Number Nineteen

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  All eyes, including Ben’s, were on the monnertrocity. Just as Ben had diverted this creature by standing on his head, so now did the creature divert by the same means six others from their grim business—the Chief, the Owl, Smith and George, who had been silent spectators of the preceding scene, the Professor, and Miss Bretherton. They were all staring in complete astonishment at the unexpected sight, and were so intent on it that Ben, now standing in full view in the doorway, was unnoticed.

  ‘What—the devil—!’ came a mutter from Smith.

  ‘I fear,’ said the Owl, ‘our friend has now gone finally out of his mind.’

  ‘Look out!’ cried George.

  For the monnertrocity had abruptly retrieved his normal position and leapt towards Smith, pointing to the ground as he did so. Smith backed away. Disappointed, the monnertrocity turned to George with the same result. George also backed, refusing to oblige. Anger now began to mingle with the creature’s disappointment, and as he moved forward and made a grab, George ducked and struck.

  Ben seized the moment. As a rule he did all the wrong things, but now he seemed to be doing all the right ones, and he realised that if he could take advantage of the monnertrocity’s irate mood he might turn a former foe into an active ally. With a roar he hurled himself at the astonished George. The monnertrocity, recognising his former playmate and contrasting him favourably with the rest of the company, joined in this new game and hurled himself at Smith, but in a few moments the lust for fun was swamped by the lust for battle, and pandemonium reigned.

  Somehow Ben kept his head. ‘Git ’er aht quick!’ he shouted as the Professor was about to join in the fray. The Professor kept his head, too, and seizing Miss Bretherton’s arm made for the door as a shot rang out. It came from the Chief. ‘Gawd, ’urry!’ yelled Ben. ‘I’m arter yer!’ He said it to get rid of them, as he saw Miss Bretherton waver, but he did not believe it, for the Chief’s revolver was now directed towards him. ‘I ’ope ’e ’it’s me in the middle,’ thought Ben, ‘’cos then it’ll be quick!’ He just had time to land a beauty on Smith’s chin—that would make a nice last memory—when the bullet came. But it did not hit Ben in the middle. It hit the swooping monnertrocity. Ben heard him drop with a thud.

  Ben wanted to stop, but his legs wouldn’t let him. ‘I fergive yer fer the cat!’ he wept, and fled out through the darkness.

  A third shot followed him.

  28

  The Nightmare Chimes Out

  Ben laughed. When somebody asked him why, he did not trouble to find out who it was, but went on laughing. At least, he supposed the laughter was coming from him, but of course it might be someone else. You never knew. You never knew anything.

  Presently he explained.

  ‘Mind yer, it ain’t really funny,’ he said, ‘but a thing don’t orlways ’ave ter be funny ter git yer. ’Ave yer ever seed a chicken runnin’ abart withaht it’s ’ead? Well, that ain’t funny, but it gits yer.’

  ‘How about going to sleep again, and telling us another time?’ came the suggestion.

  That was another somebody, but Ben still didn’t trouble about identities. Plenty of time for that when the mists cleared.

  ‘Go ter sleep agine? No thanks!’ he answered whoever-it-was. ‘That’s wot I was larfin’ abart! When yer goes ter sleep yer never knows where yer goin’ ter wike up, and I’ve ’ad enuff o’ that fer a month o’ Sundays! Fust it’s a bed, and then it’s a kitching floor, and then it’s a staircaise, and then it’s the bottom of another staircaise, and nah it’s a cooch! Lummy, if I goes ter sleep agine, nex’ time it’ll be atop of a ’ay-stack!’

  Then, suddenly, the mists cleared. That was how it generally happened with Ben. Fust, everythink’s fur-orf like, and then bing! it gits close so quick it almost ’its yer! He found himself staring at Miss Bretherton and the Professor.

  ‘Oh! It’s you,’ he blinked.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Miss Bretherton.

  ‘I orlways thort Perfessers ’ad beards,’ said Ben. As the Professor and Miss Bretherton exchanged glances he added, ‘It’s orl right, I often gits funny thorts, it don’t matter. Wot ’appened?’

  ‘Are you quite sure you’re ready to talk?’

  ‘Well, yer goin’ ter do the torkin’, aincher?’

  ‘True. But drink this first.’

  Ben took the glass that was handed to him, and downed the contents obediently. The contents were a bit disappointing, but they did their job.

  ‘I’ll begin, shall I?’ said Miss Bretherton, addressing her question to the Professor, who nodded. She turned back to Ben. ‘After all, I’ve not very much to tell, and you may know or guess most of it. Do you know what happened to me when you went upstairs to see if the coast was clear? After we’d decided to try for the police?’

  ‘I knows yer was gorn when I come dahn agine,’ replied Ben, ‘and as the back door was bolted I knew yer ’adn’t gorn aht. Did the—the monnertrocity pop aht of the cellar and git yer?’

  She smiled faintly at the Professor’s enquiring look.

  ‘That is what he calls the hairy deaf-mute,’ she told him.

  ‘Ah, Tarzan,’ murmured the Professor.

