The House Opposite

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  But one thing remained red. It was the head on which Ben had battered. It lay close against the rotting wood, motionless, with eyes that no longer shrivelled one with sarcasm, and tongue that had lost its power to sting.

  Death, this time, was real.

  CHAPTER XVI

  BEN TAKES THE PLUNGE

  BEN had never killed a man before. He had hit men and kicked them, and scratched them and even bitten them, but he had never knocked a man down in such a fashion that the man would never rise again. He found it a shattering experience…

  In his own mind, he had died a thousand deaths. He was not made of the heroic stuff that dies but once. Now he had dealt out death to another. He had become the spectre he himself so constantly feared. It was unbelievable, ironical. It cheapened death that he should be its instrument. Ben, the down-trodden, a murderer…

  ‘Yus, but it was wotcher calls self-defence, like,’ he told the judge who suddenly leapt into his imagination. ‘’E was thret’nin’ me with a gun, ’e was, see? That mikes it orl right, see?’

  Did it?

  Then another loop-hole occurred to Ben. Perhaps the man was not dead, after all? Just a knock out, eh? Why, he’d seen dozens of chaps knocked out just like that! You’d think they were done to the wide, but five minutes later they were laughing and joking…One, two, three, four, five…Nothing doing…Six, seven, eight, nine…Nine, nine, nine…Ten.

  ‘That ain’t no good!’ muttered Ben, ‘Well, let’s see if ’is ’eart’s tickin’.’

  He approached his late antagonist gingerly. Had this length of limpness ever been really threatening? It seemed impossible! He knelt down, and placed his hand over the left breast. No rhythm impressed itself upon the hand. Not the slightest flutter. He took the hand away, and replaced it by his ear. He listened hard. With all his might. There wasn’t a sound…Yes, there was! Bing-bing! Bing-bing! Bing-bing!

  ‘Gawd, it’s me own,’ murmured Ben.

  He stood up again.

  ‘’Ow yer feelin’, sonny?’ he said loudly.

  He nearly leapt to the ceiling. The dead man did not speak, but there was a sudden little movement somewhere. The next moment a small object slid out of a pocket, paused on a curve of the coat, and rolled on to the floor.

  ‘Lummy!’ gasped Ben. ‘I’m comin’ hover orl funny.’

  The explanation of the small object’s appearance was quite simple, however. When he had been bending over the form he had pressed on the pocket unconsciously, and had started a small sequence of movements in the creases and bulges of the cloth. The culminating movement of the little series had ejected the object, and the law of gravitation had done the rest.

  Ben stooped again and picked up the object. It was a small button, half-red and half-green, fixed on a safety pin. It had evidently been pinned on the inside of the dead man’s pocket, and had come unfastened in the struggle. Queer thing to have on you. No one’d call it pretty? And, even if it had been pretty, what was the use of keeping it in your inside pocket?

  Nevertheless, Ben slipped it in his own pocket. You never knew.

  This brought him to the end of the immediate formalities. What came next? Yes, after you’d killed a fellow, what did you do?

  The imaginary judge came next. He was wearing a black cap, and he suddenly filled the room. And, just outside the room, there was a gallows…

  Ben found himself at the door. ‘Steady!’ he muttered. ‘It won’t ’elp yer ter run away!’

  He wanted to run away badly. All this while he had been fighting against a creeping terror. The judge in the black cap was the terror, and a girl in a hat far prettier was the weapon he fought the judge with.

  ‘Carn’t go orf and leave ’er,’ he told himself a hundred times. ‘Well, can I?’

  Of course he couldn’t. He had got to help her. And he wasn’t helping her! He was just standing there, doing nothing! The only way to help her was to take matters now into his own hands and to fetch the police. A pretty little story he had to tell the police!

  Still it had to be done. Yes, and the sooner it was done the better. Down the stairs, out into the road, hook a bobby, and bring him back. Then the bobby could deal with Ben and the corpse, and the Indian and the old man, and the whole bang lot of ’em!…

  Thirty seconds later, Ben was in the street of mist. He looked left and right, and saw no sign of official blue. He turned to the left, in pursuit of it.

  ‘Hallo! Where you goin’?’ inquired a voice.

  It did not sound like a policeman’s voice, but Ben stopped.

  ‘Ter find a bobby,’ he replied, barging straight to the point. Now that he had settled on his policy, an unnatural calm had settled on him. He couldn’t quite understand it, and he didn’t recognise it. It rather alarmed him.

