‘I have the list myself,’ he said, and taking it from his pocket he handed it to Ben.
It was a large sheet headed ‘Wavell & Son,’ and it contained a neat typed list of some dozen houses. No. 19, Billiter Road, was the fourth house down. From Ben’s brief glance the description appeared to have somewhat overstated the desirable premises’ attractions.
‘That’s okay,’ nodded Ben, and handed the list back.
‘And now for what you have for me?’ said the agent. Ben fished in his pocket, and produced the sealed packet.
‘’Ere it is,’ he answered. ‘Jest as I got it.’
Mr Black, now looking slightly curious again, glanced from one to the other as the packet changed hands. But he made no comment, and a short silence ensued, during which Mr Wavell held the packet as though uncertain just what to do with it.
‘It’s jest as I got it orf Mr Smith,’ Ben repeated. ‘The seals ain’t broke.’
All at once the agent woke up.
‘Of course not, of course not,’ he exclaimed, busily. ‘Why should they be?’ He turned to Mr Black. ‘Just something I left behind the last time I saw Mr Smith. Nothing of importance, nothing at all.’
‘Mr Smith being?’ queried Mr Black.
What, didn’t he know?
‘Eh? Oh, the owner of the property. At least—yes, of course, of course. And a nice price he’s asking for it? But he may reduce it, he may reduce it. Well, let’s get cracking. Let’s go down.’
‘Basement first?’ Mr Black enquired.
‘Yes. Bottom upwards, eh? Yes, I think so.’
Once more Mr Wavell seemed uncertain of his next step, for he did not move at once towards the basement stairs. Breaking a further short pause, Ben put a leading question.
‘Will you be wanting me, sir?’ he asked the agent.
‘Ah—will I—? No, I don’t—wait a moment, wait a moment. Yes, yes, after all. Just show Mr Black the drawing-room, will you, Jones, while I—the door on the right, Mr Black. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Ben saw behind the move. Mr Wavell wanted an opportunity to open the packet privately, and afterwards, perhaps, he would be a little clearer in his mind. A nasty bit of work Mr Wavell was, Ben decided. A very nasty bit of work, and he recalled that the lady, whose name even yet he had not learned, had warned him of this. She’d worked for him, and she knew. What was her work? And what had Mr Wavell done that had caused her to leave him? If only there had been time to hear her full story! And if only the packet had not been sealed, so Ben might have learned its contents!
These thoughts ran round and round his mind while he conducted Mr Black into the room which the agent had indicated. It was the one room on that floor which contained any furniture, and Ben had not been in it since his original investigation of the house on the evening before. While his mind was busy, he watched Mr Black out of the corner of his eye, and although Mr Black gazed round dutifully at the couch and the armchair and the gate-legged table with the blue china vase on it, he himself seemed to be watching Ben. ‘If ’e’s thinkin’ I’m a rum sort o’ caretaiker,’ reflected Ben, ‘’e’s sed it!’
Mr Black made a remark after a few moments which suggested Ben’s guess was a good one.
‘I have been trying to make out where you come from,’ he said. ‘There is something almost foreign in your appearance—I once had a French manservant who looked something like you—but your voice is definitely—well, insular.’
Ben had no idea what insular meant, but whatever it was he felt it must be wrong, and he suddenly remembered that he was making no effort to change his usual voice to fit his unusual face.
‘That would be becorse me father and me mother was so dif’rent,’ he answered, carefully.
‘H’m. Well, there may be something in that.’
‘There is, sir. When a black cat and a white cat matches up, that’s ’ow you get a black cat with a white ’ead.’
‘Indeed? I am learning.’
‘This is a nice room, sir, is it not?’ said Ben, to change the subject.
‘That is a matter of opinion. I cannot say I think very much of the view,’ responded Mr Black.
‘Oh, them roofs. Well, see, that’s bomb damage, but it all gits covered up in the summer, wot with things growin’ and that.’
‘I understood you only took this job yesterday.’
‘Eh?’
‘Perhaps you have not had much time yet to tidy up? But I should have thought, if you work with four brooms, you would have finished the whole house by now.’
What did that mean? Ben followed Mr Black’s eyes, and suddenly knew what he meant. Mr Black was looking at the broken vase at the foot of the curtain, and the hammer.