  ‘Yes, it was Tarzan who jumped out at me, Ben, only a few moments after you’d gone upstairs. He was so quick there wasn’t even time to scream—and he had his large hand over my mouth, anyway. He carried me through the cellar to the man they called the Chief and his interpreter, but I don’t remember much for a bit—not until they brought you in, Professor.’ She shuddered. ‘It was a horrible moment!’

  ‘For me, too,’ returned the Professor. ‘I guessed their devilish design. And when that hideous creature began to—’

  ‘Please don’t talk about it!’ she interrupted. ‘Luckily—thanks to Ben—I was only given that one sample! You see,’ she turned to Ben again, ‘that first interview in the Chief’s room was interrupted. I’m not quite clear about all that happened, but we were sent away when the other two men arrived, and not brought back until just before you and—your Monnertrocity turned up. Well—isn’t that all? You know the rest—but did you understand it?’ She shook her head. ‘Whatever made him act as he did? Though thank God for it!’

  ‘Yus, I can tell yer that,’ answered Ben.

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘See, I showed ’im ’ow.’ They stared at him while he explained. ‘It was arter the Chief ’ad finished with me, arter I’d gorn in through the cellar arter you—’

  ‘How did you get in?’ interrupted Miss Bretherton.

  ‘Eh? Oh, well, see, I fahnd orl the doors unlocked. I expeck they was too bizzy with you and Mr Black—leastwise that’s wot ’e called ’iself fust, ain’t it, so that’s wot I called ’im—any’ow I expeck they was too bizzy with you ter send the monnertrocity arter me that time, and corse them other two ’adn’t turned up yet, bein’ be’ind me, so they lef’ the doors unlocked knowin’ I’d come arter yer sime as a mouse goes arter cheese, yer don’t ’ave ter fetch ’em to it, do yer? So in I goes, and dahn I tumbles, and when I come to I’m took orf ter the Chief and the Owl—’

  ‘Owl?’

  ‘Eh? That’s the one yer calls the intrumpeter, any’ow that’s where I was took arter the tumble and ’earin’ yer scream, lummy, that ’urt me ’most as much as it ’urt you, well, in a manner o’ speakin’, and jest when I thinks I’m gittin’ ’em ter berlieve I’m a wrong ’un, so’s I can git ’em ter tike me ter you, I finds they’re on’y pullin’ me leg, like they jest wanted nothink more’n ter ’ear me tork—’

  ‘They would hardly wish to miss that,’ murmured the Professor, softly.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Nothing. Please go on.’

  ‘Well, there ain’t much more,’ continued Ben, ‘leastwise not till we comes up ter the part wot yer knows where I joined yer. See, the monnertrocity ’ad took me away somewheres ter finish me orf, that’s wot ’appened ter everybody wot knew too much—yer remember, miss, I warned yer abart that, didn’t
I?—and then, orl of a suddin, jest as ’e was gittin’ ready ter spring on me and I was sayin’ good-bye ter life like and thinkin’ ’as it bin fun or ’as it?—well, then I gits wot’s called a hinserpaishun, and if Gawd didn’t put it inside o’ me, arsk me another! Do yer remember me torkin’ abart wot’s called maikin’ a divvishun? It was when we was tryin’ ter think o’ ways o’ gittin’ ter the pleece?’

  Miss Bretherton nodded. For the moment she was speechless before Ben’s onrush of words, and with the Professor was trying to keep up with them.

  ‘Well, that’s wot I did, miss. I mide a divvishun. I stood on me’ ead, and yer orter’ve seed the monnertrocity’s fice! Corse, I couldn’t see it meself not afore ’e come rahnd fer a closer look, see, when yer stands on yer ’ead yer finds yerself lookin’ t’other way, and if yer don’t git me, try it, but any’ow it did the trick, and ter keep it orl goin’ like I got ’im ter stand on ’is ’ead, and ’e was so pleased ’e almost kissed me!’ He paused for an instant, and his voice was a little shaky as he went on. ‘Yer know—it’s funny—but yer gotter know a bloke ter find aht orl abart ’im, aincher—and then, arter ’e gits ter know you, too—corse, yer both gotter do it—’ He paused again, and swallowed. ‘Well, any’ow, ’stead o’ goin’ fer me, orf ’e trots ter do ’is new trick ter the rest of yer, and corse I follers. ’E wanted ter see the ’ole lot ’ave a go, ’e’d ’ave bin on ter you nex’. But—well, yer knows wot ’appened arter that. On’y p’r’aps there’s one thing yer don’t know.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked the Professor, quietly.

  ‘If it ’adn’t bin fer the monnertrocity,’ replied Ben, ‘I wouldn’t be ’ere. Wherever ’ere is.’

  ‘My flat,’ Miss Bretherton told him. ‘You mean if he hadn’t changed his mind about killing you?’

  ‘No, miss. I mean if ’e ’adn’t jumped atween me and the Chief when the Chief ’ad a pot at me arter missin’ you. Corse,’ said Ben, reflectively, ‘it might of jest ’appened that way, yer never know, but on the other ’and ’e might of meant ter do it fer me. You know, us nah bein’ friends like. Well, come ter that, p’r’aps I’d of done the sime fer ’im—in spite o’ wot ’e done ter the cat. Yer never know, do yer? Not in a crissis. If yer git me?’

