Number Nineteen

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  He hesitated, moved towards the head of the final flight, then paused again. Something was happening behind him. Lummy! What?

  Sandwiched between two evils, he chose the one behind him, and turned. The fanlight above the door, which usually only showed faintly at this time, now glowed clearly, its crescent shape defined. The glow vanished—came again—vanished again. Then history repeated itself, and someone knocked on the door.

  9

  Caller No. Two

  Well, there was no use hesitating. Once a door ‘got at you,’ as Ben expressed it, it wouldn’t let you alone and it had to be opened. So better get it over!

  But as he opened the door an idea occurred to him that comforted his jangled nerves. It would be the lady, of course! She had intimated that she was coming back, and probably she had been hanging around somewhere or other waiting till she could be certain that the coast was clear. It would be all right if it was her. She was a nice lady, the only visitor he wouldn’t mind opening the door to. Only of course he’d have to see that she didn’t come to any harm. ‘If this ain’t no ’ealth cure fer me,’ he reflected, ‘neither it ain’t fer ’er.’

  His guess proved wrong. He did not find the lady standing in the porch. He found a policeman.

  The unwelcome constable flashed his torch in Ben’s face for a moment, nearly blinding him, and then spoke. His voice was amiable enough.

  ‘Up late, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Well, ’oo’s got me up?’ retorted Ben.

  ‘Oh! Were you in bed?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘If so, it didn’t take you long to change out of your pyjamas.’

  ‘I don’t wear perjarmers.’

  ‘P’r’aps not, but do you sleep in your clothes?’

  ‘Nah, listen, copper,’ answered Ben. ‘Yer sed it was laite yerself, and if yer’ve called ter tork abart me clothes yer can ’op it, and come back in the mornin’. See, I ain’t ’avin’ any!’

  The policeman refused to oblige. Instead of hopping it he advanced a step closer.

  ‘I haven’t come to talk about your clothes,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to talk about something a bit more serious.’

  ‘Wot’s that?’

  ‘You couldn’t guess, I suppose?’

  ‘This ain’t “Twenty Questions”!’

  ‘Meaning by that you have no idea why I’m here?’

  ‘I’ll know when yer tells me.’

  ‘Right, sonny! Have it your own way. I’ve called in reference to a murder, and you can tell me whether you know anything about it. Mind if I step inside?’

  Without waiting for permission the constable stepped inside, and then closed the door behind him.

  Ben thought hard, but nothing came. This was grievous, for he was up against a moment of decision. Should he fence with the law, or throw himself upon its mercy? The question ran uselessly round and round his mind. It ran alone, without the answer. Meanwhile, after a short silence during which the policeman glanced along the hall towards the top of the basement stairs, Ben found another question shot at him.

  ‘Are you all by yourself in the house?’

  That wasn’t an easy one, either. In the first place, he didn’t know. Was he or wasn’t he? And even if he did know, and it was one or the other, should he tell? Of course, you couldn’t count a cat, and he didn’t suppose the constable would reckon Ben and Marmaduke as two. At this thought Ben suddenly recalled that the constable was viewing Marmaduke, and made a note of it. But beyond and transcending the cat and his second self, there were the Stacher and the Thing …

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Gone dumb or something?’

  ‘I’m torkin’, ain’t I?’

  ‘Well, go on talking. I asked if you were alone here in the house?’

  ‘Alone, eh?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Never heard the word before?’

  ‘Well, yer don’t see nobody else, do yer?’

  ‘That’s a fact, but when the door-bell rings, does the whole family come along to answer it?’

  ‘Well, I ain’t got no famerly.’

  ‘I can’t believe it!’

  ‘Wot, that I got no famerly?’

  ‘No, that you’ve actually told me something! Watch that candle, the grease is spilling. How about going into a room and sitting down? And putting that candle down on a table?’

  But as the policeman moved towards one of the doors Ben realised that it might be a good idea to assert himself. Even with a policeman—perhaps particularly with a policeman—you needed to keep your end up until they got bang on top of you.

  ‘Oi! ’Arf a mo’!’ he exclaimed.

  ’Arf a mo’? There was rather too much of Ben in that, and not quite enough of Marmaduke!

