Murderer's Trail

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  Then his mind began to go back on him. He was advising a girl to get rid of evidence that would connect her with a murder. She hadn’t done the murder, but she was implicated in it. In another minute, Ben himself would be implicated. He began to speculate on how he stood. ‘I knows they can nab yer if yer knows and don’t tell,’ he thought; ‘but can they nab yer if yer knows and don’t tell abart some ’un helse as knows and don’t tell?’ It was much too difficult. He gave it up, and tried to concentrate on the words that were now being whispered to him through the darkness:

  ‘Get rid of them? I’m not quite a fool! They’ll have the numbers taped all right! And, anyway, I don’t feel I want to touch the wretched things. Yes, but don’t think I’m squeamish!’ The voice rose a little, in sudden defiance. ‘I’m the stuff, all right! I could pick your pocket while you winked. That’s my speciality. But—no, not murder! That’s outside the ring. I do bar that!’

  ‘’Corse yer does,’ agreed Ben hopelessly.

  ‘And when I joined with this fellow—Jim Faggis—the name’ll be in the papers soon enough—we had it all clear first. You’ve got to make sure where you stand, you know, or you’re soon in the soup. And on our very first job he—does this!’ She paused. ‘Say, I’m telling you a lot, aren’t I?’

  ‘Everythin’ but,’ replied Ben. ‘’Ow did it ’appen?’

  ‘God knows! It was Faggis’s show from the word go. He’d already marked the man and the house—sort of old miser who collects money just to keep it away from other people, and then leaves it to a cat’s home—you know—and we got in easily enough, and everything was going all right till Faggis knocks over a chair. That scared me. I don’t like inside work, anyway. Never did. God’s good air for this child! Yes, and when I heard him coming downstairs—I did a bolt, and don’t mind admitting it!’

  ‘So’d anybody,’ sympathised Ben.

  His mind was in a terrible tangle. She had said she was telling him a lot, and it was the truth. He was learning things that were very awkward indeed for a law-abiding citizen like him—because, after all, lying down on seats and being moved on wasn’t actually breaking the law, was it? You had to lie somewhere …

  ‘But Faggis wouldn’t go, even then, the fool! No, he must stay and see it through. You see, we’d only done downstairs, and he knew there was more on the first floor. That’s the worst of people like Faggis. Never satisfied! Well, by God, I hope he’s satisfied now!’

  It had taken her a long while to start, but she was thoroughly wound up now. Hours of emotional repression and tightly-closed lips had had their effect upon her, and now, in this queer sanctuary, before this queerer audience, her tongue was loosened, and words flowed fast from where they had waited frozen.

  ‘Yer can see she ain’t one o’ the real bad ’uns,’ argued Ben to himself, as he listened. He didn’t know it, but he was actually arguing her case at the gates of Heaven. ‘Never ’ad a proper chance, that’s wot it is. You gotter ’ave a charnce. And, as fer pickin’ pockets—well, didn’t I nearly pick a pocket once, on’y I didn’t ’cos I couldn’t, me ’and was too big. Well, then …’

  ‘When I got outside, I waited for him. I’d got the wind up properly. Faggis had been getting on my nerves, you see.’ She always tried to make it clear that she wasn’t really soft. ‘He hadn’t exactly got the bedside manner. I waited goodness knows how long. Years!’

  ‘I knows ’em,’ murmured Ben.

  ‘And then he came. And—and the moment I saw his face, I knew what had happened. “You’ve killed him!” I said. Just like that. “You’ve killed him!” He didn’t answer. But that didn’t make any difference. It was written all over him. The poor old fool I’d heard coming downstairs to look after his silly property had been bumped off!’

  She spoke through her teeth. Suddenly, as Ben tried hard not to visualise the scene she was describing, and failed, he became conscious of the engines again and their ceaseless throbbing. They throbbed like Fate, with all Fate’s indifference and domination. ‘Go on whispering, if it amuses you,’ said the engines. ‘It won’t alter things. You’re being carried on, just the same.’

  Throb-throb! Throb-throb! Throb-throb!

  ‘I don’t know how long we stood there, staring at each other. Only a second, I dare say. Then I got giddy, and turned to run. But he got hold of my arm, and asked me what I was going to do. “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re not going to be a damned fool?” he said. “I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t. And then I managed to get away, and he came after me. You see—he’d got the wind up too. He thought I might tell the police.’

