And then, suddenly, Ben ceased to think about floating. He could stand his own shivering, but he couldn’t stand anybody else’s, and this communicated shiver corkscrewed straight into his heart.
Lummy, he didn’t care if he died, straight he didn’t! But this girl beside him—that was different! She hadn’t got to look forward to attics and cobwebs and cold stone seats! She had silk and satin to live for, and gold chairs, and p’r’aps that nice young feller who’d been hanging round her on the ship. Then there was another thing. Even if she did want to die, she hadn’t had Ben’s practice, and you mustn’t spring horrors on a girl like her without proper warning!
Here Ben’s logic was at fault. Immediate physical danger threatened only him. In the instant that followed, however, he forgot that, and his worn-out brain visioned Miss Holbrooke lying dead with nine knives in her, and Don Manuel playing quoits over her body. Her pretty face dead white. Her legs crumpled up under her. The skirt he now touched—covered with blood.
The vision was in his harrowed mind. The reality was beside his tortured body. The two were about to merge and to become one. Unless …
Unless what?
‘Unless ME!’ thought Ben.
A chemical explosion sends a bullet winging through space. An emotional explosion discharged Ben. Don Manuel at first frankly disbelieved the sight that sped towards him through the air, because in a properly constituted planet such things did not happen. Men crossed a floor on the ground. But here was Ben crossing it three feet above the ground, and making noises as he came. Not one noise; several noises. One like the offspring of a lion and a pea hen. One like a soda waterfall. One like a whistle with a sore throat. One like a sore throat with a whistle. These, and other noises equally unusual, all joined together in a sort of human whizz, and landed with their origin on Don Manuel’s elephantine chest.
Possibly all tramps make this sound when travelling through air at nine hundred and nineteen miles per second, but no previous tramp had ever provided evidence.
For a quivering instant, the small human bullet and its large human target stuck together. Don Manuel’s chest was too flabby to bounce off. But it reeled back, and, as it did so, a swinging arm caught Don Manuel’s cheek; an arm that, feeling like lead, delivered it.
The blow on the cheek stung the astounded innkeeper to momentary action. He raised a huge paw to strike back, uttering an incoherent oath as he did so, and it was this movement, working upon a mind strangely guided in its anguish, that determined the conclusion of the world’s shortest and sharpest battle. For in the raised paw was the cellar key—the key to security and salvation—and Ben’s bleared eyes beheld and recognised it.
If Ben’s momentum had been spent, he would have dropped off the innkeeper’s chest like a dead fly from a wall, but fortunately he had not yet ceased to press into his opponent’s flesh. Risking everything, he seized Don Manuel’s nose with one hand, and dived at the key with the other. The first capture made the second easy. The key dropped into his hand, as he himself dropped on to the floor.
One thing remained. It was to complete Don Manuel’s tip. The only way to do this, if you could not reach the head and shove it back, was to seize the legs and pull them forward, and to kick with all your violence whatever portion of bulk started descending upon you. Ben accomplished these matters, thereby causing Don Manuel to continue his sway backwards into the passage; and when the innkeeper felt his legs going as well as his body, his head went too. A moment of stark terror urged him to assist his own exit. He really believed, in this unique moment, that he had suddenly been confronted with something occult; and, before the belief had passed, the cellar door was banged to, and the key was turned on the inside.
Then Don Manuel, gasping and dazed, found himself grappling with another miracle.
‘Ay Dios mio!’ he cried, and rounded on his men. ‘Where were you?’
But they merely blinked back his own bewilderment. Virgen Santa! When things like this happen …
From the other side of the door rose a violent sobbing. Ben was having his blub.
He felt two arms round him. His strength was gone. He was being drawn back somewhere. His head rested peacefully against something warm.
‘Ain’t key this ’ow was!’ he wept.
Was that what he meant? It didn’t sound right. He tried again.
‘Isn’t ’oo arterwards?’
‘Sh! Just lie quiet,’ came the whispered instruction.
