‘Savin’ ’oo?’ muttered Ben.
As the man returned with the chair his teeth became prominent below his little moustache. He smiled with his teeth.
‘Do you know, I rather like you,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Winston Churchill,’ replied Ben. You might as well die game. ‘Wot’s your’n?’
‘I won’t respond with Clement Attlee. If you want something to call me—’
‘I could call yer plenty withaht no ’elp!’
‘I have no doubt you could, but I suggest Mr Smith. What am I to call you? I confess I find Winston Churchill rather a mouthful.’
‘Orl right. Yer can call me Jones.’
‘That being your real name?’
‘As much as I reckon Smith is your’n!’
‘Very well. Then that is settled—for the moment. I am Smith and you are Jones, and we are discussing the demise—or death, if you prefer simple terms—of a third party who so far has to be nameless.’ He sat down by the bed. ‘Oh, but perhaps you can tell me his name?’
‘Corse I carn’t!’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ow’d I know it?’
‘Well, it occurred to me that you might, since you were so obviously interested in him?’
‘’Ow was I interested in ’im?’
‘That is what I hope to learn, for only lunatics—and I haven’t yet decided that you are a lunatic, though it is a theory—only lunatics attack perfect strangers—’
‘Nah, then, I don’t want no more o’ that!’ interrupted Ben, with anxious indignation. ‘I never seed the bloke afore in me life, and you ain’t goin’ ter put that on me!’
Mr Smith shook his head reprovingly.
‘I fear you are getting me all wrong,’ he said. ‘I am not putting anything on you—or, more correctly speaking, what I put on you need not matter. Your headache, Mr Jones, is what the police may put on you, and that actually is what you and I have got to discuss.’
‘The pleece carn’t put nothink on me!’
‘I wish I could agree.’
‘Well, as I didn’t do it—’
‘Somebody did it!’
‘Yus, but we ain’t torkin’ abart anyone else jest nah, we’re torkin’ abart me, and as I didn’t do it I ain’t got ter worry abart the pleece!’
Mr Smith gave a little sigh, turned his head for a moment towards the door, and then turned it back again.
‘You really are being very difficult, Mr Jones,’ he complained. ‘Here I am, trying to help you—’
‘Oh, ’elp me, is it?’
‘Can’t you see?’
‘I couldn’t see that withaht a telerscope!’
‘You say the most delightful things. My desire to help you increases every moment, and the best way to prove it is to explain to you precisely what your position is, and what the police could put on you if you had the misfortune to meet them. I am afraid we can no longer mince matters, Mr Jones, and we shall have to say exactly what we mean, after all. And, come to think of it, you didn’t mince matters when you attempted to put the murder on me! Not many would forgive you for that, yet here am I, still sticking to you! Now, then, let us begin. You deny, I understand, that you stabbed the man on the other end of your seat?’
‘’Ow many more times?’ growled Ben.
‘One of your troubles, of course, is that you cannot prove an alibi. You know what an alibi is?’
‘Yus. It’s when yer can prove yer wasn’t where they say yer was.’
‘Correct. If ever you write a dictionary I shall buy a copy. And you cannot prove that you were not on that seat.’
‘Come ter that, ’oo could prove I was?’
‘Well—I could!’
‘That’s not sayin’ they’d believe yer.’
‘No, but then I could prove you were, if my word wasn’t good enough.’
‘’Ow could yer?’
‘You have a very short memory. Don’t you remember that, a few moments before the tragedy, I took a photograph?’
‘Lummy, so yer did!’
‘The police might give a lot for a copy of that photograph. Don’t you agree?’
Ben offered no opinion.
‘And then,’ went on Mr Smith, ‘there is something else you ought to know. That horrible knife sticking in the poor man’s back—I had to leave it there, for I had not the nerve to take it out—horrible, horrible!—the police will naturally examine the handle, and they will find your fingerprints upon it.’
‘Wot’s that?’ gasped Ben.
‘You really ought to have wiped them off,’ said Mr Smith, sadly. ‘You can be quite sure that, if I had done the deed, I would have wiped mine off! You might like to make a note of that. Oh, no! Oh, no! I would never have left mine on!’
‘But mine carn’t be on!’ cried Ben, desperately.
