Ben Sees It Through

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Why, it was obvious! She knew they were about to be caught. She knew the letter would be found if either of them had it. Even if it remained in the house, it must be found. So she had slipped into the only room that had an unlocked door on the upper landing—the room in which the dead dog lay—and she had dropped the letter out of the window …

  ‘Lummy, if she ain’t clever!’ marvelled Ben. ‘Clever as they mike ’em!’

  And, while he continued to ponder—for it was necessary to follow Molly’s mind in order to make up his own—he saw the completeness of her scheme and of her intention. ‘Quick—hide—and when I’ve drawn them off—’ her whispered instruction had begun. If there had been time to conclude the instruction she would have added ‘—Nip down the stairs—the coast will be clear—and out of the house. The letter will be outside somewhere, under a window. Find it, and take it—’

  Where?

  Well, now he had found the letter! In a roundabout way, her plan was working! But what was the conclusion of the plan? Where did she mean him to take it? Yes, and what of herself, in the meantime?

  Sitting on the edge of the pond, Ben struggled to work the problem out. There were four possibilities, and not only the fate of the letter, but the fate of Molly, probably depended on his choosing the right one. He surveyed each in turn, and wished his brain had been in a cooler condition for the job.

  ‘Fust, go back ter the ’ouse. Wot abart it?’

  Apart from sharing Molly’s danger, he could not see any advantage in this course. Mr Lovelace was in control at the house, and would remain in control. To return, with the letter in his possession, would merely be playing into his hands. And, when Don Pasquali returned, also, after his fruitless journey to Southfields, the complications would increase. For Don Pasquali would obviously return. Unless—

  ‘Nummer two, go arter Don Pasquali ter Sarthfields, and stop ’im! Wot abart that?’

  How would Ben stop him? How, at this instance, would he even find him? There was, of course, no ’Arry ’Iggins, of Height ’Igh Street. The second alternative seemed even more hopeless than the first.

  ‘Nummer three—tike the letter ter the pleece.’

  That might have been Molly’s intention. Get bobbies on the job, and let them clear it up!

  But in the clearing-up process, Ben would be cleared up, too! And Molly, perhaps, as well. Ben was quite ready by now to risk his own security, but he wasn’t going to risk Molly’s. In fact, Molly’s security was the only thing he cared a brass farthing about, and the more he thought of the police, the less he believed they would be of any assistance in that direction.

  ‘Fust thing they’ll do is ter clap ’old o’ me and tell me ter ’old me tongue,’ he reflected. ‘See ’em listenin’ ter the story I’d ’ave ter tell ’em. “We’ve got yer now, and yer’ll wait till yer spoke ter, see?” That’s wot they’d say. And afore I can tell ’em wot they got ter do it’ll be too late!’

  Too late, Ben decided, was any time after ten o’clock.

  Well, what about the fourth possibility? What about going to Joseph Medway, M.P., by whom the distressful letter was signed? Was that, after all, what Molly would have told him to do?

  The more he thought of the fourth possibility, the more he warmed to it. If the police wouldn’t help him, Joseph Medway might! In fact, that would be the price Ben would claim for the letter! Medway was a big pot—the sort who could pull strings! Unless he pulled them and got Molly out of her scrape, he shouldn’t be got out of his scrape.

  Yes! Now he’d got it! Now he’d got the plan he’d been searching for! Little Ben would only help Big Ben on terms!

  And thus Ben turned blackmailer himself, but with the highest of human motives.

  ‘Yus, but where does Big Ben live?’ he thought suddenly, ‘and ’ow am I goin’ ter find ’im?’

  As though in answer to the thought he became conscious of an uncomfortable pressure on the inside of his left foot. For a moment he concluded that something had worked inside the boot while he had been in the water—a bit of wood off the top or a bit of congealing mud off the bottom. Then he remembered the tiny card-case he had found by the gate of Greystones, and the lady’s visiting card with the name Violet Medway upon it.

  ‘Yus, and the haddress’ll be on it, too!’ he exclaimed.

  He dived towards his left boot excitedly. Lummy, here was a bit of luck! Yet was it luck? There seemed to be some plan behind it all, some settled scheme that connected all these fragments of happenings together and built them into a picture that Ben had been destined, even while a ship was ploughing its way Southamptonwards, to complete.

