And though Sims’s spotlight no longer played upon her, and she had become a vague shadow again, her reality remained. Silent and conscious of each other, they allowed a full minute to pass, while the hurried steps outside grew fainter and fainter, and the low, anxious voices ceased. They waited tensely for something to happen. The something that had caused Sims to order the hurried exit, and that appeared to have permitted this unpremeditated interview. For would Sims otherwise have left these two alone together, knowing how anxious they would be to talk? But the something they waited for did not happen—or, if it did no sign of it percolated down to this underground cellar … ‘Cellar—I alius hends hup in a cellar,’ thought Ben … No shouting; no cries; no explosion.
‘What is it? I don’t understand!’
Miss Holbrooke’s voice came to him presently through the darkness.
‘’Oo does, miss?’ replied Ben, and moved a little closer to the voice.
‘Who are you?’
Ben tried to think how he could explain himself.
‘Aren’t you the stowaway?’ she helped him.
‘Yus, that’s right, miss,’ he murmured, and moved a little closer still. It seemed to be a bit warmer where she was, like.
‘But what are you doing here?’
‘Tryin’ ter git away.’
‘You’re not—one of them, then?’
‘Lummy, no!’
‘Then—are they kidnapping you too?’
‘Me? Gawd, I ain’t worth ’arf a brace-button!’
Something indistinguishable happened a few feet off.
‘Say, are you funny, or is it my head?’ came Miss Holbrooke’s voice again, after a little pause. ‘I guess this dope’s given my brains a holiday.’
‘Doncher worry, miss,’ answered Ben hopelessly. ‘It’ll orl come right.’
‘What makes you say that? Don’t they—?’
‘Wot?’
‘Mean it?’
‘You bet, they mean it!’
‘Then how can it come right?’
‘’Cos—well, wot’s the use o’ thinkin’ it won’t? Tike it from me, miss, yer never dead till yer dead, and then yer ain’t. I bin killed ’undred an’ two times, twenty of ’em terday, and I’m still ’ere.’
‘Are you serious—have they really tried to kill you?’ she asked.
‘Well, they ain’t tried boilin’ me in fat yet,’ replied Ben; ‘but I hexpeck they got that dahn fer nine-thirty.’
‘Oh, I wish you’d explain! This little mind of mine just won’t function! Why should they try to kill you? Why? Why?’
‘Oh, everybody does that,’ he answered evasively. ‘That ain’t nothink.’
‘You’re not making it any clearer.’
‘It ain’t rightly clear ter me. Seems like people’s told three things when they’re born—git a job, git married, and ’ave a shot at Ben.’
‘Ben?’
‘That’s me, miss.’
‘Ben! I’ll remember. And now tell me, please. We’ve got to stop all this guessing game and get down to facts. Try and help me, Ben—I’m feeling pretty punk. What special reason have they for trying to kill you?’
‘Eh?’
‘Please!’
‘Well, seein’ as ’ow I’m sorter friend o’ your’n—ain’t I?’
‘I’m beginning to think so,’ she murmured.
‘Well, then.’
‘I see. Yes, I’m getting wise. Are you my only friend?’
‘No. You got another.’
‘Who?’
‘A gal.’
‘But why—well, never mind that now. Where is she?’
Ben suddenly chuckled. Of course, it wasn’t the time to chuckle, but you have to sometimes, when you get a bit of a chance.
‘Ah, that’s what they wanter know!’ he answered. ‘But I wouldn’t tell ’em! Fust they tries ter kill me with knives. One each side o’ me fice an’ the third in the middle, they ses. And when the third come along … Gawd! I bin through a bit but I don’t want that agine! And then they brings me ’ere, ter mike me think they’d do it on you if I didn’t tell ’em.’
‘But you did tell them!’ exclaimed Miss Holbrooke, suddenly recollecting.
