The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  It was not merely physical reaction that told upon him. It was also mental reaction. The most wonderful girl in the world was a friend of the most horrible man. It staggered one. It hurt one. It altered the shape of one’s heart. One couldn’t cope with it. So why resist the heaviness of one’s eyelids and the lure of utter staticism? There was nothing to keep awake for…nothing to wake up for…nothing to climb up from the depths for…

  ‘’Allo!’ said Ben, several hours later.

  He sat up. He stared round. There was light about. Not torch light, but the light of day.

  It was dismal light, because it was a dismal day, and perhaps of all the houses in Jowle Street, itself grudging of illumination, No. 29 let in the least. The windows were small and scarce. They had not been cleaned within living memory. One was not a window at all, but a bit of nailed boarding. Still, whatever the quality, daylight it was, and Ben blinked at the peeling walls with reproachful surprise.

  What had happened during all these hours? Where was everybody? Were his recent memories close at hand, or had they flitted to China? But if Ben could not say what had happened, he could at least say that one thing had not happened, and he thanked his stars for the omission. Nobody had returned to No. 29 Jowle Street. Otherwise he would not have woken up so peacefully. Probably he would not have woken up at all!

  ‘Wunner if it’s orl hover?’ reflected Ben, blissfully unconscious that it was just about to begin, ‘Let’s git this stright! Wot ’appened?’

  He harped back. Yes; he remembered it all quite clearly. He had locked the girl in. He had come down to kill the Indian. The Indian had shoved him down the hole. He had got up out of the hole. But, before he had got out, he had heard the girl and the Indian chatting like old friends, and calling him a spy. And then they had left the house…left the house…left the house…

  ‘Somethin’ ’appened afore they left the ’ouse,’ thought Ben. ‘Wot was it?’

  Something unimportant, he believed, yet it worried him. Some little incident—something that had made a tiny impression—well, it didn’t matter…

  ‘Ah, ’er bag!’ muttered Ben. ‘She went hup ter fetch it. That’s orl.’

  Nothing in that, was there?

  She had gone up for her bag, and then she had come down again, and…

  ‘Yus, but she said she’d lef’ it hover a chair,’ thought Ben, ‘and there ain’t no chair!’

  Nothing in that, either, eh? Ben wondered. He wondered how she had come to leave the bag up in the room at all. He wondered whether, even if she had left the bag up in the room, she oughtn’t to have thought of it before. But, mostly, he wondered about the chair, the chair that didn’t exist. The chair…

  Ben leapt to his feet. His heart was pounding.

  ‘The Injun thort I was dead,’ he muttered. ‘But she didn’t! ’E tole ’er ’e’d kicked me aht o’ the ’ouse, the blamed liar, and if she thort I wasn’t dead she knoo I’d git back some’ow, yus, she knoo that, and so up she goes ter the room when she knoo I’d go—’

  Ben’s mind was working. Now his feet worked too. He clambered up the stairs with the eagerness of a child trying to disprove the existence of the Bogey Man. Because, if he did not disprove the sincerity of the girl’s friendship with the Indian—and he would know one way or the other when he reached the second floor front—the world would be entirely populated by Bogey Men, and the sooner one got out of it and tried another planet, the better.

  I am not going to try and explain Ben to you. The simplest characters are sometimes the least explainable, and the simplest impulses confound our subtle logic. I merely record that, as he raced up the stairs he almost cried, and that when he entered the second floor front and saw a little piece of paper lying on the soap box, tears did come into his eyes. For the sight of the little piece of paper gave him back his faith in the Universe.

  He lurched forward and seized it, praying that there would be no long words. He read:

  ‘My dear Friend,—If you return and find this note, as I believe you will, do nothing rash. I still advise you to go. There is great danger. But if you insist on remaining, then watch the windows of the house across the road—No. 26—and if you see me at one of them and I make a sign, it will mean, “Please go for the police.” But do not go for the police unless you get the sign. I cannot say more now. One day I shall hope to thank you.’

  There was no signature. None was needed. It was just a hurried scrawl, written by one who knew the person who read it would understand—an S.O.S., with trust behind it. ‘One day I shall hope to thank you.’ Ben required no greater thanks than the little piece of paper that bore these words.

