‘But—why are you doing all this for me?’ she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Do you know what I am?’
‘Rather! That’s why. Oh, hang it all, Miss Brant, thousands of people go wrong just because Fate’s never given them a sporting chance … Yes, yes, what is it, Ben?’
The sailor had approached again, and was once more tugging his sleeve.
‘Got an idea, guv’nor,’ whispered Ben.
‘Out with it!’
‘’Is back’s turned. Splice ’im up agin!’
Fordyce smiled broadly.
‘What on earth for?’ he demanded.
‘Blimy, guv’nor,’ muttered Ben, ‘I can’t mike yer hout! Time’s nearly hup, ye’r’ sweet on the gal—’
‘Hey!’
‘—and it’s ’er larst charnce! Splice ’im up agin, and ’op it!’
‘You know, you really are a charming idiot,’ replied Fordyce, and even Nora smiled at Ben’s crestfallen face. ‘The verb to hop seems to be the only one you know. And how on earth do you propose to hop it, with all these closed doors? Besides, Ben, there’s a little mirror on the wall, over the desk where our friend is sitting, and he’s watching every movement. Even detectives aren’t complete asses, you know!’
‘Looking-glass, eh?’ muttered Ben. ‘Lummy, I never thort o’ that.’
‘Cheer up! You’ve done your bit, anyway, as I knew you would. Your sheet’s clean.’
‘Done my bit, ’ave I?’ murmured Ben.
‘Of course you have!’
Ben shook his head gloomily. ‘Blarst yer, yer’d draw the ’eart out of a gum-drop!’ He turned and walked towards the desk. ‘’Ere, detective—!’
The man at the desk swung round. His eyes had been on the little mirror more than on his paper.
‘Well, what is it?’ he demanded.
‘This,’ said Ben; and, diving into his pocket, produced a case. ‘’Ere’s yer bloomin’ sparklers—and Gawd bless yer, I don’t think!’
27
Final Surprises
Almost before the words were out of Ben’s mouth, the case was seized from his hand. He had certainly electrified his hearers, and through the confusion of his emotions—a confusion both psychological and wineful—there ran pleasure and pain. It was pleasant to feel that he, in this house of surprises, had sprung a surprise himself, and it was painful to find himself relieved so instantaneously of the richest burden his pocket had ever borne.
‘’Ere, don’t snatch!’ he complained indignantly. ‘It ain’t nothink ter eat.’
‘How the—!’
‘And don’t chip in while I’m a-torkin’,’ continued Ben. He jerked his head towards Nora. ‘She ’ad them sparklers, detective, as yer sed. Give ’em ter me, she did, ter give ter you. So now ye’r’ goin’ ter let ’er orf, ain’t yer?’
‘My God, yes!’ came the excited answer. ‘If the necklace is really inside.’
‘Oh, the sparklers are there orl right, Mr Fumble-Fingers! There, wot did I say?’ he went on, as the fumbling fingers operated the catch, and the lid came open, revealing flashing hues beneath.
‘Bit of orl right, ain’t they?’
‘But, Ben,’ exclaimed Fordyce, ‘I didn’t see Miss Brant give the case to you!’
Ben winked hard. ‘Didn’t yer?’ he said innocently.
‘No. And Detective Barton seems to have missed it in his little mirror too—’
‘I didn’t give it to him,’ interposed Nora, disregarding Ben’s further winks. ‘He’s just doing it to help me—’
‘Oh, orl right!’ grumbled Ben, giving it up. ‘Seems as ’ow I carn’t do nothink like I wants ter! ’Ave it yer own way. She never ’ad ’em. There. No—I ’ad ’em!’
‘You, Ben?’ cried Fordyce.
‘Yus—took ’em orf that Sheldrake bloke when ’e and me was in that there cupboard hupstairs. Nah, then, keep quiet fer the Merchant Service, fer once in yer lives, and I’ll tell yer.’ He looked round at the company, and found all the silent attention he required. ‘Yer see,’ he said impressively, ‘when ’e ’its me, arter I was shoved in, ’e thort I was dahn fer the count. Yus, but orl sailors ’as thick ’eads—in a manner o’ speakin’—and when I comes to I hopens one eye quiet-like and sees ’im tinkerin’ with a spotlight over a loose board in the corner. In goes ’is ’and, and hout comes the little case o’ sparklers, and inter ’is pocket it goes, see?’
