Ben Sees It Through

by J. Jefferson Farjeon

‘And then back from Waterloo?’

  ‘Well, I’m ’ere, ain’t I?’

  ‘With—a cap?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You still have that distressing habit of prevarication, I note. I said—with a cap.’

  Ben gulped. Now what? He had sworn to Don Pasquali that he hadn’t got the cap, but Mr Lovelace knew he had got the cap, only now he hadn’t; Molly had, and he wasn’t going to let nobody know that, blimy he wasn’t, not if the Spaniard dagger came down into his head and made a hole a yard deep …

  ‘That’s right, he did come back with the cap,’ said Molly, ‘and much good it’ll do you!’

  And, pulling it out of her frock, she held it out to the old man. On the point of exclaiming, Ben desisted. He had caught Molly’s eye.

  Mr Lovelace seized the cap swiftly, but did not examine it at once. Molly’s tone, even more than her words, caused him to pause. When he turned the cap over and looked at the lining, his face grew dark.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ observed Molly, coolly, ‘but my gentleman friend really isn’t such a mug as you’ve taken him for!’

  The gentleman friend strove to conceal the fact that his brain was spinning. What the blazes was happening? Mr Lovelace had the blinkin’ cap at last, and didn’t seem in the least glad about it.

  ‘The lining’s been slit!’ he rasped.

  Now Don Pasquali’s face darkened, and his fingers tightened on his dagger.

  ‘Of course, the lining’s slit,’ retorted Molly. ‘Do you suppose he was going to bring the contents back to this place? Not likely!’

  ‘But—the cap!’ cried Don Pasquali. ‘He bring that—’

  ‘Certainly! It’s a nasty night, and a cap’s a covering,’ answered Molly. ‘I tell you, Don Pasquali, you may have beaten my gentleman friend with your spoof message, but my gentleman friend beat you to a frazzle in the end! He smelt a rat, and he deposited the contents of the cap in a safe place before he came here. If I’d known that myself I wouldn’t have troubled to make him throw the cap up to me just before you opened the door to him.’

  While Ben digested this amazing ingenuity—it was the first he had heard of it!—she ran on.

  ‘Do you want to hear the rest of the story? Here it is, Pasquali. After you put my gentleman friend in the clock—don’t worry, you’ll pay for it all one day—I managed to poke my way down the chimney, and I got him out. He was as nearly dead as anyone I’ve met, but I’m beginning to think you can’t kill Ben, and perhaps when you know it you’ll stop trying! God, you’ve killed one man each, haven’t you? and that ought to be enough for twenty-four hours!’ She turned on Mr Lovelace fiercely. ‘Yes, and you’ll pay for what I saw you do, too, before we’ve finished with you! Who is that poor fellow you killed—and why did you kill him?’

  During the first part of this outburst the Spaniard had looked dark, but by the time it swung from him to Mr Lovelace he had suddenly overcome his first anger and was regarding the excited speaker with admiration.

  ‘See, she has the fire!’ he exclaimed, with a laugh. ‘Like that animal my friend here mention, she can spit!’

  Mr Lovelace, on the other hand, was far from laughter. He was scowling heavily.

  ‘Do you think you are wise, young lady?’ he demanded.

  ‘Wise? Ask me that in twenty-four hours,’ retorted Molly, ‘then we’ll see who’s wise!’

  ‘Aha!’ cried Don Pasquali, his white teeth gleaming. ‘She is what you call—the one? In twenty-four hour! Yes, we see! She will think different, too!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ snapped Molly, angrily.

  Mr Lovelace also turned towards Don Pasquali, as though for an explanation of something concealed in his tone.

  ‘She know what I mean,’ smiled the Spaniard. ‘When it is all over, and she is more calm. Oh, but I like to see her spit. Her eyes, then, are more pretty than the precious stones she can wear. She know!’

  ‘Stop that rot!’ ordered the old man, in a rage. ‘D’ye think this is a love parlour? Any more of that sort of talk, you idiot, and I’ll soon change the tune!’

  Don Pasquali began to get into a rage himself.

  ‘You think I stand that?’ he shouted. His moods changed more swiftly than the old man’s.

  ‘You’ll stand what I tell you to stand,’ replied Mr Lovelace. ‘You’ll stand my ordering you to keep your voice lower, to begin with!’