  So now she, too, was in the house opposite! Ben glued his eyes upon it—a house no longer in darkness, yet scarcely less forbidding in the misty morning light. He had no idea of the time. He had swopped his last watch for a drink after using it for a hammer. In this mist, it might be any time. Then, suddenly, he cursed himself. Why had he yielded to sleep? This paper must have lain here for hours, waiting for him! She had written it, of course, when she had run up for her bag, and while Ben was still in the hole in the cupboard. Then she had gone. Home, the Indian had commanded. But she would have double-crossed the Indian, as she had obviously been double-crossing him all along, and had found some way of getting into No. 26. And then what?

  Ben’s imagination came to a blank wall. The inside of No. 26, its aspect, its activities, and its significance, were beyond his power of visualisation. A closed book, though soon to open. All he could conjure up at this moment was a vision that gave him acute discomfort—a vision of the girl appearing at one of the windows and giving her signal, while he was still fast asleep on a hall floor! Suppose she had given her signal? And suppose the Indian, creeping up behind her, had seized her as she stood there, and pulled her back into the shadows.

  And, at that instant, the Indian came along the road, a blurred but unmistakable figure in the increasing mist. The Indian who believed Ben was dead. The Indian who must continue to believe that Ben was dead! Hastily Ben ducked his head below the ledge of the window. And when, a few seconds later, he ventured to raise his head again, the front door of No. 26 was closing, and the Indian was no longer in sight.

  ‘Lummy—’e’s gorn in!’ thought Ben.

  Another figure came along the road. Ben was destined to see a long procession of shadowy forms that morning. The second figure was a fat policeman. He came along, contentedly and comfortably, trying to think of a vegetable of seven letters ending with ‘i.’

  ‘Wot abart givin’ ’im a shout?’ wondered Ben.

  If he shouted, the dwellers within No. 26 would hear. If he slipped downstairs and ran after the policeman he might be too late to catch him. And even if he did catch him, what should he say to him? ‘There’s funny things ’appening in one o’ these ’ouses, bobby—go in quick!’ Ben pictured the bobby’s face as he made the statement. No, it would have to be something a bit more startling than that to bring the bobby out of his cross-word. ‘Oi! Gall bein’ murdered in No. 26!’ That would do it! But—was she being murdered? And, if she wasn’t, did she want the policeman? ‘Do not go for the police unless you get the sign!’ Snakes, it was a puzzle…

  ‘Brocoli!’ murmured the policeman.

  And passed out of Jowle Street.

  As he disappeared, another figure came into view. This figure—the third of the procession—was far less comfortable and contented than the policeman. It paused, then came on again, then paused again.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ murmured the watcher at the window. ‘If it ain’t the gall wot was cryin’!’

  Yes, he recognised her now. The girl who had left No. 26 on the previous evening, and who had attracted the Australian chap away from No. 29. (‘Yus, and I wunner where that Australian chap is?’ thought Ben. He would have got a shock had he known.) The girl he had seen again later—round about midnight, wasn’t it?—outside the Piccadilly Hotel, with a young man. And here she was again.r />
  ‘Nah, then, young leddy,’ muttered Ben, ‘jest you keep on! Don’t you stop and go in that there ’ouse! Lummy—she’s doin’ it!’

  For, even as he had muttered his advice, she had suddenly run to the front door and rung the bell.

  The door opened almost immediately. It seemed to have been waiting for her. It closed. The street was deserted again.

  A feeling of impotent desperation began to settle upon Ben. He ought to be doing something, and he hadn’t an earthly idea what he ought to be doing. ‘I ain’t cut aht fer this,’ he admitted, with humiliation. ‘I wish I was a bit more like Sherlock ’Omes!’

  Perhaps the best thing to do would be to stay and wait for the sign. The Indian had only just gone in, so the girl might not be in trouble yet. And, after all, that other girl had gone in too. You couldn’t go far wrong, could you? not with a full house like that…

  ‘’Allo! ’Ere’s another!’ blinked Ben. ‘Bloomin’ number four!’

  Number four was scarcely less interesting than number three had been. He arrived a few minutes later, and he was the weak-faced young man who had been outside the Piccadilly Hotel with the distressed girl. He, too, went into No. 26 Jowle Street.

