Ben Sees It Through

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘—I’ll tell you something!’ She held up the envelope. ‘This was in that house! Yes, I found it in a drawer while you were up your chimney eavesdropping—’

  ‘Eaveswottin’—?’

  ‘—and it’s the same kind of envelope that has contained all these anonymous threats—’

  ‘Oi, miss—’

  ‘Be quiet! Listen!’ she cried, and her imperious voice temporarily cowed him. ‘I was sorry for you at first, but now I find that you belong to the house, and have been used to spy on me, I’m going to give you in custody! You can disguise writing, but you can’t disguise a postmark. It was the postmark that led me at last to the shop where these envelopes were bought—though they couldn’t remember who had bought them. It was the postmark that led me, after heaven knows how much searching, to the pillar-box where I guess now they were posted. When I came upon you hanging around there—no, don’t interrupt me!—I could see by your manner that something was wrong, and I followed you to your house—’

  ‘Fer Gawd’s sake, miss—’ Ben managed to gasp, but she cut him short again, and the combination of her anger and his weakness was too much for him. He could fight a butler, but an indignant lady in evening-dress, all powdered and scented …

  ‘I followed you to your house, and after screwing up my courage I went in! It’s a wonder now that I came out alive, and perhaps I wouldn’t if that vile old man had known all I knew—’

  ‘Yus, and that’s nothink ter wot I know!’ burst out Ben, now jumping up and almost crying with desperation. ‘Do yer know that yer vile old man’s a murderer? Do yer know that ’e’s killed ’is servant—not me, ’cos I wouldn’t be ’is servant not fer the Crahn Jewels—and that ’e’s killed a dawg, and that ’e’s in with a Spaniard wot’s killed another bloke, and if we ain’t quick they’ll start killin’ a gal, yus, and now don’t you hinterrup’! I tell yer, it’s this gal wot’s sived yer blinkin’ letter, I’d ’ave give it up long afore this, on’y she ’olds on, like the good ’un she is, and gits the letter aht of the cap, and then chucks it aht of the winder, but they don’t know that, see, they don’t know I’ve got it, they think she’s got it, and they’re goin’ ter search ’er at ten o’clock—the Spaniard’s goin’ ter, my Gawd—and ’ere we’re standin’ torkin’ abart it and doin’ nothink but you tellin’ me I’m in with them jest becos’ I gits hup a chimbley ter git away from them, and heverythink goin’ rahnd and rahnd and rahnd like it is now, and bobbies arter me fer doin’ things I ’aven’t, and bein’ chucked in a pond, d’yer think that does a chap any good on a hempty stummick, and then bein’ clapped into a clock, no that was afore, and then bein’ twisted by a big bully of a butler …’ere, wot’s ’appenin’?… the room’s goin’ rahnd agine! Oi! Where’s the ceilin’? The floor’s comin’ hup and ’ittin’ me …’

  She caught him as he swayed. Scent floated through the storm. He found himself back in his chair. And, in the distance, he heard a voice that seemed to be telephoning: ‘He’s left the House, you say?… How long ago?… Any minute now?… Thank God …’

  35

  Voices—Present and Past

  When Joseph Medway let himself into his house—it was eighteen minutes to ten—he was not in the happiest frame of mind. He had anticipated that the morrow would be the most triumphant day of his life, and that besides paving the way to a new era of British prosperity (for all idealists imagine that they merely have to get their ideals accepted to bring about the Millennium), it would also pave the way to a new era of political prosperity for himself. His bill, fathered by an approving but cautious Government that refused to be wholly responsible for it because of its anti-foreign nature, aimed frankly at alien interests. Britain for the Britons was its key-note, and let Europe look after itself.

  But there has never been an idealist, political or otherwise, without enemies, and Medway’s enemies had become particularly rampant on the eve of the bill’s introduction. Doubts which he had not previously allowed to enter his optimistic mind oppressed him on his way home. The atmosphere of the House had been nervy, and he discovered that his political opponents had been busier than he had imagined.

  He felt pretty solid with the biggest personalities. His trouble was going to be the rank and file.