‘Nah, miss. That was high-wash, that was. Yer see, fust I’m goin’ ter. I couldn’t ’ave you killed, could I? I was in a fair pickle, and me mind was like a pot o’ jam with wasps in it. Tork abart buzzin’! But then I ses ter meself, when ’e gits ter four—lummy, ain’t that countin’ ’orrible?—I was bein’ both of us, like, when it was goin’ on, if yer know wot I mean—well, then I ses ter meself, “Go on, they wouldn’t kill ’er, she ain’t worth sixpence dead.” And then I ses, when ’e gits ter five, “Why not tell ’em a lie an’ put ’em orf the skent?”’
‘Skent?’
‘Yus, miss. That’s the one word I knows ’ow ter spell. Skent. Wot yer puts on her ’ankerchiff.’
‘Oh, Ben!’
‘Wot?’
‘Never mind. But how I’m growing to love England! England! Say, where are we now?’
‘Spine, miss. Villerpanzy.’
‘How did we get here?’
‘One day, miss, when I got a couple o’ years, I’ll tell yer.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course, there’s no time now. We must do something. What do you suppose is happening upstairs?’
‘Can’t ’ear nothink, miss.’
‘Go and listen. I would, but I feel so weak—’
Ben tiptoed back to the door. He heard someone breathing on the other side. Then he heard himself breathing on his side, and deduced, with relief, that he must be a sort of breathing ventriloquist. ‘But I wish I’d on’y do it when I wanted ter,’ he thought.
He turned to Miss Holbrooke, who was now sitting bolt upright on the trestle, trying to listen also.
‘Nothing,’ he reported.
‘Of course, the door’s locked?’
He went back again. He returned again.
‘Yus,’ he said.
‘Then we can only wait,’ she sighed.
‘Yus,’ agreed Ben; ‘but it’ll orl come aht right, I tell yer, like I sed. ’Cos why? ’Cos we got somethink ter wait for, see? That’s why.’
‘Something to wait for?’ exclaimed Miss Holbrooke, with sudden hope. ‘What?’
‘I’ll tell yer. Do yer remember that long speech wot was mide ter me afore Sims—that’s the white-’aired bloke—afore ’e starts countin’? Well, ’e wanted ter know if Molly Smith—that’s the gal ’oo’s yer friend, like me—’e wanted ter know if she’d give me the nime o’ this plice.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Well, she ’ad.’
‘How did she know it?’
‘She ’eard ’im say it once. But ’e also wanted ter know if she’d tole hennybody helse.’
‘Well?’
‘She ’as!’
‘Oh, who? My father?’
‘I dunno, miss. And, rightly speakin’, she ’asn’t. Wot I mean is, she rote it on a bit o’ piper, and if they’ve fahnd the piper, then they’ll come along and find hus, see? ’Cos they’ll see on it Don Manuel, Villerspangle—’
‘Spangle? I thought you said—’
‘Well, wotever it is. The end don’t matter. You bet they’ll find it, miss, and you bet they’ll come along. Lummy!’ he cried, all at once. ‘P’r’aps they’re ’ere! P’r’aps it was them wot mide ’em orl ’op it jest nah!’
Miss Holbrooke’s hand shot out and caught hold of his sleeve. The theory was almost too wonderful to be borne! A rescue party, upstairs … at this moment …
But only silence greeted their strained ears.
‘And the girl—my other friend—where is she, really?’ asked Miss Holbrooke.
‘She’s waitin’ at the nearest cottage dahn the road,’ answered Ben. ‘A hempty one.’
As he spoke, the door of the cellar opened, and Sims’s voice came across the cold stone floor to them.
‘Thank you for a most interesting
and enlightening conversation, Ben,’ said Sims. ‘I enjoyed every word of it.’
Then the door closed again, and the key groaned in the lock.
35
An Official Visit
When Sims had complimented Ben on his brain, he had realised there was no danger in the compliment and that it could lead the said brain into no greater display of subtlety than Sims’s own brain was capable of. Once he had definitely placed Ben in the category of uneducated people who could nevertheless, when driven to extremity, do surprising things, he had increased his watchfulness; and he had subsequently read Ben like a book.
