Mr Smith paused, as though considering what else to tell his new caretaker. Ben took advantage of the pause to put a question.
‘No, the address of the agent don’t matter ter me,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t ’urt ter know the address of the ’ouse I’m lookin’ arter.’
‘That certainly would not hurt,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘The house is in Billiter Road, and the number is Nineteen.’
‘Oh! Nummer Nineteen?’
‘Anything wrong with it?’
There was a lot wrong with it. Earlier that day Ben had been cogitating over numbers, sorting out the lucky ones from the unlucky ones, and as we know he had decided that all the teen-numbers boded no good!
‘If there is, I carn’t alter it,’ he replied. ‘Okay. This is Nummer 19, Billiter Road, and it’s fer sale at a top price, spiders and orl, and the agent is Wavell and Son. I got orl that. Wot’s next?’
‘You will answer the bell and then leave whoever comes to go over the house, staying here in this room till they have gone—unless otherwise instructed. The bell is all you will answer. You are not here to answer questions. Or, for that matter, to ask them.’
‘Why should I arsk ’em?’
‘That was one. I am telling you you shouldn’t. In fact, Mr Jones, you must restrain your bump of curiosity in every possible way, on every possible subject. You will remain in the house, and you will not leave it until you receive permission.’
Ben considered this last instruction. It had its virtues. He did not want to go out—for a while, at any rate. There might be a policeman at the corner, and although he could go up to him and say, if the policeman did not speak to him first, ‘I’m caretaker fer the bloke wot murdered the man on the park seat,’ it was his, Ben’s fingerprints that were on the knife, and the truth about them would appear a somewhat tall story. Though, admittedly, it might be to prevent the opportunity for such a statement that Mr Smith wanted his caretaker confined to the house.
But there were objections to staying perpetually indoors. One was the obvious one of shopping. How was Ben going to buy his food? Yes, and how about the money to buy it with? The question of salary had not yet been raised.
He dealt with these two important points in order.
‘’Ere’s a cupple o’ questions fer yer, if I should arsk ’em or not,’ he said. ‘Fust, I gotter eat? Ain’t I ter go ter no shops?’
‘There is some tinned stuff in the larder,’ replied Mr Smith, ‘and as I shall call periodically, you can always tell me if there is anything you need.’
‘I see. You does me shoppin’ for me, like?’
‘Won’t that be kind of me?’
‘So long as yer don’t fergit me supper beer. Wot’s periodic? Wot time do I expeck yer?’
‘When you see me.’
‘Oh! Yer couldn’t mike it a reg’ler time?’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I jest thort it’d be more convenient like.’
‘More convenient for you to slip out and get that supper beer? No, Mr Jones, we will not make it a regular time.’
Ben gave that one up, and tried the next.
‘’Ow much are yer payin’ me?’ he asked. ‘Ten pahnd a week?’
‘I am not paying you anything,’ answered Mr Smith. ‘Not at the start, anyway. Later on, if you are good, I may raise your wages.’
‘Yer carn’t raise wot I ain’t got!’
‘Aren’t you a devil for accuracy?’
‘I dunno wot that means, but I never worked fer nothink afore. Fer standin’ in front of a ’orse yer gits tuppence!’
‘You will not be working for nothing. You will receive both food and shelter, and since you cannot go out, what would you spend your pocket money on?’
Then Ben gave that one up, too. But all at once he thought of another question, and it hit him bang in the middle of his stomach.
‘Guv’ner,’ he said. ‘Yer ain’t sent that photo ter the pleece, ’ave yer?’
‘As a matter of fact, I shall probably do so,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘Yes, thinking matters over, I am inclined to believe it will be the wisest plan.’
Indignation mingled with apprehension in Ben’s breast as he heard this callous statement.
‘Wot! Send it orf, arter yer sed—?’
‘I made no promise.’
‘P’r’aps yer didn’t, but it’ll put a spanner in the works! Wot’s the good of engaigin’ me fer yer caretaiker if yer ’ave me ’auled orf ter the pleece stashun?’
