J. Farjeon - No. 17

‘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.

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.