  This, however, was not the only matter that troubled him. If the atmosphere of the House at Westminster was nervy, so was the atmosphere of his house at Fulham. Anonymous communications, containing veiled warnings, had pestered him, and at first he had thrown them into the fire with the contempt they deserved. Even when his daughter Violet had caught him once in this act of destruction, and had insisted on knowing the cause of his passing frown, he had not seriously worried. He had left the worrying to Violet, and wished heartily that she had been as unimpressed by the absurd documents as he was.

  ‘My darling,’ he had said only that morning, when she had tried to invest him with her interest. ‘Pooh!’

  ‘Pooh to you!’ she had retorted. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of Bolshevism and Blackmail?’

  ‘I have also heard of Feminism and Female,’ he had answered, ‘and of women’s proneness to panic. What you want, my dear, is a round of golf.’

  The golf had not materialised; the panic had. In the evening he had received a vague message over the telephone to which he had not attended. The message had been conveyed to him with deliberate vagueness by a secretary conversant with his employer’s unreceptive mood. Then, later, had come a second message. The secretary, being no longer trusted by the other end of the telephone, had been forced to bring Sir Joseph personally to the disturbing instrument. And Sir Joseph was now on his way home.

  ‘Though the chief reason for my return,’ he told himself a dozen times during the swift journey in his car, ‘is because there is really nothing to keep me any longer at the House, and in the circumstances an early night seems eminently sensible.’

  It never assists the sweetness of your mood when you are attempting to deceive yourself, and this explains the mood of Sir Joseph when he let himself in with his latch-key. Procter, hovering in the hall, did nothing to help matters. Procter looked as nervy as Sir Joseph was trying not to be.

  ‘What’s the matter, Procter?’ demanded Sir Joseph, irritably.

  For something was obviously the matter, unless Procter had St Vitus’s Dance. And even that alternative would not be soothing.

  ‘If you please, Sir Joseph—’ began Procter.

  But he got no further. Sir Joseph had turned his head suddenly towards the front-door. A sound had diverted his attention. The sound of heavy, hurrying feet. A moment later the bell rang, accompanied by a sharp, imperative knock.

  Sir Joseph removed his eyes from the door for an instant and glanced at Procter. Procter made a half-hearted movement to answer the bell, but Sir Joseph saved him the trouble. He answered it himself. An inspector and a constable stood on the doorstep.

  ‘What’s this?’ inquired Sir Joseph, sharply.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ replied the inspector, ‘but we’re after a man we believe called here a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ frowned Sir Joseph, and his frown deepened as the voice of an old lady, who was gripping a black bead bag, shrilled from the street,

  ‘I know this is the house! Mallow Court he asked for. I’m sure of it!’

  Procter’s voice sounded behind Sir Joseph:

  ‘That’s right, sir. A man came here—I was just about to tell you—’

  ‘Yes, yes, but surely he isn’t still here?’ demanded Sir Joseph, rounding on the butler.

  And now another voice answered him. The whole thing was ridiculous, distracting! Every time Sir Joseph asked a question a different voice responded from a different point! This was the fourth, and it came from the top of the staircase.

  ‘Yes, he’s still here, Father,’ called the fourth voice. ‘Will you please come up at once?’

  Sir Joseph nodded to the inspector,
who promptly entered with the constable, but Violet added quickly, ‘No, only you—for just a minute!’ as she saw them.

  ‘I’m afraid, sir—’ began the inspector, but Sir Joseph, who preferred managing things himself, waved him down brusquely.

  ‘One moment, inspector,’ he said. ‘Let me deal with this, please.’ Then, turning to the staircase, he exclaimed:

  ‘What’s all this about, Violet? Have you got the fellow upstairs?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  ‘Well, if you’ve caught him, he’s wanted—’

  ‘I know, but he’s quite safe,’ interrupted Violet, ‘and he’s in my room, and nobody’s coming into my room till you’ve come in first alone—nobody!’

  Sir Joseph, who recognised the determination in her tone, stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘Aren’t you being absurd and foolish?’ he cried.

  ‘This man’s dangerous!’ added the inspector. ‘He’s knocked out at least one policeman, and if he’s the fellow we think he is, there’ll be a far more serious charge against him.’