  It was through no coincidence that the young lady had visited Mr Lovelace on the same day that Ben had been propelled into his house. They had both gone there on the same business, though from different angles. Ben had gone, unconsciously, to deliver a letter. The young lady—had gone to receive it?

  ‘S’pose she’s ’is dorter,’ reflected Ben, while his hand fumbled with his boot, ‘and s’pose she knows abart them letters of warnin’, like, and s’pose, when I fust come acrost ’er, she was wonderin’ if they’d bin posted in that there pillar-box, ’avin’ seen their postmarks, like, ’cos they ’ad bin posted at that pillar-box, ’adn’t they, and s’pose she’s bin tryin’ ter find the ’ouse, and seein’ me s’pose she gits suspishus like, and follers me, and sees me go in, and arter a time goes in ’erself, pertendin’ she was faint like, and then s’pose when I’m hup the chimbley and the old man’s gorn fer that glass o’ water she arst for not wantin’ it she jumps up, well, didn’t I ’ear ’er, and looks arahnd quick fer the letter, and finds somethink helse, though I’m blamed if I knows wot, but didn’t I ’ear ’er gasp arter she’d hopened a drawer?… Blarst it, it’s got hunder me ’eel … Yus, and then orf she goes, and drops the blinkin’ card-case, and I picks it hup, and ’ere it is, comin’ aht o’ me boot, orl ready fer me ter go to ’er ’ouse and say I fahnd somethink she lorst. And then, when I gits fice ter fice with ’er, I ses, “Yus, but ’arf a mo’, yer don’t ’ave it if yer don’t tike me quick as blazes to yer farther,” and then, when she does that, I ses to ’er farther, or wotever ’e is to ’er, I ses the sime thing, see? I ses I got somethink I’ve fahnd that ’e’s lorst, and I ses to ’im, “Yus, but yer don’t ’ave it if yer don’t go quick as blazes ter the ’ouse where I finds it, with me, with lots o’ bobbies, yer’ll want a lot, and if yer don’t stop Parlyment fer a bit while yer git my friend Molly away from a old man wot’s doin’ Gawd knows wot to ’er, yus, and a Spaniard wot’s goin’ ter do a lot more if we don’t git there afore ten o’clock, see? And you gotter see that Molly don’t go ter prison or anythink like that, but you can do wot yer like ter me, that don’t matter, so long as you look arter ’er and git ’er away from wot she’s goin’ through nah, at this minit. Yus, arter that I’ll give yer the letter, but not afore, so don’t you think it!”’

  From which it will be gathered that Ben’s mind was working more swiftly than his fingers.

  But at last the fingers reaped their reward, though not until the sodden left boot had been removed, and at last the little card-case was secured.

  Of course, he couldn’t read the address on the card. It was much too dark, and he hadn’t a match. But he slipped the case into a pocket that had no holes above card-case size, squelshed his boot on again, and rose. All he needed now, to complete the preliminaries, was a light.

  He received the light the next moment. It came to him from the road, in the form of a constable’s lamp.

  32

  Conversion of a Constable

  ‘Hallo!’ said the policeman. ‘Been havin’ a swim?’

  Ben looked at the policeman, but didn’t see him. All he saw was the blinding light of the lamp, and for an instant it extinguished the far more feeble light in his mind.

  ‘I asked you if you’d been havin’ a swim,’ repeated the policeman.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Ben. ‘Practi
sin’ fer the Channel.’

  ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ replied the policeman.

  ‘Not if yer ’eart’s in it,’ blinked Ben. ‘Goodnight.’

  The policeman did not take the hint. He played his lamp up and down Ben’s moist frame, and then proceeded,

  ‘Well, let’s stop being funny and have the truth. What happened? Did you fall in?’

  ‘Fall in!’ retorted Ben. ‘There’s a hidea! No, I stood on the top o’ St Paul’s and dived.’

  The policeman frowned. But clearly he was not going to be budged by sarcasm. His tone became a little more ominous as he relinquished one point and started on another.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Gettin’ dry,’ Ben told him.

  ‘Would you like to come along with me to a place where you’d get drier?’ suggested the policeman.