  ‘Jest a minit, if you don’t mind,’ he added. ‘This ’ouse ain’t—is not your’n, yer know!’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’d want it,’ replied the policeman, good-humouredly.

  Of course you could never be sure of a bobby’s good humour. You never knew what was going on underneath. Wink at you one moment, arrest you the next!

  ‘Well, yer ain’t got it! It berlongs ter the person wot I’m employed by, and I’m lookin’ arter it!’

  The policeman nodded.

  ‘Good enough! Then how about sitting on the stairs and putting that candle on the floor? I don’t suppose your employer would thank you if you burned his house down!’

  He moved to the main staircase as he spoke, and sat down on the stair second from the bottom, his large legs wide apart. If Ben had sat down on the bottom stair between them his head wouldn’t have come much higher than the policeman’s stomach. He decided not to occupy the space. But he did put the candle on the floor, which shot the policeman’s shadow half-way up the stairs and made him wish he hadn’t. Somehow the policeman seemed to have grown several sizes larger.

  ‘Who is your employer?’ enquired the policeman, casually.

  ‘’Enery the Eighth.’

  ‘Try again.’

  ‘Why should I tell yer ’oo ’e is afore yer tells me why yer wanter know?’

  ‘I see. You’re one of the cautious ones, are you? Well, we’ll leave that for the moment, if you like. If there’s nobody in the house but yourself—’ The policeman paused, but Ben did not corroborate the statement. ‘Then I suppose you’d be the caretaker?’

  ‘Yer can call me that, if yer like.’

  ‘Thank you. I will. And this house is to let?’

  ‘That’s right. Leastwise, no, it ain’t.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s ter be sold.’

  ‘Oh! Well, that’s near enough, so now suppose we get down to business?’

  ‘Ain’t I waitin’ fer it?’

  ‘You won’t have to wait any longer. I’ve already told you what I’ve come about, so you’ll be wise now to answer my questions without any more nonsense!’

  A point of law occurred to Ben. He was not an expert in legal procedure, but he did know a bit about policemen.

  ‘Do I ’ave ter?’ he enquired.

  The constable regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then smiled.

  ‘Wise as well as cautious, eh?’ he said. ‘Well, shall we put it this way, sonny? If you don’t have to, you will be sensible to. If there’s a next time, you may not then have the option! So now, then. Have you had any callers lately?’

  ‘Wot sort o’ callers?’

  ‘Any sort. House-hunters, for instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘Suppose we cut out the “wot’s”’

  ‘Well, ’oo else would there be?’

  The constable did not answer at once. He was looking at Ben hard, while Ben was thinking hard. ‘I gotter mike up me mind,’ ran Ben’s thinking. ‘This is a charnce ter come aht with the ’ole thing, I mightn’t git another, and there’s a dead bloke dahn below, and that there Stacher ch
ap. But if I starts, ’ow is ’e goin’ ter tike it? Is ’e goin’ ter believe me? And ’ow do I stand if ’e don’t? Orf ter the staishun fer more questions, and me fingerprints on the knife, would they let me go agine, and if I wasn’t ’ere nex’ time Smith comes along ’e’ll smell a rat, and ’e won’t give nothink away that’s goin’ ter ’urt ’im nex’ time the pleece come ’ere, ’e’ll ’ave bin warned like, and ’e’ll jest tell ’em I come along disguised arter the murder and must ’ave took the job ter ’ide meself, and they’ll berlieve ’im and not me, and ’e’ll git orf and I won’t, but if I sticks ’ere meself I might catch ’im like ’e deserves, and then wot abart the lidy?’ Funny how the lady stuck in his mind. ‘She may need a bit of ’elp, and ’ow am I goin’ ter ’elp ’er if I ain’t ’ere?’ Were these arguments sound? Was this just wishful thinking? Wishful thinking! Not that staying on here was any bed of roses! His mind wobbled and wavered. ‘I dunno! P’r’aps it’d be best orl rahnd ter come aht with it. Yer can on’y die once. Yus, p’r’aps I’d better ’ave a shot at the truth, and if ’e berlieves me ’e’ll know better’n me ’ow ter go abart things—’

  One of the constable’s hands was in a pocket.

  ‘Maybe this will help you to answer me,’ he said.

