Number Nineteen: Ben’s Last Case

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, for 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 growing 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.’

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 …