Murderer's Trail

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘That’s wot I thort,’ muttered Ben, ‘when yer didn’t give me no signal. If yer’d bin orl right yer’d ’ave ’it the floor or somethink, wouldn’t yer? Arter ’e’d left yer, I mean, and they was orl out o’ the ’ouse?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ she replied. ‘And I was a little fool! Though, honestly, I don’t know how I could have stopped the brute, doing what he liked! He’s a devil, if ever there was one! The next thing I remember is a sort of a bridge, and I can only remember that through a sort of nightmare. I expect it was the bridge you nearly toppled over.’

  ‘Yus, that’s right, miss,’ nodded Ben. ‘You was comin’ out o’ yer nightmare while I was goin’ inter mine! Wot beats me is why Greene and Faggis, ’oo was arter me like I tole yer, didn’t foller me acrost!’

  ‘Well, I’ve got an idea about that,’ said Molly. ‘I remember seeing Sims trying to smash the bridge up after we’d got over. I suppose he wanted to make sure he wasn’t followed. But he evidently thought there wasn’t time, because he suddenly stopped, and we went on again. Do you think it’s possible that, when you were making your last desperate wriggle to get across, you loosened the boards—you see, Sims had already started on them—and sent them down? Then Greene and Faggis couldn’t have followed you, could they?’

  Ben considered the theory. Then he nodded solemnly.

  ‘It might ’ave bin like that, miss,’ he agreed. ‘I remember somethink did go dahn, but I thort it was me. But, look ’ere—that bridge was as narrer as a squeak. ’Ow did Sims git orl of you acrost?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably there was just room for the cart—it was a very tiny one—hardly more than a barrow with a mule pulling it—and then one or two of the boards might have gone down before you got to it.’

  ‘Mikin’ it smaller, like? Yus, that’s right. I hexpeck we’re gittin’ it. But wot ’appened arter that? You was comin’ rahnd, wasn’t yer—’

  ‘Very slowly. I don’t remember anything really clearly until we were going through a forest. It was there that I did a ridiculous thing, though it turned out all right, after all. I kicked off a shoe, in the hope that you’d find it.’

  ‘Yus, and I did!’

  ‘I know. Then—oh, goodness, I can’t remember it all! I was so muzzy I could hardly think! We got somehow to Villabanzos, and—’

  ‘Pronto será de noche,’ interrupted the driver, calling over his shoulder.

  ‘’Ooray!’ answered Ben. ‘That ’elps a lot!’

  ‘Si, si!’ cried the driver, and cracked his whip.

  ‘Shurrup!’ retorted Ben. ‘Go hon, miss. ’E’s barmy. Yer got ter Viller-wot’s-its-nime—?’

  ‘And Miss Holbrooke was taken to a cellar. Then there was a sort of consultation between Sims and those six men I told you about. One of them was Don Manuel, of course. He’s simply enormous. They were deciding what to do with me, and after a lot of argument they stuck me in a room with a murderous fellow to guard me. Then what do you think I did?’

  ‘Bit ’im?’

  ‘No! Vamped him,’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘It was—oh, beastly!’

  ‘Wot—did ’e vamp yer back?’

  ‘He tried to.’

  ‘Sort of a twist, ain’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I ain’t sure as I knows wot you means. This ’ere vamp. Is it ju-jittus?’

  ‘You’re right—it can be!’ she exploded, and for a few moments she rocked without any assistance from the road or the horse. ‘If we ever live through this, I’ll come and listen to you for hours together!’ Then she grew serious again. ‘You vamp a person when you pretend you’re fond of them. I pretended I was fond of the beast who was guarding me. And when, later on, I added a handful of notes, he helped me to escape.’

  Ben was silent for a while. His mind was busy with a problem. Unable to solve it, he asked her assistance.

  ‘This feller,’ he said. ‘’Ow much did yer pertend?’

  ‘You needn’t think I let him kiss me!’

  ‘That’s orl right.’

  Ben’s vehemence impressed her.

  ‘Would you have minded if I had?’ she inquired.

  ‘’Corse,’ he responded. ‘Henglish gals don’t wanter go kissin’ no Spaniards.’

  ‘The notes were instead of the kisses,’ she smiled.

  ‘Well, wot ’appened arter you got away?’

  ‘This happened.’

  ‘Wotcher mean?’