  ‘Bobby?’ mused the voice.

  ‘Yus,’ answered Ben. ‘’Ave yer seen one?’

  ‘Hun’reds an’ hun’reds,’ nodded the owner of the voice, and Ben discovered that the fellow was leaning against a lamp-post. ‘But, lis’n, ol’ lump of sweetness. I’m not drunk. Jes’—happy, that’s all. No need for a bobby.’

  ‘The bobby ain’t fer you,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, then I’m yours, to the las’ fibre. Tha’s funny word, isn’t it? Fibre! And fancy rememb’ring it in my condish’n. Jolly good. Now, then le’s get this straight. My name’s Mr Eustace Moberley Hope. Wha’s yours?’

  ‘Shurrup!’ growled Ben, and moved away.

  But a long arm stretched after him, and pulled him back.

  ‘Mustn’t go, ol’ lump o’ sweetness,’ reproved the tipsy one. ‘I’m goin’ to need you when I leave this lamp-post. Like hell I am. And what I want to know is, wha’do you want policeman for? I should have thought policeman would have wanted you.’

  ‘’Ere! Lemme go,’ exclaimed Ben. ‘I’m in a ’urry!’

  ‘Ah, tha’ sounds bad!’ frowned Mr Eustace Moberley Hope. ‘I don’ like sound of that at all, little sunshine. Have you been killin’ somebody?’

  ‘S’pose I ’ave?’

  The retort, coupled with the sudden desperation with which it was uttered, momentarily sobered the tipsy one. Mr Eustace Moberley Hope advanced his head several inches closer to the head of the man he was gripping, while the grip itself became tighter. An instant later, however, the tension passed, and Mr Hope smiled happily again.

  ‘Well, so’ve I,’ he said. ‘I’ve just killed couple of nasty green tigers and a lalligator. What’ve you killed?’

  ‘A bloke wot tried ter kill me,’ cried Ben, wriggling; ‘and nah yer got it! And if yer don’t un’ook yerself, you’ll be the nex’!’

  The threat in no way depressed Mr Hope. On the contrary, his smile expanded.

  ‘You know, I’m mos’ beautifully drunk!’ he confided. ‘I never hatched anythin’ s’good as you before. Oh, look! Here’s some policemen! Lots an’ lots of ’em. Hi, policemen! We want you. We’ve killed a bloke!’

  A burly form grew out of the mist. Ben fought a sudden feeling of depression. Now he was for it!

  ‘Now, then, what’s all this?’ demanded the policeman.

  ‘We’ve killed a bloke,’ repeated Mr Eustace Moberley Hope amiably, ‘and we want you to arrest us.’

  The policeman eyed the speaker with calm criticism.

  ‘Bit early in the day to start this kind of game, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Take my advice, sir, and get along home.’

  ‘But you don’ un’stan’, sergeant,’ retorted Mr Hope, pained. ‘We’re a couple o’ killers.’

  ‘Oh! And what have you killed?’

  ‘I’ve killed two green tigers and a lalligator. Oh, an’ a large tomato on wheels.’ He turned to Ben apologetically. ‘I forgot to mention the tomato on wheels. They’re horrid!’ He turned back to the policeman. ‘And my dear frien’ here—my little ray of sunshine—he’s killed a bloke.’

  The policeman looked at Ben, appearing to notice him for the first time.

  ‘So you’ve killed a bloke, h
ave you?’ he observed. ‘Well, hop it. I’ll see to this little side show.’

  ‘What? You’re goin’ to let him go?’ exclaimed Mr Hope. ‘Dang’rous man like that?’

  ‘Dangerous, eh?’ smiled the policeman tolerantly. Before joining the police force he’d been a bit of a sketch himself. ‘Well, and where’s this bloke you’ve killed?’

  ‘Nummer twenty-nine Jowle Street,’ answered Ben. ‘Second floor front. Lyin’ there nah.’

  Once more Mr Moberley Hope looked interested. But he did not look nearly as interested as the policeman did.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded sharply.

  ‘Wot I ses,’ replied Ben. ‘’E was goin’ fer me with a pistol, so I ’it ’im.’

  The policeman turned, and gazed up the road for a moment. Then he turned back to Ben and eyed him darkly and suspiciously.