  He pushed forward, and now Violet turned her determined eyes upon him. A picture of General Gordon defending Khartum flashed grotesquely into her father’s mind as she stood her ground with the same heroic disobedience.

  ‘The man’s not dangerous!’ she called. ‘He’s stretched out in a chair, if you want to know, and he hasn’t the strength of a winkle!’

  ‘Most muscular winkle I ever came across!’ thought the butler.

  Sir Joseph looked at the hesitating inspector, and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Will you accept my guarantee that the man sha’n’t escape?’ he asked. ‘If so, perhaps it would be as well for you to remain down here for a minute or two. You’ll have no difficulty,’ he added, as a sergeant and two more constables came running up the front steps, ‘in manning all the doors!’

  ‘Is that your wish, Sir Joseph?’ inquired the inspector.

  ‘I would like to satisfy my daughter’s whim, if you, on your side, can make it conform with your duty?’

  The inspector, sure of his man, did not think it would be a bad move to conform with Sir Joseph Medway. After a short pause, he nodded.

  ‘But only a minute or two, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit irregular—but, perhaps—in the circumstances?’

  Then he turned to his men, while Sir Joseph ran up the stairs.

  ‘Now, then, why all this?’ he demanded, on reaching the top.

  ‘It’s for your sake, Father, more than anybody else’s,’ his daughter answered, in a low voice. ‘You’ll know all about it in a moment.’

  ‘Yes, but we can’t keep the inspector waiting—’

  ‘That’s why you’ve got to be quick.’

  She led him to her sitting-room. They entered, and she closed the door. The cause of the trouble, as she had implied, lay stretched out in an arm-chair, his eyes closed.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Sir Joseph.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Violet, ‘but he seems to have been working for you—though if you ask me why, I don’t know that, either.’

  ‘Well, well, what do you know—?’

  ‘This. That he came here a few moments ago, and insisted on seeing me. He brought back a card-case I’d lost, but that wasn’t his chief reason. His chief reason was that, in some extraordinary way, he got hold of something else—something for you, this time—not for me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He said he’d only give it to you on condition—’

  ‘Oho! Is this our blackmailer—’

  ‘No!’ she cut in sharply. ‘He’s got it from the blackmailer! And the condition is that we go straight to the blackmailer’s house and rescue a girl who’s in danger there. She seems to have been working for you, too—so the request’s fair, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t understand—’ muttered Sir Joseph.

  ‘Nor do I,’ she interrupted again, ‘and there isn’t time to try. But perhaps this will help?’

  She held out an envelope. The cheap grey envelope that had gone through the post and had not yet been opened.

  ‘Tonight?’ asked Sir Joseph, snatching it.

  ‘By the last post,’ she nodded. ‘That’s why I telephoned the second time. But you ought to have come the first,’ she added, reprovingly. ‘You see, I was right, Father—it’s serious!’

  Sir Joseph tore the envelope open and read the contents. His face darkened. The note ran:

  He stared at the words. He appeared, for the moment, to have forgotten that an impatient inspector was waiting in the hall below. He appeared, also, to have forgotten his daughter, and the outstretched form on the armchair, and the room he was in …

  ‘Well?’ said Violet.

  He came back.

  ‘And—the “something else”?’ he inquired, quietly. ‘Where is it?’

  His daughter turned towards the motionless figure and pointed towards a cap in his lap.

  ‘Would that be it?’ she asked.

  The cap lay in Ben’s lap, lining upwards. From the slit in the lining peeped a corner of the letter. Sir Joseph dived towards it, but found Violet’s hand on his arm.

  ‘If we take it from him, while he’s in this condition,’ she said, ‘we take it on trust, don’t we? We fulfil the condition?’

  Without replying, Sir Joseph slid the letter out of the lining. He glanced at it, and a faint, strange smile came into his eyes. His daughter had never seen him smile like that before. He turned the letter over, and looked at the signature: ‘Joseph Medway.’

  And, once more, he appeared to forget the room he was standing in, and all it contained, saving the time-yellowed sheet of paper in his hand.

