Murderer's Trail

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  At last he came out of a doze with a jerk. The jerk was evoked by a crab, thirty feet tall, that insisted on trying to blow Ben’s nose with a potato sack. ‘Git orf me!’ yelled Ben. ‘Think I don’t know ’ow?’ He flung himself at the nearest object for support. It was a leg encased in a beige stocking with a ladder, and it seemed to press towards him as he seized it, as though implying that it was on his side against the crab. For the second time in the boat, Ben opened his eyes, and found faces staring at him.

  ‘Hallo! Ivor Novello’s woken up at last,’ said one of the faces.

  It was the third officer’s face. That wasn’t right, was it? What was he doing here?

  ‘I thort you was stayin’ be’ind!’ mumbled Ben.

  It was an odd remark to come back to the world with, and a laugh greeted it.

  ‘You see, he knew all about it,’ grinned the third officer. ‘Just as well we brought him along with us.’

  ‘Just as well if we’d given him to the fishes, as I wanted to!’ added Faggis, now shoving his own face forward. ‘Now he’s awake he’ll make a fuss when we do it.’

  ‘Only you won’t do it!’ came a voice above the leg Ben found he was still hugging. ‘We’ve had enough of that talk!’

  ‘There’s more coming,’ snarled Faggis. ‘See here, you fellers, what’s the use? Why not get rid of them both, and start clear?’

  Then Sims spoke up from the stern. He had hold of the sheet.

  ‘How many times am I to remind you, Faggis,’ he said, ‘that I am in command of this little expedition, and that my word goes? If I have agreed—for the time being—to spare his life, for the sake of getting the girl’s assistance—’

  ‘Who wants her assistance?’ interrupted Faggis.

  ‘It may be more valuable than you imagine,’ retorted Sims, ‘and, don’t forget, we’re paying according to value. We’ve got a journey after we land, and since it’s necessary to keep one lady in good health—don’t forget that, Faggis—another lady may come in quite handy to help us with the job.’

  ‘And, of course, the other lady, with her record, wouldn’t dream of double-crossing us, would she?’ suggested Faggis, sarcastically.

  Then the other lady chipped in.

  ‘With my record,’ she exclaimed, ‘I’d do a lot of good to myself double-crossing! Think I’m anxious to chum up with the police?’

  She spoke vigorously. Clearly, whatever time she had passed through, it did not compare with the time Ben had passed through. Or else she had an amazing faculty for recovery. Ben rejoiced in her spirit, though her actual words rather surprised him; and the thought that ran through his mind was given words the next moment by Faggis.

  ‘Of course, you’re not anxious to chum up with the police,’ he replied; ‘but you were going to chum up with the captain!’

  ‘You’re a fool, Faggis! That was to scare you!’

  ‘Oh, just to scare him, was it?’ murmured the third mate, considering the theory.

  ‘And even if it hadn’t been,’ the girl ran on, ‘the golden bait came along afterwards, didn’t it? Think I’m a saint? I want money, same as anybody. And now I know where I stand, and have got some others to look after my interests, Faggis, and see you don’t stick a knife in me, I’m in this the same as you are, and just as keen on making my little bit!’

  Ben’s eyes opened wide. He wasn’t sure that he liked the way things were shaping. Of course, all this spelt safety for the girl. Still …

  ‘You’ve got your answer, Faggis,’ said Sims, ‘and it’s a good one. Our lady accomplice, by the way, has she a name?’

  ‘Lots,’ replied the lady accomplice. ‘Molly Smith’ll do for this trip.’

  ‘Well, Molly Smith is implicated in the crimes of murder and abduction, and it’s hardly in her interest to double-cross us. And, anyway, Faggis,’ he went on, his voice hardening, ‘I’m looking after that, and the sooner you recognise who is the leader of this party, the safer you’ll be. So now drop interrupting, please, and let me get on with business.’

  The business, evidently, was Ben. Handing over the sheet to the third officer, he left the stern and subjected Ben to a searching scrutiny.

  ‘Feeling better, eh?’ he asked.

  ‘Like Kid Berg,’ responded Ben. ‘And ’ow are you feelin’?’

  ‘Shall we say—Carnera?’ suggested Sims.

  ‘If yer like,’ answered Ben. ‘’E got beat once.’