‘Will that damage have to figure in Mr Wavell’s report?’
‘That wasn’t done by me,’ muttered Ben.
‘No? By whom, if one may ask?’
Before Ben could formulate any reply, the agent came bustling into the room. He emanated a false brightness which did not deceive Ben. ‘That packet wer’n’t no nerve tonic,’ decided Ben. ‘’E’s still worried!’
‘Well, well, here we are!’ exclaimed Mr Wavell breezily, like one bringing good news. ‘How do you like it, Mr Black? But perhaps you’d better wait for your verdict until you’ve seen the whole place. Let me see, the basement, wasn’t it? We were going to start there, and work upwards.’ He swung round to Ben. ‘We won’t be needing you any more, Jones. You can go up to your room, where I’ve no doubt you have work to do.’ Twisting round to Mr Black again: ‘I’ll follow you, Mr Black. We must get moving. I’ll follow you.’
With a slight shrug Mr Black left the room, but Mr Wavell lingered by Ben till Mr Black was in the hall. Then a quick whisper tickled Ben’s ear.
‘Stay here! I may want you! Come if I call!’
Before Ben could reply, if reply were expected, Mr Wavell had slid out of the room, and he was alone again.
16
Where’s Mr Black?
‘Nah wot?’ wondered Ben.
It was a question to which he had no answer, and the next four minutes, while by no means the worst he had so far endured in this uncomfortable adventure or was destined to endure before it ended, had a savour of unpleasantness peculiarly their own. At any moment anything might happen, though nothing actually did. In the uncanny silence that followed the fading out of Mr Black’s and Mr Wavell’s footsteps down the basement stairs, he stood tensely at attention, expecting a shout or a thud or a scream or a shot, or any one of the countless sounds which imply trouble. Ben knew them all! Whichever one occurred would be a call to action. What action? No good arskin’ ’im! All he knew was that it wouldn’t be any fun.
After the four minutes had run their painful course—to Ben they had seemed more like forty—he decided that it might be a good idea to relax a little. It is exhausting to maintain, for two hundred and forty seconds, the attitude of a sprinter waiting for the starting pistol. Unstiffening himself, he waited another minute, then moved cautiously to the door and poked his head out.
Not a sound came up from below. The hall was oppressively empty. Oppressively? Didn’t he want it to be empty? What was it he missed, then? Not the agent or the house-hunter, certainly, for their absence was far preferable to their presence. But he did miss something, and it wasn’t the cat this time, either. All at once he got it. He had vaguely hoped he might see the lady. It was not merely her company he would have welcomed, but a sight of her would have reassured him as to her safety. He had left her down in that basement. He prayed she had made her get-away before the new callers had descended. A nuisance they’d gone down! If only they’d gone up instead! Because—well—suppose—?
’Allo! Wot was that? Something at last! Or was it? Blast his imagination! Think of a thing hard enough and you hatch it. Now he was imagining the cry he had been expecting. Lummy, and now he was imagining a distant scuffle. Just the echo of contending bodies. Oi, that’s enough, that’s enough! Once imagination
gets a proper grip on you there’s no holding it!
Drawn forward against his will, he left the room and moved towards the basement stairs across the gloomy echoing hall, but as he reached the top of the stairs he drew back quickly at the sound of someone at the bottom.
The someone began to come up, his unwelcome progress marked by the dismal clang of boot on stone. Well, a clang was better than a crunch, for it was the monnertrocity who crunched!
As the hurried steps grew closer Ben retreated to the back room door, and from there watched the answer to his question develop out of the staircase gloom. It was the agent, alone. Mr Wavell looked a little less tidy and far more worried than when he had descended. Reaching the top of the stairs and not seeing Ben for a moment, he lurched towards the front door. Then he stopped abruptly, as though remembering something. Ben guessed as Mr Wavell half-turned and saw him that he was what had suddenly been remembered.
‘Oh—you still here?’ blinked Mr Wavell fatuously.
‘Where else I’d be?’ answered Ben.
‘What?’
‘Didn’t yer tell me ter stick arahnd in caise yer wanted me?’
Trying to pull himself together, Mr Wavell nodded.
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ he said.