  Lummy! Was he going to bring out a gun? What he brought out was not a gun, but it was equally unpleasant.

  ‘Have a look at this,’ ordered the constable. ‘This is the person I’m interested in.’

  Ben found himself gazing at a photograph of two men on a seat. One was himself. So Smith had done it! Had taken the photograph to the police! To Ben’s astonishment, he kept his head.

  ‘Wich ’un?’ he asked.

  ‘The one at the end where your thumb is,’ replied the constable. ‘The scarecrow.’

  ‘Oh! And ’oo’s the hother?’

  ‘The man who was murdered.’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it?’

  ‘’Ow should I?’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough. It only happened this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, did it?’

  ‘And this picture won’t be in the papers until tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh! It’s goin’ in the paipers, is it?’

  ‘You bet it is!’

  ‘’Oo give it to yer?’

  ‘Oh, someone brought it along.’

  ‘Yer mean—the bloke ’oo took it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, wot did ’e tike it for?’

  ‘We might call it just an amateur’s luck. He thought the two made an amusing picture, and never dreamt that he was photographing a murderer and his victim.’

  ‘Oh! I see,’ said Ben. ‘The one wot yer calls the scarecrow is the one yer think did it?’

  ‘The police certainly consider that possible,’ answered the constable.

  ‘But ’e mightn’t of.’

  ‘I don’t expect it will be long before we prove it. You see, the knife had fingerprints on it.’

  Ben’s heart suddenly missed a beat. Not because the knife had fingerprints on it. He already knew that. But so, now, had the photograph which the constable had handed to him. The prints of an exceedingly moist thumb and forefinger. But he still kept his head, albeit the head became moist, too, and he lowered the hand that held the photograph to his trouser-leg.

  ‘What are you rubbing yourself for?’ enquired the policeman.

  ‘Got an itch,’ answered Ben. ‘This ’ouse is fair swarmin’. A knife, did yer say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Must ’ave mide a narsty mess!’

  ‘It certainly did!’

  ‘But I still ain’t got it why yer’ve come ’ere?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I want to know whether you’ve seen this fellow?’

  ‘Corse not!’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘’Ow would I?’

  ‘If he’d called.’

  ‘Why would ’e call?’

  ‘That’s what I’d need to find out, if he had.’

  ‘Well, ’e ain’t,’ said Ben, and suddenly added, ‘Wot mikes yer think ’e might of?’

  ‘No harm in letting you know that,’ responded the policeman. ‘I’ve been told he was seen entering this house.’

  Ben stared. ‘’Oo told yer?’ he demanded.

  ‘That, if you don’t mind,’ returned the policeman, ‘I will keep to myself.’

  Of course Ben did not need any answer from the policeman. Only Smith could have been the informer, giving the information assumedly when he gave the photograph. But it didn’t make sense! The photograph was understandable. It was to hold Ben to his disguise and his job. But why should he draw the police’s attention to No. 19 Billiter Road, which would surely be as embarrassing to him as to his new caretaker? And then no one could have seen Ben entering this house of his own free will! He had been carried in, unconscious …

  ‘Come, come!’ The constable’s voice broke in on Ben’s cogitations, and now there was a new note in it. ‘Let’s get on! I haven’t got all night to waste! Maybe after all this fellow we’re after won’t prove as black as he sounds—maybe he’ll be able to clear himself altogether, once we contact him.’ His large eyes fixed themselves on Ben’s as he bent forward on his stair. ‘If you want the truth, I’m not too sure of our informant, and that’s a fact! Because, look! What did he want to take that photograph for? It might have been some sort of a plant to fix the blame on the wrong person! And why did he hang around after taking it? Why didn’t he move off at once?’ The policeman rose, and moving forward tapped Ben on the shoulder. ‘And what’s going on in this house? Something fishy, I’ll be bound! Come out with all you know, and you’ll be on safe ground. Hold anything back, and before we’ve finished you may be for it! This is the moment to snap out of any tangle you may be in, and you mayn’t get another! So which is it to be? Have you got anything to tell me—or have you?’

  Ben took a deep breath. Here was his chance being handed to him on a platter! But he did not take it.

  ‘No, I ain’t got nothink ter tell yer,’ he answered, shortly.