He was not surprised that Ben showed courage and kept his mouth closed despite the threat of Don Manuel’s knives. He was not surprised, as he counted five in the cellar, that Ben might guess the bluff and still keep his mouth closed. He was not surprised that Ben should go one farther and tell a wild story concerning Molly Smith. But he knew the story was a lie, and that it marked the limit of Ben’s brain. For, if the story were true, why should he have taken such pains previously to withhold it?
This evidence of Ben’s limitations and psychology had given Sims confidence that his last trick, which he had had up his sleeve before entering the cellar, would succeed. He had, of course, heard nothing to cause the hurried exit, and the exit had merely provided an excuse for leaving Miss Holbrooke and Ben together without arousing their suspicions. Alone, they would naturally exchange confidences. Sharp ears outside the door would overhear those confidences. ‘Yes, is it not time,’ reflected Sims complacently, as he began to ascend the stone staircase after having possessed himself of the confidences, ‘that I paid my own brain a little compliment?’
He wound up the stairs smiling, but all at once, just before he reached the top, the smile vanished. A breeze came towards him, as from an open front door, and voices. Sims realised, with a twinge of abrupt annoyance, that something was happening upstairs, after all!
Sims was a good linguist. Spanish was among seven languages he could speak fluently. He had no difficulty, therefore, in understanding what the voices were saying.
‘It’s no use protesting, Don Manuel,’ said a sharp official voice, ‘and I may remind you that to protest, in a case like this, is to raise suspicions.’
‘Suspicions!’ exclaimed Don Manuel piously. ‘What should the police suspect me of?’
‘The police might suspect you of many things,’ answered the official voice, ‘which makes it all the more important for you to avoid prevarication. There have been a couple of murders not so very far from here—’
‘Virgen Santa! Have I then committed two murders?’
‘Have you?’
‘Oh, yes! Now hang me like a dog!’
‘Perhaps I will one day, Don Manuel. We’re still looking for the fellow who killed a little boy in a wood eight months ago. But if you didn’t commit these two latest murders—’
‘Dios! Of course I did not!’
‘Then help us to catch the one who did.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Well, we’re not sure yet, but there are three suspects.’
‘Then why worry about me? Must you have four?’
‘Four have been concerned in one murder before now. Still, no one is accusing you of anything yet, Don Manuel, beyond your own attitude.’
‘My attitude? Ho! And what should that be?’
‘Helpful.’
‘Well—is it not?’
‘You seem anxious that I should not enter.’
‘Demonio! Who likes the police?’ muttered Don Manuel. ‘Why do you want to enter?’
Sims, on the stairs, cursed him for a fool.
‘To search for the people who are suspected,’ answered the officer.
‘Oh! And who are they?’
‘Three foreigners. Two of them English, and the third—well, he may be.’
‘But why do you think they are here?’
‘One of them mentioned your name.’
‘What is that?’ cried Don Manuel.
‘He was found exhausted in the road from the coast. He was taken to a house—the house of Pascual Cordova, who found him—and the only words he spoke that they could understand there were “Don Manuel, Villabanzos.”’
‘Which, of course, proved that he was a murderer?’
‘No. But he had a knife on him, and also a hammer, and I am assured that he acted in a very strange manner. Now, as he had evidently come over the mountains, from the district in which, these murders took place—well, Pascual Cordova naturally suspected him, and so did the doctor who was called in. They very properly sent for me.’
‘And then?’
‘I arrived to find that the fellow had escaped.’
‘So?’
‘He had got out of the window of the bedroom in which he had been locked.’
‘He jumped?’
‘No. He climbed down a rope. And here is the rope? Do you know it, Don Manuel?’
There was a pause. Then Don Manuel’s voice rang out indignantly.
‘What is this? I helped him to escape, did I? That is a good one! Why, I have not left my inn all the afternoon!’
‘Well, rope is very much alike. But, when I showed this rope to Garcia, he told me that you had been to his shop only two days ago, and had bought some very like it. You will note, the rope is new.’
