Number Nineteen

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mr Wavell didn’t want me. ’E tole me ter stay above, ready like, in caise I was wanted.’

  ‘I see. And you weren’t wanted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Black again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And when Mr Wavell returned by the cupboard, he wasn’t talking to anybody, so he probably returned alone.’

  ‘Yer’d think it.’

  Her mind harped back. Suddenly she shot another question. It was one Ben had been waiting for.

  ‘Didn’t you mention something you had to give to Mr Wavell when he came?’

  ‘That’s right, miss,’ answered Ben. ‘A parcel. ’E arsked fer it, and ’e went aht o’ the room I was showin’ Mr Black over ter open it—leastwise, that’s wot it must of bin. And then they went dahn tergether, and on’y ’im come up agine. And then ’is old woman come along, and I reckon yer knows wot ’appened arter that!’

  ‘Yes, I know!’ she returned, grimly. ‘I wouldn’t be in Mr Wavell’s shoes at this moment!’

  ‘Yer right,’ agreed Ben, ‘though that don’t mean I mightn’t be ready ter chainge with ’im! Well, there we are, miss, and it seems ter me that p’r’aps we ought ter stop torkin’ nah, and ter start doin’!’

  ‘I agree,’ responded Miss Bretherton. ‘Only—doing what?’

  Ben hesitated. ‘’Ave you any idea?’

  Rather to his surprise, she nodded. ‘I think it’s the same idea as your own,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get through that locked door into the cellar!’

  20

  The Enemy Closes In

  Miss Bretherton’s guess was only partly correct. It had been Ben’s idea to have another shot at the cellar, but an alternative idea was taking its place. It was not a new idea, and it was an obvious idea, but equally obvious had been Ben’s reasons hitherto against adopting it. Now, however, he had Miss Bretherton to think of as well as himself.

  ‘Yus, some’un’s gotter git inter that there cellar,’ he replied, ‘and that’s a fack, but ’ow abart letting the pleece do it?’

  She regarded him solemnly.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want the police here just yet,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it may put me on a spot,’ he answered, ‘but there’s others ter think abart, ain’t there?’

  ‘Do you mean Mr Black?’

  ‘Well, ’e’s one of ’em.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Wot abart you?’

  ‘Me—?’

  ‘Yus, miss. It ain’t goin’ ter be no birthday party messin’ arahnd that there cellar.’

  ‘I didn’t come here expecting a birthday party,’ she returned. ‘I came here—’

  She paused, almost as though wondering herself, while Ben regarded her uneasily.

  ‘Yus, yer come ’ere, and yer’d better not of,’ he said. ‘Yer orter’ve kep’ aht of it, like yer brother sed.’

  ‘But that was before—all this happened,’ she reminded him. ‘Would he have expected me to sit still now and do nothing?’

  ‘Well, no,’ agreed Ben. ‘Wot ’e’d of expected yer to do would be ter go ter the pleece.’ And then he suddenly asked, ‘Yus, why didn’t yer?’

  She frowned.

  ‘The police came to me,’ she answered.

  ‘Yus—corse, they would! So why—?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell them about this house? This may surprise you. It wasn’t till after they had gone that I thought about this house.’

  That did surprise Ben.

  ‘Go on!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘It’s true I might have thought of it,’ she said, ‘but it’s also true that I didn’t. Remember I wasn’t working on this with him. I just started him off, and then he went on with it by himself. He didn’t talk to me about it—I hadn’t even seen him for a month. No,’ she went on, in self-extenuation, ‘there was no special reason why I should have connected this house with his death. He had other enemies—like most others engaged in his kind of work.’

  ‘I git yer,’ nodded Ben. ‘But wot abart when yer did think of it?’

  ‘When I did think of it, I came right here.’

  ‘Withaht goin’ ter the pleece fust?’

  ‘What should I have told them? There was nothing really definite. Anyway, whether I was right or wrong I followed my impulse and came along myself to see whether there was anything to find out here. I hadn’t much hope, you may like to know, when you opened the door to me. Of course,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘I could have gone to the police when I left you last night. That side-whisker of yours was certainly suspicious! But there still wasn’t anything really definite to report to them, and I decided that we must finish our interrupted conversation, you and I, before I brought the police in.’