‘And yer didn’t want me?’ went on Ben.
With a vacuous laugh, the agent retorted, ‘Well, does it look like it?’
‘No, it don’t.’
‘All right, then.’
‘I ’ope so.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘I’ll tell you wot it does look like!’
‘What?’ The monosyllable was snapped out. ‘Don’t start getting funny!’
‘I ain’t feelin’ funny, guv’nor, no more’n you are! It looks like yer didn’t need me ter ’elp yer ’cos yer fahnd yer could do it by yerself.’
‘Do what?’
‘I’ve told yer my ’arf. That’s the ’arf I want yer ter tell me!’
‘Here! You’re talking nonsense, my man, and I’ve no time for it!’ exclaimed Mr Wavell. ‘Good-morning!’
He began to move towards the front door again, but his movement was uncertain, and he paused once more at Ben’s next question.
‘Where’s Mr Black?’
‘Mr Black?’
‘Ain’t you never ’eard of ’im?’
‘Of course I’ve—what the deuce has come over you?’ The attempt at indignation was not very successful. ‘You’re the caretaker here, aren’t you? All right, then! Stick to your job, and leave others to do theirs.’
‘Oh! You jest done a job, then?’ enquired Ben, stolidly.
When your companion is more nervous than you are, you acquire a comparative courage.
‘Job?’ repeated Mr Wavell angrily, and then looked scared at the loudness of his voice.
‘Where’s Mr Black?’
‘If you want to know, he’s—he’s left.’
‘I didn’t see him go.’
‘I can’t help that, can I? And now I’m going myself. If anybody—’
‘’E ain’t gorn,’ said Ben.
‘I tell you he has!’
‘I’d of seed ’im! I bin ’ere orl the time.’
‘I see! And so you think that therefore you must have seen him go?’
‘I didn’t go ter sleep.’
A crafty light illumined Mr Wavell’s eye, without beautifying it.
‘Mr Black,’ said the agent, ‘left by the back door.’
‘Oh!’
‘Satisfied?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? No, never mind, what the blazes does it matter if you’re satisfied or not—’
‘You arsked!’
‘Very well, then. Why not?’
‘’Cos why should ’e?’
‘Damnation! He was in a hurry!’
‘I see,’ said Ben. ‘’E was in such a ’urry ’e ’adn’t time ter come up the stairs and go aht the way ’e come in. ’E ’ad ter ketch a trine—’
‘As a matter of fact, he had—’
‘And so ’e goes aht of the back door wot I locked and kep’ the key in me pocket.’
Mr Wavell’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What! You locked it, you say?’
‘That’s wot I sed.’
‘And—and have the key—’
‘No. It’s dahnstairs in the door, but yer’d of knowed I couldn’t of ’ad it if Mr Black went aht that way.’
The situation could have been more lucidly expressed, but Mr Wavell interpreted it, and suddenly took out a handkerchief to wipe a moist brow.
‘Now, listen to me,’ he said, with a sort of desperate earnestness. ‘If there are things you don’t understand about me, there are things I don’t understand about you! Let’s straighten this out a bit. You’ve already confirmed that you are the caretaker here. I take it that is correct?’
‘Orl correck,’ agreed Ben.
‘Which, being so,’ continued Mr Wavell, now beginning to choose his words carefully, ‘I take it you have been informed of your duties?’
‘I bin told.’
‘How much have you been told?’
‘Ah!’
‘Most informative! One thing might be not to ask questions?’
‘Yus, and another might be not ter answer ’em!’
With an ineffective attempt to regain distinction, Mr Wavell stiffened.
‘You do know, I suppose, the difference between a man in my position and a man in yours? An agent—a reputable agent—and a caretaker—’
‘’Ow abart leavin’ aht the respertable?’
‘What? God bless my soul! All right, then! We will certainly leave out the adjectives, which goes for both of us. Now, then, we’ll begin again, and this time I hope keep our minds clear! Frankly I never met anybody like you, and hope I never do again. You were engaged by—er—Mr Smith to do a job. We will not enquire too deeply into the kind of job, but—shall we say—not quite the usual sort of a job?’
‘That’s okay.’
‘And one of your jobs was to give me a packet?’
‘Yus.’
‘The contents of which you—knew?’