  ‘So! And now you stand something!’ But it was noticeable that Don Pasquali’s voice had dropped. ‘You answer what the lady ask! You tell us who is the man you kill, and for why!’

  Ben glanced covertly at Molly. During this altercation he had been wondering whether it could be turned to account, and he had been studying positions. He had watched the point of the Spaniard’s knife, and the angle of the old man’s revolver, and in particular he had watched Molly, ready to spring to her side or essay a header over the balustrade at the slightest sign from her. But, to his disappointment, and rather to his surprise, she did not give any sign. Was she just trying to work them up, like? Or was she playing a deeper game still?

  He knew that Molly’s brain would not remain dormant during a scene of this kind. It would be working, working, working. Her brain went on long after his stopped. So he continued to watch her, and to try and read her, and to be ready for her …

  ‘Possibly, in turn, we all have fits of idiocy,’ said Mr Lovelace, now in complete control of himself again. ‘I hope this will be your last, Don Pasquali, and to ensure that it is—just for that reason, and not for any other—I’ll answer the lady’s question and tell you who the man is I killed, and why. But don’t take your attention off the lady’s gentleman friend, or you may find yourself killed before I can tell you—he looks a little restive.’

  ‘Oh, I watch him,’ muttered the Spaniard, waggling his knife.

  ‘When you go to ’Ell,’ said Ben, ‘I ’ope yer drops right dahn onter one o’ them things!’

  ‘The man was killed,’ proceeded Mr Lovelace, appearing to derive a cynical pleasure from his confession and from the contempt of his audience it implied, ‘because he disobeyed me, and because he tried to run away. Even in small matters those who are working for me must obey me. One of this man’s duties—to make my point clear—was to post certain letters, periodically, to a certain individual—’

  ‘Ah! Medway!’ interposed Don Pasquali, with sudden increased interest.

  ‘Joseph Medway, M.P.,’ replied Mr Lovelace.

  ‘Letters to warn him, eh? To tell him what will happen if he is not good?’

  ‘Why, Pasquali, you seem to know quite a lot about the game,’ commented Mr Lovelace, ‘but please don’t interrupt any more. The letters were, as you say, to warn Mr Medway. To prepare the ground, so to speak. Of course, they were not signed, and I gave orders that the man who posted them—he also wrote them, at my dictation—I am quite careful, you see—should select a different postal district each time, and that none should be anywhere near Wimbledon Common. I now have reason to believe,’ the old man went on, ‘that—to save trouble, perhaps, or time for the cinema—every communication was posted at the pillar-box at the corner. In other words, that every communication bore a local postmark.’

  ‘And for that you kill him?’ exclaimed the Spaniard.

  ‘For that I might have killed him,’ answered Mr Lovelace. ‘Actually, I killed him because, when he heard of what had happened in Southampton, he got in a panic, and tried to escape. Of course, I could not let him escape, could I? He knew too much.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘So he had to be dealt with. That is how I deal with anybody who knows too much and who tries to escape. Perhaps you will make a note of it?’

  Now he turned to Molly, as though dismissing Don Pasquali from his mind.

  ‘You, young lady, will certainly have to make a note of it. Both you and your gentleman friend. Through your folly you undoubtedly know too much, and you have only one way of postponing the inevitable results of your folly. That is by telling
me the truth, this time, about the contents of the cap. You say your friend has hidden it? That may or may not be so. But it strikes me as far more likely that you have hidden it. And where more likely than on your person—’

  ‘Aha! Let me search her,’ cried Don Pasquali.

  There was brutal appreciation of the job in his tone. Mr Lovelace noticed it. He also noticed Molly’s instinctive shudder, and the growl from Ben’s corner.

  ‘Well, now,’ he murmured, ‘of course—that would be an idea?’

  29

  The Mind of Mr Lovelace

  Molly Smith had told thousands of lies in her life, and if veracity is an essential qualification for Heaven she had lost her chance during her first year of speech. Her parents had lied before her, and she had been brought up to accept the process of lying as naturally as the process of eating or doing her hair. But there were moments when, despite her history and her family traditions, she could speak the truth as well as anyone and could leave no doubt about it in her hearer’s mind; and now occurred such a moment. She looked at Mr Lovelace straight in the face, and said,

  ‘If that dirty Spaniard searches me, I’ll be dead when he does it.’