She was right. He couldn’t say what he meant. The words wouldn’t come in their right order and the alphabet was all mixed up. And, in addition, he didn’t know himself what he meant, so how could he tell anybody else? Much best just to enjoy yourself and cry …
In the distance were sounds of banging. Close to, however, all was quiet, saving for the beating of a heart. He listened to the beating. It wasn’t his heart. He knew his heart. That just went an ordinary plonk, plonk, plonk, plonk. But this was somebody else’s. You couldn’t describe the sound of this heart. He listened, permitted, to the precious music. The permission was as wonderful as the music. A sudden idea came to him.
‘Did ’e win,’ he wondered, ‘and am I floatin’?’
He hoped Don Manuel had won, so that he could go on floating for ever. But the banging grew louder, and the sweet sea became a little agitated. He raised his head suddenly. The banging was now louder still.
‘Wot is it?’ he gulped.
‘They’re trying to break the door down,’ answered Miss Holbrooke.
‘They carn’t,’ he muttered, groping for consolation.
‘Still, if they do,’ she whispered, ‘you must stay quiet this time. You’ve been—wonderful!’
‘’Oo ’as?’
‘I don’t know what to say about you.’
‘Go on!’
‘But, remember, there’s nothing more you can do. They won’t kill me, and if you go on trying to protect me, they may kill you.’
Ben thought about it. The door was still standing, but it could hardly stand for ever. Then he said:
‘There’s one thing I ain’t tole yer yet, miss. I’ve come dahn from William the Conquerer! So I gotter proteck yer, see?’
He staggered to his feet as he spoke, and, despite her protestations, began shoving the trestle towards the door. Realising his determination, and also the wisdom of it, she helped him. While the smashing and the swearing went on outside, and the hinges creaked, they found a few other oddments in dark corners, and added them to the fragile barricade.
‘It ain’t much,’ observed Ben; ‘but everythink’s somethink.’
‘Listen!’ whispered Miss Holbrooke, all at once. ‘They’ve stopped!’
Yes; silence had suddenly fallen outside the door. What was happening? Had they given up?
A few moments later this hope was dashed to the ground. Footsteps returned, with an accompanying sound of clanking metal.
‘They mean it this time, miss!’ muttered Ben solemnly.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she replied. ‘And—if they break through—don’t forget what I’ve said!’
The noise recommenced. The banging had a new ring now. It clanged. It vibrated. It split.
An ominous line showed in the door. It was a little crack, and gradually it increased in length and breadth. Light glowed through it, marking its growth. Soon, other points and lines of light appeared, and while they augmented, the hinges shook and creaked.
Now one of the cracks was an inch wide, and through the width came a coiling finger. Ben had a piece of a packing case in his hand. He brought it down on the finger. There was a howl, and the finger disappeared.
‘Shall we call it a drawer?’ bawled Ben.
Bang! Smash! The crack was now so wide that bits of faces could be seen through it. But, worse than this, the lower hinge was definitely giving way. Another minute, at most, and the door would be down and the enemy would pour in.
Bang! Smash! Lummy, that was a narsty one! Bang! Smash! Bang … Ben fel
t a hand on his sleeve.
‘Remember!’ came the whisper.
‘Not if they touch you, I won’t!’ retorted Ben, gripping his bit of wood. ‘Think I’m agoin’ ter let them lay a ’and on yer? If they … Oi! Look aht! Look aht!’
The door groaned and yielded. The weakened hinges gave way, and there was a crash of wood. Then Don Manuel’s huge form appeared in the aperture, his face shining with perspiration, and his eyes evil with revengeful fury. He raised an arm. Something gleamed in it. Ben fell on his stomach, and the gleaming thing flew above him, embedding itself in a beam.
He knew he was done for now. It was just a question of guessing where the next blade would enter him. Head? Neck? That’d be narsty. Middle of the back? Place where mother spanked you? ‘’Allo, mother!’ he thought, struggling against nausea. ‘With yer in ’arf a tick!’
The next blade was a long time coming! Funny, that! And what was this new noise in the passage? A new sort of shouting. A new sort of rushing. A new sort of banging …
‘Bet it’s a trick!’ decided Ben. ‘I ain’t movin’.’
