Ben Sees It Through

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

  ‘Wasn’t it Molly last time?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, there’s no need to go back on a good thing! No, Ben, you haven’t done anything, but your whole trouble, ever since I’ve known you, is that you get mixed up with other people who have. You’ve got mixed up with this Spaniard—’

  ‘Yer mean, Don Diablo?’

  ‘That’s a good name for him! Yes, Don Diablo! And you’re mixed up with me—’

  ‘Now, look ’ere, miss—Molly,’ interposed Ben, seriously, ‘we ain’t goin’ ter ’ave none o’ that. You ain’t doin’ no more pickpocketin’, see, and wot you done afore weren’t your fault.’

  ‘Oh? Then whose fault was it?’

  ‘The fault o’ the street yer was born in.’

  ‘It’s a nice idea! But—were you born in Park Lane?’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘Your street didn’t turn you into a thief!’

  ‘Well, yer see—I comes from Nelson,’ mumbled Ben. He hated any kind of washing, even white-washing. ‘Any’ow, we ain’t thinkin’ o’ the past, we’re thinkin’ o’ the fuchure—’

  ‘When we ought to be thinking of the present,’ interrupted Molly. ‘How did you come to be in the taxi with—with the man who was killed?’

  ‘Yus, that was a funny bizziness right from the start, miss—’

  ‘Molly!’

  ‘Eh? Oh! Molly.’ He liked her little interruptions. They kept things warm, like. ‘Well, ’e ses he can find me a job, and so ’e arsks me ter come along with ’im, see, but fust ’e buys me a new cap—’

  ‘Why, did you lose your old one?’

  ‘Yus. It’s gorn ter see Father Nepchune.’

  ‘But why should he buy you a new one?’

  ‘Well, ’e was with me when the old ’un went. Barges inter me, and so ’e ses ’e must git me another. And we gits in the taxi, and ’e buys me the new cap—’

  ‘The one you’ve got on?’

  ‘That’s right. Bit of orl right, ain’t it? And then, jest as we’re goin’ ter the stashun, I suddinly thinks of you, like, and that letter I was goin’ ter ’ave waitin’ fer yer at the Post Orfice, so aht I nips ter send it orf, and I sends it orf, givin’ yer the address o’ that job I was goin’ ter, and then—blimy, I gits a shock proper.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘No good arskin’ me!’ muttered Ben, sepulchrally. ‘It ’appened while I was writin’ that there letter. I—I gits back inter the cab, see, and I ses “Ain’t I bin quick?” and ’e—’e jest stares back at me from the nex’ world, like. So I jest thinks, “Oi,” and ’ops it. Well, I arsk yer?’

  ‘I can guess what you felt like,’ she answered, with a little shiver. ‘And then?’

  ‘I told yer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I ’opped it.’

  ‘But the Spaniard? Don Diablo! You mentioned him.’

  ‘Oh! ’Im!’ Ben gulped at the memory. ‘’E’s a proper nightmare, ’e is! Fust time I bumps inter Don Diablo ’e ketches ’old of me with a blinkin’ ’and wot ’as a scar on it—funny thing, if a ’and ’as a scar on it, it jest mikes fer me!—but I gits away, on’y the nex’ time I don’t git away, see, and ’e arsks me a lot o’ questions, like wot was I doin’ with the deader, and did I know ’is nime, it was White, and did ’e give me hennythink, and wot was the address of the plice I was goin’ ter for the job. Lummy, tork abart a woman! Old Diablo’d beat a dozen. And then ’e begins to feel in me pockets, and me born ticklish, and then a bobby comes up, and ’e scoots, and I ’its the bobby, and then I scoots—’

  ‘Sh!’ whispered the girl, suddenly, and gripped his arm.

  Ben stopped abruptly, with his mouth still open. Footsteps were sounding along the road.

  For a few seconds they listened in strained silence. The footsteps grew closer, and as they grew closer they also grew slower. Molly slid suddenly to the barn door and began feeling about in the dimness.

  Ben knew what she was feeling for. A bolt, or a crossbar, or some contrivance that would secure them from outside.

  Her search was unsuccessful.

  The footsteps had now stopped. Then, all at once, the dead stillness was broken by a welcome little sound. A match was being struck. They even caught a momentary glow of the light as it flickered into brief life on the other side of a crack. A few moments later, the footsteps were resumed, grew fainter, and died away.