  ‘’Ear, ’ear!’ added Ben, fervently. ‘And so’ll I!’

  Ben’s remark made no impression. Molly’s, on the other hand, did. Mr Lovelace regarded her intently for a moment, and then nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I believe you mean that,’ he answered.

  ‘Then, you’ve got a grain of sense in your head, after all,’ replied Molly. ‘I mean it to the last ounce of life in me.’

  ‘But sometimes we mean more than we can achieve,’ the old man pointed out.

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Molly, ‘but this doesn’t happen to be one of the times. If you think it is, you don’t know me.’

  ‘Very well. We will suppose this isn’t one of the times,’ said Mr Lovelace. ‘We will suppose that, when you are searched by Don Pasquali, you are dead. Will that matter to me so very much? However much it may matter,’ he added, cynically, ‘to Don Pasquali?’

  ‘Of course it’ll matter to you!’ Molly flashed back. ‘You’ll have a third murder to explain away. I suppose there’s a limit to the number you can hide? Yes, and this murder would do you even less good than the others, because you wouldn’t get anything for it, Keep your eyes on me while I repeat something I’ve already told you once. I haven’t got what you want. It’s not on me.’

  Mr Lovelace kept his eyes on her. They seemed to go right through her. Then he withdrew them, and turned them on the Spaniard.

  ‘Again, Don Pasquali, I am inclined to believe her,’ he said, ‘so what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘If you believe her, I do not!’ retorted Don Pasquali, shortly.

  ‘Then you still suggest searching her?’ queried the old man.

  Don Pasquali looked at her, hesitating.

  ‘I could, of course, weaken her first with a bullet,’ the old man went on. ‘That might prevent the greater tragedy. Well?’

  Don Pasquali compromised.

  ‘Shall we search this one first?’ he proposed.

  ‘The best way ter search me is ter git a fishin’ rod,’ said Ben, ‘and ter drop the ’ook dahn me ’oles.’

  ‘I know a better way,’ rasped Don Pasquali.

  And he began a less sporting method.

  ‘Yer’d do it quicker with both ’ands,’ grunted Ben. ‘Shall I ’old yer knife for yer?’

  ‘Silence!’ exclaimed the Spaniard.

  ‘No, let him go on,’ interposed Mr Lovelace. ‘I like to hear him.’

  ‘Well, would you like to search him?’ retorted Don Pasquali. ‘He wriggle more than a fish!’

  ‘’Oo wouldn’t?’ retorted Ben. ‘A stacher’d wriggle if it ’ad ’ands like your’n messin’ abart its ribs. Oi! Why doncher git a spide? Then yer could git right hinside me skelington!’

  The search proceeded and concluded. It produced nothing. As ever before it may be noted that it omitted Ben’s left boot.

  ‘There y’are,’ muttered Ben, as he re-arranged himself. ‘Orl work and no profit! ’Corse, don’t mind turnin’ me hinside hout afore a lidy!’

  ‘Will you be quiet?’ exclaimed Don Pasquali, angry and disappointed.

  ‘Yus, you be quiet arter you’ve ’ad yer trahsers pulled rahnd back ter front!’ retorted Ben. ‘Jest becos’ I wasn’t born in Bond Street d’yer think I ain’t got no delercate feelin’s?’

  Don Pasquali wiped his brow with a red handkerchief, and turned towards Mr Lovelace.

  ‘Watch him!’ said Mr Lovelace, sharply.

  Don Pasquali swung round again. An instant later Ben would have been on his back.

  ‘But, come, don’t kill him,’ said Mr Lovelace. ‘You really are a fool, Don Pasquali.’

  ‘He is best dead!’ cried the Spaniard, hotly. His knife was touching Ben’s neck.

  ‘And, with him, our chance of learning where the letter is?’ replied Mr Lovelace. ‘Fool is too kind a term for you!’

  ‘Now ’e’ll say “Deeoss”,’ murmured Ben. ‘It’s orl ’e knows.’

  But the Spaniard said nothing. For the moment the psychology beat him. He worked best in big spaces and among simple, heavy minds. Confined in an upper landing and surrounded by British mentality, he was not at his best.