But what was happening? All sorts of things were drumming in his ears. Cries and scuffles and—lummy, wasn’t that a shot? P’r’aps he’d better move? He tried and found he couldn’t. It takes it out of you, all this dying!
‘Yer know, I’m beginnin’ ter think I wasn’t made ter die proper,’ he reflected, as the new sounds grew louder. ‘I b’leeve they’ll ’ave ter tike me up in a go-cart, like they did Elijijah!’
39
The Fruits of Actions
Voices poured all about him. He felt like a lawn being sprayed by a vocal fountain. Some of the voices were recognisable, some were not. Some had a right to be there, some, by all the rules of logic, hadn’t.
Time went mad. People and places played hide-and-seek in it. A large man, but not as large as Don Manuel, was hugging Miss Holbrooke. That was yesterday, wasn’t it? A young man with a vaguely familiar face was running about like an excited little dog. That was tomorrow. Now he was hugging Miss Holbrooke. That’d be about half-past three. A comic opera soldier was sitting on Don Manuel’s head, and another comic opera soldier was sitting on his feet. That’d be Tuesday and Friday. An officer was yelling orders. That’d be next week.
But, equally confusing, was a series of illogicalities in which he himself figured. Now he was on the floor. Now he wasn’t on the floor. Now he was in the middle of a crowd of questioning faces. Now the large man was hysterically shoving notes in his pocket. Now he was all by himself again. Now he was leaning against a wall. Now he was tripping over a stone stair. Now he was in a hall that seemed to have had an accident. Now there wasn’t any hall, but just rain and darkness.
And why was all this happening? Why hadn’t he remained on the floor, or in the middle of the crowd of faces? Was it because one particular face wasn’t there? Because, since people were kissing and hugging each other, and comic opera soldiers were sitting on comic opera brigands’ chests, the centre of Ben’s necessity had changed and he was free to follow other hazy impulses?
Certainly, no one was now worrying about him. The only person who might have done so was herself in a state of collapse. So why not totter up, and slip out, and search for one who surely ought to be present to make that chaotic party complete?
Darkness and rain! Was she out in it somewhere? He must find out! He turned to the left, that led to where he had last seen her. She was to wait in the empty cottage until he could come to her … and now he was coming to her …
Was he? Or—was she coming to him?
He stopped suddenly, and strained his eyes. Out of the moist blackness resolved a figure.
‘’Allo, Molly,’ he said rapidly.
Now the figure stopped and stared at him.
‘Ben!’ she gasped.
They advanced towards each other, and almost fell into each other. For several seconds neither spoke. Then, with sudden intelligence, Ben told the longed-for news in half a dozen words.
‘They’ve come,’ he announced, ‘and it’s orl right.’
For an instant the amazing news made the girl rigid. Then, suddenly, reaction set in, and she began to sob. As suddenly, she stopped.
‘Little fool I am!’ she muttered angrily.
‘Then so’m I,’ replied Ben. ‘I’ve blubbed buckets!’
‘Stop talking like that, or you’ll set me off again!’ she gulped, and took his hand. A little warm tear fell upon the hand in the middle of the cold rain. ‘If everything’s all right, what are you out here for?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ retorted Ben.
‘Do you mean—you were coming for me?’
‘’Corse! Wotcher tike me for?’
‘A pal, if ever there was one! I say, you’re a good sort! But you must go back now.’
‘Yus. We’re both goin’ back.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘I said—I’m not.’
‘Go on! Why?’
She raised her head quickly. Rapid steps sounded on the road. She dived for the trees.
Wondering, he dived after her. The rapid steps drew nearer the spot on which they had stood. They passed the spot, and faded towards the inn.
‘Do you know what that was?’ whispered Molly.
‘’Oo?’ asked Ben.
‘Some Spanish policemen. You’d better follow them.’
‘Not if you ain’t goin’ ter.’
‘But I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘My job here is done now—and—have you forgotten?—I’m wanted for another job at home!’
A poster grew into Ben’s mind with startling incongruity on this lonely Spanish road:
‘OLD MAN MURDERED
AT HAMMERSMITH’
The poster had formed her first background! Was it to form her last?
