‘I slep’ very sahnd larst night,’ said Ben. ‘I don’t s’pose nobody dropped nothink inter me apple-pudding, did they?’ Now the inn-keeper looked more than a little worried, and Ben added quickly, lest MacTavish should dry up, ‘Well, I ain’t blimed nobody yet, ’ave I? I can give a nice little sleepin’-draught meself when I think a bloke’s tired—like I was, see?—ter mike ’im drop orf sudden arter a bit of a jaw. And ter let ’im sleep sahnd so’s ’e won’t be woke up by no noises if anybody should come inter ’is room.’
‘I’m no understandin’ you, Mr Wilkins,’ muttered MacTavish, looking rather pasty.
‘That’s orl right,’ replied Ben. ‘Carry on. Yer was decidin’ ter tike me over ter this certain person in the mornin’—like yer now doin’.’
MacTavish waited a few moments, to remarshal his wits, and then resumed:
‘You’re no’ richt. I decided to see the sairtain person fairst mysel’.’
‘Oh, yus.’
‘But I had to change the plan.’
‘Why?’
‘Ah, you ken that!’ exclaimed MacTavish, nervily. Then quickly grew calm again. ‘I couldna leave you behind, after—after wha’ was discovered, could I?’
‘Yer mean, the deader?’
‘Wha else would I mean?’
‘Wot I’m s’posed ter ’ave done in?’
‘I’m nae supposing anything! But—the sergeant would ’a supposed it—and you’ll mind I didna gie him the chance. But if, noo—if the sergeant would ’a been richt, why then aince again I’d ’a been wrong in my thinkin’ aboot ye—for, after all, you couldna be Mr Wilkins if you’d killed Mr Wilkins, now, could ye?’
‘I see,’ answered Ben. ‘Orl right, nah let’s do a bit more s’posin’. S’pose I killed ’im, wot am I s’posed to ’ave killed ’im for?’
‘The sergeant wouldna ken that,’ smiled MacTavish.
‘But you’d know, eh?’
MacTavish’s smile was now almost pitying.
‘Ay, I’d know,’ he agreed. ‘Mr Wilkins has a wee matter o’ ten thousand pounds on him.’
Ben kept very still. Ten thousand pounds. Ten thousand—Lumme!… Where was it?
The answer came in a startling flash of illumination. All at once Ben remembered something he had entirely forgotten in the stress of new considerations and events. In his last minute with Mr Smith, Mr Smith had said, ‘Just one more thing … The post office … One can always call for letters at the post office.’ And then he had dropped a card with Charles Wilkins’s name on it. No, two cards, although he had only regained one, the other having slipped into the turn-up of his trousers! One card was meant for Ben’s identification with MacTavish; the other, should MacTavish retain his card, for identification at Muirgissie post office, where a packet containing ten thousand pounds was waiting at this moment for Mr Charles Wilkins … when he called … if he called …
‘Yus, and ’ow can ’e call?’ thought Ben. ‘If I goes there nah I’ll be ’ad up for bein’ murdered! Gawd, that’s fair done it!’
Doubtless there were instructions with the money. He would now have to turn up at his final destination without either. Chaos was complete!
17
Consultation in the Mist
‘Weel?’
MacTavish’s voice recalled Ben from conjecture to fact. Of course—MacTavish was sitting beside him, smoking a pipe. Asking him about a little matter of ten thousand pounds!
Forget the rest for the moment—think only of MacTavish—how to deal with MacTavish. Desperately Ben sought the next move in this complicated game, while the innkeeper watched him closely with a queer unpleasant leer. Suddenly the next move dawned, surprising in its simplicity.
‘Corse, it’s orl very interestin’, Mr MacTavish,’ said Ben, ‘but yer ain’t on’y up a mountain—yer up a pole.’
MacTavish raised his shaggy eyebrows and waited for further enlightenment.
‘Yus, right on the top of it, like the monkey,’ continued Ben. ‘I let yer go on fer a bit becos’ I wanted ter see where yer was gittin’ at, but—wot, me murder ’im? Yer looney!’
MacTavish said nothing.
‘Not that I mind a little thing like murder,’ Ben went on, deciding it might be wise to express a belief in the general principle, ‘and not but wot p’r’aps I ain’t done five or six put-aways in my time—but I’ll tell yer why yer looney abart this ’un. If I murdered the bloke, I murdered ’im fer ’is money, didn’t I? And if I’d murdered ’im fer ’is money, I’d ’ave gorn orf with ’is money, wouldn’t I, instead of callin’ at an inn jest ter pass the cash on? Likely I’d tike a trip over a lonely mountain with a nice honest feller like you!’