  ‘Aren’t we a couple of mugs?’ whispered Molly, returning.

  ‘Well, two’s better’n one,’ murmured Ben.

  The words were hardly complimentary, but Molly smiled. She understood the meaning behind. Then the smile faded, and she became thoughtful.

  Ben found himself staring at the vague silhouette of her figure as she stood before him. It occurred to him that another lady he’d heard of called Venus de Smilo or something wasn’t in it with Molly Smith. This superior silhouette just a few inches away from him wasn’t only pretty. It was companionable. Matey. And prettiness wasn’t really no good unless it was matey, too. When you thought of the darkness outside, and of the unfriendliness of it, and of the size of it—it stretched as far as the stars, with nothing in between—it sort of frightened you. But you only had to hold out your hand an inch or two and touch that silhouette, and—well, then everything was all right, wasn’t it?…

  ‘You know, Ben—we haven’t got it all straightened out even yet,’ said Venus’s superior. ‘Tell me! What did—old Diablo want? Was he trying to get that address when he started on your pockets, do you think?’

  ‘I dunno wot ’e was arter,’ answered Ben.

  ‘You believe it might have been something else?’

  ‘Lummy, it’s a riddle! See, e’ arst if the chap wot was dead ’ad give me somethink—’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘The man who’s dead—you said his name was White, didn’t you?—did White give you anything?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No! But Don Diablo thought he might have! Look here, Ben, how does this sound to you? Do you suppose Don Diablo killed White—never mind for the moment how he did it—do you suppose he killed him because he wanted something White had on him? And, as you were with White, Diablo now thinks that you’ve got it on you?’

  ‘Got wot?’

  ‘What Diablo thinks you’ve got?’

  ‘Wot’s that?’

  ‘Oh, Ben! How’ve you lived all this time?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘With no one to look after you?’

  ‘People don’t look arter me—they runs arter me!’

  ‘And now this beastly Spaniard’s joining in the chase!’

  ‘Yus. Corse, there was that pocket-book that barmy barmaid talked abart, but ’e didn’t give me no pocket-book, orl ’e give me was this cap, and if yer arsk me,’ added Ben, as his mind harped back to the inn, ‘that barmaid ’eard more’n wot ’appened, and then said more’n wot she ’eard. There’s some folks turn a pea inter a mellon afore yer can say Jim Crow!’

  ‘Yes, yes, but we’re not getting anywhere!’ sighed Molly. ‘You know, Ben, I think I’m right—I think Don Diablo does believe you’ve got something that he wants! P’r’aps it’s only the address White gave you—the address of the job, you know—though what he could want with that I don’t know. It may be something else. By the way, what is the address?’

  ‘Eh? Oh! I’ve fergot.’

  ‘But wasn’t it written down—’

  ‘Oh, yus, that’s right. In me pocket. ’Ere it is.’

  He groped in his pocket, while she watched him. He groped in all his pockets.

  ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he muttered. ‘Where’s it gorn?’

  But now she wasn’t watching him. Footsteps again resounded in the lane outside. Tottering, staggering footsteps.

  ‘Funny,’ thought Ben, ‘’ow nothink can go right.’

  A moment later, something fell with a thud against the door.

  7

>   Wanted, an Address

  A thud is not a subtle sound. It is crude and blatant; but the very blatancy gives it a special distinction of its own. A footstep may be a murderer or a sweetheart. A creak may be a policeman or a child. A bell may be a creditor or a rich uncle. But a thud, in nine cases out of ten, eliminates all pleasant possibilities. It is a call to the listener that something has gone wrong.

  And now the two inmates of the lonely barn knew that something had gone wrong on the other side of the barn-door. The question presented itself, should they risk their security by attempting to right what was wrong?

  The question lingered only in the muddy mind of Ben. Molly, residing closer to the full range of her reactions, needed but a second to find the answer. The second over, she crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open.

  On the coarse grass that separated the barn from the lane lay the crumpled figure of a man.

  As Molly stared down at it, her silhouette now more distinct against the background of lane and evening sky. Ben roused himself from his momentary stupor. Lummy, you couldn’t let a slip of a girl face whatever she was facing all by herself! That was hardly in line with the best traditions of St George and the Merchant Service. No matter what your stomach was doing (and these things always hit you first in the stomach, just in the space that was waiting for food), you had to go and face it with her! That was right, wasn’t it?