‘Yes, Ben, I see,’ answered Fordyce.
‘And then,’ proceeded Ben, ‘when it’s orl dark, and ’e’s a-listenin’ at the cupboard door, in goes my ’and inter ’is pocket, hout comes the little case o’ sparklers, and inter my pocket they goes. Never knew wot they was, o’ corse, till I ’as a moment ter look at ’em arterwards—’
‘When was that?’ asked Fordyce.
‘Just afore we comes dahn, guv’nor,’ replied Ben. ‘While you was hout in the passidge, saying orry-vor to the ’appy family. ’Corse, you’ll say now as I was hout ter nab ’em. Blimy if I knows. Things ’appened so quick, I never ’ad time ter think!’
‘But you had time to think, Ben,’ exclaimed Fordyce warmly, ‘when I offered to let you clear out on the stairs.’
‘Ah!’ nodded Ben. ‘I nearly fergot me prayers that time!’
‘You could have cleared out then with forty thousand pounds in your pocket!’
‘Garn,’ retorted Ben uncomfortably. ‘Wotcher gettin’ at? Tryin’ ter make a blinkin’ cherubim o’ me? I didn’t want ter be copped with the stuff, did I? See me goin’ inter a bank, chuckin’ the sparklers hover the counter, and sayin’, “I’ll have it in notes!”’
‘Nonsense,’ laughed Fordyce. ‘I agree the necklace might have been an uncomfortable possession, but you’re a sport, all the same, and you wanted to get Miss Brant out of a scrape.’
‘Ah, yes, wot abart that, now?’ exclaimed Ben, turning round. ‘Yer ain’t goin’ back on ’er, are yer, Mr Detective? ’Cos, if yer are, I’ll ’ave my sparklers back!’
Fordyce also turned. ‘By Jove, Mr Barton—they’re wonderful!’ he murmured.
‘They are, by George,’ he replied. ‘The Duchess will be a happy woman when she gets them back!’
Fordyce drew a step closer, gazing at the dazzling jewels admiringly.
‘Hold them up to the light for a moment, will you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen their equal!’
He stared at the diamonds as they were raised—and the next moment, the man who had raised them gave a sharp cry. His wrists were clapped together and something clicked over them.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he gasped.
‘Keep cool, Detective Barton,’ answered Fordyce quietly, as he stooped to regain the necklace, which had slipped to the ground.
‘Who the deuce—’ spluttered the handcuffed man.
‘Or, look here,’ continued Fordyce, ‘suppose you drop the “Barton” now, and take on your old name of Doyle,’ The other stared at him. ‘Yes, the game’s up, Doyle,’ said Fordyce. ‘Sorry! You’re a shrewd fellow, but you made a couple of bad mistakes. The first was in thinking that the police were only after the necklace—they were also after you.’
‘Me? I tell you—’
‘Be quiet!’ Fordyce’s voice was stern. ‘Yes, you, Doyle, They were after you, through Sheldrake. They knew that, as sure as the necklace would draw Sheldrake, so Sheldrake would draw you, Mr Henry Doyle.’
The handcuffed man turned, in angry appeal, to the others.
‘This is monstrous!’ he cried. ‘It’s all wrong—!’
‘Is it? Wait till I’ve told you of your second mistake, Doyle. Your second mistake was in posing as a detective—and, of all detectives, as Barton. As a matter of fact, I happen to be Barton myself. Rather awkward, isn’t it?’
Doyle made no reply. The game was up, and he knew it. Ben, however, took a little longer to convince.
‘Wot!’ he exclaimed, incredulous and indignant. ‘You a real live ’tec—and lettin’ me do orl the
work?’
‘Never mind, Ben!’ laughed Fordyce, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be mentioned in dispatches! If you want some more work, try and find the way out of this room.’ He looked at Miss Brant. ‘I’m sorry I had to deceive you,’ he said.