  ‘Yus, yer said yer was comin’ back,’ answered Ben, ‘but nah we ’ave finished our conversashun—’

  ‘Which, among other things, has shown me why you haven’t been for the police,’ she interrupted, ‘and why you didn’t want them!’

  ‘A fat charnce I ’ad ter git ’em if I ’ad wanted ’em! Yus, but nah it’s dif’rent, miss,’ he went on. ‘Not on’y you gotter be kep’ aht of it—I mean, see, if there’s ter be any rough stuff, git me?—but there’s this Mr Black. See, them others was dead afore I could do nothink abart ’em, and when yer dead yer dead, but, well, we dunno yet wot’s ’appened ter Mr Black, and if ’e’s in that cellar wantin’ ’elp, we gotter see it’s the kind of ’elp ’e needs! That’s right, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s right,’ Miss Bretherton replied, ‘all but one thing.’

  ‘Wozzat?’

  ‘You don’t really think, do you, that I’m going home to knit while what you call the rough stuff is going on?’

  ‘We wouldn’t want yer ’ere, miss.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Don’t be too sure of that! After the rough stuff come the bandages! Never mind, leave that for the moment,’ she exclaimed, anticipating more protests. ‘We’re agreed that the police must be fetched, and we can decide later how we sort ourselves out. Who’ll go? I expect I’d better.’

  ‘Yus, they’re more likely ter believe you.’

  ‘One thing I’m going to make them believe is that you’re straight. What will you do while I’m gone?’

  ‘Eh? Oh—well, I dessay I’ll mike a start like.’

  ‘No!’ she said, sharply. ‘You must wait!’

  ‘Not if the pleece keeps yer torkin’.’

  ‘They won’t! I’ll see they don’t! Wait till I come back with them—don’t forget, somebody’s got to be here to let us in, and we don’t want to be let in by the wrong person! It might be your monstrosity, whoever that is,’ she added, grimly. ‘I’ll slip out the back way.’

  She jumped up from her chair, then paused a little uncertainly now the moment for action had arrived.

  ‘Nothing more, is there—before I go?’

  ‘No, miss,’ replied Ben, ‘barrin’ makin’ sure the bobby yer bring back is a good strong ’un!’

  ‘I’ll bring back a whole army of strong ones, if I can,’ she promised, now making for the door. ‘Well, I’m away. Look after yourself.’

  He followed her to the back door, and after she had slipped out he waited a few seconds, closed the door, and then turned towards the passage that led to the locked cellar. Wait? No bloomin’ fear! There’d been a durn sight too much waiting already, and he realised with something of a shock, and also an uneasy sense of shame, how long had elapsed since Mr Black had vanished. But was it his fault? One thing had happened on top of another, and he couldn’t recall that he’d had a moment. After Mr Black had gone down, Mr Wavell had come up, and then there’d been Mrs Wavell, and then there’d been Miss Bretherton’s black-out, and then there’d been that long talk which had had to be got through—or had it? He might change his opinion if, after he had broken into the cellar, never mind how he was going to do it, he found Mr Black hanging from the ceili
ng on a rope!

  He wished he hadn’t thought of that. Ben did not need to paint pictures, he often told himself. It would be a waste of time. They came into his mind with an unwelcome vividness, and against that dim mental background they showed up more clearly, and also more startlingly, than in any frame! The picture in Ben’s mind now was of Mr Black at the end of the rope upside down.

  All this jumble of vision and thought happened on the way to the cellar door. Now he was at the door, and his hand was moving cautiously towards the handle. But he drew it back before it got there, and decided to apply his eye to the keyhole first. About to stoop, he suddenly stiffened. Someone was moving in the passage behind him.

  The late vision of Mr Black hanging upside down was replaced by a far worse one. It was of a huge ape-like man with two heads and four spongy feet. It was really time, perhaps, for Ben to meet the monnertrocity face to face—or, in his present conception, face to two faces—for its shape and aspect were becoming so increasingly horrific that nothing short of the reality could wipe it out!