  So, before Molly had finished staring, Ben joined her and added his startled eyes to hers. And, having roused himself to this extent, he went farther and produced the first comment.

  ‘Dead, miss, ain’t ’e?’

  In such moments of tension habit came on top, and the pleasant intimacy of ‘Molly’ was forgotten.

  The girl did not reply. The words that expressed her own unspoken fear whipped her into action, and she stooped suddenly to examine the figure more closely.

  ‘Go ’way!’ murmured the figure.

  She jumped up, in surprised relief. The surprise shot her back into Ben, for the Merchant Service, despite its good resolutions, had kept behind, guarding the rear, like. Now the Merchant Service toppled down on its own rear, like, and murmured shakily from the ground,

  ‘Wot did ’e say?’

  The information was supplied by the other figure on the ground.

  ‘Go ’way!’ repeated the recumbent intruder. ‘Go ’way!’

  The advice seemed excellent. Just the same, it had to be thought about.

  ‘’E’s drunk,’ reported Ben in a whisper, as he reassumed the perpendicular.

  ‘Dead,’ nodded Molly.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Dead-drunk.’

  ‘Oh! Well, it’s ’is licker, not our’n. Let’s ’op it!’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Another barn?’

  ‘We’d better leave ’im this ’un. S’pose ’e starts singin’?’

  ‘Yes, he’s rather spoilt this little Conference Hall,’ agreed Molly, frowning, ‘but when we move this time, Ben, we ought to know where we’re moving to.’

  ‘Yer mean, we ’adn’t decided, like,’ answered Ben.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If you tush me again, you dirty bit o’ Sothershen Europe,’ babbled the tipsy one, ‘I’ll—’

  The threat ended ineffectively in the grass.

  ‘Barmy!’ muttered Ben, and suddenly noticed Molly’s expression. It was odd. ‘Wot’s up?’

  ‘Buy British!’ burbled the barmy one.

  The girl withdrew a little way into the barn, pulling Ben back with her. She looked anxious, and Ben’s heart missed a beat. Anxiety is catching.

  ‘Did you hear what he said?’ she asked.

  ‘Yus,’ replied Ben. ‘Buy British.’

  ‘I mean before that.’

  ‘Eh? Oh! ’E tole yer not ter touch ’im agine—’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘— and then called yer somethink I’d give ’im a swipe for if ’e was sober.’

  ‘He wasn’t referring to me.’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘Can’t you guess who he was referring to?’

  Ben thought, and guessed.

  ‘Some’un helse,’ he said.

  ‘Someone else who he said was a dirty bit of—’

  ‘Sothersomethink Europe.’

  ‘Suppose he meant Southern Europe? That might be Spain, mightn’t it?’

  ‘Blimy!’ said Ben.

  The sudden vision that sprang into Ben’s mind was confirmed a moment later.

  ‘I’ll teach dirty Spaniard talk to Englishman!’ came the tipsy fellow’s voice from outside. ‘Who foun’ it? I foun’ it, an’ findin’s keepin’, hic. An’ what business ish it yours where I foun’ it? Hic?’

  Happily the remarks were addressed not to solid substance but to thin air. They were, however, quite disturbing enough. The tipsy fellow had obviously met the Spaniard, and the meeting had been sufficiently recent to remain embedded in his muzzy consciousness.

  ‘We must go!’ exclaimed Molly, quickly.

  ‘Yus, but wot did ’e find?’ gulped Ben.

  The answer was revealed when he followed Molly’s gaze. Already she had moved again towards the door, but she had paused to stare at the odd sight of the tipsy fellow, now sitting up, kissing the tip of a lady’s shoe.

  ‘Findin’s keepin’,’ repeated the amorous one, fatuously, ‘an’ ’spretty shoe. Now all I got to fin’ ’slady!’

  Molly Smith’s record was far from blameless. She had picked pockets and had committed other offences of equal demerit. But she had her standards, odd though this may have seemed in her particular circumstances, and her womanhood could be affronted. It was affronted now at the spectacle of a tipsy man saluting her shoe.