  ‘I came back to find you.’

  ‘Thank yer, miss. It mikes me feel—well, sort o’ funny ter ’ear yer say that. But why didn’t yer—why didn’t yer—’

  ‘Yes—why didn’t I—what?’ she queried. ‘You don’t know. Nor did I. So, you see, you seemed the best thing.’

  ‘But—Miss ’Olbrooke?’

  ‘I didn’t forget her. I wanted someone to help me.’

  ‘Yer mean—me, like?’

  ‘Well, of course. Do you know, I saw them take you into that cottage—you were carried in, weren’t you?—and I’d have got to you long before if it hadn’t been for Sims. When I spotted him, I had to be doubly careful. You see, I might have given you away, as well as myself!’

  ‘Lummy!’

  ‘Yes, lummy! He must have discovered my escape quite soon after I did my bunk. I didn’t know how to get at you, or even what room you were in till I suddenly saw you at the window.’

  ‘Oh! You saw me that time?’

  ‘Yes. And I also saw Sims that time coming round the church! That was why I had to wait.’

  ‘Good thing yer did, miss. That shoe o’ your’n—I s’pose yer sent it hup ter let me know ’oo it was, like?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She poked out her sopping, stockinged feet, for sympathy.

  ‘Yer a toff, miss,’ murmured Ben. ‘But if that shoe ’ad come in a minit sooner, it’d ’ave ’it the ’ole Spanish poperlashun. ’Owjer git ’old o’ the rope?’

  ‘It was the same rope I got out of my room with,’ she told him. ‘The rope I was given by the fellow I bribed.’

  ‘I’m blowed. You don’t waste nothink! And now ’ere we are, goin’ back ter Villerbandbox, with six blokes in front of us, and Sims be’ind us. Funny thing I’m orlways in a sandwich. Well—’ow are we goin’ ter git aht o’ this one?’

  The question was so pertinent that speech ended for a while and thought took its place. The thought had not proved productive before Ben put another question:

  ‘Wot ’appens if Sims comes along arter us afore we gits ter Villerbankox, and spots us?’

  Thought was resumed. Their eyes were fixed on the road along which they had come. Yes, suppose Sims appeared now, at this moment, round that bend? What sort of a chance would they have?

  Suddenly Ben’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Molly anxiously.

  ‘Got an idea,’ answered Ben.

  Relieved, she asked him to explain it, but for a few moments he couldn’t. It was too big an idea. It was almost as big as the idea that had galvanised him in the little mountain hut when he had bound and gagged a dead man.

  ‘Tell me, tell me!’ exclaimed Molly. ‘And do be careful, or your eyes will drop out.’

  Ben gulped.

  ‘Look ’ere, miss,’ he said, lowering his voice unnecesssarily, ‘’ow much did yer hoffer this old feller ’ere fer the ride? Three pahnd, weren’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, ’ow much d’yer think ’e’d tike fer the cart?’

  ‘The cart—’

  ‘And the ’oss, yus, and fer somethink helse as well? ’Is clothes?’

  She stared at him, as his idea began to enter dimly into her.

  ‘More’n yer’ve got?’ asked Ben.

  ‘You mean—you’ll take his place?’

  ‘That’s right. And drive hup ter Don Wot’s-’is-nime, and pertend ter be Spanish?’

  ‘But—even if you could look Spani
sh—’

  ‘Hennybody could, in them togs!’

  ‘… You can’t speak Spanish!’

  ‘’Corse I carn’t, miss,’ replied Ben. ‘I’m deaf an’ dumb, see? It ain’t much of a charnce, but can yer think of hennythink better?’

  The old man under discussion turned his head and wagged it.

  ‘Villabanzos,’ he announced.

  ‘Where?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Villabanzos,’ repeated the old man confirmatively.

  ‘Yes, it’s only three houses and a pub,’ whispered Molly, ‘and the pub is us!’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ murmured Ben.

  So this was Villabanzos! This was the goal towards which his face had been set ever since he had left the little hut in the mountains! Three houses and a pub! The Mecca he had vaguely visualised was a place of palaces and turrets, and bull rings—a populous district in the underground of which resided one Don Manuel, of infamous reputation. Three houses and a pub might be easier to deal with, but, however you looked at it, it was a bit of a come down!