  Mr Lovelace, on the other hand, retained his coolness, and arrived now at a decision. Far better than Don Pasquali, he understood the psychology he was up against and the peculiar nature of the human riddles he had to solve. He understood the impossibility of dealing with Ben and Molly as he might have dealt with an ordinary couple. Deliberately and callously he had considered the idea of torture, and he had decided against the process because the chances of success were outweighed by the chances of failure. He had had to kill one dog already because, on the death of its master, it had made too much noise. Ben, he felt convinced, was capable of even greater noise.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We are going to get this situation clear. If the letter I am looking for, and am going to find, is not on the girl—and I do not think it is—then it must be elsewhere in this house or outside it. That’s to say, it was either taken out of the cap while you and I were talking in the hall, Don Pasquali, or it is in that secret place not a hundred miles from Southfields station where, according to this girl, our friend Ben has hidden it. By the way, what’s your version of that story, Ben? Did you hide it, as she says, or has the young lady a strong imagination?’

  ‘Corse I ’id it,’ answered Ben. ‘Think I’d bring it back ’ere?’

  ‘Then will you save a lot of time and trouble by telling me where you hid it?’

  ‘Likely, ain’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t know where?’

  ‘Wotcher mean?’

  ‘I mean, perhaps there isn’t a secret place at all?’

  Ben strove hard to keep his end up, but this cross-examination distressed him. He wished Molly could have done the answering for him. She could deal with nasty old men with searching eyes …

  ‘I see, you know quite well what I mean,’ observed Mr Lovelace.

  ‘Well, this is wot I mean,’ retorted Ben, ‘and doncher git up on wrong tracks jest becos’ my mind ain’t like a hexpress trine! Corse there’s a secret plice! And corse I ain’t tellin’ yer where it is. And yer can search the ’ole o’ Sarthfields—search till yer blind—and yer won’t find nothink. ’Cos why? When I ’ides a thing—well, I ’ides it! This ain’t children’s ’Unt the Thimble.’

  Mr Lovelace smiled and murmured,

  ‘I very much doubt whether I would find anything.’

  ‘Yes, but I make him tell!’ exclaimed Don Pasquali suddenly. He flourished his knife, but the old man brought him up with a curt order.

  ‘None of that, Pasquali!’ he ordered, sharply. ‘If you’re not careful, you’ll ruin everything. The position is quite clear. I must search the inside of the house—with the lady here—while you and Ben go to Southfie
lds.’

  ‘Eh?’ jerked Ben.

  The proposal did not seem to appeal to the Spaniard, either.

  ‘We must leave no stone unturned, Pasquali,’ continued Mr Lovelace, speaking authoritatively. ‘And this is the only way. You will take Ben to Southfields, and you will use what persuasion—outside this house—you may think fit. What is the time now?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Eight o’clock. So late! Well, I will give you two hours. That is, till ten o’clock. By ten o’clock you will have returned here with or without the letter—but, of course, with Ben. Meanwhile, by ten o’clock, my own search this end will either have proved profitable—or not.’

  ‘And if I have not the letter, and you have not the letter?’ inquired Don Pasquali.

  ‘Why, then there will be only one more place to look,’ replied Mr Lovelace, ‘and that will be on the lady herself. We are giving her, as you will see, two hours’ grace.’

  Don Pasquali stared at the old man, then broke into a smile. ‘It is good!’ he cried. ‘I find the letter at Southfield, or I search the girl here at ten!’ The smile vanished. ‘Unless you find the letter while I am at Southfield!’

  ‘We must each trust each other,’ agreed Mr Lovelace. ‘Am I not trusting you, if you are lucky at your end?’

  ‘How so?’ frowned the Spaniard, obviously temporising.

  ‘Why, if you find the letter at Southfields, you will be as free to proceed without me—’

  ‘As you will be, if you find the letter here in the house?’ interposed the Spaniard.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Then why not search here together, and go to Southfields after, if we do not find the letter?’

  ‘How long after?’ answered Mr Lovelace. ‘You forget, Pasquali, that time happens to be a factor in this case. Here is your cap, Ben. It is no longer interesting.’

  Rather surprisingly, Don Pasquali gave way as Ben caught the cap that was tossed to him.

  ‘Yes, yes, it is good!’ he nodded. ‘I see, you are right. As before. It is good!’

  And, without more ado, he prodded Ben with his knife.

  ‘Oi! Wot’s that for?’ exclaimed Ben, jumping.