Suddenly Ben found Jean’s face even closer to his. Her eyes were so near that they seemed larger than life-size and her lips almost brushed his as they moved, but had they been farther he would not have heard their words, which were scarcely louder than thought.
‘Did you do it?’ she whispered.
‘Do wot?’ he whispered back; though he knew what.
‘They’ve found—a dead man!’
Ben swallowed slowly, then answered:
‘Yer knows I didn’t do it.’
‘Whit mak’s you think that?’
‘Well, yer shoved me in ’ere. Do yer stand fer murder? Nor don’t I.’
Her legs suddenly gave way, and she sank into a chair.
‘My uncle thinks you did it,’ she muttered.
‘Oh, does ’e?’ murmured Ben. ‘Then why didn’t ’e let the copper tork ter me? Copper’s English fer bobby, in case yer don’t know.’
‘He didna ken you were in here—he thought you were in your room.’
‘Yus, I guessed that, miss, but ’e didn’t tike the bobby up ter my room. Why didn’t ’e?’
‘Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that?’ she replied, shrewdly.
Ben nodded.
‘I expeck yer right. Though, corse …’ He stared at her. ‘No, nothink’s o’ corse! As I ain’t tellin’ yer nothink, and as yer saw my little, well, ornerment larst night, why don’t you think I done it, like ’e does?’
‘I know a guid mon when I see him,’ she answered, ‘though I’m fair perplexed.’
‘Wot, me good?’ exclaimed Ben. ‘I don’t mean I go abart killin’ blokes, I bar that kind o’ thing, but—well, any’ow, wot ’appened, see, it’s orl come rather sudden.’
‘They found him in a lane at the foot o’ the moor,’ she said, ‘early this mornin’ it was, before the mist was so thick or they wouldna hae seen him, but they dinna ken wha he is, for he had naething on him—’
‘Wot, nikid?’
‘Dinna mak me laugh when I’m mair nigh greetin’! He had naething in his pockets, nae letters, nae papers, and the puir mon had been shot—’
Yes, of course he had been shot. That was no news to Ben. But now for the first time he recollected that he had not heard the sound of the shot. And he had not been far off when it had happened …
‘Well, miss—go on.’
‘There’s no much mair,’ she replied. ‘Sergeant Bruce, him you heard just noo, he’s been here a’most an hour, pokin’ around and speerin’ at my uncle. “Has anybody been here?” he asks, and my uncle answers, “Nae, naebody. There’s just Jean and mysel,” he says, “and naebody else in the hoose,” and I knowin’ that you’re upstairs all the while and prayin’ you’ll keep sleepin’ on so heavy and no’ come down.’
‘Yus, I was sleepin’ ’eavy,’ said Ben. ‘I s’pose that was why yer didn’t wike me?’
‘Ay! What would the sergeant be thinkin’, after all that lyin’?’
‘That’s right. And I s’pose you ’ad ter lie ter keep yer uncle company like?’ She nodded. ‘Lumme, wot a tangle! Fust ’e lies thinkin’ I done it, and then you lie thinkin’ I ain’t done it, but not becos’ yer think I ain’t done it but becos’ ’e lied thinkin’ I done it without you knowin’ why ’e lied! Well, somethink like that, any’ow. Yus—but this is wot I wanter know, miss—wot mikes you think ’e thinks I done it?’
She hesitated, then answered, ‘I ken my uncle. And if you hadna done it, why would he be afeard of you and the sergeant meetin’?’
‘I see. But, if I ’ad done it—then ’e would be afeard, eh?… Why, miss, if I’d done it?’
She was silent, and he understood her silence. She knew by now, as well as he did, that her uncle had a job for him, and that he could not afford to let him wear handcuffs until the job was finished. But she did not know—and this was the queerest tangle of all—that Ben was as ignorant of the nature of the job as she was herself.
‘Where’s yer uncle now?’ asked Ben, after a pause.
‘I think the sergeant wanted him to see the body—I’m no sure,’ she replied.
‘Then ’e’ll be back soon?’
‘Ay.’
‘That means we ain’t got much time.’
‘We?’
‘Yus. See—I think I gotter tell yer somethink—jest ter clear yer mind a bit, like, though it won’t be much.’ She looked at him eagerly. ‘And I ain’t sure if yer’ll ezackly like it.’
‘But you’ll risk that!’
‘Yus. On’y—it means trustin’ yer, miss?’
