‘Oi! Steady, there!’ breathed Ben.
Fordyce paid no attention to him, but suddenly swung the door open. Immediately afterwards, he gave an exclamation.
Ben put his hands up, but as no one had jumped out of the cupboard, and there was no scuffle, he ventured the next moment to draw closer, and peer into the cupboard as Fordyce was doing.
It was certainly an odd cupboard. It ran some way into the wall, its end being in shadow, yet sufficiently discernible to reveal a bend, and along the right wall was a narrow shelf. A bit of broken mirror lay on the shelf, a brush, and a comb, while above, on hooks, hung a couple of wigs.
‘Well, I’m dashed,’ murmured Fordyce, as Ben peered over his shoulder. ‘Look at that! Seems to be a sort of actor’s dressing-room, eh?’
Ben did not reply. He was peering beyond the shelf and the wigs, at the shadowed end of the cupboard, with its concealed angle.
‘Extraordinarily stout door, too, isn’t it?’ went on Fordyce. ‘Mighty thick, for a cupboard. And padded. That’s funny. Hallo—what’s this?’
Upon the inside of the cupboard door was pinned a newspaper cutting. It was headed, in large type:
‘THE GET-AWAY GUILD.’
HOW PRISONERS ESCAPE.
IS THERE A SECRET WAY TO THE
CONTINENT?
Fordyce read this out, and also the beginning of the. paragraph which started beneath:
‘“For some time the police have been trying to tap the activities of a secret organisation which is believed to be in existence for the purpose of helping ‘wanted’ people out of the country.”’
‘P’r’aps they could do me a bit o’ good,’ murmured Ben.
‘Shut up! “A similar society is known to exist in Budapest—”’
‘Oi,’ interposed Ben, again. ‘Ain’t that enuff? ’Owjer know there ain’t someone listenin’ rahnd that corner there? ’Ave a look!’
Fordyce smiled. ‘Anything to please you,’ he observed, and entered the cupboard.
Ben watched him anxiously. He watched him disappear completely round the bend, at the end. His anxiety grew, as he watched and waited for the reappearance.
‘Oi!’ he called hoarsely. ‘Are you still there?’ Then he jumped back, as Fordyce reappeared. ‘Yer know, guv’nor,’ he murmured faintly, ‘I’ll go barmy if I ’as much more o’ this—stright, I will!’
‘Well, I’m not sure that I’d blame you,’ frowned Fordyce. ‘This is, without exception, the queerest house I’ve ever been in!’
‘Wot did yer find in there?’
‘Nothing. Only cobwebs. I—Sh!’ He darted to the passage door, and listened.
‘Oh, lummy!’
‘Sh! Quiet! Yes—keep your nerve now!’ muttered Fordyce. ‘There’s someone coming upstairs!’
‘Then go hout and ’it ’im!’ chattered Ben.
‘Quiet!’ hissed Fordyce.
All at once he jumped aside, silently, like a cat. Standing now by the door, and still listening intently, he clenched his fists. Ben’s fists were also clenched—over his stubby chin.
Creak—creak—creak. The steps had now reached the top of the stairs, and the thing that had caused them was pausing on the landing. In another second, it would come on again, the door would open …
‘Oi!’ shouted Ben, at the top of his voice.
‘Fool!’ barked Fordyce, and flung the door wide.
But, as he did so, there was a scuttle, and the thing descended again like lightning. A black shadow, and it was gone. Before Fordyce could hurl himself after it, he felt two arms gripped round his leg.
‘What the—!’ he cried, swinging round again.
Ben was on his knees, holding him.
‘Let go!’ shouted Fordyce angrily.
The grip loosened, and Ben stared up at him like a lunatic.
‘Sived yer life that time, guv’nor, I did,’ he gurgled. ‘It— it ’d ’ave ’ad yer!’
‘Oh, you fool, you fool!’ groaned Fordyce, and, freed now, ran out of the room.
But, on the landing, he again paused.
‘I say!’ he called back. ‘This skylight’s open! Did you know it?’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘By Jove, we ought to have noticed that. We—we’ve not examined the roof yet.’
Instead of running downstairs, Fordyce returned to the room. Gripping the wobbling specimen of the Merchant Service by the shoulders, he spoke quickly and decisively.
‘Now, listen—if you can!’ he said. ‘I’m going down after that fellow. Is it any use taking you with me?’