Mr Smith laughed. Ben’s indignation grew. For the first time he raised himself and sat up, glaring at Mr Smith with challenging eyes.
‘Yer wants it both ways, doncher?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, yer carn’t ’ave it, ’cos it won’t work, see? I expeck that’s why I ain’t ter go aht of the ’ouse, in caise I’m reckernised from the photo, as I would be, not ’avin’ a ordinary fice like your’n that might be anyone’s—’
‘But you aren’t going out of the house—’
‘Yus, I knows that! But wot abart them ’ouse-’unters wot I’ve gotter show over? Ave yer fergot them? They’ll reckernise me—’
‘Oh, no, they won’t,’ Mr Smith interrupted again. And again he laughed. ‘Have a look at yourself.’
He went to the wall and brought back the mirror, thrusting it before Ben’s face. Ben gazed at himself in stupefaction. This wasn’t him! It was another feller! And—lummy!—he had on a clean dark suit, and brightly polished boots!
4
Transformation Scene
‘Well, how do you like yourself?’ enquired Mr Smith. Ben continued to stare at the strange face in the mirror, and the strange face in the mirror continued to stare back. He was not yet ready to reply. He was afraid that when he did so he might find his voice had changed, too!
‘Personally I think that smooth black hair suits you,’ went on Mr Smith, ‘and your side-whiskers give you an air of distinction that was quite lacking when I first met you. I am sure that when your photograph appears tomorrow over the caption, “Wanted,” no one will recognise you as the original of that picture. The only thing I have been unable to change,’ he added, with a little sigh, ‘is your fingerprints. Come, say something! Aren’t you grateful?’
‘I dunno,’ muttered Ben, finding his voice at last, and relieved at its familiar sound.
‘Well, you ought to be,’ answered Mr Smith reprovingly. ‘I took a lot of trouble over you, and there is very little chance now that you will be recognised by any who call here—although, of course, if you are recognised by any unfortunate chance, the fact that you have changed your appearance will be further evidence against you.’
‘But it was you wot done it,’ Ben pointed out.
‘I should make no claim—the credit would all be yours! As a matter of fact, a friend did help me. Changing your clothes was, in the circumstances, a two-man job. During your black-out you gave us no help at all.’
‘Oh! Yer did it while I was subconscious?’
‘I accept your term for it.’
‘And there’s another one of yer?’
‘You refer to my friend?’
‘’Oo is ’e?’
‘If I told you his name you would be no wiser.’
‘Oh! Well, where is ’e now?’
‘Don’t worry about him.’
‘No, I ain’t got nothink ter worry abart, ’ave I? Was ’e in the park with yer?’
‘He was in the car. We were out for a little drive together. Tell me. How are you feeling?’
‘Jest as if I’d come back from a ’ollerday at Brighton.’
‘That’s fine. Then I needn’t worry about your physical condition before I go?’
‘Oh—yer goin’?’ said Ben.
‘I do not live here,’ answered Mr Smith.
‘That’s right. If yer did, yer could be yer own caretaiker.’
‘You’ve put it in a nutshell.’
Ben blinked as a new realisation suddenly dawned on him.
‘Yer mean�
��when yer go I’ll be ’ere orl by meself?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
‘Oh! Oo’s me company then?’
‘Those spiders and black beetles.’
‘Shurrup!’
‘And I forgot to mention a giant rat. The last caretaker called him Goliath, so you can act the part of David if you meet him. I’m sorry I can’t supply you with a sling and stone, but you may find a brick or two around the place.’
‘Do you know wot yer torkin’ abart?’
‘You evidently don’t. Not biblical minded, eh? I’d better bring you a copy of the Bible—you’ll have plenty of time to read. Now, then, before I go, have you any questions to ask?’
‘I thort I wasn’t ter arsk none!’ retorted Ben.
‘You can ask me, but nobody else. You see, Mr Jones, I shall only answer those I choose. So if you’ve got any bullets, shoot!’