‘You can! I’ll sweer it—’
‘Yer word’s enough.’ He took a deep breath, prayed he was doing right, and said, ‘I’m up ’ere on a job. I dunno wot it is. But wotever it is, I’m stright, and I’m keeping stright, and—and Gawd ’elp me if yer uncle gits ter know I’m stright!’
There was a little silence. Then she asked, quietly:
‘Do you mean, my uncle isna straight?’
‘I mean, ’e mustn’t know I’m stright.’
‘Because, if you were straight, you couldna do the job he’ll gie ye?’
‘I’ve jest said I dunno wot the job is,’ Ben hedged, futilely.
‘But you ken it’s nae straight job?’
‘Well—see—I said, didn’t I, yer wouldn’t like it.’
He turned his eyes away from her grave face. He had tried to ease her burden a little, and felt he had only added to it. A touch on his shoulder brought his eyes back. She had got up from the chair and she was standing before him again.
‘I ken weel my uncle isna straight,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘and if it’s money he’s wantin’, there’s naething he willna do—short of murder. You’ll hae no cause to regret what you’ve told me, Mr Wilkins.’
‘I reckon you’re stright, orl right,’ mumbled Ben, fighting sudden emotion.
‘I was more fortunate wi’ my parents than wi’ my uncle,’ she replied, with a faint smile. ‘Will you tell me ane mair thing?’
‘Wot?’
‘How is it you’re—doin’ this?’
‘Oh! Well, that’s a bit of a yarn—but it started in Lunnon—on a bridge—when I was torkin’ to a detective as close ter me as wot you are …’ The memory rose in his brain, filling it. Queer, how it kept coming and going. The detective seemed actually to be in the room, young, eager, alive—real nice young chap … ‘’E got shot, so I thort I’d carry on.’
He stared at her. There were tears in her eyes. Silly fool, he was!
‘Nah, doncher worry, miss,’ he said, patting her shoulder. ‘’E’ll be orl right in the end!’
‘Who?’
‘Eh? Yer uncle.’
A smudge passed swiftly along the window-curtain. The front door opened and closed. Then the parlour door opened, and MacTavish stood before them. He seemed to have brought the cold mist in with him.
‘Ah, so you’re doon,’ he exclaimed, brusquely. ‘Weel, that’s a guid thing, Mr Wilkins, for there’ll be nae mair waitin’—we’re awa this minute!’
16
Ben Murders Himself
The news came as a bombshell. It was obvious that the Black Swan was no longer healthy for Ben, but he wanted more than a minute to think about it. MacTavish, however, was not in a mood for delay. Turning to his niece he told her peremptorily to be off, and as she began to move hesitatingly towards the door he swung back to Ben and exclaimed:
‘Did you hear me?’
‘I ain’t deaf,’ retorted Ben, ‘but wotcher want me to do? Shoot aht o’ the winder?’
‘That wouldna be too quick!’
‘Wouldn’t it? Well, it would fer me, see? I wanter know a bit more abart the posishun!’
The innkeeper glared. Then his nervously impatient features twitched into a mirthless grin.
‘Ay! The position!’ he said. ‘Weel, Mr Wilkins, this is the position. A mon’s wanted by the police for the murder of Mr Wilkins! And I’m askin’ nae questions!’
A gasp came fro
m the doorway. Despite instructions, Jean had lingered. Her uncle sprang round.
‘Did I no tell you to go to the kitchen?’ he exclaimed fiercely.
He seized her arm roughly. Ben wondered, through a dangerously red mist, whether he would ever be wanted for the murder of Mr MacTavish.
‘Leave ’er be!’ he cried.
‘What’s this?’ fumed MacTavish.
‘Wot I sed! Leave ’er be—or yer won’t be arskin’ nobody no questions!’
Astonishment and infuriation swept across the innkeeper’s features, but he dropped her arm, and all at once Ben understood his obedience. Jean had implied that her uncle was not a killer, but that he believed Ben was one. That gave Ben a certain advantage!
‘You think you’re somebody!’ muttered MacTavish.
‘Yes, and you’d better, too!’ retorted Ben. ‘Wot mikes ’em think I’ve killed Mr Wilkins?’
‘Dagont, will ye wait here and be caught?’
‘That wouldn’t be nice fer you, sime as me, so wot abart gittin’ on and tellin’ me wot I’m arskin’?’
‘Before the lass?’