‘Not a bit o’ use,’ replied Ben, with no less decision.
‘I believe you’re right.’
‘I knows I’m right!’
‘Very well, then. I’ll leave you. But, for God’s sake, see if you can’t pull yourself together a bit while I’m gone.’ Ben blinked at him, and he added in exasperation, ‘Upon my soul, when we’re through with this, I’ll recommend you for the Victoria Cross. You’re quite the pluckiest lad I’ve ever struck.’
‘It’s orl very well fer you, guv’nor,’ mumbled Ben, as Fordyce turned away. ‘You’ve got beef an’ greens in yer stummick. ’Oo could be a ’ero on a hempty stummick?’
Fordyce did not hear him. He was out on the landing, and a clicking noise suddenly made Ben raise his eyes.
‘Oi!’ shouted Ben, and rushed to the door. It was closed, and he turned the knob fruitlessly. ‘Darn ’is eyes! ’E’s locked me hin!’
He turned round slowly. The firelight flickered faintly on the huddled figure in the aperture. He backed against the wall. Was it his imagination—or had the corpse moved?
11
Across the Roof
Whatever kind of a time Gilbert Fordyce was having below, Ben’s own position was not more enviable. He was locked in a room with a gaping cupboard door on one side, and a corpse on the other.
The very stillness of the moment seemed to invite interruption from either the corpse or the cupboard. Both were points of evil, from which any terror might emerge. For a full minute Ben stood motionless. Then time, that towers so mightily above our emotions, worked its change, and Ben’s frenzy began to pass.
‘P’r’aps Charlie didn’t move,’ he thought. ‘P’r’aps—it was jest me own ’ead wobblin’, like.’
That might well have been. It wobbled now from the corpse to the cupboard, and focused itself upon the dim interior.
‘Think I’ll close it,’ was his next thought. The frenzy past, he was growing constructive. ‘Yus—I’ll close it. An’ lock it, too. Then nothin’ narsty can’t come poppin’ hout!’
He slithered gingerly around the wall, and slowly closed the cupboard door. The first part of the operation was slow, at least, but the last part was rapid, the sudden speed being impelled by the thought that, if he were not quick, some unseen inmate of the cupboard might try to push the door open against him. He closed the door, and bolted it. ’Ooray! That was done!
Next he turned to the fire. It was low; and, of course, Fordyce had taken the solitary candle.
‘Seems ter think the ’ole bloomin’ plice belongs to ’im,’ grumbled Ben. ‘Let’s git a bit of a blize.’
He collected some wood, and crossing the room carefully, keeping one eye cocked on the corpse as he drew nearer it, he threw the wood on the fire. For a few seconds it extinguished what light there was, but soon it began to spit and spurt and crackle, and a great blaze shot up.
‘There, that’s a bit more like it!’ thought Ben. ‘Me mother sed I wasn’t ter be lef’ in the dark!’
Warmed by the additional illumination, he became bold enough to approach even closer to the corpse, and to pay definite attention to it.
‘’Allo, Charlie,’ he said. ‘’Ow are yer?’
The corpse did not reply, happily for Ben’s sanity. The firelight glinted on its upturned boots. It glinted, also, on a hand, a shoulder, and the upper part of the face. Ben found his eyes resting on the hunched shoulder.
<
br /> ‘Proper crooked, ain’t it?’ he thought. ‘Crooked like ’isself, I’ll lay!’
Then the firelight glinted on something else, and all at once Ben crept forward, and drew that something from the prone man’s pocket.
‘Blimy!’ he gasped. ‘Bricelets!’
He rose, and held the handcuffs up. That was a bit of a puzzle, that was! What was the man doing with handcuffs in his pocket?
This discovery, coupled with the assurance that the corpse did not bite, increased Ben’s courage further, and he approached the corpse again, to see whether he could find anything else. He did not like the work. The man had a nasty wound in his head, and in order to reach another pocket with a likely bulge to it, the body had to be rolled over on its side. The operation was worth it, however, for the second bulge proved to be a revolver. Ben’s eyes popped when he grasped this useful weapon.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ he muttered. ‘A gun! ’Ere’s a bit o’ luck!’ He glanced towards the passage door. ‘Nah I can stop any fancy tricks. Bit of orl right, this is!’