  ‘Wotcher mean?’ answered Ben, uncomfortably.

  ‘There’s a nice fire at the police station.’

  ‘I ain’t doin’ nothink!’

  ‘No, you’re not even answering questions when they’re asked you,’ agreed the policeman.

  ‘You try, with the sun in yer eyes,’ responded Ben. ‘Switch orf yer light, and then p’r’aps I’ll get me thinker back.’

  The policeman removed the lamp from Ben’s eyes, though not before he had climbed over a broken fence that divided the lane from the field, and had got within seizing distance of his victim.

  ‘That better?’ he inquired, sarcastically. ‘well, now let’s see whether your thinker improves a bit. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve toljer—’

  ‘How did you fall in?’

  ‘Slipped on a loose stone or somethink.’

  ‘Let’s see the stone!’

  ‘Yer can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cos that fell in, too.’

  ‘Well, where’s the place?’

  ‘Jest where yer lookin’.’

  ‘I see. So you were standing there, eh?’

  ‘Right fust time.’

  ‘Why were you standing there?’

  ‘I don’t know wotcher mean.’

  ‘Yes, you do! You know very well what I mean! What I mean is that I want to know why you left the lane and came into this field? Were you trying to get away from anybody?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Think again.’

  ‘I ’ave. ’Oo’d I wanter git away from? I ’adn’t met you then!’

  ‘There’s plenty of other people,’ the policeman pointed out, and suddenly Ben found the light full on him again. ‘A couple of people in a lorry, for instance. Do you know anything about them?’

  ‘No,’ replied Ben, while his heart missed a beat. ‘Wot ’ave they done?’

  ‘They’ve not done anything.’ retorted the policeman. ‘What’ve you done?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Is there some water still in your ears?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I done anythink lately—not since I run orf with the Bank of Hengland.’ The policeman laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Lummy, heverythink’s crooked to a bobby! Do yer ’ave lessons in bein’ suspishus?’

  ‘You’re going to have the lesson,’ returned the policeman. ‘Come along!’

  The official hand tightened on his shoulder. Ben realised that the situation was becoming desperate. Even if he were taken to a police station and nothing were proved against him, valuable time would be lost and his plan of saving Molly would be frustrated. But probably something would be proved against him, despite the fact that there was nothing to prove, and meanwhile Molly would remain at the mercy of a murderous old man and a worse than murderous Spaniard …

  ‘I tell yer, I ain’t done nothink!’ he exclaimed, earnestly. ‘Yer can’t tike a feller up fer fallin’ in a like!’

  ‘I can take a fellow up for acting suspiciously,’ answered the policeman.

  ‘Am I hactin’ suspishus jest becos’ I don’t throw me arms rahdn yer and kiss yer—’

  ‘And also for bearing a strong resemblance to a man the police are looking for,’ continued the policeman.

  ‘’Oo’s that?’

  ‘P’r’aps it’s you.’

  ‘P’r’aps it’s Kitchener!’

  ‘Have you ever been to Southampton?’

  ‘Never ’eard of it!’

  ‘Have you ever been to sea?’

  ‘Nah! Spent orl me life hinland.’

  ‘Well, you can repeat those answers to the inspector, and maybe he’ll think more of ’em than I do! Now, then, that’s quite enough of that! Pick up your cap, and get a move on.’

  ‘Oi!’ protested Ben.

  But he was in the grip of the law, and in a few seconds he found himself back in the road.

  This was the end of all things. Perhaps, if he had gone straight to the police, he would have got a hearing, after all, but a man who was dragged to the station as a suspect would find very little sympathy. A night in a cell, and, when morning came—nothing would matter!… Yes, but it wasn’t morning yet …

  ‘Better come quietly,’ advised the policeman.

  ‘Yus, but look ’ere,’ cried Ben, desperately, ‘you got this orl wrong!’

  ‘You can prove I’m wrong at the station—’

  ‘Yus, and a nice fool you’ll look! Now if yer’ll give me a mo’ instead o’ marchin’ me along as if I was a frog I’ll tell yer somethink that’ll mike yer look like a fool the hother way rahnd. ’Oo knows, p’r’aps it’ll give yer a stripe—’

  ‘I suppose you can’t help talking,’ said the policeman, as he kept Ben moving.

