No. 17

He tested the floor by sitting down in a corner of it. Not at all bad. Quite decent, in fact. So decent, that he had no immediate impulse to get up again. Of course, he’d get up soon. He’d find some wood and make a fire. Then, a little later, he would heat the pork and beans on the fire … that would be good … but not just yet … a little later …

He began to nod. His head drooped forward. Ben had walked a good many miles that day. A clock outside chimed six.

Ben did not hear it—he was fast asleep.

He awoke suddenly, with a start. The clock was striking again—midnight. But that had not awakened him. Someone was walking in the basement below.

5

Up and Down

‘G’arn—I’m dreamin’,’ thought Ben. ‘Orl them doors is bolted!’

He stayed quite still, listening, and hoping to be awakened from the dream. But the footsteps continued, and grew louder, and all at once Ben realised that this was no dream, but stark reality. The knowledge produced a frank sweat.

The moment when the dream theory fails is always a nasty one.

‘S’elp me, there’s a bloke dahn there,’ gasped Ben, and clambered clumsily to his feet.

Then he stood motionless, and listened again. Now he heard no sound. The footsteps had stopped. Was the producer of the footsteps also listening, standing somewhere below as motionless as he?

Ben crept to the door, and softly opened it. As he did so, a dull clank-clank in the distance grew nearer and louder. A goods train, obviously. It rattled under the house, shaking it, and under cover of the noise Ben left the room and stepped out into the passage.

‘P’r’aps it was the trine, orl the time,’ thought Ben, as the rattle and clank decreased.

But this hope was soon dissipated. Even before the sound of the train had dwindled away, the footsteps below recommenced—less heavily, this time more stealthily.

‘’Ere, I’ve ’ad enuff o’ this!’ reflected the seaman, and tiptoed quickly along the passage.

Should he dash out of the house? This would mean unbolting the front door—a noisy operation—and it would also mean the rest of the night in the fog. A speedier, and probably better, sanctuary was suggested by the staircase. Almost before he realised it, he was ascending the stairs, and he did not pause in his ascent until he had reached the top of the house.

He found himself now on a small landing with a skylight above him, and a door on his right. There was only one door, leading assumedly to an attic.

Before entering the door, he turned and peered down the stairs up which he had come. All was quiet. He waited, so it seemed to him, five minutes, but probably it was only one. Then he turned to the attic door again, and regarded it.

Risking the sound, he struck a match. A key was in the door, and this immediately suggested his plan. He stretched his hand forward, and turned the key. The door was now locked, with the initiative on his side, and he was free to negotiate.

‘Oi!’ he whispered, through the keyhole. ‘Hennybody there?’

No answer came. He repeated the inquiry, a little more loudly, but not too loudly, lest the thing below stairs should hear. Then, as again no answer came, and as he heard neither breathing nor snoring, he felt free to turn the key, and open the door.

Another match revealed the chamber, and proved that, although less pretentious from the architect’s point of view, it had certain advantages over the lower rooms he had already sampled. The first advantage was a half-used candle, sticking upright in a pool of its own grease on the mantelpiece across the floor. Ben made for the candle promptly, and by its comparatively brilliant glare noted the other advantages of the attic.

An old chair, battered but still serviceable, was near the fireplace. Three or four packing-cases, which could be used as tables or firewood, stood about. And the key in the door was another advantage, for it offered security.

But before Ben could finally approve of the room, two other doors had to be investigated.

One door, by the fireplace, led to an inner room somewhat similar to the outer room. Rendered courageous by his candle, he made a thorough examination of this inner chamber, discovering that it possessed no other entrance, and that it contained a fair-sized cupboard.

The other door of the outer room, at right angles to the passage door, and close to it, refused to open. It was locked—as the door down in the basement had been—and there was no key.

‘This is a better pitch,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll stay ’ere till the mornin’, any’ow, and the feller dahnstairs can ’ave the bottom ’arf. Sort o’ maisonette.’

Some packing-cases stood under a rather high window. He climbed on to them, and peered out. Fog still as thick as ever. Climbing down again, he selected the most dilapidated case, and split it up.

‘Might as well ’ave a bit o’ cheer,’ he muttered. ‘And it’s time, I reckons, fer them pork an’ beans.’

