‘’Ere, ’old me!’ gasped Ben.
The detective laughed softly. ‘Listen—I’m going to tell you a little story,’ he said.
‘I’ll bet it’s ’orrible!’
‘But you’d like to hear it?’
‘No. Go on.’
‘The fellow you spoke to and who has just been taken away had an appointment to meet somebody on this bridge between two and half-past. He was going to be identified by his rags and that skull-pin in your hand. I don’t know who the somebody is, but I do know that if I can track him to his source—that’s my present job—I’m on to a big thing.’
‘Yus, but—’
‘Wait till I’ve finished. What I’m going to propose to you is this. The somebody hasn’t turned up yet. Will you wait on this bridge, with that ugly brute of a pin in your coat, at the spot where you spoke to the late lamented, till half-past two—’
‘Late ’oo?’
‘The chap who’s dead. Nothing may happen. In that case the fee will have to be reduced, but you’ll still be on to a fiver for the easiest job you’ve ever had. But something may happen. The somebody may turn up, and be duped by your rags and your pin. In that case—Ben—if you play your cards cleverly and “stick it out,” eh?—the somebody may cart you back to the very source I’m looking for, and you will earn your couple of ponies.’
Ben wiped his forehead.
‘I admit it won’t be pleasant. But there will be glory and cash at the end of it—and, of course, I’ll be following you and looking after you—with this—!’
He raised his revolver again and, with grim and unappreciated humour, directed it towards Ben. Ben ducked involuntarily. An instant later the detective dropped to the ground, a crumpled heap.
Ben stared, stunned. ‘Wot’s ’appened to me?’ he wondered. The thing had been too swift and silent and unbelievable to have occurred outside a suddenly distorted brain. His mind ceased to function. Then he experienced a sensation as though he were coming out of gas. Truth developed out of numbness, and for several seconds he saw nothing, and thought of nothing, but the helpless, limp form of a young man whose eager voice still echoed in his ears, and whose friendly eyes had conveyed him out of terror into human warmth … He looked up to find other eyes upon him. The eyes of a beautiful woman in a dark, close-fitting coat.
She was standing beside a closed car. Had the car slipped up from the ground? He had not heard its approach. It had come as silently as the bullet. Or perhaps emotion had throbbed too insistently in his ears …
‘Quick!’ ordered the beautiful woman. ‘There’s not a moment!’
The door of the car was open. Ben looked at it; then at her; and then once more at the motionless heap on the ground.
‘Dead?’ said Ben thickly.
‘Quite,’ answered the woman. Her voice was low and rich, but as pitiless as cold steel.
‘Are you coming?’
Ben raised his face from death to life. Even in this dimness the woman’s eyes were dazzling. Ben’s heart turned black.
He nodded.
‘That’s right, miss,’ he murmured. ‘I’m comin’.’
2
The Dark Journey
The blackness in Ben’s heart was reflected in the car. The blinds were drawn, and as the car shot forward he found himself travelling in a darkness that seemed to creep right up to him and touch him.
By his side was the beautiful woman. Even in this enveloping darkness that affected both sight and soul he remained conscious of her beauty, just as he had been conscious of it while staring at death. It brushed his ragged sleeve as the car swung abruptly round a corner. It whispered to him through the fragrance of scent. It electrified the black atmosphere. Ben was not impervious to beauty, and he could stare with incoherent appreciation at a sunset, or watch little children dancing to a piano-organ, or pause, futilely desirous, at the photograph of a naughty chorus girl wrapped round a pound of cheese. But he hardened himself against the beauty he was now encountering, for it presided in enemy territory.
Ahead of him, driving, was another figure. A big, smudgy figure in a large overcoat. There was no beauty in this dim outline. It was sinister and forbidding, and reminded Ben of Carnera. He found himself wondering how long, if it came to a fight, he would be able to stand up against that massive frame. He worked it out at five seconds less six.