  They were getting farther and farther from Greystones.

  ‘Yus, but don’t yer want me ter tell yer ’ow I reely got inter that there pond?’

  ‘You can tell it to the inspector, now.’

  ‘Well, I’m goin’ ter tell it ter you now, see? I was chucked in.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yus. By a blinkin’ Spaniard—’

  ‘What’s that?’ exclaimed the policeman, sharply. ‘A Spaniard?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘Well, then, that fixes you, my man—’

  ‘Wotcher mean?’

  ‘Why, the sailor we’re after is working with a Spaniard!’

  ‘A lot you know!’ retorted Ben. ‘’E’s tryin’ ter git away from the Spaniard. Yus, and a murderin’ old man, too, wot’s got a gal in ’is clutchin’ ’and, like, and I can tell yer where the old man is, see, but not the Spaniard, ’cos ’e chucks me in, see—’

  ‘Ease down, ease down!’ interrupted the constable, and his grip tightened as well as his tone. ‘We’ll hear all about it presently.’

  ‘Yus, but presen’ly’s no good!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘We gotter go there now, see?’

  ‘We’ve got to go to the police station now,’ retorted the constable.

  ‘That ain’t no use—’

  ‘Will you be quiet? Another word, and I’ll clap the bracelets on you, do you hear?’

  ‘Orl right! And yer know wot’ll ’appen?’ cried Ben. ‘A gal will be murdered, and the chap wot’s murdered ’er and wot’s murdered a man, too, yus, and a dawg, ’e’ll git away, and the Spaniard wot murdered the feller in Sarthampton’ll git away, and they’ll go on murderin’. Lummy, it ain’t sife, and it’ll be your blinkin’ fault jest ’cos yer ’ain’t the sense ter know the truth when yer met it and wouldn’t go ter the ’ouse wot I could tike yer ter, and ter blow yer whistle ter git orl the hother bobbies wot’s abart on the job, too, but instead yer lug me along wot ain’t no good ter nobody ’cos I ain’t done nothink, ter lock me up in a cell orl night while blood’s runnin’—’

  He paused, panting. The policeman had also paused. At last it seemed as though something beyond the mere capture of Ben was penetrating his conscientious and cautious mind.

  The lane they were in was still deserted, but somewhere ahead glimmered lights, and the noises of traffic came faintly on an evening breez
e.

  ‘If you’re trying to pull my leg—’ began the policeman, slowly.

  ‘Yus! I look like it, don’t I?’ answered Ben.

  Once more the policeman threw his light full on Ben’s face. The eyes that winked in it, framed in beads of sweat, winked with earnestness.

  ‘And you can take me to this house?’ continued the policeman.

  ‘Ain’t I tellin’ yer?’ replied Ben.

  ‘Where is it?’ asked the constable, and Ben noticed that he was fingering his whistle.

  But neither Ben nor the constable noticed that a figure had crept out of a hedge and was now standing only a yard or two away; and before Ben could answer the constable’s question, or the constable could bring the whistle to his lips, the figure leapt forward and dealt the constable a savage blow.

  The constable went down like a log.

  ‘So! You would say where, eh?’ muttered the assailant. ‘Signor Ben—you are one dam fool!’

  Don Pasquali glared into Ben’s face. Ben stared back, like a hypnotised rabbit. Then Ben performed one of his amazing acts.

  He curved himself and dived down to the prostrate policeman. He seized the whistle, gave it a wrench, made another dive to escape the now-descending Spaniard, and found himself free with the whistle in his hand.

  He blew it. It shrilled terribly through the evening air. He heard the Spaniard emit an untranslatable oath. He blew again. The Spaniard vanished.

  Now Ben was alone with the prostrate policeman. He had done his best; he had summoned aid; but who would believe that the policeman had not given the first blow on the whistle, and that it was not Ben himself who had followed this with a blow on the policeman’s head? And who, after that, would believe that Ben’s story, even if he were allowed to repeat it, had been anything but a ruse to divert the policeman’s attention in order to fell him?

  In sudden panic he turned and fled. The whistle was still in his mouth. He blew deliriously as he ran.