Ben just saved himself from remarking, ‘I wish I ’ad!’ After all, whether he were believed or not by his enigmatic employer the time had come when he must appear to be willing. No other policy would work.
‘’Ere’s one,’ he said. ‘Wot time do we open?’
‘I’m not engaging you to run a shop.’
‘Yus, but them ’ouse-’unters ain’t goin’ ter turn up fer breakfust?’
‘Hardly likely.’
‘Or arter I gorn ter bed?’
‘That might depend on what time you go to bed.’
‘Well, see, that’s wot I wanter know. Even a caretaiker ’as ter ’ave a bit o’ time orf.’
‘I believe the agent opens at nine and closes at about five or six—’
‘Ah, nah we’re gittin’ it!’
‘But as, unless he accompanies his clients, he merely gives them a list of addresses, they may call at any time.’
‘Oh! And s’pose they mike the time midnight?’
‘Your duty will be to admit them whenever they call.’
‘I see. In me perjarmers!’
‘Did you bring any pyjamas? Don’t make trouble before you get it. If it comes it will come without your asking. Next, or is that the lot?’
‘Well, p’r’aps it wouldn’t be a bad idea,’ suggested Ben, ‘if yer was ter show me over the ’ouse? Arter orl, I’d look silly if I was ter ’ave ter show people over it afore I’d bin over it meself?’
‘You are not expected to act as an official guide. You will not have to tell people, “This is where you eat. This is where you sleep. This is where the coal goes. This room’s haunted.” The rooms will speak for themselves. You will merely open the front door, and then let your visitors roam where they like. Do not follow them about. I’ve told you that. You return here to your room. If anything—unusual happens, make no trouble about it, and accept it without question. You can always give me a report when I come along myself. Have you got that quite clear?’
‘No.’
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Wot’s goin’ ter ’appen that ain’t ushueral?’
‘How can I tell you before it happens? I am just warning you to be prepared for it if it does happen, and to take it all calmly and coolly. Of course you are free to go over the house after I have gone, and this brings me to my own last point. You will find one door locked. Don’t worry about that. All the rest are open to you.’
‘Oh! So one door’s locked, is it?’ blinked Ben.
Mr Smith made no response.
‘And I ain’t ter worry abart it?’
Mr Smith did not seem to be listening. At least, not to Ben.
‘Orl right, on’y s’pose—?’
‘Stay here—I’ll be back in a minute,’ said Mr Smith, and quietly left the room.
It was a disturbing as well as a sudden departure. What had he gone off like that for? And suppose he wasn’t back in a minute? How long was Ben expected to stay like he was. Not that he had any inclination to move, but as the seconds went by, and Ben counted more than sixty, he found it exceedingly unnerving waiting helplessly in bed. Eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six …’ow many more? Eighty-nine, a ’undred, no, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two. And then, s’pose, when ’e comes back, it ain’t ’im? Ben had known that happen before. An Indian goes out, and a Chinaman comes in! Yer never know, do yer? Ninety-eight, ninety-nine … lummy, wot was that? Sahnded like a cry! But he wasn’t sure. Ben often heard things that weren’t. Yus, but this thumpin’ ain’t imaginashinon! Thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud. Oi, it’s gittin’ louder, and faster! Why ’ad ’is farver and muvver ever met? ’Underd-and-five, ’underd-and-six, ’underd-and-seven … thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud …
‘Gawd! It’s me bloody ’eart!’
He lay back weakly and closed his eyes. Or—was it? He opened his eyes. Mr Smith was standing at the foot of his bed again.
‘You were saying?’ enquired Mr Smith.
‘I’ve fergot,’ gulped Ben.
‘I think I know. You were going to ask what you should do if any house-hunters want to go into the room with the locked door? Quite simple. You will tell them—if they ask you, otherwise why worry?—that the owner uses it for storage and has taken away the key. Well, that’s all. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. Happy sleep.’
And then Mr Smith went away again, and Ben heard the sound of the front door closing.