She had been staring at him as incredulously as Ben. Now she began to understand his attitude, and his veiled allusions. She understood, too, his tenacity. He was no longer a man in the street, who had happened by chance into an empty house, and had fallen there under the spell of adventure and romance …
‘I—I was a fool!’ she murmured, with a catch in her voice. ‘I ought to have guessed!’
He went to her quickly. His eyes now looked far more like the eyes of an ordinary man.
‘You’re guessing wrong,’ he answered, ‘if you think you’re going to suffer by it.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Barton?’
‘No—it’s Fordyce, to you!’
‘Mr Fordyce, then.’
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, smiling. ‘A bit more human, isn’t it? Gilbert Fordyce, just an ordinary fellow—who’s going to get you out of this. You’ve got that little bit of paper, haven’t you—with my aunt’s address?’
‘My mind is confused,’ she replied. ‘This afternoon—everything’s got on top of me. I can’t understand—’
‘Why I’m doing this? Simply can’t help myself, that’s all. Queer, isn’t it? I—I like you! There’s very little I don’t know about you—I’ve been watching you from a distance, you see—and I don’t believe in clapping people in prison just when they’ve battled their way out of the mire. No, I simply couldn’t do it!’
‘But have you thought of your duty?’ she asked.
‘Duty’s a funny thing,’ he smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve thought of it—but sometimes it beats us. If you’re thinking of my career, you certainly needn’t worry. I’ve managed a couple of crooks and a diamond necklace in one afternoon—so you won’t be missed!’
Ben’s voice interrupted their conversation. He had been making fruitless attempts to discover the secret combination which opened the trap-door to the tunnel and the door to the passage, keeping one eye also on Henry Doyle; for, although Doyle was handcuffed, you never really knew where you were with anybody in a house of this sort.
‘Guv’nor,’ he said hoarsely, ‘’ave we taken a nine-years’ lease o’ this plice? Yer know, if I don’t git somethink inside me quick, I’ll go barmy! I can’t hopen the bloomin’ thing—’ He stopped abruptly, and a frozen grin appeared on his face. ‘Oi! Look!’ he chattered. ‘It’s hopenin’ of itself!’
‘Hallo! Look out!’ cried Fordyce.
But Ben did not need the warning. As the floor opened, and the black hole began to yawn, he seized a chair and, raising it above his head, yelled down:
‘If yer comes up, I’ll ’it yer.’
‘Steady with that,’ exclaimed Fordyce, and swung him aside as a voice rose from the smoky depths:
‘It’s only m-m-me!’
Ben dropped the chair, relieved but angry.
‘Blimy,’ he shouted, ‘carn’t yer ever come in proper through a door?’
A few seconds later Eddie Scott appeared, stuttering and triumphant.
‘Inspector and h-half a dozen m-men down there,’ he reported. ‘They’re waiting for you at the Y-y-yard. We’ve got poor old Brant—he w-walked right into us.’
‘Did he?’ queried Fordyce, with a glance at Nora.
‘Yes. Seems he m-m-missed his train, after all. And, I say—we’ve g-got Sheldrake, too—with a b-bump on his head the size of an egg.’
‘Well done,’ replied Fordyce briskly. ‘I’ve not done so badly my end, either. There’s Doyle, Eddie. Take him along. And—look!’
He held up the necklace. Eddie’s eyes sparkled—not with greed, but with glory. He thumped Fordyce on the back.
‘M-m-m-m-magnificent!’ he cried.
Then he glanced at Nora, but Fordyce shook his head.
‘Nothing more,’ said Fordyce quietly. ‘Carry on. I’ll follow in a minute. Oh, but, first lend me your pocket-book, Eddie, will you?’ Eddie handed it over obediently, while Fordyce extracted a bundle of notes. ‘Thanks. I’ll square the account at the Yard. Now get on with it.’
Eyes were turned upon Henry Doyle. With a shrug, he rose.
‘’Eave overboard, me ’earty!’ chuckled Ben.
Doyle took no notice. He walked quietly to the trap-door, and smiled sourly at Fordyce.
‘I nearly had ’em,’ he said.