  ‘I know what I’ll do,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll stick ’ere fer ten more minutes, and then if nothin’ ’appens I’ll—’

  The ten minutes dragged by. Were they ten minutes? Ben couldn’t say. Then, suddenly a light went up in the room immediately opposite.

  It was certainly a morning for lights, as the mist was increasing every moment. Unfortunately, a lace curtain prevented Ben from seeing clearly into the room, but he was able to make out dim figures as they moved about, and he thought one of them was the old man. The old man who had shot at him…

  He kept his eyes fixed on the window. The light was shaded, and not well fixed for his purpose of spying. He could only see the figures that were right by the window. He could not see what they were doing, or who they were. Even the old man had disappeared now, and somebody else was hovering near the spot where he had been. Dim and blurred…now more distinct…now dim and blurred again…hallo…nailed him! It was the weak-faced young man…Number Four.

  ‘Yus, that’s the bloke,’ concluded Ben. ‘And good fer ’im! ’E’s bumped back agin the curtain, and shoved it aside a bit. Nah p’r’aps—’

  He strained his eyes till they almost left their sockets. There was a little patch of room he could see quite distinctly now—a sort of slit, like the enlarged eye of a needle. Some one appeared in the slit. Who?…Ah, nailed him too! It was the bloke who had lain down on the ground yesterday and then got up again. Nasty expression he’d got! Ben could see it, even though the man was some way off. Towards the back of the room somewhere…and turning his head as though talking to some one else beside him, but out of sight. Who was he talking to?…Hallo! The weak-faced young man by the window was getting excited, all of a sudden! Over the young man’s shoulder, behind him, Ben could still see the other bloke, and the other bloke was still wearing that nasty expression…somebody was waving his arms…Hey! What was this? The weak-faced young man had seized a revolver from somewhere, and was pointing it at the bloke with the nasty expression…now the bloke had fallen…

  ‘Gawd!’ gasped Ben.

  His forehead became pasty. He felt sick. Then, for an instant, the curtains parted more widely, and a face appeared. A face staring across the road directly at him. The face of the old man.

  Ben had no time to move back out of sight. His nose had been pressed against the window, and he had forgotten caution in his excitement. He stood transfixed, immovable, while the curtains opposite were pulled quickly together again, and the old man’s face vanished.

  ‘I seen a murder done,’ thought Ben, ‘and they knows I seen it.’

  He crept back into the middle of the room. The situation beat him. He felt his mind growing numb again. Numb with the horror of the sight he had just beheld, numb with the complications of his duty and his personal position, and numb with fatigue. It may be remembered that he had not had a square meal for over twenty-four hours.

  And, being numb, he lost count of time. And he did not remember time again until the door of the room was pushed open, and he found himself face to face with the man he had just seen murdered.

  CHAPTER XV

  BEN COMMITS A MURDER

  NO two men, possibly, had ever faced each other before under such unusual conditions. Each, a few moments previously, had been convinced of the death of the other, yet here were their two living bodies to confound conviction. The rules of logic were turned topsyturvy.

  Ben was the first to voice his indignation. He was entering a red tide that was to lead him to a terrible termination, but the first currents of the tide were merely a sort of stunned anger. He had seen a man killed. The sight had nauseated him. And here was the man before him!

  ‘Why ain’t you dead?’ he demanded hoarsely.

  It was a ridiculous question. The subject of it, however, did not appear to perceive its humour. He retorted, in kind:

  ‘Why aren’t you?’

  The counter challenge increased Ben’s indignation. He did not know it, but he was becoming dangerous. Had he known it, he might have exercised more caution. So might his antagonist.

  ‘Why ain’t I dead, eh?’ exclaimed Ben, clenching his fist. ‘Wot makes yer think I orter be? You ’aven’t seen me shot, ’ave yer?’

  ‘All worms like you ought to be dead,’ said his antagonist.

