‘For you,’ replied the Spaniard. ‘Down the stairs, now. Quick. You hear him say Time is important!’
Again Ben felt a prick. Again he jumped. Before he knew it, he was on the staircase, with the Spaniard behind him.
‘Don’t move!’ murmured Mr Lovelace to Molly.
He had caught the indignation in her eye, and he noted the quick stiffening of her body,
‘Don’t move,’ he repeated, softly, and now his revolver touched her almost caressingly. ‘And—don’t speak. I know when you are serious. Now I am serious,’
There was no doubting it. Molly, as well as Mr Lovelace, could read signs. Silent and motionless she waited, while Ben descended the staircase, urged by the Spaniard’s knife—crossed the hall—unwillingly opened the front-door—and went out into the night …
The front-door closed. Mr Lovelace and Molly were alone. Mr Lovelace laughed quietly.
‘No—not for a minute, even yet,’ he said. ‘We will give them time. Time, the factor, eh? Time to get well on the road to Southfields!’
‘You think that Spaniard won’t double-cross you?’ muttered Molly.
‘If he gets the chance, he will certainly double-cross me,’ replied Mr Lovelace. ‘That is why I had to pretend your silly story might be true. To make him believe it. But he will not get the chance—or the letter. The letter is here. All he will get at Southfields will be a policeman. Now, where can I put you, my dear, while I telephone to the police-station?’
As Molly stared at him she fought against an odd, traditional instinct of admiration for even crooked cleverness.
‘The policeman will come here, too,’ she said, feeling stifled.
‘Even if the police-station receives only an anonymous call?’ responded Mr Lovelace. ‘Well, if the policeman does come here—and eventually, I admit, he is bound to—what will he find? Just evidence of fresh deeds committed by a Spaniard and a sailor—burglary—murder—worse?’
He shrugged his shoulders, while the cynical smile that was rarely absent played round his lips.
‘And I fear the policeman will also find,’ he added, ‘that these desperadoes have frightened an old man away. Yes, the policeman may even think that they have killed the old man, and hidden his body. There will be a coin or two on the floor, to support the theory—and maybe an overturned chair, eh? But it will not really matter by then what the policeman thinks. The old man, by that time, will be very far away.’
Suddenly the revolver pressed into her so hard that it hurt. ‘Now!’ ordered Mr Lovelace. ‘Get up!’
30
The Mind of Don Pasquali
As the front-door closed behind them, Don Pasquali gave a little chuckle. Freed from the dominance of the old man, his own dominance reasserted itself, and his personality grew and expanded on the dark door-step.
‘Signor Ben, I have no brain,’ he murmured, his teeth gleaming whiter than ever as the heavy, sensual lips parted in a malicious grin. ‘You hear what he say? “You really are a fool, Don Pasquali! No, fool is a word too kind!” So! Well, watch the fool—watch from the earth where the insects lie!’ The Spaniard’s foot shot out and sent Ben sprawling. ‘Now turn and see what the fool do! But do not get up, or the worm is cut in half!’
Ben hardly heard the sneering words behind him. His descending eye had caught something white on the earth. It gleamed for an instant, then vanished as Ben’s body flattened over it.
‘Turn and watch, do you not hear?’ ordered Don Pasquali.
Ben rolled round slowly. His mind, also, was rolling. That white thing.
‘What is the matter?’ demanded the Spaniard.
‘Me cap fell orf, that’s orl!’ muttered Ben, sitting up stupidly.
The Spaniard looked at the cap. It lay on the earth beside Ben, and Ben’s hand was over it. The Spaniard had no idea that something far whiter than Ben’s hand was under it.
‘The cap that is no longer interesting,’ said Don Pasquali, with a frown. ‘Well, we talk of that in a minute. But, first see how I use my knife!’
Ben put up his hands quickly; the knife, however, did not come in his direction. It flashed towards the porch, sawed something, then flashed away again.
‘Do you know what I cut just now?’ asked Pasquali.
‘Yer ’and, I ’ope,’ replied Ben.
‘I cut the telephone wire,’ observed Don Pasquali, boastfully. ‘Now Mr Lovelace cannot tell the police that you and I go to Southfield! Not so bad, eh? For a fool?’
He was parading himself before Ben, driven partly by vanity and partly by the necessity of re-creating himself as a factor to be reckoned with. He had not made much of a show inside the house while the old man had been ordering him about. He needed to wipe out the memory.