He rebelled at the idea. The murder had been Faggis’s! Not hers! She herself was merely a misguided little pickpocket—and, lummy, look at what she’d done since!
‘Doncher worry, miss,’ he said seriously. ‘Arter orl yer done in this ’ere job, they won’t think nothin’ o’ that other!’
‘Yes, they will,’ she responded definitely. ‘Law’s law, and I’ll always be on the wrong side of it.’
‘Not if yer git on the right side!’ he urged.
‘I was born on the wrong side,’ she answered.
‘Then wot abart me pullin’ yer hover, like?’
She looked at him long and earnestly. The rain descended on their upturned faces, but they were unconscious of it. Then, abruptly, she shook her head.
‘Listen, Ben,’ she said, and her voice was very solemn. ‘You’re a pal, if ever there was one. I shan’t forget you. But, though we’re both down-and-outs, we’re made of different stuff, and the stuff we’re made of doesn’t mix. Do you get what I mean?’
‘No,’ replied Ben doggedly.
‘What do you do when you’re hungry and haven’t got a penny?’ she challenged.
‘’Old a ’orse,’ answered Ben.
‘Well, I pick a pocket. Some difference! So, you see you’re better without me. Good-bye.’
Better without her? He considered the proposition. Without her, he would go back to the inn, and join in the rejoicings, and receive his meed of praise and profit. He would return to England, doubtless, not as a stowaway but as the legal passenger of a steamship or a railway company. Mr Holbrooke would shower cheese upon him. He might even get his picture in a paper. Lummy, that’d tickle his mother, wherever she was—up or down!
Yes—but all that was without Molly Smith … And now she was suddenly slipping away from him! He stopped thinking, and slipped after her.
‘Oi!’ he panted.
She turned at his voice, and he caught her up.
‘Didn’t you hear me tell you to go back?’ she cried tremulously.
‘Yer know, miss, you ain’t got me right,’ he answered. ‘I’m a fair blinkin’ sticker, I
am, and I’m agoin’ ter see you ’ome!’
They walked through the night; away from an inn where ugly scenes had led to strange reunions; away from an empty cottage where two disillusioned rascals awaited the uncomfortable processes of the law; away from a little village where, for many a day to come, the odd habits of the Inglés would be discussed, and also the strange return of a native in a comic foreign suit; away from a long precipitous mountain track, and a broken foot-bridge above a yawning precipice, and a lonely hut where two prone bodies had been found under a neatly spread table-cloth; and away from an ocean liner that had slid out of the Thames one day with queer folk aboard, and was now throbbing across distant seas.
And, while they walked, Sims waited in an isolated, uncharted spot for a man who never came …
‘Funny thing, life, ain’t it?’ said Ben.
THE END
About the Author
Son of novelist Benjamin Farjeon, and brother to children’s author Eleanor, playwright Herbert and composer Harry, Joseph Jefferson Farjeon (1883–1955) began work as an actor and freelance journalist before inevitably turning his own hand to writing fiction. Described by the Sunday Times as ‘a master of the art of blending horrors with humour’, Farjeon was a prolific author of mystery novels, with more than 60 books published between 1924 and 1955. His first play, No. 17, was produced at the New Theatre in 1925, when the actor Leon M. Lion ‘made all London laugh’ as Ben the tramp, an unorthodox amateur detective who became the most enduring of all Farjeon’s creations. Rewritten as a novel in 1926 and filmed by Alfred Hitchcock six years later, with Mr Lion reprising his role, No.17’s success led to seven further books featuring the warm-hearted but danger-prone Ben: ‘Ben is not merely a character but a parable—a mixture of Trimalchio and the Old Kent Road, a notable coward, a notable hero, above all a supreme humourist’ (Seton Dearden, Time and Tide). Although he had become largely forgotten over the 60 years since his death, J. Jefferson Farjeon’s reputation made an impressive resurgence in 2014 when his 1937 Crime Club book Mystery in White was reprinted by the British Library, returning him to the bestseller lists and resulting in readers wanting to know more about this enigmatic author from the Golden Age of detective fiction.
Murderer's Trail Page 25