  And where was the pub? He counted three small roofs among trees, but there was no sign of a Red Lion or a Bald-faced Stag. Even the three roofs were far apart and were almost lost among the deepening shadows.

  ‘Posada?’ inquired the driver.

  Molly hesitated, then shook her head. Ben stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘Yer know wot possyarder means?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Yes—one of the words I picked up,’ she answered. ‘It means an inn. Don Manuel’s inn. He wants to know if he’s to take us there.’

  ‘Oh. And ’ow fur is the passyarder, miss?’

  ‘About half a mile, I think.’

  ‘Well, let’s try my idea now, and see wot ’e ses. Oi! Stopeo!’

  The instruction was unnecessary, for the old man had already stopped. He was waiting for further instructions.

  ‘’Ow much can we give ’im?’ whispered Ben.

  Molly pulled the bundle of notes from her dress. The old driver’s eyes gleamed as he saw them.

  ‘Wot abart ’arf?’ suggested Ben.

  ‘You remember where they came from?’ she replied, in a low voice.

  ‘That’s right. They’re not our’n,’ agreed Ben; ‘but ’oo are we spendin’ ’em hon? Miss ’Olbrooke, ain’t it?’ She nodded. ‘Well, then, if there’s ter be any payin’ back to a deader’s next-o’-skin, ’er father’ll do it, won’t ’e?’

  The argument impressed her. It really was rather a good one. She handed Ben half the bundle. Ben climbed down to the road, and went to the front of the cart.

  ‘One-o, two-o, three-o,’ he said, taking three notes and handing them to the driver.

  ‘Gracias!’ beamed the driver. ‘Muchîsimas gracias!’

  ‘’E wants a lot o’ grass,’ commented Ben. ‘Lummy, ain’t Spanish silly? Now, look ’ere, Muchimus, would yer like some more gracias?’

  He held up three more notes. The old man gazed at them, and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Oosted!’ tried Ben.

  ‘Si, si!’ cried the old man, and began to turn his horse round.

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Ben, seizing the horse and putting it straight again. Then he glanced at Molly desperately. ‘I must ’ave sed somethink! Wunner wot it was?’

  ‘He thinks you’re offering him the three pounds to take us back again,’ suggested Molly.

  ‘Then ’e must be a bigger fool’n ’e looks,’ grumbled Ben. ‘Wot do we wanter go back agine for? We’re on’y jest ’ere, ain’t we?’ He turned to the driver once more. The driver was waiting in perplexity, anxious to please and to earn, but without the foggiest notion of how to do either.

  ‘Now, look ’ere,’ Ben began again. ‘I’ll mike it six. No, five.’ He added two notes to the three he had held out. ‘You can ’ave these. Oosted. No, not oosted. And we want these. Gracias.’

  He pointed to the cart and the horse. Light dawned. The old man shook his head vigorously.

  ‘Six, then,’ said Ben, and added another note. ‘Seven. Eight, Nine. ’Ere, a dozen!’

  The old man stopped shaking his head. He became interested in the game. How much higher was it going! English people are not always understood, but English money is understood all the world over.

  ‘Well, wot abart it?’ demanded Ben, holding the twelve notes up.

  The old man made no movement. He was just watching the pile grow. It grew to twenty. Ben began to get hot and indignant. It was a very old cart and a very old horse, and the notes were new.

  At twenty-five the old man became agitated.

  ‘Aguarde un momento!’ he exclaimed, and held out one of the three notes he already possessed. ‘Veinticinco pesetas? Si? Veinticinco pesetas?’

  ‘With knobs on!’ replied Ben. Suddenly he remembered that he had forgotten the most important item. ‘Oh, and I want yer clothes, too!’

  It took some while to get this across. Comprehension did not dawn on the old man’s amazed face for several minutes, and was succeeded by incredulity, amazement and indignation. But when the notes had climbed up to thirty-two, and he saw they could climb no higher, he jumped from the driver’s seat, and began throwing off his garments in a sort of commercial frenzy.

  No one will ever know what went on in the old Spaniard’s mind during the two unique minutes that ensued. He did not know himself. Somehow or other he was acquiring eight hundred pesetas, and in order to earn the small fortune he had to relinquish a horse and a cart, both of which were on their last legs, and to exchange his outer clothing with a foreign lunatic. If there was something undignified in the transaction, he was not the first man in history to sacrifice his self-respect for finance. Eight hundred pesetas were sufficient to soothe his wounded pride!

