‘Expeck yer right,’ replied Ben, ‘but I’d sooner git aht and walk.’
‘We’ll be walkin’ in a minute,’ answered MacTavish. ‘Juist bide a wee.’
The car groped its way forward. MacTavish had taken advantage of a temporary thinning of the white blanket around them. They climbed a hill at a snail’s pace, wound across a small plateau, twisted into another hill, and stopped again.
‘’Ide Park Corner?’ inquired Ben.
‘We’re gettin’ oot here,’ replied MacTavish.
‘’Ooray! Fur to walk?’
‘Far enow on sic’ a day as this!’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Ben. ‘’Arf a foot’s ’arf a foot too much this weather! Wot abart the cases?’
‘We’ll not be worryin’ aboot them.’
‘Fer show, was they?’
‘Do you ken how many questions you’ve arsked since we started?’ exclaimed MacTavish, with nervy exasperation. ‘Will you carry ane o’ the cases?’
‘Keep yer wool on,’ answered Ben. ‘I likes ter know things.’
He opened the door, and stepped out into space. Fortunately the space had a solid bottom, but there was no knowing how long the bottom would last. Not till he left the car did he realise how warm it had been inside.
MacTavish followed him out. The two shadowy forms remained still for a moment, trying to pierce the curtain.
‘Vizzerbility nil,’ commented Ben.
‘Weel nigh,’ answered MacTavish. ‘If someone’s standin’ five yards awa’, we’ll no ken.’
‘And they won’t ken us either,’ replied Ben. ‘Which way do we go?’
‘You go where I go.’
‘Not if yer goes over the edge, I don’t!’
‘I’ll no be goin’ over the edge, and no more will you if you follow me.’
‘’Ere’s ’opin’!’
They proceeded in single file. Ben hooked his eye on to MacTavish’s lanky form and never let go. More than once he barged into the form.
‘Mind my back!’ complained MacTavish.
‘Mind my front!’ retorted Ben. ‘Yer keep on stoppin’.’
‘I only stop when I hae to!’
‘Well, I on’y ’it yer back when I ’ae to! Give us a toot or somethink!’
A minute later MacTavish stopped again.
‘Wot is it this time?’ inquired Ben, disentangling himself.
‘Whisht!’ whispered MacTavish.
Ben listened.
‘Do you hear anything?’ murmured MacTavish.
‘Yus!’ muttered Ben.
‘Wha’ do you hear?’
‘Nine men with carving knives.’
MacTavish exploded.
‘I’m sick o’ your daftness!’ he exclaimed.
‘And I’m sick of yer stoppin’ and then goin’ on and then stoppin’ like a bloomin’ bus!’ retorted Ben. ‘If we’re bein’ follered, that ain’t the way to shike ’em orf, is it?’
MacTavish swore softly, and moved again. The next time he stopped was at a gate. Ben stared at the gate incredulously.
‘Lumme, yer don’t mean ter tell me we’re ’ere!’ he exclaimed.
‘Ay, we’re here,’ replied MacTavish, ‘but dinna move for a minute.’
Ben advanced his hand and touched the gate, to make sure it was real. It was not the gate to Paradise, but its solidarity gave him a sense of comfort amid this world of shifting space.
‘Yer jest carn’t stop stoppin’, can yer,’ he grumbled. ‘Wot’s this one for? Prayers?’
MacTavish did not reply. Ben turned his head. MacTavish had evaporated.
Ben settled himself to wait for the minute. It was a very long minute. A bit too long.
‘’Ere—where’ve yer got to?’ he called softly.
MacTavish did not inform him.
‘’Ow long’s a minute in Scotland?’ he asked the emptiness. ‘In England it’s sixty seconds.’
A form began to materialise in the mist.
‘Oh, there yer are,’ said Ben.
The form vanished. As he stared into the void, trying to recreate the lost vision, a sound on the other side of the gate caused him to twist his head quickly back again.
‘Well, sir, well, sir!’ exclaimed a sharp voice. ‘And what are you doing here?’
19
The Old Man
The speaker was an old man. He had perfectly white hair, and plenty of it, and as he leaned over the gate and regarded Ben with palpable suspicion, his bright eyes made little lamps in the mist.
