Now Ben watched Mr Smith as closely as Mr Smith was watching him. Mr Smith showed no sign of alarm. On the contrary, he smiled again.
‘Don’t worry about that bobby, Mr Jones,’ he said. ‘He won’t call again. I happen to know that you were not the last person to see him last night. Somebody else saw him, and he has been dealt with.’
‘Dealt with?’
‘Dealt with. Such a useful term, don’t you think? So let us forget him, and now tell me if he was your only visitor? And remember,’ he added, ‘I may already know a little more than you think.’
Now Ben found himself facing a fresh problem. There had been another visitor, but this was one he did not want to talk about. He recognised Mr Smith’s warning, however, and he recalled the sudden departure of the visitor, and also the footsteps he had heard along the street just after she vanished. He had believed them at the time to be those of the man now so shrewdly watching him. He knew that Mr Smith had spent quite a lot of time watching. Suppose he had seen the lady go? And suppose, having seen her, he heard Ben declare that she had not been? That would upset the apple-cart proper …
‘What I like about you, Mr Jones,’ said Mr Smith, ‘is that you answer all my questions so quickly. Lightning isn’t in it.’
‘I won’t say wot I like abart you,’ retorted Ben, ‘’cos I carn’t find it.’
‘Did you have any other visitor?’
‘Eh?’
‘You haven’t seen me really angry yet, have you?’
‘I’ve seed yer lots of hother things.’
‘But not angry. You’d be surprised.’
He spoke truly, for the hand that suddenly thumped on the table made both Ben and the milk bottle jump.
‘HAVE YOU?’
‘Well, as a matter o’ fack—’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Mr Smith, now quiet again, ‘you have?’
‘Yus.’
‘Thank you. Man, woman, or child?’
‘Well, it was a woman.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’m goin’ on, but yer keeps on stoppin’ me goin’ on tellin’ me ter!’ Ben’s voice was indignant. He had not quite got over that thump. Lummy, wot did they think yer was mide of? Iron? ‘It was a woman, and she rings the bell, and dahn I goes and opens the door. See, I was up at the top, so that’s why I ’ad ter go dahn.’
‘Spare me unnecessary details!’
‘Oh! Well, some likes ’em. I come dahn, like I sed, and I opens the door, and there’s this lidy, standin’ there. I didn’t like it. That’s a fack. No I didn’t.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Well, there yer are!’
‘I’m afraid I am not.’
‘Wot I mean is, yer’ll never guess. Wot I mean is— well, it was a wash-aht. Yus, and arter bringin’ me dahn orl them stairs. See, I was jest gettin’ comfertible with Sammy—’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Eh?’
‘Who may Sammy be?’
‘Oh!’ Blast his tongue! But, come to think of it, was there any reason for keeping Sammy dark? Lummy, you didn’t know what was safe to say and what wasn’t, but Sammy ought to be okay, and while he was talking about Sammy he could be thinking about the woman. ‘Corse, yer doesn’t know abart Sammy.’
‘Is this another caller?’
‘Well, in a way, it was.’
‘Someone who called before the woman?’
‘That’s right. Sammy, the woman, the bobby. That’s ow they come. But, corse, Sammy wer’n’t nothink ter worry abart. It was jest a cat wot walked in, and it come upstairs with me like. Come ter that, yer must of seed ’im, ’cos ’e was on me lap on the stairs. Leastwise, ’e was when I went orf, but not when I woke up.’
An impatient movement from Mr Smith, and an ominous expression, warned Ben that Sammy had had his day. Fortunately, he had also had his use, for while rambling on about the cat Ben had thought of a solution about the woman.
‘Yus, but wot yer wanter ’ear abart is the lidy,’ he said, quickly, ‘and wot she come for. ’Is Mr Bloomersbury in?’ she asks. “’Oo’s Mr Bloomersbury?” I sez. “Don’t ’e live ’ere?” she sez. “No, ’e don’t,” I sez, and then it comes aht that she’d come ter the wrong address. Yus, that was it, arter bringin’ me dahn orl them stairs! Would yer believe it?’
The question was less whether Mr Smith would believe it than whether he did.
