Murderer's Trail

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘Si! Si!’ he nodded encouragingly. Then, turning to the old woman, he murmured something that ended with ‘Carnero.’

  ‘Eh? ’Oo’s that?’ exclaimed Ben.

  But they did not stop to explain, and left the room.

  Carnero arrived five minutes later, and turned out to be mutton. This was a vast improvement on the interpretation Ben had put upon the word while waiting for it to materialise. With the mutton were potatoes and one or two other things less understandable, but Ben fell upon them all, while the old woman watched him disapprovingly. The black-bearded man, who had brought the tray, had gone again, for a reason which Ben was soon to learn.

  ‘Spanish fer thankyer,’ said Ben, when he had finished.

  He felt better and better. He was ready to go on again. But when he began to get off the bed the old woman darted forward and pushed him back.

  ‘Wot’s that for?’ he demanded.

  ‘No!’ she replied.

  ‘Wot—yer could speak English orl the time?’ exclaimed Ben indignantly.

  He tried to leave the bed again, and again she shoved him back. She had more strength than one would have imagined, but it was not merely her strength that baffled Ben. It was her sex; also her age. Yer carn’t knock an old woman abart—well, can yer?

  ‘’Ere, this is silly!’ he protested.

  She stood over him, glowering.

  ‘Wot I wanter know,’ he went on, ‘is if yer on my side or if yer ain’t? Yer’ve give me a rest and a meal, and I ain’t fergettin’ it, but yer ain’t got no right ter keep me ’ere? I ain’t done nothink ter yer. Now, look ’ere, mum, don’t yer stop me no more, or p’r’aps I’ll fergit me manners!’

  He made a third effort. She almost jumped upon him, and shouted as she jumped. The man with the black beard came running in. Then all three began talking hard, and nobody had won when there sounded a sharp knocking on the door below.

  ‘Alguien llama!’ cried the old woman. ‘Vaya á abrir!’

  ‘Medico!’ exclaimed the man, and vanished.

  A moment later he returned with an elderly gentleman. The elderly gentleman had grey hair, and he carried a small bag. A newspaper was sticking out of his pocket.

  There was a consultation, conducted in low voices. Ben, obviously, was the subject of it. They continually looked towards him, and then coughed and pretended they had not. Every now and then a sentence floated meaninglessly across to the bed. ‘Cuánto há que vino aqui?’ That was the elderly gentleman. ‘Nada ma gustan sus modales.’ That was the old woman. ‘Carnero.’ That was the black-bearded man, and for some reason he seemed rather ashamed. ‘Carnero?’ repeated the elderly gentleman, admonishingly. ‘Carnero!’ And his eyebrows went up and down several times.

  Then the elderly gentleman turned directly to Ben, and studied him. Now he took the newspaper from his pocket, looked at it, and studied Ben again.

  The old woman and the black-bearded man, watching closely, seemed puzzled. The elderly gentleman turned towards them again, and held out the newspaper, pointing to one of the columns. They looked at the column, and then their eyebrows began working up and down.

  ‘’Ave I sed somethink funny,’ wondered Ben, ‘and ’as it got in a paper?’

  But nobody was laughing. Faces were growing terribly serious, and even the black-bearded man, who had hitherto been the most friendly, began to scowl.

  ‘Zoologico?’ murmured the old woman.

  ‘Maniático?’ whispered the black-bearded man.

  ‘Asesino!’ muttered the elderly gentleman, his eyes on the newspaper. ‘Asesino!’

  It dawned upon Ben that the remarks being made about him were not nice.

  The trio drew a little nearer the door. The elderly gentleman seemed to be considering a course of action. Suddenly he put a question that evidently puzzled him.

  ‘Ah! Si!’ exclaimed the black-bearded man, and darted from the room.

  He returned with three objects. The first was a shoe. The second was a knife. The third was a hammer. Ben recognised them all.

  The elderly gentleman’s face grew graver and graver. Hs also appeared a trifle less at ease than when he had first entered the room with his little bag. He was now very near the door.

  ‘Medico?’ he observed depreciatingly, tapping his chest. ‘No! Oficial de policía!’

  ‘Wot’s that?’ cried Ben.