He slipped the revolver into his own pocket, and then, staring down at the unpalatable sight, decided to remove it. Already it was two parts in the inner room. Stooping quickly, Ben gave it a shove and a roll, and managed to get it through the aperture. Then he closed the door to the adjoining room, and locked it.
‘Good-bye, Charlie!’ he said. ‘We carn’t ’ave yer in the best parler. Sorry, but I don’t like the look o’ yer!’
With the revolver in his pocket, Ben felt considerably better, and the room began to wear a less forbidding aspect. All the same, there was no harm in exploring all its possible exits, and he climbed on to the wooden cases under the window. As he did so, a clock in the distance faintly chimed the quarter after four.
He soon climbed down again. Despite the thick fog, he had seen enough to convince him that it was a pretty big drop, and that there was no escape for him that way.
He had taken out his revolver, and was re-examining it, when he heard steps outside. Back went the revolver into his pocket, but he kept his hand there as the key turned, the door opened, and Fordyce reappeared, a frown of perplexity on his face.
‘This beats me altogether!’ exclaimed Fordyce. ‘I went right down—’ He paused abruptly. ‘Hallo! What have you been up to?’
‘Wotcher mean?’ demanded Ben, falling back on his usual formula.
‘What do I mean? Why, where’s our corpse?’
‘Oh, ’im! I stowed ’im away in the nex’ room, guv’nor.’
‘Prize idiot!’ said Fordyce. ‘Don’t you know it’s not usual to remove corpses before the police have had a look at them?’
‘Ain’t it?’ replied Ben.
Fordyce glanced at him sharply. He vaguely sensed something new in the seaman’s attitude, but did not guess its cause. The next moment he gave another exclamation.
‘Where—on—earth did those spring from?’ he inquired, staring at the mantelpiece, where Ben had deposited the handcuffs.
‘Fahnd ’em in ’is pocket, guv’nor,’ responded Ben cheekily.
‘That’s rum!’
‘Yus. Ain’t it? Wot are they?’
‘What, never seen a pair of handcuffs before?’ asked Fordyce, smiling.
‘Not me,’ said Ben. ‘Hor felt ’em.’
‘Well, let’s hope you never will,’ commented Fordyce. ‘While you made progress up here, I drew a blank downstairs. But there’s the roof yet. I’m a bit curious about that.’
‘Are yer?’ retorted Ben, as Fordyce walked to the chair, and laid his hand upon it.
‘Yes, I am,’ answered Fordyce sharply.
‘Well, yer can ’ave the roof, ’Arold Lloyd,’ observed Ben. ‘I’m goin’.’
Fordyce turned to Ben, and regarded him squarely. There was something in Fordyce’s look Ben did not quite like, but he decided to make a stand, before his courage ebbed again.
‘Yus, I’m goin’,’ he repeated. ‘I ain’t goin’ hon with this, I ain’t, and you ain’t got no right ter keep me ’ere, you ain’t. See? It’s a free country. See? This is a bobby’s job. Messin’ abart. That’s wot it is. Messin’ abart!’
‘Finished?’ inquired Fordyce politely.
‘Wotcher mean, “finished”?’ sulked Ben.
If only Fordyce had lost his temper, Ben might have lost his. But Fordyce knew better than to lose his temper.
‘I mean, I hope you’ve finished,’ said Fordyce, ‘because I hate to see you waste your breath. And you don’t seem to realise one thing, my man—something I’ve realised all along.’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘Why, that any delay in getting that bobby is all in your favour. I’m wasting all this time on your behalf as much as on anybody’s. You see, if we don’t find out something more before that policeman pays his little call, you’ll probably find him taking out his notebook, and asking you some very awkward questions. Let that sink in a bit.’
‘But—I ain’t done it!’ exclaimed Ben desperately. ‘I ain’t done it, I tells yer!’
‘Well, I’m not saying you have,’ returned Fordyce. ‘But it’s on the cards that the police may take a different view, my son. It’s lucky for you I found no weapon on you—nothing more murderous than a lead pencil.’
‘Eh?’ jerked Ben, his hand in his pocket closing convulsively.
‘That’ll be in your favour, anyway,’ concluded Fordyce, and, turning away, took the chair out into the passage, and placed it under the skylight.
‘Guv’nor!’ cried Ben.
‘Ease down,’ replied Fordyce.