  ‘Why didn’t yer?’ asked Ben, to fill in a pause.

  ‘D’you take me for a saint?’ she retorted. ‘It would have looked well for me, wouldn’t it? Besides—when you take on a bargain—it’s for better or worse, isn’t it? Still, I thought of it. And then, there’s another thing. If Faggis was caught, he’d drag me in. He’s that sort. Oh, he’ll do it, don’t worry! And that’s why he’d been after me all day. He knew I’d either make for a police station or a getaway, and he wanted me in either case. And he nearly got me that time I barged into your arms!… I’ve been through it!’

  ‘There yer are,’ said Ben to St Peter. ‘She thort o’ goin’ fer the police! Tha’s somethink, ain’t it?’ Meanwhile, to the girl whose case he was pleading, he held out a more immediate crumb of comfort. ‘P’r’aps ’e wasn’t dead, miss,’ he suggested. ‘The miser bloke. Arter all, yer never seed ’im.’

  ‘Yes, I did!’

  Ben gulped. Seen him, had she? Seen him! Lummy! Now Ben visualised St Peter thrusting her out—thrusting Ben out, also—and slamming the golden gates in their faces. Ben’s St Peter, of course, was not known to him by name, nor was he the St Peter of your and my conception. The nearest his vision could get to heaven’s gate-keeper was a picture he had once seen of Mark Twain, with wings added.

  ‘So—yer seed ’im?’ whispered Ben.

  ‘Yes. Somehow—I had to,’ she whispered back. ‘You see—as you said—he mightn’t have been dead. And, if he hadn’t been—’

  ‘Yer could ’ave gorn fer a doctor and p’r’aps saved ’im?’

  Ben jumped in quickly with that. Again in the dimness he caught the girl’s nod, and this time it rejoiced him. ‘Wot abart that, yer blinkin’ fool!’ he cried to his winged version of Mark Twain. ‘She went back agine, see? Might ’ave bin copped, but she goes back. Puts ’er ’ead in at a winder, eh? Ter mike sure she carn’t do nothin’ fer ’im. Bet you wouldn’t ’ave! Hopen yer gate!’

  Then, leaving the future and swinging back to the more vital present, he exclaimed:

  ‘Gawd, and now this blinkin’ murderin’ bloke is on the boat with us!’

  ‘Sh!’ she warned him.

  The exclamation had been rather on the loud side.

  ‘Yus, but does ’e know you’re ’ere?’ he asked hoarsely.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered, after a pause. ‘P’r’aps you’ve got an opinion?’

  Ben held a consultation with himself.

  ‘Well, miss, this is ’ow I sizes it hup,’ he said. ‘’E may think yer ’ere, but ’e don’t know it. ’E may think I’m ’ere, but ’e don’t know it. ’Cos why? That ain’t why ’e come aboard, see? No. ’E’s come aboard as a blinkin’ stoker—Mr ’Ammersmith Stoker, the hother feller called ’im—and ’e’s got some gime on that ain’t nothink ter do with you—hor with me!’

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ nodded the girl. ‘You weren’t asleep under the coal, then!’

  ‘No—seems as if I jest come aht of me two days’ snooze when they comes in. Yus, and if your ’and ’adn’t give me the wink, I’d ’ave ’ollered.’

  ‘Then you do see you owe me something?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty, ain’t it? And them two blokes is fifty-fifty on that hother gime too. They said so, didn’t they?’

  ‘But what is the other game?’

  ‘That’s wot we gotter find aht,’ said Ben. �
�Orl we knows hup ter nah is that they’ve marked the spot where you and I are standin’—and that they’re comin’ back!’

  His voice dropped to its most sepulchral depth. The girl did not appear to be attending.

  ‘Comin’ back!’ he repeated. ‘Comin’ back right ’ere!’ Then, as she still made no comment, he became worried. ‘Wot’s hup?’ he demanded.

  ‘Do you—smell anything?’ came the question.

  Ben sniffed. The thing he instinctively sniffed for was fire. No, he didn’t sniff fire.

  ‘I don’t smell nuffin’,’ he said. ‘That is, barrin’ coal.’