‘Yes, you’re a sharp fellow—I’ll say that for you, Doyle,’ answered Fordyce, also smiling, if a trifle grimly. ‘In a few years’ time, if you’re so minded, I may offer you a job.’ He watched the rascal go down into the tunnel, and addressed Eddie, who was following. ‘Half a minute, Eddie. How’s Mr Ackroyd?’
‘All fine and b-blooming,’ answered Eddie. ‘And so’s his daughter. I say!’
‘Yes?’
‘Jolly nice girl, his d-daughter!’
‘Rather! She’s splendid. You’d better go and tell her so. Hey, wait a second—I’ve one more question yet. Do you know the combination that opens that door?’
‘Of course,’ answered Eddie, as he descended. ‘Ackroyd told me. N-n-n-n-number Seventeen.’
Fordyce laughed, while Ben ran to the switch.
‘Fancy us not thinking o’ that!’ Ben guffawed. ‘My lucky number! And you a ’tec!’ He guffawed again. ‘Yer’ll be tellin’ me as ’ow that stutterin’ feller’s a ’tec next!’
‘So he is,’ smiled Fordyce. ‘And a damned smart one.’
‘Well—I’m blowed,’ exclaimed Ben. ‘If that ain’t the best o’ the lot! Swipe me if I don’t b’leeve you could turn a ’erring into a ’addock!’
The door swung open. Fordyce walked to Nora, and took her hand.
‘That’s your way, my child,’ he said. ‘Not the tunnel for you.’
‘Oi, wot abart me?’ interposed Ben. ‘I ain’t a lot gorn on that tunnel meself, guv’nor.’
‘You go with her, Ben. Start her on her journey, eh? And’—he handed the sailor a packet of notes—‘there’s your expenses.’
‘Lor’ blimey, are we goin’ rahnd the bloomin’ world?’ murmured Ben, staring at the notes. ‘I’ll look arter ’er, guv’nor—same as I’ve looked arter you. But we’re goin’ ter put a square meal in a rahnd ’ole fust!’
He walked to the door, while Nora pressed Fordyce’s hand.
‘Good-bye,’ she said.
‘No, only au revoir,’ he retorted, as he let her hand go. ‘We’ll meet again in Normandy.’
She went through the door, and Fordyce, with a smile of great contentment, began to descend into the tunnel. But a sudden shout made him pause. Ben had come hurrying back.
‘Oi!’ he called.
‘What is it?’ asked Fordyce anxiously.
‘There’s one thing yer ’aven’t fahnd out yet!’ exclaimed Ben.
‘Oh! And what’s that?’
‘Why, ’oo I am,’ said Ben. ‘I’m William the Conk!’
THE END
About the Author
Son of novelist Benjamin Farjeon, and brother to children’s author Eleanor, playwright Herbert and composer Harry, Joseph Jefferson Farjeon (1883–1955) began work as an actor and freelance journalist before inevitably turning his own hand to writing fiction. Described by the Sunday Times as ‘a master of the art of blending horrors with humour’, Farjeon was a prolific author of mystery novels, with more than 60 books published between 1924 and 1955. His first play, No. 17, was produced at the New Theatre in 1925, when the actor Leon M. Lion ‘made all London laugh’ as Ben the tramp, an unorthodox amateur detective who became the most enduring of all Farjeon’s creations. Rewritten as a novel in 1926 and filmed by Alfred Hitchcock six years later, with Mr Lion reprising his role, No.17’s success led to seven further books featuring the warm-hearted but danger-prone Ben: ‘Ben is not merely a character but a parable—a mixture of Trim
alchio and the Old Kent Road, a notable coward, a notable hero, above all a supreme humourist’ (Seton Dearden, Time and Tide). Although he had become largely forgotten over the 60 years since his death, J. Jefferson Farjeon’s reputation made an impressive resurgence in 2014 when his 1937 Crime Club book Mystery in White was reprinted by the British Library, returning him to the bestseller lists and resulting in readers wanting to know more about this enigmatic author from the Golden Age of detective fiction.
Also in this series
The House Opposite
Murderer’s Trail
Ben Sees It Through
Little God Ben
Detective Ben
Ben on the Job
Number Nineteen
About the Publisher
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United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
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London, SE1 9GF
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
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