Ben Sees It Through

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘Meanin’, o’ corse, with ’oles in,’ he told himself.

  Away to the right lay the city he was flying from. Gloaming cloaked, blessedly, the road. There was no sight of Southampton’s activity from this peaceful spot, no throb of its distant sound. The only sounds were immediate sounds—of wind blowing in fitful gusts as it played hide-and-seek with itself round corners, of dead leaves indignantly awakened by the game, of a little dog barking behind a wall, of a sign creaking somewhere. Each of these sounds was capable of striking terror into any soul, for the heart of sound is its association; but, to Ben regaining his breath on his post, the sounds were sweet, because they had nothing to do with dead men in taxi-cabs and hands with livid red scars.

  In front of him was the wall beyond which the little dog barked. It divided Ben from a thousand other stories, even the little dog’s, but Ben was only interested in his own. To the left, a faint light glimmered, contending for supremacy against the waning day. The sign creaked above it. That meant a drink.

  Well, this was where he was. Now the next question arose. What was he going to do?

  Ben worked on this for a long time. Longer than, during the actual inoperative process, he realised. He only began to realise it when he found himself sitting on the ground and wondered how he had got there. Apparently, instead of working on the question, he had worked off the post.

  All right. Stay where you find yourself. That was as good a motto as any. Ben did most of his thinking from the bottom level.

  But, after another lapse of time, he discovered that his thinking wasn’t leading anywhere. So he cut the question into two—(1) what should he do presently in a general way, and (2) what should he do now in a specific way—threw the former, more difficult half over the wall to the dog, and concentrated on the second, simpler half. The second half was simple because its solution was clearly indicated by the creaking sign.

  ‘Yer brine’s no good while yer throat’s arskin’ fer it,’ he decided.

  Whereupon he rose, and, having removed himself from the road, he proceeded to remove the road from himself. More particularly from the latter portion of himself. He didn’t want no clues on his trousers.

  And then he heard a car coming along the road from Southampton. It came in the middle of a big gust of wind, and he did not hear it until the gust had died down. Then his heart began to increase its pace. Not that a car was anything to be afraid of, but his heart was behaving as unreasonably as his brain, and was just as anxious for that drink.

  ‘Go on! Wot’s a car?’ he chided himself.

  As the car approached he adopted an attitude of excessive unconcern and decided to whistle. You can’t whistle when you’re worried, so if he whistled it would prove he wasn’t worried. The only snag in the theory was that he found he couldn’t whistle.

  Only one car in ten thousand would have stopped on seeing Ben. This proved to be the one. The brakes were applied sharply, and there was an unRollsroycian squeak. Now Ben did not even try to whistle.

  What was the car stopping for? Perhaps the driver wanted a drink, too? Thus Ben clutched at his straw. But the straw slipped away in his hand. The driver wanted Ben.

  ‘Hallo, there!’ he called.

  Ben’s stomach turned over with relief. It was the petty officer whose duty on board a ship lately arrived at Southampton had been to look after a man who looked after cows. The future will be simplified if we admit that the officer’s name was Jones.

  ‘Hallo, there! Not a bad distance for Shanks’s pony,’ cried Jones. ‘Where are you heading for?’

  ‘Anywhere,’ replied Ben, noncommittally.

  ‘Well, that’s as good as anywhere else,’ grinned the officer. ‘But you’re not going to tell me you were going to pass that pub?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Say, have you ever counted how many “Eh’s” you say per day? It must be somewhere in the thousands. However, I’ve something more int’restin’ to talk about. Have you seen a blood-thirsty Spaniard anywhere about?’

  Ben’s heart jumped. On the point of another ‘Eh?’ he altered it to ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Eh, ’oo, ’ow and oi—that’s about all the bright conversation you’ve got! Spaniard! A murdering Spaniard! He’s around loose somewhere. Have you seen ’im?’

  ‘Wot for?’ murmured Ben.

  ‘Well, not for pleasure, I’d imagine! I say, what’s up with you? You look as green as cabbage!’

  ‘Go on!’ retorted Ben, slowly fighting back. ‘Anybody’d turn green, ’earin’ abart a murderer, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Murderer’s right,’ nodded Jones, with a frown. ‘And now you can get ready to turn a bit greener. Who d’you s’pose he’s murdered?’