  Sims smiled. Most people got angry when Ben cheeked them, but Sims didn’t seem to mind at all. His complacency was rather uncanny. The third officer, for instance, got in a wax the moment you opened your mouth.

  ‘Do you know, you’re quite interesting,’ remarked Sims.

  ‘So are you,’ returned Ben. ‘Can’t think wot the Brighton Aquarium’s doin’ without yer.’

  ‘But, of course, I can’t let you do all the talking.’

  ‘’Corse, yer can’t. Yer might ’ear some things yer didn’t like.’

  Something pressed gently against his arm. It was the beige stocking with the ladder in it. ‘It’s torkin’ ter me,’ thought Ben. ‘Wot’s it sayin’?’

  ‘Yes, that is certainly possible,’ observed Sims, after a little pause, during which his scrutiny grew more searching still. ‘You’re not very fond of me, are you?’ Ben did not reply. The beige stocking was pressing him again. ‘And that’s a pity, because people who aren’t fond of me get into all sorts of trouble.’

  On the point of retorting, Ben suddenly realised what the beige stocking was talking about. Lummy, what a fool he’d been—or nearly been!

  ‘Look ’ere!’ he exclaimed, raising his voice querulously, ‘wot ’ave yer done ter mike me fond of yer? Give me a charnce, and p’r’aps I’ll love yer like stickin’ plaster!’

  The outburst had its effect.

  ‘What sort of a chance?’ inquired Sims, delaying the axe.

  ‘Think I wouldn’t rather earn a bit o’ money,’ responded Ben, ‘instead o’ bein’ shoved hoverboard ter feed the sardines?’

  ‘S.O.S.,’ murmured the third officer, and Faggis laughed. The implication, intended to queer Ben’s pitch, had the reverse effect. The white-haired leader of the party was taking advice from nobody.

  ‘And what could you do, to earn some money?’ asked Sims.

  ‘Hennythink.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘That doesn’t seem to answer the question.’

  ‘Oh! Well, wotcher want me ter do?’

  ‘I’m asking what you can do?’

  ‘Oh! Well, fer one thing, I can keep me marth shut.’

  ‘Yes, but we could keep your mouth shut—for nothing.’

  ‘Yer’d ’ave the Hadmerality arter yer if yer did. I’m standin’ by fer the next war.’

  ‘Really,’ smiled Sims. ‘That’s interesting. I should have imagined we could have lost the next war quite easily without you. So you’ve nothing else to offer—’

  ‘Yus, I ’ave,’ interrupted Ben, deciding that he must make a serious effort. ‘Do yer remember that bloke wot was fahnd bound and gagged on Noomarket ’Eath? It was me wot done that.’

  The information was received with various degrees of incredulity. The third officer snorted, Faggis laughed blatantly, and Molly Smith’s mouth twitched. It seemed to be endeavouring not to smile.

  ‘I see. So you’re a killer,’ queried Sims politely.

  His expression, alone, remained unchanged.

  ‘Bound and gagged, I sed,’ Ben corrected him. ‘But I did kill a feller once. ’E missed me, and went hover the cliff. And then I can whistle when a copper’s comin’. And we’re goin’ ter Spain, ain’t we? Well, I knows the Spanish fer “Yus.”’

  ‘You really do seem quite accomplished,’ murmured Sims. ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Yus,’ answered Ben. ‘If things is goin’ bad, I can sing “Three Sailors o’ Bristol City,” and cheer yer hup.’

  This was too much for the third officer.
/>   ‘How much longer are you going to listen to that darned idiot?’ he cried.

  ‘Personally I find him rather amusing, Greene,’ replied Sims. ‘Too amusing, anyhow, to lose at the moment. We’ll postpone the execution, I think, and take him along with us. I’ve a little plan into which he will fit quite nicely. Naturally, he won’t live for ever. Unfortunately, none of us do that, eh? But, till death claims him, I like to hear the sound of his voice. And, of course, before he dies, we must certainly hear him sing “Three Sailors of Bristol City.”’

  ‘I wunner if I’ve won?’ thought Ben.

  17

  The End of the Voyage

  Thus Ben became, pro tem, an accepted member of a gang of kidnappers; and, such being the case, he sat up and began to take notice.