‘Not so loud, not so loud!’ admonished Mr Smith. ‘I assure you, Mr Jones, your fingerprints are on that knife. You may deny it till you are blue in the face. It will make no difference. The fingerprints are there.’
‘Owjer know?’
‘A needless question, surely? I was present at the tragedy. I saw the deed, and I know you did not wipe the knife-handle after using it.’
Ben shut his eyes hard to think. It was easier in the dark, without Mr Smith’s face before him. First the photograph—and now the fingerprints. Clearly Mr Smith had not left his own prints on the knife; he had told Ben to make a note of this, and he was far too wily a customer to commit such a cardinal blunder. But he had not merely wiped his fingerprints off, he had apparently stamped Ben’s on! While he was unconscious! He’d worked the whole thing out from the word go …
‘Are you asleep?’ came Mr Smith’s voice.
If only he had been! Apprehensively and slowly, Ben opened his eyes.
‘So you see,’ went on Mr Smith smoothly, as though there had been no interruption, ‘you are in a bit of a hole, are you not?’
‘S’pose I am?’ answered Ben.
‘There is no suppose about it. You are. And you will be in a worse hole if, in addition to the fingerprints, I am unable to prevent that photograph from appearing in all the newspapers—a photograph of a murdered man on one end of a seat with another man wanted for enquiries at the other. You say you never saw the murdered man before today?’
‘Never in me life,’ replied Ben.
He knew this was a frame-up, but would it be wise to let Mr Smith know he knew? Perhaps he’d better lie doggo for a bit—stop makin’ a fuss like—and act as though he thought Mr Smith were really trying to help him, until he found out where it was all leading?
‘Then why did you kill him?’
Still wavering as to his best policy, and with his mind beginning to rocket again, Ben could not answer that one and remained silent. He was stunned by the cool audacity of Mr Smith, who now bent forward and continued, almost confidentially.
‘Do you know, I’ve got a theory about this murder of yours, and you need not tell me whether I am right or wrong. As a matter of fact, it was because of my idea that I brought you along here instead of handing you over to the police, as of course I ought to have done. Oh, don’t make any mistake, I am taking a big risk myself in acting like this—but let that go. I like to help people in trouble—if they’re worth it, of course—and the reason I’m helping you is because I feel sure yours wasn’t a premeditated murder.’
‘Pre ’oo?’ blinked Ben.
‘You didn’t set out to murder this poor fellow,’ explained Mr Smith, ‘as—for instance—I might have done if I had been the culprit. You were ill, perhaps. Or hungry. I don’t know—don’t ask me! But all at once everything got on top of you, eh? You had a brain-storm. As a matter of fact, Mr Jones, that’s just what it looked like to me! A brain-storm. And you jumped upon your poor victim with that knife, perhaps hardly knowing you did it—why, you even thought I did it, which proves the brain-storm, doesn’t it—and then—I suppose you know this?—you had a complete black-out! Well, as my car was handy, f
or I’d only left it a minute or two before to have a tiny stroll, I acted upon a sudden impulse and bundled you off while the going was good. Of course, there’ll be a big hue and cry for you later, if it hasn’t already started. You’d never have left those fingerprints on the knife if you’d been normal. They’ll damn you, I’m afraid. But you’re safe here, for the time being, so now what we’ve got to decide is what I’m going to do with you.’ He displayed his teeth in another of his unpleasant smiles. ‘Have you any idea?’
Guardedly Ben responded,
‘’Ave you?’
‘As a matter of fact I have, but first let me ask you a question or two. A lot will depend on your answers. Let us hope for your sake they will be satisfactory.’
‘S’pose they ain’t?’
‘That will be just too bad. Now, then. Is anybody likely to trail you here? Apart, of course, from the police?’
‘’Owjer mean?’
‘I speak the King’s English. Have you any people who will wonder why you haven’t gone home tonight?’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Well, have you?’
‘No one never worries abart me, and if they did, ’ow’d they find me? I dunno where I am meself!’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Where I ’appen to be.’
‘Try again. What’s your address?’
‘Nothink doin’, guv’nor! I knows that one!’
‘What one?’
