What had happened to Ben, in this last minute, to create this new, furtive demeanour?
‘Guv’nor,’ said Ben. ‘Ye’r’ lettin’ them hothers go ’ome. When are yer goin’ ter let me go ’ome?’
‘What address shall I give the driver, Ben?’ queried Fordyce.
‘Buckingham Pallice,’ responded Ben cheekily.
Fordyce laughed, and clapped him on the back.
‘You know, I positively love you, old chap!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come along, King George!’
‘I know yer loves me,’ nodded Ben. ‘Yer’ve done nothink but give me yer affeckshun orl the hafternoon. But where are we comin’ hon ter now?’
‘Well, I vote we investigate the royal cellars. And you can hold the candle this time, if you like.’
‘The royal cellars,’ murmured Ben as he took the candle mechanically. ‘And wot are we goin’ ter do when we gits ter the royal cellers?’
‘That Ben,’ admitted Fordyce, as they began to leave the room, ‘is in the lap of the gods—’
‘Then ’ere’s somethink fer the lap o’ the gods!’ exclaimed Ben, darting back suddenly to the fireplace, and picking up a bit of broken iron.
‘I’ve an idea, Ben,’ went on Fordyce, ‘that when we get to those royal cellars, we’re going to prove our metal, and I’ve also a sort of notion that, when we face the real crisis, you’re going to prove a pretty useful man.’
‘Lummy, guv’nor,’ gasped Ben, pausing. ‘Ain’t we got ter the real crisis yet?’
‘Not by a long chalk,’ answered Fordyce. ‘Now then, get a move on there!’
‘Oi!’ retorted Ben. ‘That ain’t the way ter tork to a king!’
23
On the Stairs Again
Once more Gilbert Fordyce and Ben were together on the stairs. By a miracle, they had passed safely through an hour of peril, and had they chosen, they could have descended the stairs, and walked out into the fog, blotting out further danger and joining hands once again with everyday life. But something made Fordyce refuse that foggy sanctuary—and something made Ben refuse it also.
Ben had his moments of wavering, however, on that journey down to the basement, and towards the bottom of the first flight his legs abruptly weakened, and he caught hold of the banisters.
‘Guv’nor,’ he said.
‘Yes, old son?’ replied Fordyce.
‘Can I sit dahn a minit?’
‘Why?’
‘Well—I feels sorter faint,’ said Ben.
Fordyce looked at him sympathetically.
‘Righto—take a breather, if you must. Like a drop of brandy?’
‘Does mice like cheese?’ replied Ben.
But the grin on the seaman’s face vanished as Fordyce felt in his pocket, and gave a grunt of disappointment.
‘Damn it,’ muttered Fordyce. ‘Eddie took it, in case Ackroyd crocked up again.’
‘No luck,’ observed Ben.
He certainly looked a pathetic object, sitting on the broken stairs. Gazing at him, Fordyce murmured, frowning:
‘I wonder if I’m a bit of a brute?’
‘Not ezackly, guv’nor,’ replied Ben, with a certain degree of magnanimity; ‘but yer seems ter fergit I ain’t ’ad nothing ter eat orl day.’
‘Poor chap!’
‘Yus—me larst meal was them pork an’ beans—two in the mornin’, that was. Terday orter git me fat dahn, swipe me, it ought!’
‘Well,’ promised Fordyce, ‘if we come through this, I’ll stand you the best meal you ever had in your life.’
‘That’ll cost yer a bit, guv’nor,’ returned Ben with conviction. ‘Sye, guv’nor, yer wouldn’t think as I’d sunk a German battleship, would yer?’
‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Fordyce. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘Well, I ’aven’t,’ said Ben.
Fordyce laughed. ‘You little devil! I shall always love you, Ben.’
‘Yus, don’t I know it? Yer clings like the hivy!’
‘And you ought to appreciate the compliment! Ready to go on again?’
‘Yus. In a minit. No good kickin’, is it?—’cos, yer see, it’s jest come hover me. I was booked fer this ’ere job.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Wot I ses. Booked fer it proper. Afore I met you, guv’nor.’
‘Oh! How’s that?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Well—there was that badge with “No. 17” on it I come acrost at that inn, when I fust gits inter the bloomin’ fog. I told yer—’
‘So you did,’ nodded Fordyce, looking at him curiously. ‘Where was that?’