Fortunately, there were some odd scraps of paper in the packing-case, and these served to start the fire. Throwing some wood on top, he soon had a good blaze, and the warmth welled into him, making life good once more, and dispelling some of his tremors. Thus many another has enjoyed the calm before the storm, smiling for a short period in the false assurance of a temporary security.

His good humour increased when he opened the packet which contained the tin of pork and beans. The old proprietress of the Emporium had added a chunk of bread and a slice of cheese. Best bob’s-worth he’d ever known. This was a bit of all right!

‘Me own mother wouldn’t ’ave done more fer me,’ thought Ben. ‘Wot it is ter ’ave a ’andsome fice!’

But, although he made light of it, the old woman’s kindliness warmed that bare, uncomfortable room almost as much as did the crackling blaze. In the midst of all this uncouthness and uncanniness, of fearful possibilities and tremulous thoughts, a peaceful, human smile lurked somewhere. It stood for the tiny gleam that no blackness can ever totally extinguish, though often enough we seem to lose it in our groping, and forget that it is there. Yet, however faintly it burns, it never flickers out, for it is independent of material substance.

He had some difficulty in opening the tin, and might have been reduced to stamping upon it but for a nail which he wrenched from one of the packing-cases. Putting the tin carefully on the fire, he watched its congealed contents soften and warm, munching bread and cheese to assuage his impatience. He had no spoon, so he stirred the pork and beans with his finger, to help them on their way, and also for the pleasure of sucking his finger afterwards. The operation was so successful that he stirred the pork and beans several times, until they got too hot for the process. Then, to ensure peace with his meal, he tiptoed out on to the landing once more, and listened.

A blessed silence greeted him.

A faint noise in the room he had just left, however, disturbed the blessedness. His mind instantly flashed to the locked door, and he visualised it slowly opening, and heaven knows what coming out! Had he stopped to think, he might have fled downstairs, but the two things he loved best in all the world were in that room—the pork and beans and the candle—and they were worth some risk in this house of risks. He returned to the room rapidly, and disturbed a little mouse enjoying a crumb of cheese.

‘’Ere—wotcher mean, pretendin’ ter be a ghost?’ demanded Ben indignantly.

The mouse, like Ben, became divided against itself. This great, hulking thing was a terror; but the cheese was wonderfully succulent. Two reproachful eyes peered up at Ben from the boards.

‘Oh, go hon—don’t mind me!’ jeered Ben. ‘But, look ’ere, Charlie, you was ’ere while I was gorn—didjer see that there door a-movin’ jest nah?’

He jerked his thumb towards the locked door. The mouse, still eyeing him solemnly, refused to commit itself.

‘Boo!’ cried Ben.

A frenzied flash, and the mouse was gone. Ben felt no animosity against the mouse, but it gave him a sort of satisfactory feeling to frighten something. Moreover, it suggested a pleasant theory. If he could scare a mouse, without any desire to harm the mouse, why could not something scare Ben, without any desire to harm Ben?

This thought was rudely disturbed by a new emotion. The tin on the fire slipped, and began to pour itself out.

‘Oi!’ gasped Ben. ‘’Arf a mo’!’

He rushed across, and rescued the tin, nearly scalding his hand in the process. Luckily, not more than a penn’orth had flowed away.

Many strange things were destined to happen in this room within the next twenty-four hours, and while Ben is busy with his pork and beans, it may be as well for us to examine the room a little more closely. Its walls and ceiling were in a most dilapidated condition. The paper was yellow with age, and in some places had peeled right off. In others, it was peeling. Here and there, bits of the ceiling had come down, and the vibration caused by the trains that ran under the house suggested one cause of this. The trains could still be heard from the attic, though the sound was naturally fainter and more muffled than it had been down in the basement.

Facing the door by which Ben had entered the room, and with our back to the opposite blank wall, we note two or three packing-cases that lined the left-hand wall, ceasing at the locked door which Ben had not been able to open. This locked door was near the corner of the room, and round the corner came the door to the passage—a small passage containing, in addition to the attic door, nothing more notable than the head of the descending staircase, and above, in the low roof, the skylight. Inside the room again, to the right of the passage door as one turned and faced it, were more packing-cases. By climbing upon them one could reach a small, high window, which Ben had noted with satisfaction was closed. Then, round the corner to the next right-hand wall, came a bare space, the door leading to the inner chamber, the fireplace, and the single, battered chair.