But the big figure in the large overcoat had another kind of tussle on at the moment. Emerging suddenly from his dazed thoughts, Ben became conscious of it when the car took another violent curve that brought the woman’s shoulder hard against his own. He heard a shout. The car swerved. He heard a shot. The car accelerated dizzily. Another corner. Straight again. Another corner. Straight again. Plop! Ting! Two little holes. One in the small window in the back of the car, one in the windscreen. A straight line between the two holes separated, and cleared by three inches, two heads.
‘All right, Fred?’ inquired the owner of one of the heads, coolly; while the owner of the other head thought, less coolly, ‘Lumme!’
The big figure in the large overcoat nodded. The car flew on.
‘And you?’ asked the woman, turning to Ben.
It was the first time she had addressed Ben since they had entered the car. ‘Now wot I’ve gotter do,’ reflected Ben, ‘is to pertend it ain’t nothink, like ’er!’ Aloud he responded, with elaborate carelessness:
‘Corse! ’Oo minds a little thing like that?’
She smiled. He could not see the smile, but he felt it. It came to you, like her scent.
‘Item, courage,’ were her next words. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve got that, for you’ll need it.’
‘’Ooray,’ thought Ben.
‘But, after all,’ she went on, ‘one expects courage from those who have been awarded the D.S.O.’
‘’Oo’s that?’ jerked Ben.
‘Distinguished Skull Order.’ She touched his gruesome pin with a slender finger. ‘You must tell me one day what you got it for. I expect you’ve a nice little selection of bedtime stories. But have you ever been shot at twice in five minutes before? You have to thank our driver for saving you the first time.’
‘Eh? When was the fust time?’ blinked Ben.
He couldn’t remember it, and the notion that he was under any obligation to the driver was not one that went to his heart. When had the ugly brute saved him?
‘Don’t play poker-face with me!’ retorted the woman. ‘You know as well as I do!… Oh, but of course—I see what you mean. The detective didn’t actually shoot at you—he was merely going to. Well, Fred was a fool to interfere. If you’d got in a mess, it was your affair to get out of it. However he lost his head, so I hope you’ll prove worth the risk he took by not losing yours!’
Ben’s mind swung back to the instant just before the detective had fallen. The detective had raised his revolver. The driver of the approaching car—this hulking brute a couple of feet ahead—had seen and misinterpreted the action. He had fired. The detective had dropped. And, for this, Ben had to thank him!
‘One day I’ll thank ’im in a way ’e won’t fergit!’ decided Ben.
Meanwhile, he must keep cool, and organise the few wits he possessed. He would have to display a few of those wits, to justify membership of the Distinguished Skull Order!
‘Ah—then it wasn’t you wot fired the gun?’ he murmured. ‘It wasn’t you wot killed ’im?’
‘I never lose my head,’ answered the woman, with a contemptuous glance towards the driver’s back.
‘I didn’t ’ear no bang,’ said Ben.
‘There wasn’t any bang,’ replied the woman.
‘Oh—one o’ them things,’ nodded Ben. ‘That’s the kind wot I uses. Orl bite and no bark!’
The driver shifted impatiently in his seat.
‘Do you suppose you could bark a little less?’ he growled. ‘We aren’t out of the wood yet!’
‘Keep your nerve, Fred,’ observed the woman calmly. ‘We’re keeping ours. I
rather like our new recruit’s Oxford accent.’
Lumme, she was cool! Ben had to concede her that. But so were snakes. They could stay still for an hour. And then—bing!
A minute later, while a police whistle sounded faintly in the distance, the car turned up a by-street and stopped. The woman opened the door and leapt out with the speed of a cat. Ben followed obediently. The driver remained in his seat.
‘Be with you in five minutes,’ the driver muttered.
The whistle sounded again, not quite so distantly.
‘No, you won’t, Fred,’ said the woman. ‘Five hours, at least!’
‘Oh! What’s the idea?’
‘That you use the wits God is supposed to have given you. If you can’t shake off the police, you’re no good to me.’
‘Well, haven’t I—?’
She held up a hand. The whistle sounded a third time, closer still.