  ‘Is that—it?’ murmured Violet, recalling him.

  ‘Yes, this is it,’ he answered, slipping the letter into his pocket, and turned towards the recumbent figure in the arm-chair. ‘We will fulfil the condition.’

  36

  Meanwhile, at Wimbledon—

  ‘With the exception of the gentleman called Ben,’ said Mr Lovelace, lighting a cigarette, ‘we are all of us cleverer than we have been given credit for.’

  ‘Why not except yourself, as well as the gentleman called Ben?’ replied Molly.

  She could speak, but that was all she could do. Her wrists and her feet were bound. The mark of her sharp little teeth on one of Mr Lovelace’s wrists implied the necessity.

  ‘Would you like to hear why?’ smiled the old man. ‘Very well, I’ll tell you.’

  He walked to the window and peered out. All was still and silent in the dark garden. Then he turned, and, placing a chair which commanded a view of both the window and his prisoner, sat down.

  ‘You are cleverer than I gave you credit for,’ he began, ‘because the letter is not in the house, after all.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve looked pretty thoroughly, haven’t you?’ she exclaimed, fiercely.

  ‘Yes, very thoroughly,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to wait for Don Pasquali before making the strictly personal search.’ He regarded his hand. ‘But you shouldn’t have bitten me. Admit, you began the roughness.’

  ‘If only I’d been a little quicker—’

  ‘You would have more than bitten me? I’m sure of it! That was why I had to demonstrate my knowledge of Ju-Jitsu. There is, you see, a limit to your cleverness—as also to Don Pasquali’s. Now, Don Pasquali was cleverer than I gave him credit for by reading my mind and cutting the telephone wires. As he had obviously spotted their location before it’s rather surprising he didn’t cut them earlier. But then there are distinct limits to Don Pasquali’s cleverness. That will be proved before long—when he comes back.’

  ‘If he hadn’t cut the telephone wires,’ she retorted, ‘he would never have come back!’

  ‘You mean, the police, acting on my advice, would have caught him at Southfields?’ answered Mr Lovelace, and his voice was momentarily dolorous. ‘Yes—that was a mistake of mine. I was too certain—as I’ve ad
mitted—that the letter was here. But the letter isn’t here. And the police haven’t met Don Pasquali at Southfields. So my error corrects itself automatically. And I don’t repeat errors.’

  ‘That’s got to be proved, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It will be, very shortly.’

  ‘I say, you do love talking big, don’t you?’ she chided him. ‘When you get down to rock bottom, it’s about all you can do.’

  ‘H’m! You say that?’ he inquired grimly, regarding her cords.

  ‘My dear Father Christmas, the most brainless bully God ever created could knock a girl on the head and tie her up.’

  ‘Not if the girl was you,’ Mr Lovelace denied. ‘However, I’m quite ready to convince you that I am not the most brainless bully God ever created, if you’d care to hear any more?’

  ‘It’ll take some doing,’ she scoffed, playing on his vanity.

  He gave a sudden grin. He knew she was playing on his vanity. He didn’t mind. He had something to be vain about.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, after another glance at the window. For a moment he thought he had heard footsteps. ‘Let us work this position out through sheer logic. The Einstein Theory, eh? If the letter isn’t inside, it must be outside. Do you agree?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘So it’s fortunate for me that what you might say is quite unimportant. Now if the letter is outside, it would either be on Ben, or in the garden—you might have thrown it out of a window, for instance—’

  ‘You’ve searched the garden, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. But if it was there, I searched too late. Or it would be in Southfields—or somewhere else. But wherever it was, my opinion of Don Pasquali has so increased that I am pretty sure he will find it. You see, when I am not by to restrain him, a man of his Southern temperament wouldn’t stop at torture.’

  ‘Yes, you really are a beast—!’

  ‘A beast at bay, shall we say? It may explain what is to follow. A beast at bay has to adopt drastic methods!’ He spoke bitingly. Was he defending himself before God, or just before his Vanity? Louis XI prayed to the little saints around his hat to forgive him for the sins he was about to commit. ‘But, for the moment, we are talking of Don Pasquali, who will get the letter from Ben—’