‘Ah—yer wanter know ’oo I am?’ murmured Ben, trying to jerk himself back into efficiency, and not certain for the moment who he was.
‘It would interest me,’ answered the old man. ‘I do not receive many visitors.’
‘No, but p’r’aps yer expectin’ a visiter ter-day, eh?’ suggested Ben.
‘Today?’ The old man’s interest obviously tightened, and the snow-white head came a few inches farther over the gate, to get a clearer view of this particular visitor. ‘No one calls here without an appointment. Have you an appointment?’
‘I’ve come a long way ter see yer—’
‘And you have brought—something—with you?’
Ben hesitated. Events were rushing him along too fast. He would have given all he possessed, which was not much of a price, for a breather. How far could he confide in this old man? Up to what point could he count on assistance and beyond what point would he encounter fresh obstacles? The one clear thing was that Ben’s mind refused to function at this gate—sandwiched between threatening shadow and suspicious substance!
‘There’s been a spot o’ trouble, sir,’ muttered Ben, lowering his voice. ‘Could yer let me in?’
The old man pulled the gate open and Ben shoved himself through. He might be going out of the frying-pan into the fire, yet the sound of the gate clicking behind him was momentarily satisfactory.
‘Yes, but—are you alone?’ inquired the old man, peering over the gate again, his limited view no longer impeded by Ben’s form.
‘Looks like it, don’t it?’ replied Ben.
Suddenly the old man made up his mind. He motioned Ben to follow, and began to leave the gate. There was no sign of any house, but this did not mean a house was not far off, for it was still impossible to see more than four or five yards ahead. Ben’s impression, however, was that they walked a considerable distance before the dissolving white wall was replaced by a solid one. In a porch they halted, and the old man paused with his hand on a door.
‘We get dangerous animals in this part of Scotland,’ he said, ‘so I carry a gun. You’ve no objection?’
‘Would it mike any difference if I ’ad?’ asked Ben.
‘None at all,’ admitted the old man; and, opening the door, shoved him in.
The door closed with another satisfactory click, though perhaps the click was not quite so satisfactory this time.
By the dim light struggling through almost opaque window-glass, Ben saw that he was in a large substantial apartment. For its dimensions it could have contained considerably more furniture, but its bareness gave it an austere simplicity that fitted or created its character. The objects that caught Ben’s attention first were four tall brass candlesticks on a long refectory table, from which rose majestically four unlit candles.
Ordering Ben not to move, his host walked to the refectory table, struck a match, lit a pink taper, and with the taper lit the four candles.
The new illumination increased the solemn grandeur of the room. ‘Mind yer, I don’t say I’d care ter live in it,’ Ben thought, ‘but there’s something abart it that gits yer. Or don’t it?’ What was the something? A sense of solidarity in a shifting world—of ordered quietness—of past history that could not hurt you because it was over? Whatever it was, it was beyond Ben’s dictionary to explain.
As the candle-flames glowed to full stature, they flickered on the contents of another smaller table. Lying on their backs, and definitely dead, were ha
lf a dozen toy soldiers, their spears extending uselessly beyond their recumbent heads. Facing the slaughter were four other soldiers—standing, and definitely alive. Three formed a neat row, the fourth was in advance, holding a flag. The splendour of the flag made up for the fact that the fourth soldier had no head. Four soldiers, and one of them blind, had beaten six. ‘Not bad goin’,’ thought Ben.
‘You are fond of soldiers?’ inquired the old man curiously.
‘Eh? Well, toy ’uns,’ answered Ben. ‘See, I ’ad a box once.’
‘Indeed?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what about toy weapons?’
‘Eh?’
‘Or possibly, as you have now grown up, real ones?’ The old man had produced a revolver while Ben had been staring at the toy battle. ‘Do you mind if I search you?’
‘Yer goin’ ter any’ow, so why arsk?’
The old man smiled as he approached.
‘You are wise to waste no time arguing,’ he said.
‘Corse I am,’ replied Ben. ‘See, I know better’n you that there’s no time ter waste. Yus, and if you was wise, yer wouldn’t be wastin’ it at this minute.’
‘What do you mean by that, my man?’