  ‘I get you, Ben,’ said Miss Bretherton.

  Suddenly Ben exclaimed, ‘Yus, but ’arf a mo’! The Chief ’ad another pot at me jest as I was comin’ aht arter you—and that one ’it me! So why ain’t I dead?’

  Now the Professor took up the story.

  ‘It did not hit you,’ he said.

  ‘Go on! I never walked ’ere!’

  ‘No. You were carried—at least, the first part of the journey. That third bullet grazed you but it did not hit you, and you may have collapsed through the shock of thinking you were dead. Not very surprising after all you had been through.’

  Ben nodded. ‘That’s right, sir. It’s become a ’abit. I didn’t need no doctor, then, eh?’

  ‘My own medical knowledge is sufficient. I began my career as a doctor. Then—well, I became more interested in science. I wonder, now, if that suggests anything to you?’

  Ben found the Professor’s eyes fixed on him with grim enquiry.

  ‘Do yer mean, sir,’ he answered, as certain recent newspaper headlines passed through his mind, ‘that yer was goin’ ter be one o’ them Disappearin’ Perfessers like?’

  ‘But for you,’ came the dry response, ‘I should certainly have disappeared, although not perhaps in the form originally intended. What would you say if I told you that much of the Chief’s business was connected with disappearing professors—and others as well, for that matter—and that when you opened the door to me this morning I was expected to pass some very valuable scientific information on to a foreign power?’

  Ben fished in his mind uncomfortably for the right reply.

  ‘What would you say?’ repeated the Professor. ‘You appear to have some ethical code.’

  ‘I dunno wot that is,’ answered Ben, ‘but p’r’aps I’d say I was lucky not ter ’ave a wife, ’cos, see, I on’y got meself ter worry abart.’

  The Professor turned to Miss Bretherton with a smile.

  ‘He whitewashes everybody,’ he remarked.

  ‘There’s a packet in Nummer Nineteen I wouldn’t whitewash with a barge pole!’ he denied. ‘Wot’s ’appened to ’em?’

  ‘They are no longer in No. 19. I don’t know what has happened to the Chief and his interpreter, but the other two are in the hands of the police.’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘That should not surprise you. I expect they knew the game was up, and in their effort to escape they kindly opened doors for us.’

  ‘Well, well! Wotcher know abart that?’ He asked, hopefully, ‘Does that mean, sir, we can nah drop aht of it?’

  ‘Well, not quite at once,’ replied the Professor. ‘We’ve got to make our statements and give our evidence, you know, and to have them accepted. I’d better tell you that a police sergeant is waiting below at this moment, to come up when you are ready for him.’

  ‘Oh, is ’e? ’Ow nice!’ muttered Ben. ‘And s’pose my heavidunce ain’t accepted?’ His mind harped back to the start of it all, and he turned to Miss Bretherton. ‘Yer ain’t fergot them finger-prints o’ mine, miss, wot Smith planted on the knife wot killed yer brother?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Ben,’ she answered. ‘There’s too much else in your favour. Do you feel ready for that policeman now? To get it over?’ She added with a smile, ‘I’ve taken off your side-whiskers.’

  Ben grinned back. ‘I wunnered why my cheeks was cold!’

  The Professor left the room. As he did so, a clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour. Ben switched his body round to stare at the clock-face unbelievingly.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Miss Bretherton.

  ‘Lummy—that was four o’clock—the time it begun!’ he blinked. ‘’As it orl ’appened in twenty-four hours?… Go on!’

  THE END

  About the Author

  Son of novelist Benjamin Farjeon, and brother to children’s author Eleanor, playwright Herbert and composer Harry, Joseph Jefferson Farjeon (1883–1955) began work as an actor and freelance journalist before inevitably turning his own hand to writing fiction. Described by the Sunday Times as ‘a master of the art of blending horrors with humour’, Farjeon was a prolific author of mystery novels, with more than 60 books published between 1924 and 1955. His first play, No. 17, was produced at the New Theatre in 1925, when the actor Leon M. Lion ‘made all London laugh’ as Ben the tramp, an unorthodox amateur detective who became the most enduring of all Farjeon’s creations. Rewritten as a novel in 1926 and filmed by Alfred Hitchcock six years later, with Mr Lion reprising his role, No.17’s success led to seven further books featuring the warm-hearted but danger-prone Ben: ‘Ben is not merely a character but a parable—a mixture of Trimalchio and the Old Kent Road, a notable coward, a notable hero, above all a supreme humourist’ (Seton Dearden, Time and Tide). Although he had become largely forgotten over the 60 years since his death, J. Jefferson Farjeon’s reputation made an impressive resurgence in 2014 when his 1937 Crime Club book Mystery in White was reprinted by the British Library, returning him to the bestseller lists and resulting in readers wanting to know more about this enigmatic author from the Golden Age of detective fiction.

  Also in this series

  No. 17

  The House Opposite

  Murderer’s Trail

  Ben Sees It Through

  Little God Ben

  Detective Ben

  Ben on the Job

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