  ‘Wot—did ’e do it?’ gasped Ben.

  ‘Hallo!’ cried Jones, sharply. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Oh, shut that! What do you know about this?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘No, Ramsay MacDonald, of course! Buttons and braces, have you ever been known to answer a question properly? What do you know?’

  ‘Nothink.’

  ‘Then what did you say “Did ’e do it?” for?’ pressed Jones. ‘What did you mean by “it”?’

  ‘That was the murder.’

  ‘Well, go on?’

  ‘You sed ’e done a murder, didn’t yer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s the one I’m arskin’ abart,’ said Ben. Jones gave it up.

  ‘The chap who’s been murdered,’ said Jones, ‘is our supercargo.’

  ‘Go on!’ muttered Ben. And then suddenly added, ‘Well, if ’e done it, it’d let anybody else aht, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not an accomplice,’ answered Jones, ‘and he’s believed to have had one. It’s a queer business altogether. You see, the fellow was killed in a taxi-cab, and this other bloke seems to have bunked out of the taxi immediately afterwards. However, don’t ask me for details,’ he added. ‘All I know is that the police are after both of ’em, and that I wouldn’t care to be in either of their shoes. Like to jump in and join in the hunt?’

  Ben gulped, and shook his head.

  ‘Why not? Free ride!’ urged Jones. ‘You’ve got no other appointment!’

  ‘Yus, I ’ave.’

  ‘Oh! What?’

  ‘Gotter see a man abart a helefant.’

  ‘Blamed fool! About a drink, you mean! Hallo, where did you get your new cap from?’ He stared at Ben, and then suddenly swung his head round. ‘By Jove!’ he cried. ‘Hear that? Police whistles!’

  In a flash he was turning his car. Not far off, shrill blasts pierced the gloaming. A second or two later, the car vanished back along the road.

  Ben stared after it. Had he been a fool? ‘Arter orl, I ain’t done nothink!’ he told himself. But he had been blamed for hundreds of things he hadn’t done. And he had to admit that, in his fright, he had acted suspicious, like. And when you act suspicious, like, people aren’t apt to believe you, like.

  So he resisted a momentary impulse to go after Mr Jones, and decided that the best plan was to keep right out of it.

  The next instant, however, he was right in it. Someone slipped out of a shadow and laid a hand on his shoulder. He had only seen the hand once before in his life, but he recognised it the moment it touched him. And, this time, he was unable to wriggle away.

  4

  Diablo!

  If you can move, move quickly. If you can’t, keep quite still. Such was Ben’s motto in the horrible moments of life. This was a horrible moment, and he kept quite still.

  The owner of the hand that was pressing on his shoulder with fingers that felt like hot sharp knives also kept quite still. Utter immobility seemed to be a mutual need while the police whistles sounded fainter and fainter in the distance, and until they finally died away. But when silence reigned again, the owner of the hand moved; and, to his surprise, Ben found himself moving, too.

  The hot sharp knives were propelling him and directing him. The
y propelled and directed him into the long shadow of the wall, and they kept him in the long shadow until the wall took an unexpected, narrow turn. Now Ben was between two walls, and there was nothing whatever but shadow. He felt as though he were being marched along a black plank, with a drop into further blackness at the end of it.

  Then, suddenly, the unpleasant journey concluded, and he was jerked into a halt. Behind him, in a low fierce whisper, sounded the voice of his captor.

  ‘Now, say!’ the voice commanded. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Wotcher mean, ’oo am I?’ muttered Ben. ‘That won’t ’elp yer!’

  ‘Answer!’

  ‘Well, tike yer ’and orf me neck—’

  ‘Sst!’

  ‘And don’t spit!’

  ‘Diablo!’ hissed the man behind him, and Ben’s heart gave a jump. Diablo! He’d heard that before! Diablo was Spanish for ‘Bother!’ … ‘Answer, as I say!’

  ‘Corse, it’s heasy ter tork when yer ’avin’ yer gullet choked,’ retorted Ben. ‘But if yer want it, me nime’s Ben, and me At ’Ome Day’s fust Fridays.’