  The constable frowned.

  ‘You wouldn’t care to change your mind about that, sonny?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll mike up somethink if yer like,’ retorted Ben.

  ‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t help.’

  ‘Then I can’t give yer none. This is a respeckerble ’ouse, no one like that there pickcher’s bin ’ere, and I wanter git back ter bed.’

  ‘I see. You’re not talking?’

  ‘There’s nothink ter tork abart.’

  ‘Your employer might find something if I called on him.’

  ‘I ain’t stoppin’ yer.’

  ‘What is his name? You haven’t told me?’

  ‘I ’aven’t bin engaiged ter give hinfermashun.’

  ‘Does that also apply to his address?’

  ‘If yer wanter write to ’im, jest pop it through the letter-box and I’ll see ’e gits it.’

  The policeman nodded. Then he straightened himself, and moved towards the front door.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘For the moment we’ll leave it at that. But I’ll be seeing you again in the morning.’ He opened the door. ‘And that’s a promise!’

  Ben gazed at the door for several seconds after it had closed. Then he leapt into the air as something soft touched his leg. But it was only Sammy.

  10

  Conference on the Stairs

  ‘I owe yer one fer that, Sammy,’ said Ben, reproachfully. ‘Yer orter sahnd yer ’ooter afore yer comes! See, me nerves ain’t wot they was, and wot they was wer’n’ never nothink ter shaht abart. But yer the on’y friend I got in this ’ere blinkin’ ’ouse, so we carn’t afford ter quarrel, can we? Let’s sit dahn and ’ave a jaw, ’cos I want ter know wot yer think abart that bobby.’

  He sat down on the stair lately occupied by the policeman, and the cat leapt upon his lap, as though to show there w
as no ill feeling. Funny about cats. Some you fair hated. Take them white ’uns—Simonese, wasn’t they called? See ’em in a garden when it’s getting dark and they looked like ghosts. But some was nice. This ’un was.

  ‘Now, I dessay yer wondered, if yer was anywhere abart while I was torkin’ to ’im,’ went on Ben, ‘why I didn’t come aht with the trooth, and it’s a fack there was more’n one time when I was goin’ ter charnce it. Fust I was, and then I wasn’t, and then I wasn’t, and then I was. If yer git me? And when, jest afore ’e goes, and sayin’ ’e’d be back in the mornin’, ’e gives me a ’int that it might be orl right fer me if I spilled aht the lot and that ’e was ready ter put the blime on Smith instead o’ me—well, there was a charnce, if yer like? Corse, bobbies are up ter orl the tricks, and ’e might of sed that jest ter mike me feel sife and tork. Is that the way you sized it up, Sammy?’

  Sammy refused to commit itself.

  ‘Well, it might o’ bin that, but it wer’n’t the way I sized it up. See, wot I thort was this. ’Ow did ’e know so much abart Smith? Do yer remember ’im sayin’, “Why did ’e ’ang rahnd arter taikin’ the photergraph, why didn’t ’e move orf at once?” Smith must of bin a fool ter tell ’im that! But ’e must of bin a bigger fool ter give a bobby this address, and even if ’e did, why should the bobby think somethink was goin’ on ’ere? Do yer git wot I’m drivin’ at, eh?’

  Again Sammy gave no indication of its thoughts, but went on purring.

  ‘And then,’ continued Ben, fixing his eyes on the flickering candle on the floor, ‘if we tike it a bit further back, ’ere’s the pleece comin’ along abart a murder, with a photo of the bloke they’re lookin’ for—that’s me—but orl they sends is jest one constable. If I’d bin ’ere, wich I was, I might ’ave ’ad a gun, so wouldn’t yer think there’d be a cupple, and one of ’em ’ud be a sergeant, if no ’igher?’

  Sammy stopped purring for a moment. Impressed at last? When the purring was resumed, it had increased in volume.

  ‘Ah, I see yer thinks like I does,’ said Ben. ‘Yer thinks it’s fishy! Yer thinks that the way ’e acted and some o’ the things ’e sed wasn’t exackly wot yer’d expeck from the pleece. In fact, Sammy, yer think ’e wasn’t no constable at all, but jest playin’ at it! Yer do? Well, we’re a pair, ’cos so do I!’