‘Do you mean she had been given the wrong address?’ asked Mr Smith.
‘No, come ter it,’ replied Ben.
‘Then she knew the address she wanted?’
‘Eh?’
‘Then she—’
‘Yus, I ’eard yer—yus!’
‘Yes she knew the address, or yes you heard me?’
‘Both.’
‘What address did she mean to go to?’
‘I didn’t ask her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why would I? I didn’t wanter go and see no Mr Bloomersbury!’
‘I should have thought she would have mentioned the address?’
‘Well, there yer are. One thinks a lot o’ things wot ain’t. Once I thort I’d never go in fer side-whiskies. But if yer wants it,’ went on Ben, gathering that Mr Smith did, ‘she’d got the number right, but she thort she was in another street. “Wot street’s this?” she sez. “Billiter,” I sez. “I must of took the wrong turnin’,” she sez. Is that enough abart it, or do yer want some more?’
‘How did she leave?’
‘On ’er feet.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘I know it ain’t, but I don’t git yer.’
‘Did she just apologise and go, or—did her mistake seem to worry her in any way?’
Then Ben did get him. Mr Smith had seen her depart!
‘Oh, that! Well, yus, she did seem a bit upset like. You know—bringin’ me dahn orl them stairs for nothink. I expeck I was a bit cross, and I ain’t no more nice not when I’m cross than you are. Yus, nah I comes ter think of it, orl at once she gits in a proper flurry, and runs dahn the front steps and vanishes afore yer could say Jack Robinson!’
Mr Smith took out a pencil and tapped the lead end on the table. Then his fingers twisted it round and he tapped with the other end. Then he reversed it again, repeating the process half-a-dozen times. His expression, meanwhile, was thoughtful.
‘Yer must teach me that,’ said Ben.
‘You may be taught a lot of things before you are many hours older,’ replied Mr Smith, ‘but we’ll leave this till later.’
‘Wot else are yer goin’ ter teach me?’
‘You’ll find out. Fortunately, you seem quite a good learner. And now have you told me everything?’
Ben hesitated.
‘I see you haven’t.’
‘Well—that’s orl the callers.’
‘Let’s have the rest?’
‘Well, I thort I ’eard some’un abart the ’ouse in the night.’
‘Oh? You did?’
‘Yus.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Got aht o’ bed.’
‘Where did the sounds come from?’
‘They was in the passidge when I got aht o’ bed, but afore that they was goin’ along beside the river.’
‘River?’
‘That’s right. See, I was floatin’ in it.’
‘Mr Jones,’ said Mr Smith, ‘are you right in the head?’
‘If I ain’t, it’s my ’ead, so why worry? But wot abart your ’ead? If yer was ter tell me that in the middle o’ the night yer was flying in the sky with a cupple o’ saucers in yer ’ands, would I ’ave ter arsk yer if yer was dreamin’? I was floatin’ on the river when this shuffle come along the tow-path, but when I woke up it was aht in the passidge, like I sed, so I ’ops aht o’ bed, like I sed, and went dahn arter it, and I was jest ketchin’ it up at the top o’ the bisement stairs when the front door went and the copper come.’
‘I think I see.’
&nb
sp; ‘Well, yer better mike sure.’
‘And what did you do after the copper had gone?’
‘I sat on the stairs ter ’ave a think, and when I opened me eyes it was mornin’.’
‘And then?’
‘Yer don’t want nothink, do yer? Yer better give me a diary so’s I can put dahn the times I sneezes! Then I went over the ’ouse ter see if there was any more corpses, but I didn’t find none.’
‘More corpses?’ murmured Mr Smith.
‘Eh?’
‘Wasn’t that what you said?’
‘Yus.’
‘Meaning you had found some others?’
That was precisely what Ben had meant, but he was not sure whether he had meant to mention it.
‘Yer ain’t fergot the one on the seat?’ he replied, cautiously.
‘That one was in a park. Have you found any inside this house?’
‘Where’d I find ’em? I don’t s’pose, if you’d left any be’ind, yer’d leave ’em lyin’ abart like chairs and taibles!’