  ‘Ben, eh?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Si!’

  ‘That’s right. Jest come orf it.’

  ‘No more that!’ The voice grew more menacing. ‘Now say again. Say why you run?’

  ‘’Cos yer was arter me.’

  ‘Arter?’

  ‘Arter. Chise. Try ter catch.’

  ‘Oh! So I try to catch you?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘And so—you run?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘But before I try to catch you?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You still run? Say, now! Why you run before I try to catch you?’

  Ben thought he would try to run again, but as he gave a lurch the fingers tightened on his neck and his breath began to go. ‘Oi! Stow that!’ he gulped. ‘I won’t be no good to yer flabby!’

  ‘Dios meo!’ rasped his captor. ‘Speak what I say, and no more! Why you run away?’

  ‘Gawd, yer worse’n a cop!’ murmured Ben. ‘Why was I runnin’ away? Well, I reckon you knows that as well as I do … Orl right, orl right! I was runnin’ away ’cos—’cos a chap wot I was with died sudden, like.’

  ‘Died?’

  ‘Ain’t I tellin’ yer? If you don’t comprennez the langwidge you orter’ve stayed at ’ome—’

  ‘Who is it that die?’

  ‘I’ve toljer!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chap I was with.’

  ‘Diablo!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But who were you with?’

  ‘Chap wot died. Eh? Well, ’ow do I know. I on’y jest met ’im.’

  ‘Si, si! You meet him and you say “Buenos dias,” and he die!’

  ‘I never tole ’im ter dias—’

  Then the whole Spanish dictionary descended upon Ben, and he felt something prick his back. He recognised that prick. It was a part of the Spanish Constitution, and in a panic he poured out particulars.

  ‘’Is nime was White. Leastwise, that’s wot ’e sed. ’E got torkin’ ter me when we was on the boat, see, and then ’e got torkin’ ter me when we got ashore, see, and then—’ere, stoppit, I’m goin’ as quick as I can, ain’t I?—and then ’e got torkin’ when we was in the cab, and so, well, we got torkin’—’

  ‘But what you talk about?’ interrupted the Spaniard.

  ‘Eh? Orl sorts o’ things,’ replied Ben. ‘Weather. Price o’ bernarners. You know.’

  ‘I do not know! But I get to know! You tell me! Quick! Yes?’

  The prick was reborn in Ben’s back.

  ‘Lummy, wotcher want me ter tell yer?’ yelped Ben. ‘Me bloomin’ ige? He tells me abart a job, see—’

  ‘Job?’

  ‘Yus. Persishun. Tells me if I goes along I can ’ave it—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Where, where?’

  ‘Oh! Where did ’e tell me ter go?’

  ‘Si!’

  ‘’E tells me ter go ter the plice where the job is.’

  The Spaniard swore. Ben swore back. The Spaniard swore again, and won.

  ‘Wimbledon,’ muttered Ben. ‘Wimbledon Common.’

  ‘But the house?’ pressed the Spaniard.

  ‘I’ve fergot it.’

  ‘Then how you go there?’

  ‘It’s on a bit o’ piper.’

  ‘Piper?’

  ‘Yus. ’E wrote it.’

  The Spaniard’s eyes gleamed, but Ben did not see as the eyes were behind him.

  ‘Show me,’ ordered the Spaniard.

  ‘Yus, and ’ave ’im follerin’ me,’ thought Ben. ‘No blinkin’ fear!’

  ‘Show me!’ repeated the Spaniard, and his voice grew more tense.

  ‘Carn’t,’ replied Ben. ‘I lorst it.’

  ‘You lie!’ threatened the Spaniard.

  ‘Wot, me lie? There’s a thing ter say!’ protested Ben, and then suddenly jumped. ‘’Ere, tike yer dirty ’and aht o’ me pocket! I tell yer I lorst it—it ain’t there.’

  ‘But something else is there, eh?’ retorted the Spaniard, while his bony fingers felt around Ben’s middle. ‘This dead man! This White. He give you something else, eh?’

  Something else? Lummy! Was the Spaniard after his pound?