‘Well, fust, if I wanted ter pot yer, I’d ’ave potted yer long afore this. Second, I ain’t bulgin’ anywhere, am I? Corse, I might ’ave one o’ them biby guns wot yer shoots through yer button’ole. Third or fourth, whichever it is, I told yer there was a spot o’ trouble, didn’t I?’
The speech had some effect. The old man paused, though he still regarded Ben warily, and kept his revolver gripped tightly in his thin white hand.
‘What is your name?’
‘I got lots.’
‘Select one.’
‘’Ow abart Wilkins?’
‘I fear it brings me no nearer to you.’
‘P’r’aps I don’t want yer no nearer, not till yer put that cannon away!’
‘You are a most unusual man, Mr Wilkins. It is difficult to know how to take you. What I intended to convey was that your name—the one selected—is unfamiliar to me. And it should be familiar. I should have been warned of this visit.’
‘Corse yer should of bin, and course yer would of bin but fer the trouble yer don’t seem int’rested in!’
‘Let me hear about this trouble, then,’ said the old man, ‘and you may be seated, if there is time for that. But I confess I am surprised if you possess something else that deserves protection.’
‘Eh? Oh—I see wot yer mean,’ murmured Ben. ‘Well—there yer are!’
What the old man meant was ten thousand pounds! Lumme, that’d make a bit of a bulge, wouldn’t it? Of course, it might be in thousand pound notes.
‘Now, then—this trouble,’ proceeded the old man. ‘Let me hear. And also how it is that you have come here by yourself? That will need some explaining, Mr Wilkins, and let me warn you that if there is any attempt to repeat a certain incident of which you are doubtless familiar—’
‘There won’t be,’ interrupted Ben, and glanced again towards the soldiers.
The old man watched him intently. Suspicion seemed decreasing, but he never loosened his grip on the revolver.
‘And I didn’t come ’ere alone,’ said Ben.
‘What!’ exclaimed the old man. His voice sounded suddenly too loud. ‘What?’ he repeated, more softly, as though to correct the volume.
‘’Ow could I of, even if there ’adn’t bin no mist?’ He added, hoping this might further establish his bona fides, ‘I didn’t ’ave ter be blindfolded!’
‘MacTavish brought you?’
‘Yus.’
‘How?’
‘Gawd knows! In ’is car.’
‘I saw no car—’
‘Corse not! Fust, you couldn’t of, second, it wasn’t there. See, we walked the larst bit.’
‘I did not see MacTavish, either,’ said the old man.
‘Ah, now we’re comin’ ter it,’ answered Ben. ‘’E come with me as fur as the gate, and then ’e ses, “Wait a minute,” and vanishes.’
‘Well?’
‘Wot I sed. Vanishes.’
‘Please be more explicit!’
‘’Oo?’
‘Come, come, what happened exactly? A man does not suddenly vanish—’
‘Well, I’m tellin’ yer. I waited fer ’im ter come back, but ’e didna. Didn’t. I wonders if ’e’s gorn back ter the car fer somethink ’e’s fergot. And then I thinks I sees ’im in the mist. And then you comes along. And then the person wot I thort was ’im vanishes. And ’ere we are!’
The old man frowned.
‘I am not at all sure that we are “here,” as you describe it!’ he retorted. His suspicions appeared to be returning. ‘MacTavish brings you here, and disappears outside my gate! Do you realise, my man, that—that some people might regard your story as thin?’
‘Wot for?’
‘You have no idea?’
Ben considered, then got the idea.
‘Yus, I see. Yer mean I might ’ave used ’im ter git me ’ere, and then tipped ’im over the edge or somethink? That’s right. And, ’avin’ done that, I walks in this room like a blinkin’ lamb, and lets you point a gun at me stummick. Why shouldn’t I ’ave the gun and be pointin’ it at your stummick, if I was the sorter bloke wot I’d ’ave ter be ter do wot I’m s’posed ter done? And then, if I’d pushed ’im over, ’oo was the other person wot vanishes? Did I push ’im over, too?’
‘You really are a most—a most difficult person,’ answered the old man testily. ‘I did not understand that the second person was MacTavish?’
‘’E wasn’t.’