  The bargain completed, he vanished, confused but contented.

  ‘And now what?’ asked Molly, heroically fighting her desire to scream at Ben’s appearance.

  Ben, happily unable to see himself, turned his eyes towards the three almost concealed cottages. He noted that one of them was empty. No one in the world had better sight for empty houses than Ben.

  ‘You pop in there and wait,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve decided to go on alone, then?’

  ‘’Corse! They mustn’t see you, miss. Oi! Look nippy! Somethink’s ’appenin’.’

  Hoofs sounded on the road along which they had come. Molly dashed to the empty cottage, and had just reached it when a riderless horse raced by. Running after it was a tall, white-haired figure.

  ‘Hell!’ panted the figure, and then stopped sharply to stare at Ben and his cart. Ben stared back, galvanised.

  ‘Hey, you!’ cried the figure, hastening forward again. ‘Lleveme al posada!’

  Thus Ben learned that Mr Sims could speak Spanish.

  32

  Ben’s Passenger

  There was no time to think. If there had been, the thinking would have been unproductive. Sims had climbed into the seat behind Ben as he spoke, and a totally new situation had developed with devastating suddenness. The only thing to do at the moment was to accept it.

  Therefore Ben did not argue or protest. He clucked, attempting to do so with a Spanish accent. The horse pricked up its ears, listened for a repetition of the cluck, received it, and moved forward.

  ‘Habla usted inglés?’ asked Sims, after a moment’s silence.

  Just in the nick of time, Ben refrained from making any sign that he had heard. He remembered that he was deaf and dumb, and that his lips must be silent. His head, also, must remain invisible. Only its very lowest portion, which managed to escape from the large enveloping hat, could be seen by his passenger.

  ‘Hey, there! Habla usted inglés?’ repeated Sims. And then went on impatiently, ‘Haga usted el favor de responder si ó no!’

  Vaguely Ben recalled that somebody else had said exactly the same thing to him once, but he didn’t know what it was now any more than he had known before, and it wouldn’t have made any difference if he had.<
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  ‘Damn fool!’ muttered Sims, and suddenly seized his arm and shook it.

  ‘Let me see—can I feel?’ wondered Ben.

  The grip on his arm increased, and proved that he could. He half-turned in his seat and shook his head, pointing to his mouth and his ears—or to the places where they would have shown had they been visible.

  ‘Qué quiere decir eso?’ demanded Sims.

  Ben went on pointing. Then Sims appeared to understand.

  ‘Oh—deaf and dumb, eh?’ he observed, and grew suddenly thoughtful.

  He might have grown more thoughtful if Ben had not saved himself, again just in the nick of time, from nodding violently.

  The horse loped on. It was not in any hurry to reach its destination. Nor was its driver.

  ‘Well, if you can’t hear me,’ remarked Sims, after a pause, ‘I don’t suppose it’s any good my telling you that I’ve lost my horse?’ Apparently it wasn’t. ‘Or that I think Spain is a godforsaken country that ought to be blasted off the map.’ The driver neither agreed nor disagreed. ‘Or that, of all the things I have come across in Spain, you are about the ugliest—that is, what I can see of you!’ The driver showed no resentment, but his heart thumped like a sledge-hammer beneath its picturesque covering.

  The next instant his heart beat twice as fast and twice as loudly.

  ‘Have you seen a girl anywhere about here?’ roared Sims.

  Somehow, Ben kept his seat, but the inside of a Spanish sombrero ran for the first time with British moisture.

  They had been moving for three minutes. In another three, even at this slow pace, the inn of Don Manuel would be in sight. ‘How do yer stop a ’orse?’ thought Ben. Then he realised that no object would be served by stopping the horse. He had been caught by a tide, and he’d got to go with it. And, anyway, this had been his own idea, hadn’t it—this visit to the inn in borrowed plumes? ‘Yus, but not with Sims sittin’ beside me,’ he decided, in self-extenuation. He hadn’t bargained for that.

  ‘I wonder what you’re thinking, my man?’ said Sims. ‘Queer how our secret thoughts are hidden from each other, eh? You look stodgy enough. But then I can’t see very much of you. Shall I pull your hat up? Perhaps, if I did, I’d find some key to your thoughts! Secret thoughts, eh? Yes, I dare say you have them!’