MacTavish began to look depressed.
‘And ’ere’s another thing wot yer looney abart,’ added Ben, driving his points home for all they were worth. He had MacTavish in a descending mood. ‘Do yer think that the brines wot’s at the bottom o’ this little bizziness would let Mr Wilkins spend a night at your ’ome from ’ome with ten thahsand pounds on ’im? See, they’d say ’e might lose it in the night!’ Ben was interpreting the brains correctly. ‘So they’d find a way—not ter be told yer—of keepin’ that money secret. It ain’t on me, Mr MacTavish, nor it wasn’t on the bloke wot’s been killed, so nah yer can tike yer choice!’
‘Then—wha was the mon—they found?’ asked MacTavish, breaking silence at last.
‘I can tell yer that too,’ answered Ben. ‘’E was a feller I ’ad no more cause ter kill than I ’ave ter kill you. I knoo ’im by the nime o’ Smith, though I never knoo ’im at orl not till yesterday mornin’. ’E drove me from Boston ter Muirgissie—leastwise, orl but the larst mile. Then ’e dropped me, and seemed in a ’urry ter git back, but ’e pertended ’e ’ad some other bizziness in Muirgissie fust, so ’e went on a’ead to a turnin’—and it was there I fahnd ’im.’
‘Dead?’
‘Well, not livin’.’
‘Why didna you tell me?’ exclaimed MacTavish.
‘Becos’ I ain’t a mug,’ returned Ben. ‘We ’ad ter git acquinted, didn’t we?’
MacTavish frowned, but accepted the explanation.
‘Wha aboot the card?’ he asked.
‘Ah, there yer’ve got me guessin’,’ admitted Ben, ‘but ’ow abart this fer a shot? ’E give me one card—ter show you—but p’r’aps ’e orter’ve give me two and lorst the other in ’is turn-up? If that ain’t it, I can’t tell yer.’
‘It’s a possibeelity,’ nodded MacTavish. ‘But there’s ane question still to be answered.’
‘Yus. ’Oo did it?’
‘Ay!’
‘Well, I wasn’t given a seat fer the performance, so this ’as gotter be another guess. S’pose you ’elp me this time? I sed this chap Smith drove me, didn’t I?’
‘You did.’
‘And when I fahnd ’im dead ’e was in the car.’
‘Weel?’
‘Did the pleece find ’im in a car?’
‘They didna.’
‘Then where’s the car?’
‘Maybe they tipped ’im oot and drove awa’ in it.’
‘That’s wot they did,’ said Ben.
‘Ye ken that?’
‘Yus. And ’ere’s somethink else I ken. They drove past yer inn, and they stopped at the inn, and looked through the parler winder, and then drove orf agine—jest afore you come back yerself. I wasn’t quick enough ter see ’oo it was, but I spotted the car and reckernised it. And then you comes along, Mr MacTavish,’ Ben went on, ‘and you arsks me, “Was it a woman?” So now I’m arskin’ you—’Oo’s the woman?’
MacTavish stared. Ben almost pitied him, he was so different from the hectoring man who a few moments ago had tried to bluff him. His face seemed to have caught the whiteness of the mist.
‘Yes, and ’oo was in yer garden larst night,’ Ben added, ‘’idin’ in a bush?’
‘The garden!’ exclaimed MacTavish. ‘Wha did you see in the garden?’
; ‘I dunno as I saw nothink in the garden,’ answered Ben, ‘but ’earin’ sahnds I thort I saw a light, sime as it might be a flash-torch, and then a bush movin’, and arter that I ’eard a door slam, and arter that—well, that was when I got sleepy so sudden.’
He did not mention Jean’s visit to his room—in case she had not.
‘Ay, I haird the sounds, too,’ replied MacTavish.
‘Was it you wot banged the door?’
‘Nae, that was the wind! I was searchin’ round the hoose and the garden—’
‘’Oo for? The woman?’
MacTavish turned his head suddenly. The mist was now thicker than ever; they were imprisoned in it. It blocked the windows on either side, and had even swallowed up the front of the bonnet.
‘Wot’s the matter?’ asked Ben.
MacTavish did not seem to hear.