Ben also had a need. If Don Pasquali was not the fool Mr Lovelace took him for, Ben must not be the fool Don Pasquali was taking him for. ‘On’y the trouble with me,’ thought Ben miserably, ‘is that I am a fool!’
Still, one spends one’s life trying not to be, so even now, while grovelling on the ground like the lowliest worm, Ben did not give up trying. P’r’aps, if he swallowed his natural feelings, like, he could be subtle, too!
‘Go on!’ he murmured, for a beginning.
Don Pasquali did not quite catch the implication, so Ben explained.
‘Yer don’t mean ’e was goin’ ter ring hup the pleece?’ he said, incredulously.
‘Oh, yes!’ smiled Don Pasquali. ‘And then, he get all!’
‘Wot! Double-cross yer?’
‘Perhaps! But, now, he cannot! I see to that. Get up!’
‘’Arf a mo’—’
‘Get up! Quick! Or I kick you up!’
Ben leapt to his feet, and the Spaniard’s boot missed him by half-an-inch. In his hurry he left his cap on the ground. It seemed, with the Spaniard’s eyes on him, a million miles off.
‘Now we walk a little away, and then we talk,’ said Don Pasquali.
‘Wot abart?’ asked Ben, trying not to look as though his sole thought was the cap.
‘You hear when I tell you.’
‘Eh?’
‘What do you wait for?’
‘Oh, nothink! But me ’ead’s cold, see? Larst time I ’ad a ’air cut, chap said I was goin’ bald.’
He stooped half-heartedly towards the cap, and the Spaniard laughed.
‘It is no use now!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is no longer interesting!’
He drew back his foot to kick the cap before Ben could grab it.
‘Gawd! The front-door’s hopenin’!’ cried Ben.
The Spaniard spun round. Ben leapt upon his cap. As the Spaniard turned back to him he clapped the cap on his head, and the white paper he had grabbed up with it crackled thunderously as it was pressed down on his hair. The Spaniard’s brow darkened.
‘A trick, eh?’ he exclaimed.
‘Yus,’ admitted Ben, while his heart thumped. ‘Wot’s wrong with me ’avin’ me cap? It ain’t worth nothink ter you now. See that old devil in there givin’ it back ter me if it ’ad bin! But, o’ corse, if you think we got time ter waste torkin’ abart it—’
‘No, we have not!’ snapped Don Pasquali. ‘But if there are more tricks, Dios, you pay for them!’
‘Carn’t yer think of nothink but Deeoss?’ muttered Ben. ‘We got lots more!’
The Spaniard seized Ben by the shoulder, and trundled him away from the house. The trick appeared momentarily to have unnerved him again, for he did not say another word until they had nearly reached the gate. Then he stopped, and gave Ben a shake.
‘Now we talk,’ he said.
‘After we git ter Sarthfields?’ replied Ben.
‘We see about Southfield!’ replied Don Pasquali. ‘Perhaps we do not go to Southfield!’
‘Eh?’
‘Perhaps there is nothing at Southfield? Then I go back very quick!’
‘Wot—back ter the ’ouse?’
‘Why not?’
Back to the house? Ben didn’t want t
hat. He thought hard. He must keep Don Pasquali out of the house … Don Pasquali, also thinking hard, watched Ben closely.
‘Yes, why not?’ repeated Don Pasquali. ‘You tell me, Signor Ben! Why not?’
‘It’d be silly,’ muttered Ben. ‘Jest silly!’
‘So? Well, perhaps I do not think it silly! Mr Lovelace would he send me to Southfield if he thought the letter was there—?’
‘Corse ’e wouldn’t!’ agreed Ben, his mind beginning to wake up. ‘’E thinks it’s still in the ’ouse!’ He chuckled realistically. ‘Fer a clever man, ’e’s the biggest mug I ever come acrost!’
‘Why?’ demanded Don Pasquali.
‘Lummy, ain’t it pline?’ retorted Ben. ‘Ain’t it pline as a pike-staff? ’E’s so clever, that bloke, ’e’s too clever, if yer git wot I mean. You ’it it yerself when yer torked abart orl this fool business. ’E ain’t a fool ’cept in thinkin’ heverybody helse is a fool—you and me.’
‘You, too, eh?’