  ‘Let’s hear a little more about this,’ he said. ‘Number twenty-nine Jowle Street’s empty!’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Then what were you doing in it?’

  ‘Watchin’ the ’ouse hoppersit.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘’Cos of the things goin’ hon there.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Gawd know! I wancher ter go in and see.’

  ‘Isn’t he lovely, sergeant?’ beamed Mr Moberley Hope. ‘I swear I’ll never touch anythin’ but Cliquot again!’

  ‘What sort of things?’ repeated the policeman, frowning heavily. ‘What’s put all these ideas into your head?’

  ‘Well, there’s a gall,’ answered Ben, ‘she’s the one you gotter git aht of it, and there’s an Injun, ’e’s arter the gall, see, leaseways that’s ’ow I sizes it hup, ’cos ’e tries ter chuck me dahn a well or summit and drahn me, and then there’s a old feller, ’e tries ter shoot, me—’

  ‘I say, I say!’ interposed Mr Moberley Hope, his eyes growing bigger and bigger, while the policeman’s frown increased. ‘What do you drink? I really mus’ try it!’

  But Ben wasn’t interested in Mr Moberley Hope. Continuing to address the policeman, he went on, with a sort of desperate doggedness:

  ‘And then there was a woman wot drugs me with a garsper, and then this hother feller wot I kills, but ’e tries ter git me fust, doncher fergit that—’

  ‘Wait a bit, wait a bit!’ interrupted the policeman. ‘Ease down, old son! Do you say that this last chap tried to kill you, too?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘After the old man did?’

  ‘And the Injun.’

  ‘Yes, but why—?’

  ‘Well, I’m tellin’ yer, ain’t I? ’E tries ter kill me ’cos I jest seen ’im shot at the ’ouse hoppersit—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, don’ int’rup’, don’ int’rup’!’ implored Mr Eustace Moberley Hope earnestly. ‘He’s the mos’ beautiful creature God ever made! I’ve met whole heap, an’ I know.’

  ‘And seein’ as ’ow I seen ’im killed, ’e comes acrost ter stop me marth, corse I dunno ’ow ’e come alive agin that’s fer you ter find aht, but ’e’s dead now orl right ’cos I puts me ear ter ’is chest an’ it’s quiet as a bust clock, but ’e don’t matter, it’s the gall wot matters, you gotter git ’er aht o’ the hother ’ouse, yus, an’ fer Gawd’s sake look slippy or it’ll be too late, and if yer’ll tike my hadvice yer’ll blow yer whistle and git a lot more of yer, ’cos yer’ll ’ave ter deal with a pack—’

  ‘See here!’ exclaimed the policeman warmly. ‘I’ve heard quite enough to go on with, and if you don’t mind I’ll act on my own advice, not yours! We’ll go and look at this corpse, of yours in No. 29 Jowle Street, and if I find you’re playing a joke on me—’

  ‘I tell, yer, ’e don’t matter,’ interrupted Ben. ‘’E’s dead. It’s the gall wot matters—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ cried the policeman. ‘If you say another word I’ll march you straight off to the police station! Be quiet, do you hear?’

  ‘There! Now you’ve stopped him,’ murmured Mr Moberley Hope sadly. ‘I’m goin’ to cry.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll march you along there too!’ rasped the policeman, rounding on him. ‘If you think I’m going to waste the whole day over the pair of you, you’re wrong. Now, then! Step lively! We’ll be in No. 29 Jowle Street in a couple of minutes, and then we’ll know where we stand!’

  He took Ben’s arm as he spoke, and thrust him forward. Ben realised that obedience, now, was his only course. Once the policeman had seen the grim spectacle in No. 29 with bis own eyes, he would need no further prompting.

  The little procession proceeded in silence. Ben and the policeman led. Mr Eustace Moberley Hope lurched behind. He had not been definitely invited to join the procession, but he had not been forbidden to do so. Apparently he regarded himself as a privileged member of the party.

  The policeman regulated the pace. It was a sort of compromise between dignity and efficiency. If Ben had told him the truth, no one should say afterwards that the policeman had been too slow. If Ben had lied to him, no one should say afterwards that he had rushed into the hoax. Thus, while Ben strove to increase the pace, and Mr Eustace Moberley Hope strove to lessen it, the correct official speed was faithfully maintained.

  They reached No. 29 in just under the predicted two minutes. The door was ajar, as Ben had left it. The policeman commented on the fact.