  He bounded from the bed, but no more quickly than the trio bounded from the room. The key was turned in the lock. The next person to turn it, presumably, would be the oficial de policía.

  When a door is locked, One turns instinctively to a window. Ben now adopted this obvious course, and as he did so he jumped back. Something came hurtling through the window and landed with a plop on the floor. It was a small, sodden shoe.

  30

  En Route for Villabanzos

  A sodden shoe is not ordinarily classified among the world’s most beautiful objects, but no object more beautiful to Ben could have entered through the window, saving the girl herself to whom the shoe belonged. His eyes were feasting on the unbelievable beauty when it was followed by a writhing snake. The snake was received with less enthusiasm than the shoe, and there was a nasty moment when the snake tried to sting him. Then it turned into a coil of rope; and, viewed in this light, it became immediately another thing of beauty.

  The shoe said, ‘I am below.’ The rope said, ‘Come to me!’ Ben felt, with sudden bashfulness, like Juliet.

  But his bashfulness did not prevent him from acting. He recalled that danger existed in the road beneath the window, where Medico and Alcoba would emerge at any moment, and possibly the old woman as well. If they found the girl staring up at their prisoner’s window, they would probably arrest her for complicity! Complicity of what? He did not know. All he knew was that they thought he had done something dire, and that they were going to bring in the police.

  He rushed to the window and stuck his head out. There, sure enough, was Molly Smith, staring up at him anxiously, while the rain descended on her upturned face. The sight of her produced a wave of violent emotion. She stood for Mother, and Home, and the English language! The emotion wasted a full second. Then the practical instinct reasserted itself, urged by the sound of an opening door below.

  ‘Oi!’ cried Ben, in a resonant whisper.

  He darted back into the room again. The girl, interpreting the ‘Oi’ correctly, flew round a wall. When the door was opened, all was quiet and peaceful on the road.

  Voices broke the quiet and the peace. There did not seem to be perfect unity among the voices. Creeping forward cautiously, Ben peered from the window, and with one eye watched the disputants. It was the old woman who was making the fuss.

  Her point soon became obvious. The two men were going for the oficial de policía, and the old woman was not going to be left behind. The medico had said that Ben was an asesino, and she wasn’t going to remain in a house alone with an asesino. Her previous boldness had apparently been due to the fact that she had merely regarded him as a zoologico. She won her point, the front door was secured, and the three gaolers left their prisoner in the keeping of mere walls.

  With one eye—or, possibly, only half an eye—Ben watched the trio turn up the road and disappear beyond the apology for a church. Then he poked his head out of the window again, and risked another ‘Oi!’

  Molly responded immediately. He didn’t know where she had gone to, or where she now came from. She could move like lightning. After a quick glance up the road, she raised her face and whispered:

  ‘Quick! Fasten the rope to something and slip down!’

  ‘That’s the idea, miss,’ agreed Ben, and darted back to the bed.

  He looped one end of the rope to the bed-post and then paid the other end out of the window. It ended six feet from the ground, and that was good enough. Even if it had not been, it would have been preferable to another six foot drop that might await him if he remained to interview the policeman! The very thought of the alterna
tive shot him out of the window and down the elementary ladder.

  ‘Be careful!’ came Molly’s voice up to him.

  But it was she who needed to be careful. When Ben jumped the final six feet, he missed her by two inches.

  ‘Well done! Well done!’ gasped Molly. ‘Do you think you can get the rope down?’

  ‘No fear,’ answered Ben, as he picked himself up. ‘I don’t want it!’

  ‘It might be useful,’ she urged.

  ‘Yus, but not ter me,’ he replied. ‘As soon as I ’as a bit o’ cord on me, miss, some’un comes along an’ ties me hup in it.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Ready fer hennythink! But we’ve gotter ’urry—’

  ‘Yes, I know! Follow me! I’ve marked our first funk hole!’

  ‘Lummy, ain’t Henglish loverly!’ murmured Ben, as he obeyed.