‘Listen, and don’t argue! That car’s been marked, and you’re wanted for murder. Both unhealthy. I’m not recognising you till you’ve left the car in a ditch forty miles away. Have you got that?’
‘Do I leave myself in the ditch with the car?’
‘That’s a question of personal choice.’
‘Suppose I’m caught?’
‘Then I certainly won’t recognise you. But it’s not your habit to be caught.’
‘All right—suppose I’m not caught?’
‘You’ll change your appearance.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you can come home to mother, darling, and she’ll give you a—’
‘What?’
‘A nice new pinafore.’
She smiled, and suddenly the driver grinned. ‘She can twist ’im rahnd ’er finger!’ decided Ben. ‘On’y got to show ’er teeth!’
He wondered what would happen if he gave the sudden shout that was bursting for expression inside him. Would the woman still remain cool and collected? More important, would the chauffeur lose his head a second time and add another capital crime to his sheet?
But it was not fear of these things, though undoubtedly he feared them, that urged Ben to restrain his violent impulse. It was the memory of the detective lying on the bridge. Ben was carrying on for the detective. He was in his official shoes—a detective, now, himself! And he meant to remain one until he had done all his predecessor had set out to do—and a little bit more!
The woman raised her head sharply. A car had turned abruptly into the next street at racing speed.
‘You’ll lose your pinafore,’ said the woman.
‘Will I!’ retorted the chauffeur.
In a flash he had vanished.
‘The cleverest driver and the biggest fool in the kingdom,’ murmured the woman.
Ben felt her magnetic fingers on his sleeve. A queer collaboration, those perfect nails upon his threadbare cloth! Guided by the fingers, he moved into the darkness of a doorway. He was used to doorways. He had sheltered in them, pondered in them, shivered in them, dried in them, eaten cheese in them, slept in them, but he had never learned to love them. There was always a haunting ignorance of what lay on the other side. This doorway, for instance. From what was it separating him? People sleeping? People listening? Rats? Emptiness? Dust?…
The racing car came whizzing round the corner. Thoughts of the doorway melted into a confusing consciousness of speed and scent in conflict. The speed of the car and the scent of the woman. Movement chasing immobility. Immobility out-witting movement. The scent had never seemed more insistent that at this moment. Inside the car it had seemed natural. Out in a chilly street there was something unreal about it. Like sandwiches after the party’s over …
Swish! The police-car whizzed by. The metallic hum rose to a shriek, decreased, and faded out into a memory.
‘And that’s that,’ said the woman.
‘You fer the brines,’ muttered Ben, deeming it the time for a little flattery.
‘What about your brains?’ she asked.
Ben used them, and touched the little skull that adorned his lapel.
‘Would I be wearin’ this ’ere skelington if I ’adn’t none?’ he replied.
‘I don’t expect you would.’
‘Betcher life I wouldn’t!’
‘What have you done to earn it?’
What had he done? Lumme! What was he supposed to have done? In the absence of any knowledge regarding his back history, he decided to generalise.
‘Yer know that bloke wot you called Fred, miss?’ he said.
‘I’ve heard of him,’ agreed the woman.
‘I expeck ’e’s done a bit?’
‘You’ve had some evidence of that.’
‘Eh? Yus! Well, if yer was to tike orl ’e’s done and if yer was to put it alongside o’ wot I’ve done, yer’d lose it!’
‘Really?’ smiled the woman.
‘That’s a fack,’ answered Ben.
‘Then you don’t mind killing people?’
‘Eh?’
‘I said, you don’t mind murder?’
‘It’s me fav’rit ’obby.’
‘Then come inside, and I may show you how to indulge in your hobby,’ said the woman. And, producing a Yale key, she inserted it in the door.
3
Questions without Answers
As the key slipped into the lock and turned, Ben rebelled against his own heroism. What was he doing all this for? What would he gain out of it? Why did he not swing round and run, while he still had a chance? Once he was within this house—and the door was already swinging inwards, widening its mouth to receive him—there would be little chance of escape. Apparently he was going in to kill somebody; or, failing that, to be killed himself! Neither alternative brought any comfort to his soul.
