bigger, still, if a woman’s wits were added to yours! There! Now I have told you! How far am I right?’

  He did not answer immediately. Instead, he continued to regard her fixedly. Then he moved to the door of the room outside which she was standing, and closed it.

  ‘Come—we will go down,’ he said. ‘It is not good to be here. You will go home. It is my wish. You will obey it. And tomorrow—yes, tomorrow we will meet at the restaurant in Soho—and perhaps I will answer you there, Nadine.’

  ‘And perhaps not!’ she pouted.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, smiling. ‘That may depend on you.’

  Without seeming to do so, he impelled her towards the stairs.

  ‘And, meanwhile?’ she asked.

  ‘You leave this house, as I say, and you go home.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  He motioned to her. She was by the stairs, and she found herself descending ahead of him. Not till they had descended both flights and stood in the hall did he answer her; and a man hanging over dark water by his elbows heard the answer.

  ‘You came here to help me, Nadine,’ he said, ‘and I am grateful. So I will tell you this much. The man who locked you in the room upstairs was a spy! And he came down here to kill me.’

  ‘To kill you?’ exclaimed the girl.

  ‘With an iron bar. He stood behind me—almost where we are standing now. Yes, just as I now stand behind you. And he raised the bar, and he struck at me.’

  The speaker paused. In a whisper came Nadine’s entreaty.

  ‘Yes! And then?’

  ‘Then,’ said the Indian, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I stepped aside, and he toppled over. And, I picked him up and threw him out of the front door. He will not return. There is nothing for either of us to fear. We have got rid of him. And, now, no more of this talk. You must go!’

  It seemed to the man hanging over the water that an eternity passed before she spoke again. And, when she did speak, her words were very ordinary.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ she said. ‘But please wait here a second. I left my bag upstairs.’

  The man hanging over the water heard her feet above him. They grew fainter. They ceased. Then there was another silence. Then the feet returned.

  ‘You have got your bag?’ asked the Indian’s voice.

  ‘It was over a chair,’ replied the girl’s. ‘Let’s go quickly now—this house frightens me!’

  The front door opened. Softly, it closed. The man, hanging over the water, made a sudden frantic movement. A loose brick dropped down into the water beneath him with a dull splash.

  CHAPTER XIV

  BEN SEES A MURDER

  A MAN once walked over a cliff in the dark. As he fell he managed to seize the edge of the cliff with his hands and to check his downward flight. He hung on till daylight, and when the sun rose he discovered that his feet were six inches above a wide, smooth plateau of soft grass.

  Ben felt something like this man when, a few minutes after the Indian and the girl had departed, he
had contrived by the last of seven different wriggling processes to bring his body completely out of the hole that had housed it for so long, and discovered himself on a bit of wooden flooring level with the bottom of the cupboard door. The flooring was to one side of the door, so would be missed by anybody stepping straight into the cupboard as Ben himself had stepped into it. Ben was convinced that the flooring of the cupboard had been complete when he had first examined it during his original tour of the house. Some one had since removed some of the boards.

  But this was not the total sum of Ben’s discovery, and it was the discovery immediately following that made him feel like the man who had hung from the cliff. When he raised his hand to battle with the door, he found there was not going to be any battle. The door came open easily. The Indian had either omitted to lock it through error when he had been diverted by the sound above him on the second floor, or else he had no longer considered it necessary. ‘’Cos, arter orl,’ reflected Ben, as he wormed his weary body out, ‘’e thinks I’m dead, don’t ’e? And I ain’t dead. Leastways,’ he added, in sudden doubt, ‘I don’t think I am.’

  He had many times thought himself dead when he had been alive. It might be just as possible to think yourself alive when you were dead. Nothing was really certain in No. 29 Jowle Street.

  Flopping out into the hall of this erroneously described ‘desirable residence,’ and looking more like a walrus than a man, he sank down flat on to the floor for a few seconds. And then an astonishing thing happened. He fell asleep. Weary in every fibre, aching in every limb, he found the flat boards divine in their completeness, and discovered that their security was better than the finest spring mattress. Once, in a palatial shop window, Ben had stared at a mattress described as similar to one the King slept on. It was no better than the boards Ben lay on. You could relax here—yon could let every muscle go—you could stay put. ‘Ah-h-h-h!’ breathed Ben, and slept.