‘Worse’n ever, ain’t it? ’Ow are yer goin’ ter git back?’
‘Eh?’
‘Yer know wot I think?’ said Ben. ‘I think yer’d better tell me abart that woman.’
MacTavish removed his eyes from the window and fixed them on Ben.
‘Mr Wilkins,’ he said slowly, ‘I’m thinkin’ you’re no an easy mon to read. I’m thinkin’ you hae been gi’en this job because you’re a remarkable mon. I’m thinkin’ there’s mair behind you than I gae ye credit for—’
‘Lumme, ’ow much more’s ’e goin’ ter think?’ wondered Ben.
‘—and I’m no askin’ to be told mair than you hae been instructed to tell me. But I reckon you can tell me this wi’oot givin’ awa’ ony secrets. It’s aboot yoursel’ I’m askin’. I ken fine the noo that you didna kill Mr Smith. But was it the truth when you drapped a hint that you’d killed—others?’
‘Wotcher want ter know that for?’ demanded Ben.
‘I hae a guid reason.’
‘Let’s ’ave the reason.’
‘I’ll no gie the reason—but, maybe, it’s for your protection, Mr Wilkins—maybe, ay!’
At that moment MacTavish looked almost human. Ben took a chance on it.
‘I ain’t never killed nobody in me life,’ he replied, ‘but that ain’t sayin’ but wot I couldn’t!’
‘Ah!’ murmured MacTavish. ‘Then noo I’ll tell you aboot the woman.’
His pipe had gone out. He relit it. Then after another glance out of the window, he said:
‘It was her came the fairst time. I brought her here blindfold. She didna like that. You’d ’a been blindfold yoursel’ but for the mist, Mr Wilkins, only when you canna see anyhow, wha’s the neceesity? There was a mon, too, but he stayed behind. I’m thinkin’ it was juist as weel!’
‘Wot was they like?’ inquired Ben.
‘Like I dinna want to see again,’ answered MacTavish fervently. ‘He was a big mon, though I had aye a notion he was soft, and the woman—she had mair good looks than was good for her, ay, and maybe for others. But when she was talkin’ business, then she was as hard as nails, and we soon found the business she talked was no to our likin’. Do ye ken wha’ it was, Mr Wilkins?’
‘You’re tellin’ the story,’ replied Ben.
‘And you’re canny, though you’re no Scottish,’ retorted MacTavish. ‘Weel, there’s no need to conceal wha’ I hae no doot you’ll learn, and her business was murder.’
‘Oh—like that, was it?’ murmured Ben.
‘Ay, murder,’ repeated MacTavish. ‘I mind her words, for I was present, but, bein’ canny hersel’, she didna use the term. “If you’re gi’en the money,” she says, “wha’ guarantee hae we this will be the end on’t it?” “You hae my word,” he answers. “A word is like an egg,” she says, “’tis easily broken.” “Wha’ mair can I do?” he says. “There’s ane thing you can do,” she says. “Wha’ is it?” he says, though there was nae need to put the question. Some things are said plainer in the e’en, Mr Wilkins, than wi’ the lips. “Will I put it in words?” she says to that. He didna answer, and maybe she didna understand his silence, for she said next, “Or I can hae it done for you.”’
MacTavish paused to swallow.
‘You should ’a seen him at that! He made me jump as weel as her. “Gang awa’!” he cried. “Gang awa’! I’ll hae nae sic thing!” Havers, I thocht he was daft! “Ye ken my terms,” he cries. “Gang awa’!” She tries to pacify him, but she could ’a pacified the ocean easier. “Forget it,” she says, “and tak’ me to the boy for a sicht o’ him.’ But he wouldna do that, though she said she wasna payin’ the money until she kenned the boy was there. “Then I’ll hae nae money frae you at all,” he cries, “and I’ll hae nae murderin’ folk here! Awa’ wi’ ye, and tell them never to send you back again. If they’re no sendin’ a pairson I can deal wi’, they’ll ken wha to expect!”
‘And awa’ I took her—blindfolded again, but wi’ her hands tied this time as weel, and why I wasna killed mysel’ when I was hame and she was untied I canna say. But awa’ they went, and I had my instructions to see they didna return … And noo you hae been sent, Mr Wilkins, and I’m wishin’ you better luck!’
Somehow Ben kept his whirling head. His reply proved it.
‘I knew orl that,’ he said, marvelling at himself.