  ‘Oh, very clever, ain’t yer?’ retorted Ben. ‘But it don’t git past me. You think I orter be dead ’cos a durned Injun tole yer I was. And you’re in with the durned Injun, and with a durned old man, and with a durned woman wot carries drugged gaspers, and Gawd knows ’oo helse! Well, I’ll tell yer why I ain’t dead, cocky! I ain’t dead ’cos yer can’t drahn a sailor, see? No! Yer can shove ’im dahn a well, but ’e climbs hup agin, and yer can lock ’im in a room, but ’e gits aht agin, and yer can kick ’im aht of a ’ouse, but ’e comes back agin, see? Orl right. Nah yer know. And nah we’ll git back ter where we started from. Why aren’t you dead?’

  His antagonist regarded him thoughtfully.

  ‘Yus, and I can see yer ’and goin’ inter yer pocket,’ added Ben; ‘but bullets don’t kill me no more’n they kill you. Git me?’

  ‘Perhaps not precisely, at the moment,’ answered his antagonist slowly; ‘but I expect I shall get you before very long. So you saw some one shoot at me, you say?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Did you happen to see who shot me?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Who—if I may ask?’

  ‘Bloke wot jest went inter yer ’ouse.’

  ‘Oh! So you saw the bloke go inter the ’ouse—’

  ‘Yus, and I saw a gall go inter the ’ouse afore ’im, and I saw the Injun go inter the ’ouse afore ’er, and I saw an Orstralian go in afore ’im, but I tell yer stright I don’t care a twopenny pip abart none o’ them ’cept that hother gall, and if she’s in the ’ouse, too, I’m goin’ ter git ’er aht, if I ’ave ter brike hevery bone in yer blinkin’ body.’

  His antagonist considered the statement. Then he moved a step nearer to Ben, as though to imply what he thought of it, and said:

  ‘Now that’s very interesting. But suppose we leave my blinking bones out of it? I don’t really think you’d be able to break them, and, even if you did, it wouldn’t help you. So what do you propose to do about it?’

  The man’s quiet sarcasm incensed Ben. So did that cool step forward. It was not a threat. It was an insult. Ben measured the decreasing distance between them, and replied:

  ‘I’ll tell yer wot I’m goin’ ter do abart it. I’m not goin’ ter stop ’ere torkin’ ter you, which is wot yer want; ain’t it? I’m goin’ ter fetch the pleece, and you ain’t goin’ ter stop me!’

  As he spoke, his fist flashed out, and sought his antagonist’s chin. But the chin moved aside, and the fist was caught by stronger fingers t
han his own. Ben was flung off, and a revolver gleamed unpleasantly near his face.

  ‘You damned fool!’ growled his antagonist. ‘If you’d been sensible you might have stood a chance, but it’s gone now, and you’ve only yourself to blame for it. You’ve seen too much, and you’ve talked too much. Well, you’re not going to see or to talk any more. God! Do you think a miserable, under-sized worm of a man like you can do anything against—us?’

  ‘Mis’erble, am I—’

  ‘Get over by that wall!’

  ‘Worm, am I—’

  ‘D’you hear?’

  ‘Yus, I ’ear! And if yer let that thing orf, so’ll the ’ole street!’

  ‘Oh, no it won’t. There won’t be any sound. Just a little squeal—the last squeal of a squealer—and down you’ll drop. And the next time you go down the well, my friend, you won’t be in a condition to come up again, because you won’t know anything about it. You’ll be in the place where all contemptible snails go when they die—’

  It all happened so quickly that Ben himself was confounded. The red tide caught him and swept him, as once before, but this time with even more dynamic force. He was a worm! He was a snail! Helpless, incompetent, scorned, and trodden on. And, because of that—because there was nothing in him that could ever rise above the mire—a girl in distress was appealing to him in vain! Where was his dormant power? Where was the might that was in every man who rose above the insects? He prayed for the miracle of Samson, and the answer flowed round, him in crimson. Everything was red. The walls. The floor. The ceiling. The jeering man in front of him. He, himself. The air through which he leapt. The head on which he battered. The hands he battered with…The pistol he seized and smashed with…Red!…Red!…Red!…

  The hideous spasm passed. The red swept on and out of sight, and immediate things took on their natural hue. Trembling and shaken, Ben became a normal, fearful human being again. The walls returned to yellow. The ceiling to black. The floor to the negative colours of rotting wood.