  He sniffed again. Ah, yes! There was something. He went on sniffing.

  ‘Where is it?’ He blinked.

  He looked towards the girl and missed her. ‘Oi!’ he whispered. But she was merely bending down, and her position answered his question. The smell was coming up from below them.

  Ben got a sudden queer vision. It was of a hospital. He saw rows of small white beds, and nurses moving about and doctors. He saw a man being brought in on a stretcher. He discovered himself on a stretcher, moving towards an operating room. Things happened very swiftly in Ben’s mind.

  But why had this vision come to him? They were in a ship, not a hospital. Of course, he did remember coming out of gas once and hearing a throbbing something like that of the engines. Still, this wasn’t gas, even though it brought gas to his mind. Something that reminded him of gas, but not gas. Something …

  ‘Lummy!’ he gasped. ‘Clorridgeform!’

  6

  The Third Officer

  The chloroform was in a small green bottle that lay on the ground in a little arc of light produced by the girl’s torch. For several seconds they stared at it. The sight brought recent events ominously close.

  ‘’Ow did it git there?’ asked Ben.

  As he put the question, the bottle disappeared. The girl had snapped off the light again.

  ‘Wotcher doin’?’ demanded Ben.

  He heard a swift whisper, but it was too low to be intelligible. Then another sound caught his attention. It came from above, in the vicinity of the ladder.

  The swift whisper had been a warning. Gawd—now fer it! Ben whispered back:

  ‘Doncher move, miss! Stand steady! They’ll ’ear yer!’

  There was no time to climb back to their original hiding-place and, in a matter of seconds, to re-cover themselves with coal. Perhaps, by standing perfectly still under the wall of coal, they might escape notice. The originator of the noise above, whoever it was, might pass on to another ladder, giving this dead end a miss, or he might poke his head in, see nothing during a quick glance, and then poke his head out again. Sound—that was the thing to avoid. Sound!

  Why does one always want to sneeze at the most inconvenient moment? In terror Ben seized his upper lip and fought against the tragedy of explosion. He thought hard of a monkey sitting on the North Pole—he had heard this was one of the best remedies—but as the monkey sneezed this only made matters more insupportable. He hastily sent the monkey packing, and substituted a snake, which hasn’t a nose. At least, Ben’s snake hadn’t. Then a shaft of light struck him from above.

  There being no object in keeping the sneeze back any longer, he let it go.

  When he opened his eyes he received another shock. The light was still on him, revealing him mercilessly, but it did not reveal anybody else! The girl was no longer by his side. He appeared to have sneezed her away.

  The source of the light drew nearer. He did not move. He was too stunned. A second edition of himself moved, however. His black shadow. It swelled enormously as the light approached, creating envy in the breast of its responsible substance. ‘Gawd, if I was as big as that,’ thought Ben, ‘I’d give somebody somethink!’

  Then he turned round to see who the somebody was. It was the short, thick-set, stumpy man.

  The unwelcome visitor did not speak until he had reached the bottom of the ladder and had settled himself securely on terra firma. Then, after a curt scrutiny, he opened fire.

  ‘Well, what’s your game?’ he demanded.

  Ben became child-like.

  ‘Stowaway,’ he answered.

  ‘I see! Riding without a ticket, eh?’

  ‘Tha’s it. Somethink fer nothink.’

  ‘Not a hope!’ retorted the other. ‘You don’t get anything for nothing in this world. Thought you people had learned that by now.’

  ‘I’ve give hup learnin’,’ returned Ben. ‘Well, wotcher goin’ ter do abart it?’

  His inquisitor did not answer. His eyes were on the ground. He stared at the bottle of chloroform.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ he inquired.

  ‘Fell out of me button ’ole,’ said Ben.

  ‘Joking won’t help you,’ frowned the other. He stooped and picked the bottle up. Then he looked at Ben quizzically. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Yus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ginger beer.’

  ‘Ginger beer! A pretty strong brand! Ever heard of chloroform?’

  A bit of coal shifted somewhere, and made them jump.

  ‘What’s that?’ exclaimed the officer.

  ‘Ever ’eard o’ rats?’ asked Ben.

  The officer frowned. Not long since, in this very spot, he had himself offered the same explanation to another man. All at once he looked at Ben sharply.