‘Wha’s that?’ exclaimed MacTavish.
‘Corse I did! I wouldn’t ’ave bin sent ’ere by—you know ’oo—if I didn’t know the lot, would I? But I ’ad ter ’ear yer tell it, ter mike sure yer wasna lyin’.’
‘And why should I be lyin’?’ demanded MacTavish indignantly.
‘Lumme, there’s times yer sich a mug I wunner yer carn’t be bought fer a tanner at Woolworth’s! Yer don’t want no murder—’
‘Eh!’
‘—but when yer thort I’d done one jest now, yer was ready ter bargain with me fer a share o’ the swag! Gorn, that mikes me trust yer!’
The thrust went home. MacTavish dwindled like a pricked balloon.
‘You’re richt,’ he muttered, with almost pathetic admission. ‘Maybe—maybe the poseetion got on top o’ me. But dinna think I was approvin’ o’ murder—’
‘No, yer was jest sayin’ wot’s done’s done, so let’s mike a bit. I dunno wot they calls that in Scotland, but in England they calls it hexory arter the act. Well, we’ll let that go, becos’ we got quite enough ter think abart—’
‘Ay!’ interrupted MacTavish. ‘And you ken wha we hae to think aboot?’
He stared out of the window at the wreathing mist, which showed no sign of abating.
‘I bet I ken,’ answered Ben. ‘Wot we gotter think abart is the person wot did kill Mr Smith, ain’t we? And ’oo may be aht in that there mist waitin’ ter kill somebody else? Or, ter put it in pline words, this ’ere woman?’
18
In the Wake of MacTavish
Ben always thanked MacTavish for his immobility during the next few seconds. The innkeeper did not seem able to remove his eyes from the window, and kept them glued on the glass as though he were waiting for some unpleasant vision to materialise there. Meanwhile, Ben struggled to adjust himself to his new information, and to become as composed inside him as he was appearing externally. This was not easy, for in addition to his personal fears, he found himself battling against fresh indignation which included even greater fears for another. In fact, although his new information was not complete, and merely gave him definite pieces in an indefinite jigsaw, it was at this point that he might have attempted to establish personal contact with the police had the road back to a police station been clear.
But the road was blocked not only by the mist, but by shadowy forms which, as MacTavish himself believed, were liable to solidify at any moment. Moreover, while Ben knew that he was in the immediate vicinity of his destination, he could not yet identify it. The knowledge he possessed was tantalisingly insufficient.
It was queer—worse, it was emotionally devastating—how his centre of interest continually changed, or intensified, all along the route, and how the motives for completing the ominous journey increase
d to prevent him from running away. If he had appeared braver in his present adventure than in previous ones, it was because he had, in each new encounter, had to assume the pose of a man less terrified by life and death than Ben himself, and periodically he had slipped into the unsavoury protection of a false skin. But he was continually slipping out again, and when his own frightened soul became bare once more, some fresh personality was thrown across his path at each wavering point.
He would have run away at the very beginning of this adventure—he had actually tried to do so, on the bridge—if he had not suddenly been rendered too heroic by the contemplation of a contemptible murder. The vision of that motionless detective had lived with him a long while. Then, while unseen fingers were tightening around him, a poor idiot of a bloke called Smith had become as motionless as the detective, reinforcing his determination to continue into the Unknown and see the business through. Then a girl had tugged at his heart. ‘Why?’ he asked himself, almost indignantly. ‘She ain’t nothink ter do with me? If I was one o’ them ’andsome ’eroes there might be some sense in it—I’d git ’er away to somewhere nice and we’d, well, marry or somethink silly. But if I do git ’er away, and ’ow am I goin’ ter, it’ll jest be Thank yer and Ta-ta! Like it always is!’
And now, added to the list of those Ben was to avenge or rescue, was a boy.
Somehow the boy seemed worst of all. The mere thought of the little fellow hidden away in this mountain loneliness, with menace creeping closer and closer through the mist, made Ben feel sick. ‘Yus, but why?’ he again demanded of himself. ‘’E might be a little ’orrer!’ It made no difference. The incentive to avenge the dead, though it had provided the original impetus to this exploit, was less strong in him than the incentive to help the living. After all, it was the living who needed assistance …
‘’Ere, wotcher doin’?’ he jerked suddenly.
The car was slowly moving again.
‘We canna stay here for ever,’ grunted MacTavish.
Detective Ben Page 12