‘Yus! Me! D’yer think they tike hennybody in the Merchant Service? Mr Lovelice thinks you sich a fool that yer won’t git on ter ’is gime, and sime way ’e thinks me sich a fool that I’ll play inter ’is gime! See you not cuttin’ them telerphone wires! And see me not ’idin’ the letter afore I come back ’ere—’
‘It is true, then!’ interposed the Spaniard, excitedly. ‘It is true that you hide the letter somewhere outside the house?’
Ben summoned a look of utter incredulity to his face.
‘Yer don’t mean you didn’t git onter it?’ he exclaimed. ‘Lummy, I thort you was a bit cleverer, like. Corse I ’id it. It’s “somewhere in Sarthfields,” as they sed in the war. But Mr Lovelice don’t believe it—’e thinks it’s still in the ’ouse, the idjit, and ’e tries ter double-cross yer—and now if yer want yer charnce ter do a bit o’ double-crossin’ yerself—well, it’s your’n fer the arskin’!’
Don Pasquali’s eyes grew more and more searching.
‘And you?’ he said, suspiciously. ‘You, also, do your bit of double-crossing?’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Ben. ‘And I hexpeck yer ter give me a drink fer it! Any’ow, I’m cornered, ain’t I, so wot’s the good o’ kickin’?’
‘As you say, it is no good for you to kick,’ agreed Don Pasquali.
He turned his head and glanced towards the house. His hand, still holding his knife, was within a few inches of Ben. A quick jerk, and the knife might be wrested away!
‘Yus, but I’ll bet ’e’s watchin’ me aht of a corner,’ thought Ben. ‘This is one of ’is tricks—ter see if I reely mean ter be good!’
So he resisted temptation, and a moment later Don Pasquali turned back to him.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘We go.’
They passed out through the gate. The lane looked like a black tunnel, for the tall trees that lined it almost met overhead.
‘Which is the way to Southfield?’ asked Don Pasquali.
‘This way,’ replied Ben, pointing the wrong way.
‘And how do we go?’
‘I sold my Rolls-Royce larst week, so we’ll ’ave ter walk.’
‘How far do we walk?’
‘As fur as Sarthfields.’
‘Idiot! How far is Southfield?’
‘Oh. Couple o’ mile.’
‘Then we do it in half-an-hour?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And when we get to Southfield?’
‘Eh? Oh! When we git ter Sarthfield we git the letter.’
‘But where is the letter?’
‘I’m goin’ ter show yer, ain’t I?’
‘Oh, no! Oh, no! You tell me!’ smiled Don Pasquali. ‘You tell me now!’
‘Yus,’ said Ben, ‘and then you nips orf and—orl right, orl right, put yer knife away. You’re in a ’urry, ain’t yer? It’s in a shop.’
‘A shop, yes! Go on!’ exclaimed Don Pasquali, impatiently.
‘Well, I am goin’ on. In a shop. A terbackernist. Chap I knows is lookin’ arter it for me.’
‘Diablo—!’
‘Doncher worry, ’e’s orl right. I sived ’is live once, divin’ orf Brighton Pier in a ragin’ sea, so ’e’d do anythink fer me. “’Ere, ’ide this, will yer?” I ses ter ’im. “And don’t let nobody ’ave it but me.” “Orl right, Ben,” ’e ses, “I ain’t fergot wot you done fer me, divin’ orf Brighton Pier, and with the wives fifty foot ’igh—”’
‘Yes, yes, that is enough!’ interrupted the Spaniard, casting his eyes heavenwards. ‘Dios, the next time you dive you have a big stone round your neck! What is the name of the shop?’
‘’Oo?’
‘The name of the shop! Of your friend—’
‘Oh. ’Iggins. ’Arry ’Iggins.’
‘And Signor ’Iggins, he sell tobacco?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And where is he?’
‘Eh?’
‘Where is the shop of Signor ’Iggins?’
‘Ain’t you ’urryin’? ’Igh Street. ’Arry ’Iggins, ’Igh Street.’
‘The number?’
‘Height.’
‘Can you write?’
‘Wot for?’
‘Can you?’
‘Yus.’
‘Then write now.’ Don Pasquali produced a pencil and a piece of paper. ‘Write and say to Signor ’Iggins that the letter is to be give to me!’
‘No fear!’
‘No?’