  One thing he noticed, as the little boat slipped along through the deep blue water on an eastward course, was that the white-haired Mr Sims was very definitely the leader of the party. There was something in his personality, an indication of impervious purpose and of cynical callousness to details, that raised him executively, if not morally, above his companions. The companions might bicker and argue. They were totally unable to dictate. The moment the bickering ceased to amuse their chief he came down upon it like a cold steel hammer, and it ended.

  Who was second-in-command? Opinions were divided. Faggis thought he was, and Greene thought he was. This division of opinion caused most of the bickering.

  But what was Greene doing in the boat, anyway? It had been decided that the third officer was to stay behind on the Atalanta. Ben remembered that bit. He was to start off in the boat, and after that he was to jump into the water and pretend the boat had capsized. Yet here he was, deserting the mother ship with the rest!

  ‘What are you doin’ ’ere?’ asked Ben suddenly. ‘Funk the cold barth?’

  ‘Mind your own business!’ retorted the third officer.

  ‘It is my business,’ said Ben. ‘Ain’t I one of yer? And why doncher keep ’er bit closer ter the wind?’

  The third officer growled, but Sims smiled.

  ‘So you know how to sail a boat?’ he remarked.

  ‘’Corse, I does,’ answered Ben. ‘See me at ’Ampstead ’Eath pond!’

  ‘Excellent,’ nodded Sims. ‘Perhaps I’ll make you take your turn at the sheet.’

  Encouraged, Ben put another question.

  ‘Where we makin’ for?’ he inquired.

  ‘Land,’ replied Sims.

  The encouragement evaporating, Ben continued with his cogitations.

  Sims, Green, Faggis—he’d got them sized up. Now what about the girl? The girl whose name for this trip was Molly Smith? Well, he reckoned he’d got her sized up too. Playing a game, she was! The same game she’d prompted him to play! And they’d have to continue the game, to save their skins, as long as they were in the boat. But when they touched land …

  ‘Yus, wot ’appens when we git ter the land?’ wondered Ben.

  It would be a foreign land. A land full of strangers. For all the use the strangers would be, it might as well be a land full of monkeys! How would they be made to understand the position? The only Spanish word Ben knew was ‘Yus,’ and, now he came to think of it, that was Italian.

  You bet, Sims knew the lingo! That would give him the whip hand. And, even if he didn’t, what could Ben and Molly Smith do against three hefty men, a knife and a revolver, and goodness knew what else besides?

  Revolver! Lummy, there was an idea! Revolver! Where was it kept?

  Ben shifted his eyes cautiously south-east till they rested on Sim’s middle. His eyes searched the middle for a bulge. But it was the front middle, and he wanted the behind middle. Or, strictly speaking, a little lower down than the middle. That was where you kept ’em, wasn’t it?

  Well, there was plenty of time. Night would come. And then …

  Meanwhile, there was the sixth of the party to think about. The most important member, and the silentest. With sudden apprehension Ben turned to the figure covered by the sack, or nearly covered by it. A portion of the soft green cloak was still visible—the cloak that had made such a pretty splash of colour in the ballroom of the Atalanta, but that gleamed now with such grim incongruity. A glimpse too, of the bare arm, with the tight cord pressing into the skin. Travelling along the arm to the shoulder, and from the shoulder to the head, Ben’s anxious glance revealed the fact that Miss Holbrooke’s eyes were closed.

  Asleep … or drugged?

  Suddenly Ben became very still. Instinct told him that, just as he was gazing at Miss Holbrooke, someone was gazing at him. Was he looking too sympathetic, he wondered? He tried to change gear quietly into another expression, and to look baleful. Then, holding on to the balefulness and struggling not to let it slip—it was not an emotion that sat easily on his features—he turned his head so that he could get a glimpse of the watcher out of the corner of his eye.

  He discovered it was Molly Smith, and the reaction of the discovery sent him into a bath of perspiration.

  Molly was not looking in the least baleful. Her eyes were full of tense sympathy. They were speaking to him. She seemed to be able to speak with every part of her anatomy. She was saying, ‘Well done! Well done! Stick to it! The blackguards! Oh, the blackguards! For God’s sake, stick to it!’

  ‘You bet I will!’ he thought back. But his eyes did not express the thought. Transition of expression was not his forte.