Such was the configuration and furnishing of this room of destiny, where an out-of-work seaman sat dispatching pork and beans.

His simple meal over, Ben smiled contentedly, and prepared once more to make himself comfortable for the night—or, for the rest of the night. Towards this end, he poked his head into the inner chamber, assuring himself again that it was empty, and made one last effort to get the locked door on the opposite wall open. Failure, of course, greeted this effort. Finally, he stepped out on to the little landing …

‘Ah, not this time, lovey!’ he chuckled, as a soft sound came to him—not from below. ‘I ain’t feared o’ mice no more!’

The soft sound continued, and he tiptoed back to the room to give his little friend another surprise. But no small eyes greeted him this time. Nor was there any flashing scurry. His grin froze on his face, as he realised that, this time, a mouse was not responsible.

Ben had not gained a reputation for speed in the Merchant Service, but there were times when he acted quickly. This new soft sound was worse than anything he had heard—he could not define it, or place it. But it was up here—somewhere—which meant that Ben must get down there, anywhere, He scampered down the stairs like a frightened rat.

But, even in that mad scamper, he stopped dead at the head of the stairs that led down to the ground floor. Someone was below, with footsteps as hurrying as Ben’s.

And the footsteps were coming up.

6

Under the Lamp-Post

The fog did not lift through the night. London awoke to another day of yellowness, the optimists rubbing their eyes, the pessimists croaking. More blind groping, more wheezing and coughing, and more traffic strangulation. Only the companies that profited by artificial illumination, and the children who profited by the absence of their governess, smiled as they greeted the opaque morning. The rest of the world saw small joy in the adventure.

All day long, the ineffective lamp-post outside the house of strange happenings flickered intermittently upon the number, ‘17,’ Often, the number could not be read at all, despite the nearness of the light, but sometimes the fog thinned a little, and then the number grew out and vaguely beckoned. But few of the few people who passed along that unfrequented road troubled to notice it. Why should they? And, certainly, no one thought of answering its grim invitation.

A fog is bad enough. Who wants an empty house thrown in?

Between three and four in the afternoon, however, a passer-by might have paused. The house was dark and silent, saving for a very faint flicker in the top room. This flicker suddenly disappeared, to reappear a few seconds afterwards behind a window on the lower floor. Then, again, it vanished, and then again it appeared on the ground floor. After that, it vanished completely.

And then a passer-by did indeed come along, and appear to respond to the house’s grim invitation. He was a man with a crooked shoulder, and he paused outside the house and looked at it. As though to ensure his interest, the fog thinned momentarily, allowing the street lamp to shine more clearly on the number ‘17,’ and even revealing, for an instant, the front door.

The front door was ajar.

The man with the crooked shoulder looked at the door; then, turning his head, he glanced up and down the street. His eyes, of course, met nothing, since another man could have been standing five feet off without being seen. When he turned his head back to the front door, the fog had thickened again and he could no longer see the door. But he knew the door was ajar, and the knowledge fascinated him.

He stood there, perhaps, twenty seconds. Then, suddenly, he slipped into the house, and the door closed behind him.

And now it really seemed as though that silent street of ghosts and whisperings began to wake up and enter the arena of more normal, commonplace matters. A new figure groped its way along the pavement, a figure, this time unsinister and fashionable.

‘Hey! W-where are you?’ it stammered. ‘Where the d-dickens—’

It turned, and looked back—or tried to look back—along the way it had come. A well-dressed young man, with a good-natured, pleasant face, was revealed by the lamp-light. The lamp-post itself was revealed to the young man only when he backed into it.

‘Hallo! So there you are!’ he cried, in a voice of relief. ‘Where the devil did you g-get to, old chap? I—’

He stopped abruptly, as he turned to the lamp-post. Good-humoured annoyance shone on his features.

‘Oh! It’s you, is it?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, h-haven’t you got something b-better to do than to stand there pretending to be a h-h-human being?’

He brushed himself, then raised his voice and called into the callous mist.

‘Fordyce! FORDYCE! Where the devil are you?’ He strained his ears for a reply, but none came. ‘Oh, all right—I don’t care!’ he ran on. ‘But just tell me this. W-what’s the b-bally use of a f-feller who meets a f-feller and can’t stick to a f-feller in a f-fog?’