  Indignation was assisted by a dexterity she had often utilised in less worthy cause. In a flash she was out of the barn and had whipped the shoe out of the tipsy man’s hand. In another flash she had sped up the road with it and was round a corner. The reasons why the tipsy man did not see her, and imagined that invisible fingers had relieved him of his trophy, were firstly because she had adopted the pickpocket’s ruse of tapping him on one side before doing her work upon the other, and secondly because he was really too blind to see anything that was not immediately before him, and that was not held tight.

  It was only through the second reason that Ben, less dexterous, was able to make his own escape without becoming a coherent memory. Subsequently the tipsy man was merely able to record that, after the avenging angel had snatched the shoe away in heavenly indignation, there had been a short, swift rush of wind and thunder. At the moment, however, he was himself indignant, and bellowed his wrath to the world.

  Round the corner, Ben and Molly heard him.

  ‘’E’ll bring along the ’ole of Southampton,’ muttered Ben.

  ‘Then the sooner we’re off again, the better,’ answered Molly, as she stopped and slipped on her regained shoe.

  ‘Wot! More runnin’?’

  ‘Got to be, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Jest run and see wot ’appens?’

  ‘We must sleep somewhere, Ben.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where we won’t be disturbed.’

  ‘There ain’t no such plice!’

  ‘And where we can decide where to go afterwards. Oh, Ben, are you sure you’ve lost that address?’

  ‘It’s gorn, miss. Molly, that is.’

  ‘And you can’t remember it?’

  ‘Not more’n Wimbledon Common.’

  ‘Think hard.’

  ‘Yer carn’t, not with a sorft brine.’

  ‘But you said you’d written it in that letter to me!’ exclaimed Molly, suddenly. ‘It’s there waiting for me, Southampton Post Orfice!’

  ‘So it is,’ murmured Ben. ‘On’y we ain’t at Southampton Post Office!’

  ‘No—but I could still go to the Southampton Post Office! Couldn’t I?’

  ‘What for?’

  �
�For that letter—and the address.’

  Ben stared at her. Out of sight, the tipsy man was still audible. He was no longer shouting, however. He was singing.

  ‘Look ’ere, miss,’ said Ben, very solemnly. ‘Ain’t we a couple o’ mugs standin’ ’ere like this and torkin’ abart goin’ back ter Southampton?’

  ‘Weren’t you once a mug in Spain, Ben,’ responded Molly, just as solemnly, ‘when you took a long and dangerous journey because you thought a girl was in danger?’

  ‘Eh? That was dif’rent,’ muttered Ben.

  ‘You’d say so,’ answered Molly.

  ‘Well, p’r’aps the gal’s in danger now!’ he challenged.

  ‘P’r’aps you are, too,’ murmured Molly, musingly.

  She seemed to be weighing things in her mind.

  ‘Oh, I’m uster it,’ retorted Ben. ‘It’s you I’m torkin’ of jest now.’

  ‘Bless the man! Aren’t I used to danger, too!’ exclaimed Molly. Then her voice suddenly dropped again. ‘But you know, Ben, I’m wondering whether somebody else isn’t in even greater danger than either of us?’

  ‘’Oo?’

  ‘The person at that house on Wimbledon Common you were going to—and whose address is lost!’

  ‘Lummy!’ murmured Ben.

  Now he, too, started weighing things in his mind.

  ‘Yer mean—the dainjer of Don Diablo, eh?’ he said. ‘Don Diablo might ’ave fahnd the address?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she inquired.

  ‘That’s right. ’E might. And we orter git ter ’im furst—that hother Wimbledon chap—and warn ’im, like?’

  ‘It’d be decent. Especially if Don Diablo has really got the address from you.’

  ‘Yus,’ nodded Ben. ‘From me, not from you! Wot’s this got ter do with you, any’ow?’

  ‘Don’t you see, I’m the only one who can get the letter at the Southampton Post Office,’ she said. ‘And besides, why shouldn’t I stick to you, as you’ve stuck to me?’

  Ben swallowed. It was nice, her saying that. Just the same …

  ‘Look ’ere,’ he said, suddenly, ‘I ain’t ’eard nothink abart you yet! Orl you’ve told me is that yer’ve bin in port a couple o’ days. Do you know anythink more abart orl this? ’Cos, if yer do, now’s the time ter spill it.’

  ‘I know something more about—Don Diablo,’ answered Molly, after a little pause. ‘You see, we came over on the same boat.’