Ben thought for a moment. He certainly wanted Jean to hear her uncle’s information, but would Charles Wilkins or Harry Lynch or whoever he was now supposed to be, want her to hear? The moment was not long enough to unravel the tangle, but it was long enough for Jean to lend a hand.
‘I’ve haird enough frae ye baith!’ she said.
She left the room quickly and closed the door.
While Ben stared after her, MacTavish drew a long breath, then wiped his forehead with a large coloured handkerchief.
‘Now, listen,’ he muttered, ‘and after you hae listened, show the guid sense a mon in your position would be showin’. Ay, and here is some mair aboot the position! I went to see the body. ’Tis the Lord’s mercy it wasna brought here! They had found something mair. In the turn-up o’ his trousers. A wee bit card—juist like the ane you showed me. Now d’ye ken why they’re sayin’ the dead mon is Mr Wilkins?
‘I’m askin’ nae questions, I’m askin’ nae questions,’ he went on quickly. ‘I’m keepin’ to my business, and I ken naething aboot yours when they dinna run side by side, as you might say. But naebody’s seen you come, and here is the mist sent us so that naebody will see you gang. There’s juist Jean, and I’ll see she doesna open her mouth. So now we’ll be awa’, unless you’re in a mood to waste mair time?’
‘Where are we goin’ to?’ asked Ben.
‘You ken that yoursel’ as fine as I do,’ he retorted. ‘We’re goin’ awa’ to finish the business!’
The final lap! It seemed impossible! Ben had begun to regard his road as one without ending. But there was an atmosphere of finality in MacTavish’s attitude which informed him that somewhere in the white maze around Muirgissie lay the conclusion of his adventure at last. And, very probably, of himself, also.
So he grunted, ‘O.K.—carry on!’ and placed himself in the innkeeper’s hands.
The departure was effected with swift stealth. In less than three minutes Ben had been conducted to a yard, had entered a closed car that vied in age with the late Mr Smith’s, and had begun the last stage of the mysteriously ordained journey. Another journey was to follow it, but that was outside the original programme.
He had been disturbed and disappointed that he had not seen Jean again. He would have welcomed a few more words with her, but if she had tried to secure another meeting the attempt had failed; as indeed it must have, since MacTavish did not let Ben out of his sight for more than two seconds at a time. Thus he merely had an incomplete and tantalising memory to accompany his thoughts and comfort his needs as the car progressed slowly but steadily through the shifting whiteness.
Neither driver nor passenger spoke for several minutes, and Ben had plenty of time to ponder over the new situation. The pondering brought him no balm, however, nor did it bring clarity. His mind was as misty and as uninformative as the view. Behind stretched an ever-lengthening road punctuated with ever-increasing obstacles. Ahead, the road remained a mystery. When he solved the mystery—if he ever did—how would he be able to retrace the road and negotiate the obstacles? Law and lawlessness would both be pitted against him, each endeavouring to give him the k.o. One or other would be bound to do it. And there would not be a single mourner to send him a wreath!
Well—perhaps Jean?
‘’Ere, shurrup!’ he rounded on his thoughts. ‘Do yer know wot yer gittin’? Merbid, that’s wot you are—merbid! Lumme, didn’t Shikespeare or some’un say orl the world was a blinkin’ gime, and ’owever it goes, yer ends up unner the earth? So wot are yer worryin’ abart?’
His attempt to set aside worry was not assisted by the more immediate details of the journey. The road was winding steadily upwards, and although MacTavish was not achieving any speed records, he was driving faster than appealed to Ben’s breakfastless stomach. The higher you go, the farther you can fall, and several times the car’s wheels seemed perilously near the edge. Further inconvenience was occasioned by a stack of boxes and cases piled inside the car, and filling practically all the room not occupied by the driver and his passenger. Once a case toppled, and landed on Ben’s back.
‘Wot’s in ’em?’ inquired Ben, breaking the silence at last. ‘Bricks?’
‘Stores,’ replied MacTavish.
‘’Oo for?’
‘Wha do you think?’
‘Is this a derliverin’ van?’
MacTavish smiled dryly.
‘And why no’?’ he answered. ‘If I do a body’s shoppin’ for him, and deeliver every aince in a while, why am I no’ doin’ the same the noo?’
‘I see,’ replied Ben. ‘On’y this time yer deliverin’ me as well as the beer! Well, if yer tike the next corner as quick as yer took the larst, yer won’t derliver nothink.’