No one answered the question. He veered round, shook his fist at the lamp-post, and then leaned against it. In his depressing circumstances, no little bit of comfort the street offered could be neglected.

‘What weather!’ he muttered. ‘Lovely! Sunshine in L-London, thirteen hours decimal eight. I don’t think. Je ne pense pas. Ich glaube nicht. And in all the other b-bally languages!… I s’pose this is London? Upon my soul, it m-might be Timbuctoo for all one can s-see of it.’

He waited a minute, then raised his voice and called again.

‘Fordyce! Fordyce! Gilbert Fordyce! Fordyce Gilbert! B-biggest ass that ever was, is, or w-will be, where are you?’ He began to cough suddenly. ‘There, that’s done it! Broken my beastly larynx now. Well, I’ll say this for you, old m-man. You may be a damned fool and s-stutter—yes, some p-people say you d-do stutter—but you’ve got the temper of a bally saint. H-haven’t I, my long friend?’ He gave the lamp-post a friendly, familiar slap. ‘I say, you don’t mind my talking to you, do you, old chap? Thanks, very much. Most awfully obliged. Even a lamp-post’s company—when there ain’t n-nobody else.’

As though in response, and to show what good company it could be, the light made an extra effort, and illuminated the number on the door-post. The young man stared at the number, and blinked. ‘No. 17, eh? Sweet seventeen! Made a lot of m-money on you once at dear old Monte Carlo. Good old seventeen—hallo! W-who …’

The front door swung open suddenly, and a figure hurried out. It was the figure of a man with a crooked shoulder. He seemed in a considerable hurry, for he blundered down the steps and was into the young man before he knew it. The young man fell back against the lamp-post.

‘What the hell—!’ muttered the blunderer.

‘Eh? Oh, don’t mention!’ replied the young man. ‘I like it!’

The next moment he was alone again. The other had vanished. The young man stared into the void.

‘Hi! W-wait a minute!’ he cried, waking up. suddenly. ‘W-what’s the hurry? I’m not c-contagious! Hi!’

He ran after him, and the road was empty once more. And, almost as though it had waited until there were no observers, the light in the house which had descended from the top now reappeared, and began to ascend again. It flickered dimly behind windows of the ground floor and first floor. Soon, it reached the top floor. Then, all at once, it went out …

‘Eddie!’ called a voice, along the street. ‘Eddie! Where are you?’

A tall, strong-limbed young man felt his way up to the lamp-post. He had come from the same direction as the stutterer, and was in the same predicament. But he did not expend his emotion upon the unresponsive lamp-post. Instead, he paused when he came to it, muttered, ‘Damn!’ and lit a cigarette.

And as he did so, the door of ‘No. 17’ burst open, and a terrified figure came flying out.

‘Hello—what’s all the excitement?’ exclaimed Gilbert Fordyce, catching hold of the flying man’s collar.

‘Gawd!’ choked the terrified figure, and hung limp in his captor’s grasp.

7

Ben Tells His Story

Fordyce regarded with sympathy the sorry specimen of humanity hanging limply on his arm, but he did not allow that sympathy to affect his actions or his judgment. Here was some matter, clearly, which required careful investigation, so he tightened his grasp—for many a rascal ‘acts floppy’ before a frantic attempt to escape—and shook his captive gently.

‘Now, then,’ he repeated, ‘what’s all the excitement? Come along!’

His captive made no movement, and Fordyce concluded that he was not shamming. Still, he did not loosen his grip.

‘Pull yourself together!’ he urged, with another shake. ‘Wake up!’ He called again more sharply, ‘Wake up!’

‘’Elp!’ bellowed the man, suddenly obeying his captor’s injunction, and waking up. He woke up so effectively that he began to struggle.

‘Whoa! Steady!’ reproved Fordyce. ‘Don’t be a fool! What’s the matter?’

‘Lemme go!’

‘Certainly—when you’ve explained your hurry.’

‘’Urry,’ chattered the limp figure. ‘Gawd! You’d be in a ’urry if yer’d seed a corpse!’

Fordyce frowned, and studied the man a little more intently.

‘Corpse, eh?’ he said seriously. ‘So you’ve seen a corpse?’

‘Yes,’ whined the man. ‘Lemme go, guv’nor. I ain’t done it! I ain’t done it.’