‘Gawd knows! Leyton way, I reckons. Any’ow, I sees the badge, and the bloke wot it belongs ter ’ops off when ’e sees a fice at the winder. Wonder if them two blokes is—’ He paused.
‘Go on,’ encouraged Fordyce.
‘In them royal cellars dahnstairs,’ said Ben ruminatively.
‘What makes you suppose it?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Well—seems I sorter reckernised that ’Enery feller. A bit like a feller I bumped inter afore I went inter the pub. And if I was marked fer this ’ere job, it’d orl work in, like. Yer see, guv’nor, when I ’as a bite o’ somethink arterwards, I ’ears two people torkin’ low be’ind me, at another table. And, swipe me, guv’nor, if they didn’t tork abart this ’ere bloomin’ “No. 17” till I gits fair sick of it. And their voices was darned like that gal Nora and ’er blinkin’ uncle. “No more 17 fer me,” I ses. But I passes this ’ouse—and there’s the blinkin’ number starin’ at me agin. Yus,’ he concluded, ‘I reckon I was marked hout fer this trip the day I was born, and, blimy, if yer reckoned it hup, I dessay yer’d find I was me mother’s seventeenth child!’ He added, after a pause, ‘And then—on top o’ that, I—oh, ’ell!’
He rose gloomily, and Fordyce suddenly laid his hand upon the seaman’s shoulder.
‘Then you’ve had enough of “No. 17”—is that it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no, guv’nor,’ retorted Ben. ‘Wot a hidea!’
‘Would you like me to release you from it?’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘Look here—you can clear out, if you like.’ Ben stared at him unbelievingly. ‘I say, you can clear out,’ repeated Fordyce. ‘In your favourite language, hop it.’
‘’Op it?’ muttered Ben stupidly. ‘Wot’s the gime now?’
‘There isn’t any game,’ answered Fordyce. ‘Only it’s just occurred to me that perhaps I really am a bit of a brute, after all. I’ve no right to run you into any more danger—now I know your record’s clean.’
‘’Op it, guv’nor? Yer means it, stright?’
‘Of course.’
‘Blimy, if that ain’t a fair knock-aht,’ murmured Ben. ‘You lettin’ me go like this—after I thort we was glued tergether! And wot’ll you do? ’Op it, along o’ me?’
‘No,’ answered Fordyce, smiling. ‘I won’t hop it. Good-bye, old chap. I’ve got to move on—’
‘’Ere—’arf a mo’!’ exclaimed Ben, catching hold of Fordyce’s arm. ‘Why not ’op it, guv’nor—why not? Let’s both ’op it.’ Fordyce shook his head, and tried to detach his arm. ‘Why not, I ses,’ demanded Ben, refusing to let the arm go.
‘Well, I’ll tell you why not, Ben,’ responded Fordyce gravely. ‘Hopping isn’t much in my line. We’ve put one girl into safety, and I won’t feel that we’ve quite finished our job until we’ve done the same for the other. There—now you’ve got it.’
‘Ah, but the hother’s a wrong ’un,’ urged Ben.
‘Sometimes,’ said Fordyce, ‘it’s just the wrong ’uns who need the greatest help.’
‘Yus, I dessay,’ mumbled Ben, and suddenly cried, ‘Oi! Come back!’
Fordyce had disengaged his arm now, and was hurrying down alone. Gasping, Ben overtook him.
‘Look ’ere, guv’nor,’ he panted. ‘It’s goin’ ter be a risky job in them royal cellars, ain’t it?’
‘So risky, Ben,’ answered Fordyce grimly, ‘that once I get i
n them, I may never get out of them again. That was why I rather fancied having you with me, to lend a hand.’
‘Wot—yer wanted me ter lend a ’and, like?’ said Ben, impressed.
‘That was the sweet idea. But never you mind now. You cut along—’
‘’Ere, ’ere,’ retorted Ben indignantly. ‘Wotcher tike me for? A cahard?’
‘Well,’ smiled Fordyce, ‘I was beginning to give credence to a rumour.’
‘I don’t know wot that means,’ asserted Ben, ‘but I ain’t goin’ ter ’op it, see?’
‘You’re not?’ cried Fordyce.
‘Not likely,’ replied Ben. ‘Hinsult.’