‘Dinna fret, I ken this road upside doon, though there’s nae many can say the like.’
‘Well, I’d rather ken it right-side up,’ commented Ben. ‘Then ter-day’s derliverin’ day, is it?’
‘Nae alternative,’ responded MacTavish, with a frown, ‘but it’s a pity I couldna mak’ certain it was convenient.’
‘Wot’s that mean?’
‘There was nae time to arrange matters, as I’d ’a prefaired.’
‘Oh! Then ain’t we expecked like?’
‘Ah, weel, I’m no sayin’ it will mak’ any differ. Will ye talk a wee bit less, do you mind? There’s a loch a thousand feet below us, though you canna see it.’
‘Wot, a like?’
‘The same you saw at Muirgissie.’
‘Yer wrong—I carn’t see in the dark no more’n I can in the fog.’
‘It was juist across the road.’
‘Well, you orter know. But, look ’ere—’ave we gorn up a thahsand feet?’
‘And there’s mair yet. You’re missin’ a grand view, Mr Wilkins, I’m thinkin’.’
‘Well, see we go on missin’ it,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t wanter be turned inter a bit o’ scenery!’
The road continued to ascend. It grew narrower and rougher, and the stretches without twists and turns grew shorter. Occasionally they dipped down disconcertingly, and each time Ben thought, ‘That’s done it,’ to discover a moment later that it had not. There was one half-mile when the mist thinned, but the view was so desolate and rugged that Ben was grateful to re-enter the thick curtain again.
Presently, the car stopped.
‘Are we there?’ asked Ben.
‘Nigh enough for a talk,’ answered MacTavish, and took out his pipe.
Ben watched him carefully, sensing that something was coming. He was learning MacTavish, and could read the signs.
‘Wunner if ’e’s got me up ’ere fer a gime of ’is own?’ he reflected. ‘P’r’aps ’e’s bin bluffin’ me orl the time, and ’e ain’t tikin’ me nowhere!’ The disconcerting thought was followed by another more consoling. ‘Any’ow, ’e thinks I did Mr Smith in, so I better see ’
e goes on thinkin’ it fer a bit!’
Now MacTavish was puffing at his pipe. Suddenly he puffed himself to the point.
‘Weel, Mr Wilkins, or whatever your name may be,’ he said, ‘whaur do you keep it?’
‘Keep wot?’ replied Ben.
‘You ken fine wha’ I mean,’ answered MacTavish.
‘Yus, and you’ll ken fine wot I mean if yer don’t speak pliner,’ retorted Ben. ‘As fer me real nime, if I was to tell yer that, yer’d fall in a swoon!’
‘Maybe it’s Crippen?’
‘Worse’n that. So git on with it!’
MacTavish looked at Ben down his nose. It was a long nose, and a long look. Then he said, in a slightly more propitiating voice:
‘I’m thinkin’ you and me can talk guid business, Mr Wilkins?’
‘Let’s ’ear the business,’ returned Ben.
‘Ay,’ nodded MacTavish.
‘And when I ses that,’ went on Ben, ‘I mean cards on the table. Yer ain’t dealin’ with no ordin’ry bloke, don’t fergit, and perhaps, fer orl yer might think, I knows more’n I pertend. I reckon hactin’ comes nacheral ter both of us—eh?’
MacTavish considered the little speech. He was not unimpressed. After two or three more puffs, he appeared to come to a decision with himself.
‘A’ right—cards on the table,’ he nodded. ‘And here’s the fairst card. When you came last evenin’ I was cautious. It was necessary. “Wha is he?” I said. “Is he juist anybody, or is he Wilkins?” I waited for the proof.’
‘And I give it yer,’ said Ben.
‘Ay. So then I said, “Ay, he’s Wilkins. In the mornin’ I’ll gang to—a sairtain person—and we’ll arrange the meetin’. And he’ll hand it over, and nae doot mak’ his wee bittie, and I’ll mak’ my wee bittie.’
He grinned. Ben listened hard. The phrases, ‘Whaur do you keep it?’ and ‘Hand it over,’ revolved round his mind. Something, at last, was forming …
‘Weel, then—’
‘’Arf a mo’,’ interrupted Ben. ‘It’s my turn to arsk you a thing or two, and then yer can go on.’
MacTavish looked slightly worried by the interruption. Ben was developing an idea that his companion, at root, was no braver than Ben himself.
Detective Ben Page 11