Yes, that was what he would do! Turn and run for it. A couple of leaps, then a quick sprawl flat for the bullet—there was bound to be a bullet—then a pancake slide, then up and repeat, and then bing round the corner! One, two, three—go!
But he did not go. The power of a live woman or of a dead man held him there, and when the live woman touched his shoulder and the dead man watched to see how he would respond, he walked ahead of her into the yawning black gap, and heard the door close behind him with a soft click.
He had wondered what lay on the other side of the door. Well, now here he was—and no wiser! Blackness lay all around him; a blackness more terrifying, though he could not have explained why, than the blackness inside the car. The space inside the car had been confined. The space here was suffocating.
He heard the woman groping. He decided that conversation would give the best appearance of a courage that was not there.
‘Feelin’ fer the light?’ he asked.
‘We don’t need a light,’ replied the woman.
‘Oh, don’t we?’ murmured Ben. ‘Then ’ow do we see?’
‘We’ll see in a minute,’ she answered.
Now she was pressing something. A faint metallic drone responded. It seemed to come from heaven—if heaven still existed. Gradually it descended from the distant elevation, growing more distinct each second. A dim radiance appeared, gleaming through metal slats. ‘Corse, it’s a lift,’ thought Ben.
The lift reached their level and stopped. The drone ceased. A perfect hand reached over Ben’s shoulder—the woman was keeping studiously behind him—and pushed the gate aside.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked.
‘’Oo’s waitin’?’ retorted Ben.
He stepped in. The woman followed him and closed the gate. She pressed a button. The lift began to ascend, obeying a little finger that had power over the animate as well as the inanimate.
‘Which department are we goin’ to?’ inquired Ben. ‘Gimes and toys?’
‘You’re rather amusing,’ answered the woman.
‘Yus, reg’ler Charlie Chaplin. I mike the Chimber of ’Orrors larf.’
‘Do you make your victims laugh?’
‘That’s right. Tell ’em a limer
ick and kill ’em.’
The journey in the lift seemed endless, and the endlessness was accentuated by the fact that there were no glimpses of intermediate floors. The lift travelled up a long, unbroken shaft, giving Ben the sense that they would eventually emerge out of a large chimney.
‘’Ow much longer?’ he asked.
As he put the question the lift stopped. He stared at a blank wall beyond the metal gate.
‘Lumme, we’ve stuck!’ he muttered.
‘No, we haven’t,’ said the woman. ‘Turn round.’
He turned, and realised for the first time that there was another gate on the other side. It slid open as he stared at it, and so did a polished door. Now he stared into a luxurious little hall, with a soft purple carpet and heavily shaded lights. The rich comfort of the hall gave it a thoroughly unmurderous appearance … No, he wasn’t so sure. There was something sinister in the very softness of the carpet, something brooding in the stillness … Don’t be silly! Of course the place was still! You didn’t expect to see chairs and tables jumping about, did you?
‘Aren’t you going to move?’ asked the woman.
‘That’s right,’ answered Ben, jerking forward. ‘I was jest admirin’ of it, like.’
She followed him out, closed the gate, and slid the polished wooden door across. There was now no sign of the lift, for the door resembled the panelled wall on either side. They stood and faced each other in another world.
‘Do you approve?’ she inquired, with cynical amusement in her eyes.
‘’Ome from ’ome,’ replied Ben.
‘That’s satisfactory, since it may be your home for some little while. You know, of course, that you’ll be staying here till your next journey?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is your hearing bad?’
‘No. It’s a ’abit. So there’s goin’ to be another journey, is there?’
‘You didn’t suppose you were engaged for a short joy-ride in a car, did you?’
She spoke a little impatiently, but Ben guessed it would be a mistake to appear cowed.
‘If that was a joy-ride,’ he observed, ‘give me a chunk o’ misery. When do I start on this other journey?’
Detective Ben Page 2