5
Behind the Locked Door
Well, here he was! And the question he had to solve, while he lay on the bed and contemplated his unenviable position, was whether to stay or whether to cut and run?
He weighed the two alternatives in his own peculiar fashion. S’pose he cut and run? Where’d he run to? And if he couldn’t think of anywhere—and he couldn’t—when he stopped he’d find himself somewhere, and what would he do with his face? Not to mention his suit? If he got rid of his face, which he might do in a public lavatory, though even so it would be tricky—if he got rid of his face and regained his own, his own would not fit his posh suit, and he could not get rid of his suit without being subsequently arrested for wandering about in an immodest condition. He was quite sure that his own clothing, such as it was, had been confiscated by the much too thorough Mr Smith.
Then there were other arguments against cutting and running. One, he was a suspect, and would soon be on the ‘wanted’ list for murder. Two, would he get farther than the street? ‘I bet that bloke’s watchin’ the front door!’ he reflected. ‘Or if ’e ain’t, that friend of ’is is! Don’t fergit, there’s more’n one of ’em in this set-up, even if yer ain’t seed more’n the one so fur!’ And, three—and this alone could have been the deciding factor—he really didn’t feel up to cutting and running. His knees felt that weak, and he was all wobblin’ inside like.
The arguments against staying were, of course, equally numerous. It was goin’ to be no picnic, getting entangled in Mr Smith’s affairs. Why, lummy, he’d be workin’ for a murderer! And how was that going to look, when it came out? ‘Corse, I wasn’t reely workin’ fer ’im, sir, if yer git me. See, I was cornered proper, so I thort if I ’ung on fer a bit I might turn the taibles like, and find aht wot ’e was up ter. Well, that wasn’t goin’ against the pleece, was it? No, it was tryin’ ter ’elp ’em!’ As Ben imagined himself explaining himself thus to a police inspector, he was struck with the force of his own argument. It was all too completely true. He was cornered … and he did want to turn the tables on Mr Smith … but, continuing with the arguments against staying, there were those beetles and spiders, how he hated them both, and that rat, and there was that locked door. And had that been a cry he had heard?
It was not beyond reason to expect, if he stayed, an exceedingly creepy night.
Then, quite suddenly, came two visions that settled the matter for him. The first was of a larder containing tinned food. He needed food, and the need would increase, and was there any food for him outside? He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets—strangely clean and holeless—to find them, as expected, empty. Mr Smith was hardly like
ly to have left him with any money!
But the second vision, though it did not arise out of any personal need, he found even more compelling. It was of the man at the other end of the park seat. At one moment, quietly making notes in a notebook. At the next, limp, with a knife in his back. Ben had seen plenty of dead people, but if they had nice faces, and this chap had had a nice face if a bit stern like, and if they hadn’t died natural, it upset him.
‘’E may ’ave a wife or a kid,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll find aht wot Mr Smith’s gime is, and I’ll see ’e swings fer it!’
Having come to which decision, Ben felt a little better. Okay! That was settled, then. Next?
The next thing was to get up, see if his legs would obey him, and if by some miracle they would, use them to tour the premises and to find the larder.
Cautiously he raised himself to a sitting position and steered himself round and off the bed. To his surprise he did not topple, and after a moment or two he took a few steps. These proved that he was weak all right, but he could manage. Jest tike it easy, and yer can manidge.
He began to walk round the room. Its atmosphere of gloom was accentuated by the fact that the daylight was beginning to fade outside, and suddenly realising this he looked about anxiously for an electric light switch or a lamp. He saw neither. On the mantelpiece were a couple of candles in worn metal candlesticks. Well, they were better than nothing, though candles made nasty shadows; and the sight of a box of matches by one of the candlesticks brought back a little of Ben’s fading comfort.
Over the mantelpiece was the replaced mirror. As Ben drew up to it, he received a shock. Lummy, ’oo was this bloke lookin’ at ’im orf the wall? Then he remembered that it was his other self, and he glared at it. His other self glared back.
Number Nineteen Page 3