  They slid through the grey rain, taking a zig-zag course which the girl had evidently worked out in advance. Once they ducked down behind a derelict cart. Ben didn’t know why, but he was trusting his leader, and banking on imitation. What she did, he did. When she ran, he ran. When she slowed up, he slowed up. When she swerved, he swerved, and once he swerved right into her, and they fell into a small ditch of coarse grass.

  ‘Gawd, we ’ave bin in some funny plices tergether, ain’t we, miss?’ gasped Ben happily.

  Nothing mattered to him just then. Not the ditch or the danger, or the rain. A vast loneliness had lifted from his spirit, and in its place was this queer miracle of companionship. Of course, she was a wrong ’un. But p’r’aps he could talk to her about that. After all, you had to be told, didn’t you? ‘Or dontcher?’ he suddenly wondered. He could not recall who had told him.

  Odd that such thoughts should have come to him in the ditch! It was hardly the place or the time for moral reflection …

  ‘Keep still!’

  He had been on the point of getting up, but the words held him down. They tickled into his ear, and he recognised the tickle. Well, he was quite comfortable. A knee was poking into his chest, but it was a very companionable knee, and a hand that seemed somehow bound round his leg was nice and warm.

  Just the same, he didn’t know why they had to keep still. Once again, he was trusting implicitly to her leadership.

  From somewhere above them came the sound of boots scrunching in grass. Ah! These boots were the reason! Whose were they? The Spanish bobby’s? He dug down harder into the ditch, while anatomy beneath him strove valiantly not to object.

  The crunch came closer. There was a moist sound to it. You could almost see the little spurts of water as the boots came down. Left boot, right boot, left boot, right boot …

  Mr Sims paused. He paused because he thought he had heard something. It seemed to come from just beyond that dripping bush over there. The wet ground dipped on the other side.

  He altered his course, and moved towards the dripping bush. Then he paused again. He had been veering towards the right, but from the left came another distraction. Four figures, about a hundred yards off, making for the main street of the village.

  One was an old woman. Another, a bearded man. Another, an elderly gentleman. The fourth, a sturdy oficial de policìa.

  The procession interested him. He left the bush to drip upon its secret, and turned to the right. Thus, unconsciously, the Spanish law did Ben a service.

  From behind the dripping bush two figures emerged. They, also, were dripping. As Sims went towards the village, they continued on their journey away from it.

  ‘Do you know who that was?’ whispered Molly.

  ‘Lord Mayor?’ guessed Ben.

  ‘Sims,’ she answered.

  She felt Ben barging into her back again. His pace had suddenly doubled. But this time she kept her feet, and doubled the pace with him.

  They reached their first funk hole. It was a small, dilapidated shed of black wood that seemed to be hiding itself in a little dip. It stood twenty yards off a road leading northwards from the village, and a path had once joined it to the road, but now the path was almost obliterated, while the shed itself was scarcely more recognisable than the path. Halt the roof of the shed remained, however, and could keep rain off if it drove from the east.

  In this shed they rested, panting. Water ran down their clothes and made two little pools where they stood. But Ben was not thinking of the rain. He was thinking of Sims. Sims here? He couldn’t figure it out, till all at once a startling idea struck him.

  ‘Is this Villerbonzo, miss?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Villabanzos,’ she corrected him, with a faint smile. ‘You got the bit of paper, then?’

  ‘Yus. But I lorst it agine. Is this Villerwotyersed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, it ain’t! Then wot’s Sims doin’ ’ere?’ he inquired, perplexed.

  ‘He’s looking for me,’ she told him.

  ‘Lummy! Is ’e? And wot are you doin’ ’ere?’

  ‘Looking for you!’

  ‘Lookin’ fer—me?’ She nodded. ‘Wot for?’

  ‘Aren’t you worth looking for?’ she asked.

  It was the first he’d heard of it. The novelty of the theory confused him. He decided to try and work it out later, and meanwhile, after a solemn second or two, he inquired:

  ‘Yus; but wot abart Miss ’Olbrooke, miss?’

  ‘She’s at Villabanzos,’ answered Molly, ‘and that’s where you and I’ve got to get to, just as quick as we can!’

  ‘’Oo’s with ’er?’

  ‘Oh, my goodness! Who isn’t? There’s six of them—and a more bloodthirsty lot you never set eyes on!’