  Then Ben noticed another thing. Sims and Faggis were staring across the vast expanses of water. They seemed to be searching the horizon, and it was not difficult to guess what they were searching for. Sims was using binoculars.

  ‘Are we being follered?’ he asked.

  Receiving no answer, he tried another tack.

  ‘When do we eat?’ he inquired.

  He was ignored again. He grew indignant.

  ‘I knoo a ’ungry man once,’ he declared, ‘wot hupset a boat!’

  ‘Must you talk!’ came the third officer’s voice from behind him.

  ‘Not when me marth’s full,’ he retorted.

  A hand shot out towards him. ‘Oi!’ he cried. But the hand for once was not menacing. It contained a hunk of bread.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ blinked Ben. ‘Tork abart Haladdin’s lamp!’

  He took the bread, and set his teeth in it. Or, rather attempted to.

  ‘Lummy, the baker didn’t leave this ’ere larst night!’ he muttered. ‘’Ow long ’ave we bin on this bloomin’ boat? A year?’

  Sims removed his eyes from the binoculars for an instant to answer him.

  ‘I think it is time you learned,’ he said cuttingly, ‘that we are not interested in your conversation.’

  ‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ replied Ben, ‘’cos there won’t be no conversashun while I’m gittin’ this block o’ granit dahn!’

  He chewed in silence. Silence, at least, apart from the chew. Then he demanded a drink. After all, one had to live.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ jeered the third officer. ‘Champagne or a cocktail?’

  ‘Cocktail,’ he answered. ‘Greene Gargle.’

  A cup of water was handed to him. It was better than any cocktail. He drank it slowly, to enjoy its full trickle down his dry throat. Then, his meal over, he settled down to wait patiently for the next.

  The breeze freshened. It struck them favourably from the north-west. The boat gathered speed, and raced over the rhythmic swell. Once, in response to a sudden command from Sims, they swung round and changed their course to south. ‘’E’s seed somethink!’ thought Ben. But twenty minutes later they were going east again, this time with a touch of north in it.

  Behind them, the sun climbed down towards the horizon. They had been sailing for many hours, and still Miss Holbrooke lay motionless in the bottom of the boat. Many times Ben glanced at her, to make sure that the sack beneath which she lay was going up and down. If it stopped, he swore he would hit things. Even while watching the movement, he once nearly saw red.
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  ‘Gawd!’ he swore to himself. ‘Some’un’ll pay!’

  He saw Molly’s eyes on him warningly. She could read thoughts as well as convey them. She was guessing Ben’s oath.

  ‘Clorridgeform, miss?’ he asked.

  There was no harm in asking that, was there?

  She shook her head, and touched her arm.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ muttered Ben. ‘Interjecshun.’

  And while he swore another oath, Sims lowered his field-glasses, and reported land.

  18

  The Landing

  The theory that the world was not, after all, bounded everywhere by water became a fact. Into the eastern line that separated the sea from the sky entered a vague disturbance. It looked at first like a long, low cloud, darkish at the base and light at the upper edge; the upper edge, however, did not possess the gracious sweeps and curves of vapour, but the jagged points and angles of solidarity. Gradually it became the serrated ridge of a mountain range, its peaks glowing in the low rays of the western sun; glowing and growing as the little boat drew nearer. The darkish base turned into foliage, mystic and silent, forming a green shadow beyond the rocks of the shore. Had the little boat contained an artist, his eyes would have glowed at the picture unfolding before him and he would have attempted to remember it for the walls of Burlington House.

  But there was no artist in the little boat, no heart to beat æsthetically. As the water narrowed between the boat and the land, becoming breadth instead of length, hearts beat with very different emotions, each emotion an earthly one. Ben’s heart, with which we are mainly concerned, beat loudest. The sight of the advancing land brought with it a sudden sense of renewed responsibility. In the little boat, all had been conjecture and theory. On land, there would have to be action!

  What sort of action? What would happen immediately after the boat was beached? Ben had no idea. All he knew was that, in some queer way, he had become the squire of two dames, and if things didn’t come out all right for them, then, lummy, it didn’t matter if things didn’t come out all right for him, either.

  ‘Gawd, I’m the ’ero!’ he thought in sudden amazement.