‘Dios meo! I am to be hanged now for buying rope! Well, well, I have always said the world is mad! But what of the other two? Did Pascuel Cordova find them, also? You doubtless pay him so much a dozen. I have always thought he was too rich for his brains!’
‘No, Pascuel Cordova did not find the other two. In fact, all I know about the other two is that they passed through the village only a few moments after the first fellow escaped, and that they, also, showed an interest in Don Manuel, of Villabanzos.’
‘I interest the whole world, it seems!’ cried Don Manuel.
‘That is why you interest me, also,’ replied the officer, dryly.
‘Well, and how did these two others show their interest in me?’
‘By inquiring the way to you.’
‘Virgen Santa!’
‘They even had a piece of paper on which your name was written.’
‘What!’
‘“Don Manuel, Villabanzos.”’
‘Did you see the piece of paper?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then—’
‘The villager they inquired of saw it, and gave us the information afterwards. He could not understand their language, but when he asked, “Inglés,” they nodded. Then they disappeared.’
‘Where to?’
‘I presume, to the inn of one Don Manuel, Villabanzos. And I, also, am at the inn of Don Manuel, Villabanzos, with, as you will see, half a dozen men. So let us now end this conversation and get to business. Have you seen anything of these three foreigners?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Do you know anything about them?’
‘What should I know?’
‘Very well. If you insist on prevarication! You have no objection if I search this place?’
‘I have a strong objection.’
‘Why?’
‘I do not like my word doubted.’
‘Yet you do not act in a way to invite confidence. Now, listen, Don Manuel. I speak for your good. If these men are not here, you will not suffer by my search—unless, of course, you are hiding anything else—’
‘What else should I hide?’ cried Don Manuel desperately.
‘You are behaving like a fool!’ retorted the officer, with contrasting calmness. ‘Are you hiding anything else?’
‘No!’
‘Then, if I do find any of the people I am after, it will not be with your knowledge that they have made your inn their sanctuary?’
‘No! No! Diablo, no!’
‘So I am nothing for you to worry about. These three foreigners were obviously making for this spot, and they appear to be desperate men who
do not stop at murder. They may have slipped into one of your cellars, and they may be waiting till darkness to add you to their list. I expect you have money on the premises? If you woke up while they were taking it, your body would make a nice pin-cushion for their points. We search your inn, therefore, in your interests as well as in ours.’
The officer’s ironical voice paused for an instant. Then it rang out sharply, and gave a command. Don Manuel fell back a step or two, as unwelcome visitors began to fill his doorway.
‘Hey! Wait! Where is your authority?’ he shouted
‘Here!’ replied the officer, displaying his revolver. ‘And there are six other similar authorities behind me.’ Suddenly his voice cracked out like a revolver itself. ‘Out of our way! Sharp! Do you hear?’
Don Manuel fell back again, momentarily beaten.
‘Yes, but where are you going?’ he demanded helplessly.
‘The cellars first,’ answered the officer. ‘From there, if necessary, we’ll work upwards to the roof.’
Two men remained guarding the entrance to the inn. Four others followed the officer to the stone staircase that led down to the cellars. At the head of the stairs, the officer paused.
‘One moment,’ he said.
Don Manuel had also paused at a door on the entrance floor. The officer suddenly strode to it and, thrusting the innkeeper aside, threw the door open.
Five men immediately looked up. A sixth kept his eyes on a couple of dice on a drink-sodden table.
‘Three,’ he muttered disgustedly.
Then he, too, looked up.
The officer was equally interested in mathematics. ‘Seven all,’ he was thinking. ‘But my seven have discipline and revolvers. That’s equal to fourteen knives.’
He closed the door and returned to the stairs. He went down the stairs, with his four men behind him. No one obstructed him.
There were apparently four cellars, and the doors of three were open. He searched each, and found nothing. Then he turned to the fourth door. It was locked, and there was no key. He called to the innkeeper, who was hovering unhappily in the background.
‘Where is the key to this door?’ he demanded.
Don Manuel professed ignorance.
‘Come! Let me have it!’ the officer rapped out.
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