Fordyce gripped Ben’s hand, and there was real affection in the grip, and in his eye, as he said:
‘By Jove, Ben, you’re a brick! There’s no pluck like the pluck of a man who hasn’t got any!’
‘’Oo ’asn’t got any?’ demanded Ben with spirit. But a moment later he was clutching Fordyce’s sleeve.
‘What now?’ inquired Fordyce.
‘Gawd, guv’nor—wot’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘There—that big, black thing, comin’ dahn the stairs—’
‘That’s your shadow, Ben,’ smiled Fordyce.
‘Lor’ blimy, so it is,’ gasped Ben weakly; and then muttered indignantly, ‘’Op it!’
24
The ‘Royal Cellars’
A train rumbled beneath a room. The room was in pitch darkness, but the sound made by the train—its nearness, its loudness, and its vibration—suggested the room’s position, though not, as it happened, its character. It was a basement room.
The train rumbling beneath grew louder, grew fainter, and became a memory in the blackness. A minute ticked by. Then, from somewhere outside, came the sounds of hurried footsteps, and a door swung open.
‘In here, eh?’ muttered a nervous voice.
‘Isn’t there any light?’ demanded another.
The next instant there was a little click, and the room was bathed in a brilliant electric glow.
The room was a cellar, but it had been converted almost out of recognition. The walls were gay with garish hangings. There were comfortable chairs, a sofa, a serviceable round table, and, in an alcove, a desk. A mat covered the centre of the room, while on the door was a map, and beside it a long list of names.
While the room was obviously a place where business was conducted, its atmosphere was one of comfort—rather luxurious comfort—and bore the mark of individual taste. It was the taste of a man who knew what pleased him, and made no bones about it. Others could be pleased or not, as they wished.
And into this room came Nora, Brant and Henry, ushered somewhat ironically by their host, Smith.
‘Hal—lo!’ exclaimed Brant, staring around him. ‘You do yourself well here, Smith. More like a Chelsea boudoir than a cellar!’
‘Very likely,’ answered Smith, ‘but there’s no time to talk. Your train goes in three minutes. Where’s that time-table?’ He looked towards the desk, but suddenly held up his hand as the clank-clank of trucks sounded below them. ‘Hear that?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ replied Brant.
‘They’re shunting your trucks now. So you can gather time’s short.’
He began to walk to the desk, but a question from Henry made him pause. Henry had drawn close to Brant, and, after a nudge, inquired:
‘Are you coming with us, Smith?’
‘No,’ answered Smith bluntly. ‘I’m not.’
‘Oh! Why?’
‘Never you mind about me. I’ve got several little jobs to settle yet.’
‘Yes—but what sort of jobs?’ queried Brant.
Smith looked at them impatiently. The devil in him was rarely dormant for long.
‘You folks seem to be made up of questions,’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s it to you what I’m staying behind for? If you want to know, one of my jobs is that unknown quantity upstairs. And the sooner you clear out, the sooner I can deal with that little matter.’
‘I see,’ nodded Brant. ‘How are you going to deal with that little matter?’
‘Leave that to me,’ retorted Smith, with an ugly expression. ‘Ask no questions, and you’ll sleep sound.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘There’s been a fire in an empty house before now.’
Nora turned to him quickly.
‘Smith,’ she said, ‘I’m relying on your promise.’
‘Well,’ returned Smith, ‘I keep my promises—if you keep yours.’
He looked at her with a meaning she could not fail to understand, and she turned away, to change an unwelcome subject.
‘What’s that list on the door?’ she inquired casually.
‘More questions!’ said Smith.
‘It looks like a Visitors’ List.’
‘Say a “Departed Guests’ List,” and you’ll be nearer the mark. That’s Ackroyd’s work.’
‘It’s an interesting collection of names,’ observed Nora, walking towards it.
Smith watched her, impatient, but fascinated.
‘Three minutes, I said,’ he reminded her.
‘Yes, I heard you,’ she responded coolly. ‘Suppose you spend one of them telling us what you propose to do with us!’
‘Right,’ answered Smith. ‘Stand off that rug, you two!’