  ‘Say, you—how long have you been in this little funk hole?’

  That was an awkward question. Two days, apparently. But if he admitted it, the officer would know that Ben had overheard a certain conversation. In a panic he responded:

  ‘Jest come ’ere.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Fack.’

  ‘I didn’t see you as I came along.’

  ‘Tha’s why I come along.’

  ‘Damned fool!’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Look here, do you know you’re speaking to an officer?’

  ‘On’y third.’

  ‘Only—’ Indignation was succeeded by interest. ‘So you can read a uniform, eh?’

  ‘Better’n the Bible.’

  ‘How’s that? Been to sea before?’

  ‘Yus. Ain’t you never ’eard o’ the Battle o’ Jutland?’

  ‘And haven’t you heard that even third officers are called “sir?”’

  About to submit, Ben suddenly changed his mind. His ear had caught the sound of coal shifting again, and his brain was working.

  ‘Git on with it!’ he retorted, deliberately rude. ‘This ain’t a children’s party!’

  ‘By God, it isn’t!’ cried the third officer angrily. ‘You’ll learn what sort of a party it is before you’re many minutes older.’ He held up the bottle of chloroform. ‘This isn’t going to help you, you know!’

  ‘Wotcher mean?’ asked Ben uneasily.

  ‘Clear enough, I should think! Stowaway! We’ll see about that!’

  Ben blinked at the bottle, and backed a little. The third officer was brandishing it rather close. That, however, was not the point that worried him most.

  ‘That ain’t nothing ter do with me!’ he declared, with vehemence.

  ‘Oh, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it ain’t!’

  ‘I thought it dropped from your button hole?’

  ‘Go on! I was bein’ funny! Doncher know a joke when yer sees one?’

  The third officer suddenly grinned. Apparently he was seeing some joke at that moment.

  ‘I tell yer, w— I fahnd it on the grahnd!’ He just saved himself from saying ‘we.’ ‘I was lookin’ at it when you come along.’

  ‘Really, now?’ responded the third officer, still grinning. ‘Without a spot-light?’

  Ben perspired. The joke had passed out of his hands. Staring at the grin in front of him, he wondered how hard he could hit, if he really tried. But he did not hit the grin. He suddenly interpreted it, instead. And perspired more freely afterwards.

  ‘S
o that’s yer gime, is it?’ he thought. ‘You dropped it ’ere, did yer, and now you’re puttin’ it on me! Orl right, Sunny Boy, I got a gime too, that’ll send the sun in!’

  Aloud he said:

  ‘’Oo wants a spot-light fer clorridgeform? I got a nose, ain’t I?’

  ‘Yes, and you’ll feel something on it, if I have any more of your back chat!’ exclaimed the third officer. ‘Now, then—up the ladder with you. And step lively!’

  Ben hesitated. ‘I gotter go fust?’ he asked.

  ‘Bet your life, you have!’ retorted the third officer. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

  He was waiting because he didn’t want to go first. He wanted to see the third officer out of the place before he followed. Those movements among the coal were troubling him. He knew who was making them. She’d nipped into cover somehow … Lummy! There was another one!

  ‘Have I got to help you?’ cried the third officer angrily.

  ‘No, you ain’t!’ shouted Ben suddenly. ‘I don’t want no ’elp, not from you—no, nor not from hanyone. See? Not from hanyone!’

  The third officer thought Ben was speaking to him. As a matter of fact, Ben was addressing the coal. A piece of coal responded, by dislodging itself and toppling to the ground.

  ‘Hey! What’s that?’ exclaimed the officer, and flashed his torch towards the spot.

  ‘Gawd—now ’e’s got ’er!’ thought Ben, and clenched his fist, just to give the world one good bash before it crushed you.

  Two bright eyes gleamed from the illuminated coal heap. Then their owner sprang at the third officer.

  ‘Damn these blasted rats!’ he cried.

  Ben felt himself feeling sick.

  7

  The Faggis Jigsaw

  More ladders. More dark passages. More climbing and squeezing through the tubes and arteries of the ship’s stomach. But this time Ben did not have to select the tubes and arteries himself. They were selected for him by the third officer.

  And thus he was free to grope among other dark passages—the dark passages of his mind. He tried to illuminate them. Some of them needed illumination badly. To avoid further tripping.