‘Eh?’
‘Did you know?’
‘The seals wasn’t broke.’
‘I recall that. If they had been, you and I would not be talking together now so—h’m—amicably?’ Mr Wavell gave a sudden smile that reminded Ben of sour sugar. If sugar could be sour. Could it? Milk went sour, and then you got cheese. If sugar went sour, saying it could, what—
‘Are you listening?’ came Mr Wavell’s voice, raspingly.
‘That’s right,’ answered Ben, unwinding. ‘The seals wasn’t broke and that’s mide us amiacal like. Well, wot abart it?’
‘What I am trying to say—what I asked you was, even though the seals were not broken, did you know what the packet contained?’
‘’Ow could I?’
‘Mr Smith didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t guess?’
‘I guessed it was somethink smutty.’
‘Meaning—?’
‘Well, somethink that the pleece might ’ave thort orf the track, if yer git me.’
‘Exactly,’ nodded Mr Wavell. ‘And so—knowing that—why are you worrying so much about what has happened to Mr Black? If you get me?’
‘I git yer,’ answered Ben. ‘Yer mean, ’e ain’t gorn.’
‘Would that trouble you?’
‘’E’s still ’ere?’
Mr Wavell considered his reply, then said, ‘Yes—in a sense.’
‘Wot sense?’ Ben’s heart gave a jump. ‘Yer don’t mean—jest ’is body like?’
‘And if I did?’ Mr Wavell thrust his head forward, and suddenly Ben became conscious of his bulging pale blue eyes and rather flabby cheeks; and in the tense little moment that followed, during which the agent stood motionless, he turned into a wax figure in the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s, with a label attached to him:
‘The Murderer of Mr Black.’ And beside him was another figure in a light grey suit, with brown hair and a small moustache, bearing the label: ‘The Murderer of Mr Bretherton.’ And beside him yet another, the worst of all, with large flat bare feet and an enormous misshapen three-eyed head: ‘The Murderer of Seven Caretakers.’ And beside him—Ben?…
‘God above, what are you staring at!’ cried Mr Wavell, as something snapped inside him. ‘I’ve had enough of you! I’m going!’
‘’Arf a mo’!’ jerked Ben.
He extended a hand to detain him, and Mr Wavell, misinterpreting the movement through his neurotic condition into one of violence, struck at him. Ben ducked and struck back, and the next instant they were both rolling on the ground in a tussle which neither had intended nor wanted. The agent was the first to regain his feet. When Ben started rolling he generally went on for a long while. Limping to the door, his face contorted with pain, Mr Wavell seized the handle and pulled the door open. But he did not go out. For a moment he stood transfixed, a wax figure once more, while Ben stopped rolling and began to get up. Then the door was swiftly closed again, and Mr Wavell backed to the basement staircase, his eyes fixed on the door as he backed.
Ben’s imagination, which often outstripped reality and was now working hard, conjured up a vision of the corpse of Mr Black mounting the front steps. The agent’s expression of fascinated fear suited the conception. Ben found himself watching the door with him.
‘Some’un comin’?’ muttered Ben.
Mr Wavell did not reply immediately. There was no need to. It soon became obvious that someone was coming, and any lingering doubt was dissipated by the sound of the bell. ’Ow Ben ’ated that bell!
‘Get rid of her!’ whispered Mr Wavell, no longer an antagonist but imploring co-operation. ‘Get rid of her! I’m not here! I’ve never been here. I’m not—’
And then he wasn’t, for he vanished down the basement stairs, ending at the bottom with a crash.
‘Nah, listen!’ said Ben to himself. ‘I ain’t goin’ ter ’urry this. I gotter git me breath back, ain’t I? Orl right, then! I ain’t goin’ ter ’urry it, see?’
He did not hurry. He let the bell ring twice. Then as he went to open the door his anxiety all at once changed to relief. ‘She,’ he’d said. She! Well, of course, that would be the lady he had been talking to before Mr Wavell and Mr Black arrived. Mug, again, not to think of it! She’d been hovering around to finish their conversation, and now believed the coast was clear. And Mr Wavell didn’t want to meet her because she’d worked for him—didn’t she say she had?—yes, of course she did—and she’d found him out.
Number Nineteen Page 11