Ben felt a sharp jab in his back. He wrote. Don Pasquali took the piece of paper back, read it, and pocketed it.
‘That is good,’ he said. ‘Now, if we get apart, it will not matter. Walk now! And quick. Or shall I prick you again?’
They began their journey. Southfields grew farther and farther away. Ben strove for a brain-wave.
He must get rid of the Spaniard somehow! He must get rid of him before he discovered that he was being led astray. The first job had been to put distance between Don Pasquali and Molly. The second was to see that Don Pasquali never got back to her.
A little way ahead, gleaming darkly through a thin line of trees, was a black surface. A star shone in it, proving it liquid. Ben turned his head towards it, wondering whether he could make use of that silent, unruffled surface.
The next moment he found himself sailing through the air. There followed a splash. The star shivered. Ben went down to meet it.
31
The Mind of Ben
A splash and a dancing star were the last things Ben heard and saw for some while, but presently both hearing and sight returned to him, and he realised that he had not been extinguished from existence even yet. ‘If them ’orrible noises is comin’ out of me,’ he thought, ‘I’m orl right!’
The things he saw were almost as horrible as the noises he heard. They were waves ninety miles high, making rings around his chin; and his chin, as far as he could determine, was paddling. The things he saw were partly responsible for the noises he made, and the result of both was an impetus that seemed by some violent but unscientific method to be propelling his chin. The chin went forward, paused to drink one of the ninety-mile waves, went forward again, and then paused for another drink. ‘If I can keep on makin’ the noises afore the wives stop me,’ thought Ben, ‘I’ll git somewhere, that is, if there’s anywhere ter git. On’y,’ he warned Fate, in case Fate wanted to keep him on earth a little while longer, ‘I can’t drink much more, ’cos I’m full, and that’s a fack!’
Fate heard the warning, and held a branch out to him. He grasped it and pulled. He pulled himself to another branch, and then to another; and when at last a wind-milling hand came down on grass, he discovered at the same moment that the water wasn’t bottomless, and that his boots were touching ooze.
You can’t walk on ooze unassisted, but now the kindest branch of all stretched out over the grass and said (or so Ben swore), ‘Catch hold, Ben—I’m on your side!’ So he caught hold, and he hoisted himself out of the ooze, and he slithered himself on to the grass. And t
here he lay for several minutes, in an orgy of blissful relaxation, without a single care in the world.
The world, however, doesn’t believe in too much bliss, and in due course the cares returned. They returned on the wings of realisation. Ben sat up suddenly, while his reviving mind snapped back sharply to the moment before he had descended into a Surrey pond and disturbed a star.
Don Pasquali had thrown him in. Just as he was thinking of throwing Don Pasquali in! Where was Don Pasquali?
He looked around, moving his head gingerly to avoid noise. He saw no sinister form. He heard no sound. Don Pasquali had vanished.
Well, Ben would have to vanish, also. That was obvious. The question to be decided was, where should he vanish to?
While beginning to revolve this point he gazed at the water from which he had just dragged himself. It looked ridiculously smooth and peaceful. There were now no waves at all—they had been the creations of Ben’s own splashing—and nobody would have realised the agony that calm expanse could produce saving one who had tasted it …
‘’Allo! Wot’s that?’ wondered Ben, as his eye caught a small dark object on the water’s edge.
He stretched forward and touched it. He touched it gingerly, because it might be a wild cat or anything. It proved to be his cap.
‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he muttered. ‘You and me carn’t lose each hother, can we?’
He turned the cap over anxiously, and rejoiced at what he saw. The paper he had picked up from the earth just after leaving the house with Don Pasquali was still inside the cap. It had half-slipped back into the torn lining.
‘The ’oming instinck!’ reflected Ben.
He extracted the paper and looked at it. He could make nothing out in this light, but he knew what it was; he had known all along; and, as he stared at it, he found himself piecing its recent history together, and reconstructing its adventures since he had tossed it up to Molly at the window.
She had caught it. She had taken possession of it. She had examined it. She had ripped the lining and found the letter in it. So much Ben had gathered from her a moment before Mr Lovelace, followed by Don Pasquali, had returned to the house.
But what had happened afterwards? They had waited together in the darkness of the upper landing. She had slipped from his side. He remembered that now. He remembered putting out his hand and missing her. And then she had come back. What had she slipped away for?
Ben Sees It Through Page 20