  ‘Oh! And—that’s where we’re goin’?’

  ‘Got to!’

  ‘That’s right.’ Ben’s voice was depressed.

  ‘Well, haven’t we?’ she challenged the depression.

  ‘Corse! Plices like that is made fer us! That Don Magnesia—is ’e in charge, like?’

  ‘Don Manuel?’

  ‘That’s the bloke.’

  ‘Yes, he’s in charge. He’s an innkeeper, but I’ll bet he doesn’t make his money selling lemonade! They’ve got Miss Holbrooke locked in a cellar—’

  ‘That’s nice fer us!’

  ‘… And how we’re going to get her out, God knows. But we’re going to get her out, and, what’s more, we can’t waste any time about it! How are you feeling?’

  ‘’Orrible.’

  A little frown crept into her face.

  ‘Want to back out?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘That’s why I feels ’orrible. ’Ave yer got a plan, like?’

  ‘Yes, Sims will probably spend an hour or two more searching for me, and we’ve got to get her away before he returns.’

  ‘I see. With ’im away, there’s on’y six left. ’Ow fur is this Viller-wot-yer-call-it?’

  ‘Seven or eight miles, I should think.’

  ‘Oh! And ’ow do we git there? ’Op?’

  ‘We’ll get a lift somehow.’

  ‘’Oo’s goin’ ter hask fer it?’

  ‘This is.’ She thrust her hand into the neck of her dress and drew out a bundle of notes. Once before Ben had seen that bundle. In the coal bunker of the Atalanta. ‘I’ve used a few of them already. Luckily, one of the six isn’t above double-crossing his pals in return for a bribe. I’d never have got away if it hadn’t been for him. I expect this bundle will be considerably thinner before we’re through … Quick! Listen! What’s that?’

  A sound came from the road twenty yards away. A sound of trotting. She slipped quickly to the entrance to the shed and peered cautiously round the partition towards the highway.

  ‘Look aht!’ whispered Ben. ‘S’pose it’s Sims!’

  ‘Yes, but it isn’t!’ she whispered back. ‘It’s an old man with a cart. I say, let’s make a dive for it!’

  She dived as she spoke. Ben dived out after her. A moment later the cart had stopped, and the driver was smiling amiably at Ben.

&nbs
p; ‘Lummy, it’s a pal o’ mine!’ exclaimed Ben, recognising the old man of whom he had first inquired the way. ‘’E ain’t much good, but we can try ’im agine. Oi! Good arternoonio. Siggeo-wiggeo Villerbanzos?’

  The old man shook his head, but all at once he stopped shaking it. Molly was holding up three-one-pound notes. If he could not understand the English language, he could at least understand English money.

  ‘Villabanzos!’ he exclaimed. ‘Si, si! Villabanzos!’

  He made an elaborate gesture which clearly meant ‘Jump in!’ Three pounds rendered a journey to Villabanzos worth while, whatever other business may previously have been in view; and, obeying the invitation, Ben and Molly clambered into the back of the cart.

  Then the old man made a noise with his mouth, rattled his whip in its socket, and spat. In response to the three operations, the bony horse broke into a gentle trot.

  31

  Exchange Is No Robbery

  It was seven twisting miles from the dilapidated shed to Villabanzos. The miles did not merely twist. They also jolted. The horse and the road seemed to be in a sort of league against smoothness, and to be attempting to prove that advancement could be achieved without speed or luxury. The proof, doubtful at first, soon became conclusive.

  But one can talk, even if one is not comfortable. Words can be gasped between bumps, and sentences inserted between twists. Thus, during the first half of the journey, Ben was able to give his companion an account of himself, and to listen to his companion’s account during the last half.

  The commencement of Molly Smith’s story fitted into Ben’s deductions. When she had entered the upstairs room in the little mountain hut, she had waited patiently for Sims to follow her and bring Miss Holbrooke back to consciousness. In due course he had appeared, and had begun to work on the patient in response to Molly’s insistence; but he had not completed the work, and apparently he had never intended to. Having brought Miss Holbrooke back to partial consciousness, he had requested Molly to watch over her, and had suddenly inserted his injection needle into Molly’s own arm.