‘I ain’t goin’ ter hease dahn! Not till yer tells me wot ye’r’ goin’ ter tell the perlice.’
‘I am going to tell them neither more nor less than the truth,’ Fordyce informed him. ‘By Jove, how this fog is pouring in!’
‘The truth, eh?’
‘Yes. Do keep quiet for a minute!’
He was on the chair now. Ben made a bolt for it. Fordyce promptly jumped down, and shoved him back into the room.
‘My God, you are an idiot!’ he said earnestly. ‘Don’t you realise that you’ve got to depend largely upon my evidence? Don’t chuck away your chance in this silly fashion!’
‘Charnce!’ panted Ben. ‘A bloomin’ charnce a feller like me ’as when a copper gits ’old of ’im. Look ’ere, guv’nor—let’s ’ave it stright. Yer thinks I ain’t got no guts. Well—p’r’aps I ’as! Nah, then. D’yer say I’ve done this ’ere murder, or don’t yer?’
Fordyce considered the question carefully. Then he replied:
‘I really don’t think you’ve got the courage to murder anybody, if you want to know. It takes rather a lot of pluck, when it comes to the point. But, for the moment, we’re all under suspicion.’
The reply was not wholly unsatisfactory. If it was uncomplimentary, it contained some comfort. Ben decided to postpone his trump card.
‘S’long as we’re horl hunder suspicion,’ he observed slowly, ‘it don’t matter so much. That means you along o’ me, guv’nor?’
‘Yes. If you like.’
‘I do like. Misery loves company. Nah, git on yer bloomin’ roof. I’ll stay ’ere, an’ pick up the pieces.’
‘Good for the Merchant Service,’ smiled Fordyce, and jumped on the chair again.
But he was back in the room like a flash, and he did not need to tell Ben why. A soft, dragging sound had started overhead.
‘Oh, my Gawd—wot’s ’appenin’ nah?’ yelped Ben.
‘Sh!’ whispered Fordyce. ‘It’s—someone crawling across the roof.’
They stood still. There was no mistaking the sound. Nor was there any mistaking the direction. The crawler was making for the skylight.
‘D-did yer say the winder was hopen?’ gasped Ben.
‘Yes,’ whispered Fordyce.
‘Then, for Gawd’s sake, go an’ close it!’
Fordyce took no notice of him. Swiftly he blew out the candle, an action that so startled and ter
rified Ben that he lost his voice entirely. As a little shower of plaster came down from the roof, Fordyce ran to the fire, and lifted a wooden case before it to block out the light. The room was now almost pitch-dark.
But a faint light filtered through the skylight into the passage on which their eyes were trained, and this remained until it was blocked by the crawling body. Then the body began to slip through.
12
The Girl Next Door
Ben had heard many things since he had entered that house barely twenty-four hours before, but this was the first living creature he had seen—the first real evidence (apart from the corpse, who was dead) that he had not been victimised from the start by a series of hallucinations, or by his own fevered imagination. And even now, while he stared with glazed eyes into the dimness of the little landing, the living creature was no more distinct than a shadow. A sudden intensity in a streak of the dimness suggested a leg, but there was not enough light to give the creature any definite shape, and in Ben’s mind it might have been an ogre or some hairy monster.
In fact, so firmly fixed were his nameless, formless convictions concerning the intruder that his brain gave way, and he acted in blind obedience to terror. He stood the suspense as long as he could. He stood the descent of the creature from the skylight to the chair, and from the chair to the ground, and then its silent, groping forward towards the spot where they stood; but he could not wait till the creature touched him. With the shout of a frenzied beast, he hurled himself upon the creature, and grappled it to his terrified bosom.
The creature shrieked, and seemed to melt in his arms. Its slight weight, however, and his own momentum, brought them both to the ground. Then Ben heard someone swearing above him, he was rolled aside, and his brief tussle with the dragon was over.
‘Gawd! Gawd!’ he dithered.
‘Strike a light, man! Quick!’ rapped out Fordyce’s voice in the darkness.
Ben did not move. Why should he move? There he was. Let the world roll on!
‘A light, man, a light!’ repeated Fordyce’s voice angrily. ‘Where are you? Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ Ben managed to mutter.
‘Well, then, for heaven’s sake, stop saying “Gawd” and light the candle—I can’t move for a moment.’
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