‘True enough—but in that case why look for them?’
‘That’s one ter you,’ admitted Ben, and then suddenly took the plunge. ‘There’s on’y one plice where they’d be—sayin’ there was any.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Do I ’ave ter tell yer?’
‘I have asked you to.’
‘Orl right. ’Ow abart be’ind the locked door along the passidge?’
Mr Smith raised his eyebrows. He did not answer for a few seconds, filling the time by playing his little game with his pencil. Then he got up from his chair.
‘You know, that’s quite an idea, Mr Jones,’ he said. ‘Quite an idea. Let’s go and have a look!’
‘Eh?’
‘Come along!’
‘Yer mean—yer’ve got a key?’
‘Could we look,’ replied Mr Smith, ‘if I hadn’t?’
He moved to the door. Ben hesitated, then reluctantly followed him.
It was a short but unpleasant journey from the kitchen to the passage with the locked door, and while they made it Ben wondered whether he was about to get a closer view of a sight which would spoil his appetite for breakfast. When the door was reached he stood behind Mr Smith while he inserted a key he had produced from his pocket. The key turned noiselessly, and the door, in response to a push, swung slowly inwards into dim space. There was a damp and musty smell that made Ben think of tombs.
‘Well?’ said Mr Smith.
Ben gazed round a large empty cellar. Such light as there was came from a grating high up on one of the walls, by which were faintly discerned two things that broke the bareness of the gloomy space. One was, presumably, a low cupboard door. The other was something lying dead on the floor. But it was not a human corpse. It was Sammy, the cat.
12
Ben Receives Instructions
‘Well?’ repeated Mr Smith.
Again Ben did not reply. He was trying to get out of a red mist that had suddenly filled the cellar at the sight of the dead cat.
Ben never liked seeing dead things, but he had seen so many human corpses in his troubled life that, in a sense, he had got used to them. That did not mean, of course, that they could not make him run; just that as a rule he thought more about himself than the corpses at their meetings. But he could never get used to seeing dead animals. See, they ’adn’t ’ad no charnce. One of the reasons he enjoyed cheese, quite apart from the wonderful taste of it, was that you didn’t have to kill anything to get it. You just did something to milk, which couldn’t feel, and lo! there was cheese! It wasn’t like that with animals. They, well, sort of trusted you, especially when they were the kind you made companions of. Sammy had been Ben’s companion. He’d taken to it, and they’d slept together—and now, here it was lying dead, with its head looking as if someone had …
‘It is only a cat,’ said Mr Smith.
He was looking at Ben curiously.
‘That’s right,’ muttered Ben.
‘The one, I take it, you referred to?’
‘That’s right. ’Oo done it?’
‘I did not,’ Mr Smith replied, ‘if that is what you are thinking. People like you and I, Mr Jones, would hardly waste our efforts on such small fry. Please interpret your emotions for me. Is it grief for a departed feline—or just surprise?’
There was something in Mr Smith’s tone, and also in his expression, that warned Ben against revealing the truth of his feelings. He was trying to build himself up as a hard-boiled crook, or at any rate as a man who was prepared to participate in criminal crookedness, and acute sorrow over the demise of a cat was not consistent with the role. He decided therefore that it would be safer to plump for the surprise, and he gathered from Mr Smith’s reception of the false information that he had chosen wisely.
‘I am relieved,’ said Mr Smith, ‘for you are going to have far more than the death of a cat to face before you have finished. But why the surprise? Or, rather, so much of it? Did you expect to see something else?’
‘Wot else?’ replied Ben, cautiously.
‘True—what else could you expect, since you were not really in a position to expect anything? Or were you?’
‘’Ow could I be?’
‘That was my point. You could only have expected to find something here if you had already been in the room.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you haven’t been in the room.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Or have you?’
‘Now I comes ter think of it, corse I ’ave. As I ’adn’t got no key I jest took the door orf the ’inges! Fancy me fergettin’!’ Feigning indignation, he went on, ‘’Ow many more times ’ave I got ter tell yer? Yer mikin’ so much of it, seems like there was somethink ’ere I wasn’t s’posed ter see—so now wot abart me arskin’ a bit? Was there?’