‘Then—’
‘’Oo was ’e? Ah, now we’re comin’ ter it!’
‘We are continually coming to it!’ rasped the old man. ‘But we never come!’
‘Well, now we are comin’!’ promised Ben. ‘I couldn’t see ’im proper, it was orl too quick, but if ’e was ’oo I thort ’e was, ’e was a chap wot we thort was follerin’ us.’
‘Following you? What for?’
‘Thort yer might guess.’
‘You mean—? But surely you have not been such a fool as to let anybody know what you have brought here?’
‘’E carn’t git orf that!’ reflected Ben gloomily, as he replied, ‘That’s not wot I meant.’
‘Then, for the good Lord’s sake, speak plainly! I am getting tired of your riddles!’
‘Riddles—lumme, that’s right! But this orter be a easy one for yer. Wot’s mikin’ yer carry that there pistol?’
‘Are you suggesting I have no need for my suspicions?’
‘Wot I’m sergestin’ is that yer so suspishus, yer carn’t see no further’n me! Wot yer’ve gotter be suspishus of is this ’ere bloke I’m tellin’ yer abart. Yer sed jest now there wasn’t goin’ ter be no charnce o’ wot ’appened larst time. Well, s’pose this chap ’as bin follerin’ me—yus, orl the way from Lunnon—ter see if ’e can mike it ’appen this time? I’m arskin’ yer? And s’pose ’e’s got a woman with ’im?’
The old man quivered as though an arrow had passed through his body.
‘And where’s MacTavish?’ concluded Ben.
He was thinking aloud as well as giving information. He found, to his surprise, that he could do so. He was covered by a revolver, but a few toy soldiers on a small table seemed to be holding it in check.
Suddenly the revolver ceased to cover him. The old man had slipped to the front door. He opened it a crack, poking his head out, and as he did so mist crept in. He closed the door, and went to the window. Then he returned to Ben.
‘Who sent you?’ he demanded.
That was a difficult one. While he hesitated the old man repeated his question sharply. Ben tried the truth.
‘The woman,’ he said.
‘What!’ exclaimed the old man.
‘If I was actin’ for ’er, would I tell yer?’ retorted Ben.
The old man threw up
his hands.
‘Are you clever or a fool?’ he asked.
‘Bit o’ both,’ answered Ben. ‘But I wouldn’t be sich a fool as ter let on if I’d come ’ere ter do wot yer afraid of!’
‘That might not be the admission of a fool, but of a man with a cunning brain?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you mean, “That’s right”?’
‘Wot yer sed. Lumme, wotcher want me ter say? Fust I’m wrong if I ses wot I think, and then I’m wrong if I ses wot you think! If you’d bin through wot I’ve bin through in the larst week, yer’d be surprised yer ’ad any think left at all!’
‘Come, come, don’t—don’t flare up like that! If you are not acting for the woman—and, I am bound to admit, it would be very good acting—who are you acting for?’
That was another difficult one. The truth this time might not be quite so easy to adjust. Yet suddenly Ben found a truth that seemed to fit the situation.
‘Wot abart a little boy?’ he suggested.
The reply very plainly astonished the old man. He stared at Ben with a totally new expression. Apprehension remained in it, but its texture changed.
‘You are acting—for him?’ he asked, dropping his voice.
‘Yus,’ nodded Ben.
‘But you’re not—you can’t be thinking of—?’
He paused, torn with fresh doubts.
‘Thinkin’ o’ wot?’ inquired Ben.
‘Taking him away?’ The old man’s agitation grew. ‘You—you can’t do that!’ he exclaimed. ‘That is—not unless— He is quite contented here, quite contented! If you take him back it will be madness! Only, of course—one must live, one must live—and in some comfort—with some style!’ He waved his hand around, as though indicating the comfort and the style. Then he darted closer to Ben, and asked:
‘Where are you really from?’
Before Ben could reply, a soft tap sounded on the front door.
20
Someone at the Door
The old man turned to the door but he did not move towards it. He waited for the tap to be repeated. A tense minute slipped by, and the tap was not repeated. A minute of that sort was all Ben could stand.
‘P’r’aps it was the wind,’ he muttered, breaking the uncanny silence.
Detective Ben Page 13