  He tried to move. He found that he couldn’t. Somehow he’d got stuck. ‘I know wot it is,’ he decided. ‘I’m dead. See, it’s orl ’appened, but when yer dead yer fergit it. See, it’s orl over, and yer in the nex’ plice, wherever that is. Corse, that’s it. I’m dead.’

  A moment later, or a fraction of a moment, for you can die and be born again in a fraction, he made the disastrous discovery that he was not dead. He could still hear the sound, and it was coming closer … Oh, well, never mind. He soon would be. And that was what he wanted. wasn’t it?

  He tried to think of something nice. The little girl he had helped across the road came into his mind. He thought of her hard. We never know how we help each other …

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The words fell upon his ear almost in a whisper. He found now that he could move. He turned round to face, not the monnertrocity, but Miss Bretherton.

  ‘’Arf a mo’,’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ ter be sick.’

  But he just saved himself, and found himself listening to her explanation.

  ‘It’s no good. They’re outside,’ she said.

  ‘’Oo?’ gulped Ben.

  ‘Two men. One is Smith, the other I don’t know, but they were standing, talking. Luckily I saw them before they saw me. What were you doing?’

  ‘Eh? I—I jest thort I’d ’ave a squint through the key’ole.’

  ‘You looked as if something had happened.

  ‘You ’appened! Are yer sure it was Smith?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure. From your description, and my recollection. I’ve no idea who the other man is—’

  ‘I ’ave, miss. It’s proberly the bloke that was with ’im when I was brort ’ere and ’oo pertended ter be that bobby. Was they comin’ in?’

  ‘Just talking, and glancing towards this house. They were across the road. They may be here any moment.’

  ‘’Ow abart boltin’ the back door?’

  ‘I’ve done it! Is the front door bolted?’

  ‘I dunno. No, I don’t think it is, but Smith sed ’e could git in if it was. Any’ow I better go up and ’ave a look.’

  ‘Will that do any good?’

  ‘Yer mean, are we goin’ ter try and keep ’em aht?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I mean. We’ve got to plan something or other, haven’t we?’

  ‘That’s right, miss, and I reckon the fust plan is ter find aht if they’re comin’ or goin’. P’r’aps they’re jest goin’ on standin’ there. Watchin’ like.’

  ‘Suppose they are?’

  ‘Yer mean, withaht no charnce of slippin’ by ’em ter fetch the pleece?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ben thought. ‘Well, miss, they’d see yer, but they’d ’ardly go fer yer. In ’ere, they might, but not in the street.’

  ‘I agree to that, but if they saw me, what would they do?’

  ‘’Ow’s this fer a guess? One’d foller yer, t’other’d come in ’ere ter see wot was up.’

  ‘And then? Forget me for a moment, and the one who would be following me—I expect I’d find my policeman just the same and bring him along. But what about you?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d have given them the signal, and the man who came in here would act upon it, and this is my guess! When I arrived here with my policeman you’d be missing!’

  Ben retorted, ‘Yus, and if we both stays ’ere we’ll both be missin’! Nah listen, miss, I’m goin’ ter tork sense! Like yer brother would. Yer ain’t goin’ ter stay ’ere, and I dunno wot’s up with me fer lettin’ yer stay so long, that’s a fack. Mr Black’ll ’ave ter waite till I git yer aht, and I’m goin’ up nah ter the front door fer a look-see—yer know, careful like—and I’m arskin’ yer ter stay where yer are, or, no, in the kitching, till I comes dahn. If they’ve gorn, then you ’op it, and if they ’aven’t—well, then I got another way I think I can beat ’em.’

  ‘What’s your other way?’

  ‘I think they calls it creetin’ a disversion, or somethink like that. Say yer chucks a bottle aht of a winder ter make ’em look that way, then while they’re lookin’ that way you pops orf the other. Any’ow, that’s if they ain’t gorn, and I’m goin’ up nah ter find aht.’

  Before she could offer any further protest he slid by her and made for the stairs.