‘I seen it done. Yer gits a bloke away wot’s wanted, and then yer gits a messidge to ’is wife or ’is muvver that yer’ll give ’im up unless they sends yer a pony.’
‘You know, you’re smarter than you look,’ said Mr Smith, admiringly. ‘If I weren’t straight I’d begin to watch my step. Will it ease you if I promise not to communicate with your wife or mother?’
‘Yer couldn’t, ’cos I ain’t got ’em,’ answered Ben.
‘I am full of patience. Who have you got?’
‘I told yer. Nobody.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘In a bus.’
‘But when you got out of the bus?’
‘I’d ’ad it by then, it was mornin’.’
‘Tell me, Mr Jones. Does all this mean you haven’t got any address?’
‘That’s right. Two and two’s four. And if that ain’t a satisfact’ry answer, I’ve ’ad it.’
‘It is an exceedingly satisfactory answer,’ Mr Smith assured him. ‘If you have no home and no family you should be free to accept the position I’m thinking of offering you.’
‘Oh! A persishun?’
‘That is what I said.’
‘A standin’ up one? Not lyin’ in a bed?’
‘Or hanging from a rope.’
‘Oi! That’s enuff o’ that!’
‘It is an alternative we want to bear in mind.’
‘Well, wot’s the persishun?’
‘Quite a simple one, and just the thing, I should say for you. We’ve—er—lost our caretaker, and we need a new one.’
3
Mr Smith v. Mr Jones
The announcement of this surprising offer was followed by a silence during which the alleged Mr Smith and the alleged Mr Jones would have given much to have been inside the other’s mind. What lay in the background of Mr Smith’s mind was obscure, but what lay in the foreground was actually quite simple. He was studying his victim to learn his reaction, and was ready to deal with him by other methods if the reaction did not appear satisfactory.
What lay in Ben’s mind ran something like this:
‘Wozzat? Caretaiker did ’e say? Wozzat mean? Wot’d ’e want with me as ’is caretaiker, a bloke wot ’e sez ’e thinks ’as done a murder, if it wasn’t fishy? Fishy? Corse it’s fishy! Look at me bein’ ’ere like I am, and knowin’ ’e done it ’iself, and ’im knowin’ I know! Fishy the pair of us, if yer looks at it like that! Yus, and even if I ’ad done it, not premedicated wot ’e sed, I’d be barmy, and wot do yer want with a barmy caretaiker? It don’t mike sense! Oi, keep yer fice steady, Ben! Don’t let on wot yer thinkin’ from yer phiz, ’cos ’e’s watchin’ ter find aht, sime as yer watchin’ ’im. ’Ow I ’ates ’is mustarch! I carn’t think o’ nothin’ nicer’n ter pull it orf! P’r’aps it’d come orf easy? Yus, I bet it would, it ain’t ’is mustarch no more’n Smith’s ’is nime. Sime as that bloke with the ’orrerble beard in that ’ouse in Brixton and when I got ’old of it it come orf bing in me ’and and I goes back’ards dahn the stairs with nothin’ but the beard on top o’ me! And then there was that chap with the red eyebrows—oi! Wotcher doin’? Keep yer mind on it! Yer ain’t in Brixton now, yer ’ere, wherever that is, and wot yer tryin’ ter do is ter work aht why yer wanted as caretaiker, but ’ow can yer with yer ’ead goin’ rahnd like a spinging-wheel and feelin’ as if yer got no knees, and wunnerin’ why yer boot’s gorn bright and polished, lummy, I’ve ’ad a dose o’ somethink, yer carn’t git away from it! …’
Difficult as Mr Smith’s mind may have been to read, Mr Jones’s was even more complicated.
When the silence was threatening to become permanent, Mr Smith broke it monosyllabically.
‘Well?’
Ben came to with a jerk.
‘Say it agine,’ answered Ben.
‘It was so long ago I’m not surprised if you’ve forgotten. I said we needed a new caretaker.’
‘There was somethink helse.’
‘Was there?’
‘I ain’t fergot that.’
‘Then you might remind me?’
‘Yer sed yer’d lorst the old ’un.’
‘So I did.’
‘Well, ’ow did yer lose ’im?’