  Urged now by the financial aspect, it is possible that Ben would have continued his protest and, by so doing, would have ended his uneasy life in a narrow passageway on the outskirts of Southampton. But the Spaniard suddenly stiffened. A moment later, a policeman came round the corner.

  The policeman was a smart fellow. On this occasion, however, he was not quite smart enough. He did not realise that he was face to face with a couple of speed kings. While the Spaniard used his legs, the Briton used his arms, and unfortunately for official prestige the constable’s face was within the circuit of the arms. Caught in the first whirling of the human windmill, the constable fell to the ground; and, when the human windmill stopped whirling, the constable was still trying to come back to earth from a confusion of distant stars.

  Ben, of course, had not intended to knock the policeman down. He respected the law even while the law refused to return the compliment. Confronted with a situation that refused to reveal any immediate solution, he had merely obeyed the self-protective instinct of endeavouring to transform himself temporarily into a danger zone, and any man whose arms are revolving at the speed of fifty revolutions per second is a danger zone.

  But now, his energy spent, the late human windmill stared down at the policeman’s recumbent form, while the enormity of his offence percolated into his steaming brain.

  Previously, Ben had run away from the menace of suspicion. Now he would have to run away from the menace of fact. It is not an offence to be with a man when he is murdered, provided you are not one of the main parties, but it is an offence to knock a bobby down. The only bright spot in the miserable situation was that the Spaniard had gone, and that a yellow hand with a red scar upon it was no longer groping about Ben’s underfed person.

  ‘Thank Gawd ’e’s ’opped it!’ reflected Ben. ‘And now I’m goin’ ter ’op it!’

  Hopping it was fast developing into his normal mode of progress.

  But, before Ben hopped it, he took a risk. He paused and stooped over the policeman’s prostrate form to ascertain that he still lived. ‘It’d be jest my bloomin’ luck,’ he thought, ‘if I’d killed ’im.’

  Happily for both of them, the policeman was not dead. Indeed, as Ben peered down, the policeman began to show such obvious signs of life that Ben abruptly reared himself erect again, and lost no more time in hopping it.

  Once more he sped. He sped in a circle. It was a very large circle and a very fast circle. Possibly an astronomer on Mars spotted it and reported a ring round Southampton, reviving an extinct theory that the earth was inhabited, but Ben himself did not know it was a circle until he had completed it, and found himself on
ce more under a creaking sign.

  You or I might not have recognised the creaking of the sign. Ben, however, did. He was a creak expert, having more or less lived with creaks all his life. The creak of the stair, the creak of a ship, the creak of a door, the creak of a boot—he knew them all. He knew the difference between the creak that preceded a sudden rush and the creak that was merely investigatory, between the creak courageous and the creak cautious. Once, during an unusually long sojourn in an empty house, he had learned the creaks so well that, for the sake of convenience, he had numbered them. No. 3 was the back door. No. 6 was the hall window. No. 9 was the boot-cupboard. No. 17 was the loose stair on the way to the attic. He himself performed No. 17 while escaping from No. 9.

  After this, inn-signs were child’s-play!

  And thus Ben recognised that the sign now creaking above him, almost invisible in the increased gloaming, was the sign that had creaked near by when the Spaniard had laid an unwelcome hand upon his shoulder.

  It was a depressing discovery. He had run five miles, and they had got him nowhere! But even more depressing was a discovery that dawned a few moments later, while he stood hesitating and wiping his forehead with his cap.

  Voices were sounding from the road along which he had come.

  As with creaks, so with voices. Again Ben was an expert, and he did not need to know their words before he knew their temper. These voices, experience told him, were panting voices. Indignant voices. Excited voices. Official voices. Determined voices …

  ‘Along here?’

  ‘Quiet, now!’

  ‘D’you think he stopped?’

  ‘What about that pub?’

  And then a figure suddenly materialised close to him. It materialised in a startling flash. The voices had not sounded so close!

  In a flash no less startling, Ben entered the inn. There seemed no alternative. The figure barred the way ahead, and the approaching voices barred the way behind.

  He found himself in the public bar. His mind was so confused that he could not have told you at the moment whether the bar were full or empty. His whole being was concentrated on the figure that had sent him diving into this dubious sanctuary, and he stood stock still in the expectation that the figure would follow him.