  He could not believe as he mounted them that the last time he had done so was to answer Mr Wavell’s ring at 10.30. He had no idea of the present time, for he did not run to a wrist-watch, but by now 10.30 seemed many hours ago. He prayed as he mounted that either Miss Bretherton had been mistaken, or that the two men had merely paused by the house and had now passed on. He had spoken confidently about his alternative plan, but his voice had contained more confidence than he felt. The only thing he was sure of was that Miss Bretherton had now become his first concern, and that somehow or other he must get her away from this danger zone. See, she must of been through a bit, losin’ her brother like that, and then she was a nice lidy, too, yer couldn’t get away from it.

  Reaching the front door, he wondered how he was going to get a squint without being squinted at himself. To open the door would be folly. The fanlight was too high to reach. What about the letter-box? But it proved one of those inconvenient ones, with a metal flap over the slit that only lifted a little distance. Possibly if you got a stool and stood on it on your head you could see through a bit, but the bit you saw would be upwards, and a view of a chimney would be hardly worth the trouble.

  ‘’Ow abart a ’igher floor?’ he wondered.

  Yes, that was the wheeze. Go up to the next floor and see what was doing from a front room window. He ascended the flight on the lowest steps of which he had spent most of the night—was that why Sammy suddenly shot into his mind, and he looked down at his feet as though the cat might still be there?—and when he reached it, went into a front room. He crawled across the floor till he got to the window, and then cautiously raised his head till his eyes drew level with the glass.

  ‘Gorn!’ he sighed, with relief. Then he groaned. ‘No, they ’aven’t! There they are! Lummy, and nah they’re crossin’ the road!’

  He twisted round, sped back to the door, and legged it down two flights in record time, reaching the bottom in a flat sprawl. As he picked himself up, feeling a little reproachful that Miss Bretherton did not appear to assist in the process, he called hoarsely,

  ‘Oi! They’re comin’!’

  There was no reply. All at once the silence chilled him.

  ‘Oi!’ he called again. ‘Oi, miss! Where are yer?’

  On his feet once more, he began looking around. His heart thumped now with more than the physical exertion of speeding down stairs. He looked in the kitchen and the larder and the scullery and the cupboards. There was not a sign of her.

  Then hope revived. Corse! She must of got a charnce while he was upstairs and took it. She was orf fer the pleece!

  But the hope was dashed by a glance at the back door.
It was still bolted.

  21

  The Locked Door

  Ben’s first impulse, in face of this proof that Miss Bretherton had vanished somewhere inside the house, was to unbolt the back door, rush out into the street, and yell, ‘’Elp!’ In the emotion of the moment he did make a movement towards doing so. But then he realised that while he was rushing out through the back door, Smith and his companion would be coming in through the front door, and that when he returned with whoever had responded to his summons, both doors would probably be bolted again and Gawd knows what would be ’appenin’ be’ind ’em! The situation outlined by Miss Bretherton herself had been substantially reversed; instead of her returning with help to find Ben missing, he would return through having found her missing!

  And then what would he say to any passer-by who paused to enquire what was the matter? There might not be any passer-by, for Billiter Road was an unfrequented thoroughfare, and he might have to go into another to find them. He listened to his feverish voice trying to explain: ‘Oi, there’s a lidy in Nummer Nineteen wot’s vanished, leastwise she seems ter of, it’s ter do with that murder, the one yesterday—’ (only yesterday) ‘—on the park seat, the one there’s a pickchure of in terday’s paipers, on’y corse it wasn’t me wot done it but I knows ’oo did, and ’e’s in there along with some others, and we gotter find ’er, lummy, ’urry up, wotcher waitin’ for?’ How long would it take, Ben wondered, to convince whoever heard such an oration that he wasn’t, at best, a lunatic?

  Once he had rushed out of another house—the number that time had been seventeen—and it had taken more than a bit to convince the fellow he had bounced into that he wasn’t looney.

  So, instead of acting on his first impulse, Ben turned from the back door and made for the cellar. He had not worked out any theory—he was afraid to—but everything bad seemed to have its origin behind that locked door, and so he obviously turned to it. ‘Wot I gotter do,’ he thought, deciding on the apparently impossible, ‘is ter git that door open afore Smith and ’is pal come along. I gotter do it, see, I gotter do it—some’ow!’