Mr Smith rubbed his chin, and then smiled.
‘As a matter of fact, Mr Jones, there was,’ he said.
‘Oh, there was?’
‘There was.’
‘Wot?’
‘Yes, I think I’ll tell you.’
‘Well, ’ow abart doin’ it?’
‘Our last caretaker was in this room,’ said Mr Smith.
‘Oh!’ muttered Ben. ‘So that’s ’oo ’e was!’
‘Who what was?’
‘Eh? Well, the chap yer tellin’ me abart, ain’t it?’
‘You did know, then, that there was a chap?’
‘You’ve just said so!’
‘And you have just confirmed my impression that you already knew it, though you may not have been certain of the chap’s identity. What was he doing? Knitting?’
‘’Ere,’ complained Ben. ‘I’ve ’ad enough o’ this.’
‘But I haven’t, quite,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘You see, I am wondering how—’ He turned and glanced towards the door. Suddenly he cracked his fingers. ‘But of course! How simple! The keyhole!’
He turned back to Ben, his eyebrows raised enquiringly. Feeling he was losing whatever advantage he may have had, Ben tried to regain it.
‘Well, s’pose I did ’ave a peep through the key’ole?’ he retorted, ‘wot was there against that? If you was alone with a locked door, wouldn’t you try a squint?’
‘I very likely would,’ answered Mr Smith, ‘but I would not keep anything I saw from those I was supposed to be working with.’
‘You’ve kep’ plenty from me, and that’s wot I wanter know! Am I workin’ with you? If I am, why doncher put me wise proper?’
Ignoring the question, Mr Smith again turned to the door, and then took Ben’s arm. ‘Come outside for a moment,’ he said, and led him out into the passage.
‘Wot’s this abart?’ demanded Ben.
‘You’ll see in a moment,’ replied Mr Smith.
He closed the door, and then put his eye to the keyhole. Then he stood away, and ordered Ben to do it. While Ben’s eye peered through, Mr Smith enquired behind him,
&
nbsp; ‘What do you see now?’
‘Nothink,’ answered Ben.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Ain’t I sed so?’
‘What time did you look through the keyhole last night?’
‘Why?’
‘What time—’
‘’Ow do I know? I ain’t got no watch, and even if I ’ad why would I write it dahn? At two minits past seven I coughed, at three past I scratched a tickle, at four past I looked through a key’ole. Some of the questions yer arsk’d mike a kipper cry!’
‘Whatever time it was, I expect it was dark?’
‘Yus. Yer can ’ave that one.’
‘Darker than it is now.’
‘Eh?’
‘I have not known you for twenty-four hours, yet in that time I must have heard you say “Eh” over a thousand times. Would you try and vary it a little? It must have been darker, for now a little light is coming into the cellar through the grating. Yet you can still see nothing. How, then, did you see anything yesterday when you were looking through the keyhole?’
‘I ’aven’t sed—’
‘No, but I’m saying it. Be very careful, Mr Jones. You’re either going to make a lot of money or you’re going to lie on the floor just as you saw the last caretaker doing—and as the cat is now doing. It’s up to you. You may as well admit what I already know, and what you should have told me at once. You saw the caretaker lying dead, didn’t you?’
Ben gave up.
‘Orl right, orl right,’ he grunted. ‘I did. And I didn’t tell yer ’cos I thort it’d be better if you told me, knowin’ yer must of knowed it. And if yer don’t git that, I carn’t ’elp yer!’
‘What I don’t get is how you saw the corpse, and that’s what you’re going to tell me. One more lie, and you’re finished.’ Something pressed into Ben’s back. Mr Smith, still behind him, laughed. ‘Only my finger, Mr Jones. But next time it won’t be. Answer my question. One—two—’
‘Some’un switched on a torch.’
‘Ah! And then?’
‘That’s orl. I’d seed enough!’
‘What you saw being the corpse and the person with the torch?’
‘I didn’t want ter see no more.’
‘Did you see enough to describe to me the person with the torch?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Number Nineteen Page 8