‘By Jove, this is serious. I—whoa! Whoa!’ For the man had begun to struggle again. ‘Steady, there! One mustn’t run away from corpses, you know—it looks suspicious. Tell me some more about this corpse.’ The man stopped struggling, and stared stupidly. Fordyce realised that whatever story lay behind the fellow’s terror could only be elicited by patient cross-examination. ‘Do you live in that house?’ he asked quietly.

The man shivered.

‘Wot—me? Live there?’ he answered. ‘Live there? Lummy, no!’

‘Ah. You don’t?’

‘Nah!’

‘Sort of—lodger, eh?’

The man shook his head.

‘It’s a hempty ’ouse, guv’nor, see? Hempty ’ouse.’

‘Oh, empty?’

‘Yus.’

‘Well, then,’ proceeded Fordyce, ‘if it’s empty, what were you doing there? Come along! What were you doing in this empty house?’

‘No ’arm, guv’nor, s’elp me!’ mumbled the man.

‘I didn’t say—’

‘Got in yesterday, guv’nor, ter git a bit o’ shelter, see? Didn’t mean no ’arm, guv’nor. Out o’ work, see?’

Fordyce nodded, and now he let the man go, but he watched him narrowly for tricks.

‘I see,’ he said gently. ‘Poor devil!’

‘That’s right, sir,’ exclaimed the man eagerly, somewhat reassured by the other’s attitude. ‘Poor’s right. Lorst me ship, guv’nor, and no fault o’ me own. Ain’t got no money. Ah, but I never murdered ’im! No, sir, I ain’t that sort, s’elp me, I ain’t!’

‘Who says you murdered him?’ retorted Fordyce, frowning. ‘If you say that any more I’ll begin to think you really have! Let’s get on with this. You’re an out-of-work sailor, I take it—’

‘That’s right. Merchant Service.’

‘Good. It’s noted. And you say that house is empty?’

‘That’s right. Hempty as my grave.’

‘Charming simile!’

‘Wot’s that?’

‘Never mind. Who’s in there now?’

‘Nah?’ said the seaman, staring stupidly. ‘Wot—nah?’

‘Yes, now,’ replied Fordyce sharply. ‘At this moment.’

‘Only—’im,’ muttered the seaman, with a shudder.

‘’Im? Oh, the corpse.’ An idea suddenly occurred to Fordyce. ‘Tell me, do you drink?’

‘Yus. No!’

‘Quite a Parliamentarian,’ observed Fordyce dryly. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘Ain’t ’ad a drop,’ answered the seaman.

‘Honour bright?’

‘Ain’t ’ad a charnce!’

‘All right, I’ll take your word for it,’ smiled Fordyce. ‘Like a drop now?’

The sailor’s eyes popped. He eagerly seized the flask that was held out to him, and put it to his lips. When he judged the right moment had come, Fordyce took the flask away from him gently but firmly, and then proceeded with the cross-examination.

‘Now get on with your story, and be quick about it,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll have a look round—’

‘Wot—go hin?’ exclaimed the seaman, pausing in the act of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Yes, of course.’

The seaman shook his head very decidedly.

‘I ain’t goin’ back into that ’ouse, guv’nor,’ he observed, ‘and doncher think it!’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ returned Fordyce grimly, and seized the man’s collar again swiftly. He was only just in time. ‘Now, understand me once and for all, old son,’ he remarked, with quiet assurance. ‘It isn’t likely that I’m going to pass this house, after what you’ve told me, without going in. And it isn’t likely that I’ll relieve myself of your company until I have gone in. Struggling’s no use. No earthly. Have you got that? Don’t be a fool, and act like a criminal before anyone accuses you!’

‘I tells yer, stright, I ain’t goin’ back inter that ’ouse,’ muttered the seaman miserably. ‘It’s give me the fair creeps, it ’as.’

‘Creeps, eh? Well, of course, a corpse isn’t exactly lively company.’

‘Ah, but it wasn’t the corpse wot started it,’ explained the seaman sepulchrally. ‘I got the creeps afore that. When fust I gits in the ’ouse, sir, there ain’t nobody helse in the blinkin’ plice, see? S’elp me, there wasn’t. I goes hover the ’ole plice—leastwise, most of it—and there ain’t nobody. But, afterwards—I ’eard things. Gawd, I ’eard things!’

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