Mr Smith did not respond at once. The question seemed both to interest and surprise him. A very faint smile entered his expression when he replied.
‘You’re a careful one, aren’t you, Mr Jones?’
‘If yer wanter learn somethink,’ retorted Ben, ‘I ain’t sich a fool as I look!’
He hoped his tone was convincing. Mr Smith’s smile grew a little more distinct.
‘That, if you will forgive me,’ he returned, ‘would be difficult. Although perhaps you have no precise idea at this moment how you do look—but we will return to that later.’
‘That’s okay by me if we can return nah to that hother caretaiker. Wot ’appened ter ’im?’
‘Ah!’
‘That don’t tell me nothink.’
‘It was not intended to. I only intend to tell you—that is, until I have learned to know you a little better—what is strictly necessary. But I see no reason why I should not tell you that our last caretaker was not a very good one.’
‘Meanin’ that ’e didn’t keep the plice clean, or go ter the door when the bell rang?’
‘What else should I mean?’
‘That’s wot I’m arskin’.’
‘Then let us put it this way. He proved disappointing—after, I admit, a very good start—in not completely fulfilling his job.’
‘And s’pose I don’t fulfil my job?’
‘That would be a pity for both of us. You see, Mr Jones, however well you started—and you are not really making such a bad beginning—you would have to keep it up. You would have to prove yourself trustworthy. In that way, you might eventually be given more responsibility, and end up by doing quite well for yourself. Do you get that?’
‘P’r’aps I do, and p’r’aps I don’t,’ answered Ben, cautiously, ‘but wot I don’t git is wot’s goin’ ter ’appen ter me if I don’t turn aht more satisfact’ry than t’other chap? See, that was why I arsked yer wot ’appened ter ’im?’
Mr Smith shook his head.
‘I would not press that,’ he said.
‘’Oo’s pressin’ wot?’ replied Ben. ‘Orl right, jest tell me this. If I ain’t no good in this job, will I be free ter go and git another?’
‘You are more tenacious, Mr Jones, than a tiger with a hunk of juicy meat, but let me warn you that I am growin
g tired of these questions. You would be no more free to go and get another job than you are free at this moment to go and get any job. You forget that you have just done one job on a park seat from the consequences of which I am—so far—saving you. I shall only continue in this Christian mood so long as you yourself continue to give satisfaction in the new job I am now offering you.’
‘I see. And so that’s really why yer brort me along? It wasn’t jest ’cos yer was sorry fer me like? Okay, that’s orl right by me, on’y if I’m goin’ ter work fer yer I likes ter start straight—no matter ’ow crooked we git laiter on,’ he added, with a wink which he hoped was impressive. He must not appear too virtuous, for that clearly would be of no use to him. ‘So let’s ’ear wot I gotter do?’
‘Then you accept the job?’
‘Well, I dunno as I’m up ter it, not afore yer tells me?’
‘True,’ nodded Mr Smith. ‘But I feel sure you will be up to it, for—to start with—you will find it quite simple. This house is in the market to be sold. Sold as it stands, with everything in it. Some of the rooms are furnished, some are not. You will keep those that are furnished reasonably tidy. You will not be dismissed, however, if you leave a few cobwebs. Personally I rather like cobwebs. Do you? Nor need you exert yourself chasing spiders. There are a number of spiders here, some quite large ones. I rather like spiders, too. Beetles, for some occult reason, I am less fond of. There is one room here practically devoted to them. A small room at the back, with three loose boards. But in spite of the condition of the house, and the livestock, a big price is being asked for it, because it is really a valuable property—’ he paused, and an odd expression came into his face ‘—yes, a very valuable property, and so we are waiting until somebody comes along who realises its worth. But the price, of course, has nothing to do with you.’
‘No, I ain’t buyin’ it,’ said Ben.
‘That I hardly expected, and I merely mentioned it in case any people who are sent here by the agent make any comments about the price which you otherwise would not understand. The agent is Wavell and Son. The original Wavell died recently, and it is the son who carries on. You may meet him some day, but that is not very likely. He rarely comes here himself, but just sends his clients on with a list, which includes this house among others on his books. Wavell and Son. Make a note of it. The address does not matter to you.’
Number Nineteen Page 2