  ‘You left the door open, I see,’ he observed.

  ‘Corse I lef it hopen,’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ow was we goin’ ter git in agin if it was shut? A deader don’t answer bells.’

  ‘Was it open when you first went in?’ queried the constable.

  ‘No,’ answered Ben. ‘I used a winder.’

  They entered the house. The complacency of Mr Hope began to fade.

  ‘What a lot of stairs!’ he murmured.

  The constable and Ben began to mount the stairs. Mr Hope brightened a little under the impetus of an idea.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ll jus’ sit here an’ wait. An’ when you come down you can tell me all about it!’

  He sat down on the bottom stair, while Ben and the constable rounded the bend above him and disappeared from sight.

  ‘House,’ murmured Mr Hope. ‘I don’ like you.’

  Ben and the constable continued their ascent. They reached the first floor, and the second floor. On the second landing the constable paused.

  ‘Which room?’ asked the constable.

  Ben pointed. The constable entered. He came out again. His eyes were thoughtful.

  He stood for several seconds, regarding Ben, and Ben could see that a lot was going through his mind. At last he said what was in his mind.

  ‘Now, listen,’ said the constable. ‘I could get you into serious trouble, if I liked. I could take you to the station and clap you in a cell. That’s what I ought to do, you know. No doubt at all about it. But you look to me as if you’d had a peck of trouble, and you’ve either got delusions or that tipsy chap downstairs has paid you to back him up in a silly joke. My own idea is that the chap downstairs is at the bottom of it. If he is, you can hoof it. If he isn’t—well, p’r’aps you can hoof it, just the same. But don’t think you’ll get off so light a second time. And, take my tip—keep off the drink.’

  ‘Wotcher—torkin’ abart?’ gasped Ben.

  He lurched into the room. Then he lurched out again, and, his mind in a daze, followed the policeman down.

  When they reached the bottom they found the hall empty.

  ‘Where’s he gone?’ cried the policeman.

  He ran out into the mist. Ben stood still for a moment, holding on to the rickety balustrade for support.

  Something pricked his chest as he breathed. He clapped his hand over his chest in a new panic, and as he did so, the pricking increased. He thrust his hand in his pocket. He brought out the little red and green button. The pin had pierced his one layer of clothing and had scratched his skin.

  He stared at it. He turned, and stared up the flight. He turned ag
ain, and stared at the open front door.

  Then he went out of the front door, crossed the road, and rang the bell of No. 26 Jowle Street.

  PART II

  NUMBER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE SPIDER’S PARLOUR

  PRESENTLY we shall follow Ben into No. 26 Jowle Street and endure with him (if we are still interested in his fate) the worst of his experiences. But for a while we will leave him to wait on the doorstep—as he himself was destined to wait—and enter the House of Happenings with others who had preceded him. With the Australian, for instance, who entered some fifteen hours earlier and who first aroused Ben’s curiosity as to what lay on the other side of the door.

  The Australian’s own curiosity, it will be recalled, was inspired by the sight of a distressed girl who was leaving the house. The sight of this girl diverted him from the queer creature he was interviewing at No. 29, creating a more magnetic interest. ‘’E don’t waste no time!’ Ben had commented, but the comment had not been entirely just. The Australian appreciated pretty faces; he did not, however, spend his life chasing them. Otherwise he might have followed the distressed girl farther than the corner instead of changing his mind and returning to the door step she had just left.

  He rang the bell. The person whose duty it was to answer bells was either asleep, deaf, dead, or unwilling. The Australian rang a second time, smiling rather ironically as he did so. Apparently bells were not popular in England. He had had to make five efforts, he recalled, before he had got any one to answer the bell of No. 29!

  Twice was enough for No. 26, although when the door did open he again received no encouragement. Indeed, it is scarcely truthful to say that the door really opened at all. Something clicked, and the side of the door nearest the click receded a few inches, while in the grudging crack of space was faintly materialised a nose. Not a nice nose. A nose that gleamed palely, more like its own ghost than the reality, about four feet from the ground, its proximity to earth implying an anxiously bent body somewhere in the dimness behind it. Its shape was not as God had designed it, if God had ever designed it at all, which was doubtful. One side of the nose went in, and the other went out. It seemed to have grown against a heavy wind that had blown constantly from the left, billowing it, like washing on a breezy day, into a permanently curved fixture. But the blow that had really sent the nose out of the fairway was a blow of another sort.