Brant and Henry moved off the rug on which they had been standing while whispering together. Bending down and taking up a corner, Smith jerked the rug away, and tossed it aside. Then he moved to the wall by the door, and manipulated a small shutter. The shutter slid aside, revealing a disc and a switch. On the disc were figures and letters. Quickly adjusting them, Smith worked the switch, and a trap-door opened in the spot which the rug had covered.
A big, oblong hole now yawned up blackly at them. Steps led down into it, and smoke issued slowly up out of it. Brant took a step forward, gingerly, and peered down, with a slight shudder.
‘Looks like a grave,’ he murmured.
‘The tunnel’s below there,’ explained Smith. ‘On a siding there’s trucks—box trucks—ready for the Continental Ferry train. Two a day. Some of those trucks are supposed to go empty. We’ll see that one of ’em doesn’t go empty. Got me?’
‘Yes,’ replied Brant. ‘I get you. So that’s how it’s done, eh?’
‘Yes—that’s how it’s done.’
‘Nasty idea,’ commented Nora.
‘It’s been a damned useful idea,’ retorted Smith.
‘Perhaps—till Ackroyd took it on,’ observed Nora. ‘Since then it’s been rather an awkward idea, I think—judging by that little list on the door.’
‘Agreed,’ nodded Smith, looking at her. ‘Can you think of a better, Nora?’
‘I can,’ interposed Henry, with another glance at Brant.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ snapped Smith, and walked to the desk. ‘Hell!’ he exclaimed, as he took up a time-table. ‘I’m wrong—they’ve changed the time to 5.37.’ He shrugged his shoulders, and, walking back to the switch, pulled it, and closed the trap. ‘Well, that gives us time for a drink and a biscuit, anyway.’
Henry smiled, and as he spoke in a quiet, smooth voice, Brant suddenly took out his pocket-handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
‘Why, that’s splendid, Smith,’ observed Henry. ‘Splendid. I always did hate rushing things, you know.’
‘Did you?’ queried Smith, on his way to a small cupboard in the wall. His tone suggested that Henry was quite at liberty to talk, if he wanted to, but he must not expect responsible people to listen to him. ‘Come over here, Nora, and see my wine-cellar!’
Henry continued to smile. He glanced at Brant, still mopping his brow.
‘You see, Brant,’ said Henry, ‘now we’ll have a chance to talk about my idea, after all. Sit down, Brant. Plenty of time now. Sit down.’
They sat, one at each end of the table, and Brant eyed Henry anxiously and furtively, bearing an odd resemblance to a dog that has lost its master in a crowd and is no
t quite sure whether he has found him again. Meanwhile, paying no attention to either of them, Smith opened the cupboard in the wall, and took out a bottle.
‘Catch hold of this, Nora,’ he exclaimed, appearing to derive pleasure from his use of the girl’s Christian name. ‘Here’s a mouthful of Burgundy that will give your eyes a sparkle.’ As she took the bottle from him, watching him closely, he suddenly dropped his voice. ‘Listen here,’ he said. ‘Let those two go. You and I would make a fine team. What do you say?’ She did not answer, but continued to watch him. ‘Oh, well, the prize is all the better when it doesn’t pop straight into your mouth. But I’m going to hold you to your promise, my girl. Remember—I could have knocked the head off that guy of yours upstairs!’
‘I’m not forgetting it, Smith,’ answered Nora. ‘And—I’m not leaving here, just yet.’
Smith smiled. That was enough for the moment. He put some wine-glasses on a small tray, and held it out to her. She put the wine bottle on it.
‘That’s right—I’m the waiter this trip,’ grinned Smith. ‘Come along over to the table there, and I’ll serve you with some good stuff.’
He walked towards the table. Henry and Brant watched him approaching. Henry’s smile had never left his face.
‘Better listen to my idea, Smith,’ he said as the grim host reached the table. ‘In fact, I’m afraid you’ll have to. Don’t sit down, and don’t lay that tray down—stay just as you are. And, as the photographers say, look pleasant.’
‘What’s this?’ demanded Smith angrily.
‘Brant’s got his hand in his pocket,’ answered Henry, ‘and I’m afraid something may go off through it if you move. You see, we rather want your hands occupied with that tray at the moment. If you put the tray down, it’s a bullet.’
Smith swore.
‘What the hell!’ he cried. ‘I suppose you think this is one up to you—?’
‘Steady, steady—’
‘You bonehead! Do you think I’m Ackroyd?’
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