J. Farjeon - Detective Ben

‘Well, I ain’t done nothink!’ his thoughts suddenly rebelled. ‘I’m goin’!’

These unpleasant seconds were getting on his nerves. But before he could act upon his decision a voice called to him quietly across the road.

‘Stay where you are, or get a bullet!’

‘That’s done it!’ reflected Ben miserably. ‘Quick—think of a story!’

His mind refused to respond, and when the man in the squash felt hat, a revolver now added to his visible equipment, had traversed the intervening twenty yards, Ben had nothing between him and the law but the naked truth. And, after all, what was wrong with the truth?

‘Who are you?’ asked the man.

‘Bloke,’ replied Ben.

‘What sort of a bloke?’

‘’Ollywood star.’

You might as well die game. Life couldn’t be an utter failure if you made your last word a joke. It was a pity, though, that the man with the revolver didn’t smile at the joke.

‘Let’s try again,’ said the man. He had patience, anyway. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Eh?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Nothink.’

‘Ever heard of the truth?’

‘Well, wotjer want me to say?’ demanded Ben. ‘Pickin’ ’ops?’

‘I’ve no doubt you’re quite good at hopping,’ remarked the man, dryly, ‘but two o’clock in the morning is rather late to be hopping about, isn’t it?’

‘It’s early fer me.’

‘Never go to bed?’

‘Yus. On’y they ain’t turned dahn the sheets yet at The Ritz.’

This time the man did smile. Ben smiled back, trying to consolidate the happier atmosphere. Funny, what a smile did! Couple of blokes meet, all glum. One of ’em smiles. Blinkin’ sun comes out!

‘Been here long?’ the man inquired next.

‘Depends wot yer call long,’ answered Ben cautiously. ‘Long fer a toothache, but not fer a nap.’

‘An hour?’

‘Lumme, no!’

‘Five minutes?’

Now for it! Ben took a deep breath and trusted to luck.

‘Abart that,’ he replied. ‘Or p’r’aps six.’

‘Six,’ repeated the man, thoughtfully. ‘Not longer?’ Ben shook his head. ‘But six was long enough for you to see something interesting?’

‘Yer mean—the deader?’

‘Yes. The deader?’

‘That’s right. I see ’im.’

‘Well?’

‘Well wot? I didn’t dead ’im.’

‘I know you didn’t.’

‘Go on!’

‘You couldn’t have.’

‘That’s right, sir. I didn’t of. But ’ow did you know? Every time anythink ’appens this side o’ China, it’s always Ben wot’s done it!’

‘Ben?’

‘That’s me. ’Aven’t yer never bought me on a postcard?’

The man in the squash felt hat stared at Ben rather hard. Solemnly Ben stared back. Then the man said:

‘I’ll tell you how I know you didn’t kill that fellow, Ben. I killed him myself.’

Ben opened his mouth and gaped at this self-described murderer. Lumme, he didn’t look that sort! But, of course, he had a revolver. Ben closed his mouth to swallow, then whispered hoarsely:

‘Coppers didn’t know, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, they knew,’ responded the man. ‘The chap was a wrong ’un.’

‘Well, I’m jiggered!’ murmured Ben. ‘And I thort ’e was jest a poor bloke like me!’

The man glanced at him sharply.

‘Oh—you knew something about him, then?’

‘Eh?’

‘What made you think he was just a poor bloke like you?’

‘Oh! Well—I come upon ’im, see? And findin’ ’im leanin’ there—well, orl crumpled like, I felt sorry fer ’im—you know, it bein’ late and orl that—and as I thort ’e was goin’ to commit suissicide I spoke to ’im—’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘I’m tellin’ yer. I didn’t know ’e was dead. I gener’ly seen ’em stiff. But, corse, that’s arter.’

‘Arter?’

‘Yus. Limp fust, stiff arter. “Doncher go chuckin’ yerself over,” I ses to ’im. “Stick it aht, mate,” I ses. That’s right, ain’t it? And then I looks at ’im a bit closer like—’cos ’e didn’t say nothink, see?—and, Gawd, ’e looks back at me from the nex’ Kingdom, if yer git me. It was—narsty.’

‘I’m sure it must have been,’ replied the man, with a note of sympathy. ‘And then what did you do?’

‘I arsk yer!’ answered Ben.

‘No, I’m asking you!’

‘Eh? Oh! Well, I come over ’ere.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cos ’e was over there.’

‘It sounds a good reason.’

‘You bet it was a good reason. If yer lookin’ fer a ’ero, guv’nor, it ain’t no good lookin’ at me! And arter that, the police car comes along, and now you’ve got the lot.’

‘No, there’s one more thing,’ said the man, lowering his eyes from Ben’s face.

‘Wot?’ asked Ben.

‘The thing you’ve got in your hand,’ responded the man. ‘How did you get hold of that ?’

Now Ben lowered his own eyes, also.

‘Lumme, ’ave I still got it?’ he muttered. Clutched in his fingers was the ugly little skullpin. ‘Well, it ain’t my pickcher!’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘On the ground. By the dead bloke. I was jest ’andin’ it back to ’im when I fahnd out—’

He stopped short and shivered, recalling the unsavoury moment.

‘When you found out that he was past needing it?’ queried the man.

‘That’s it, guv’nor.’

‘But how did you know it was his?’

‘I didn’t know. Come ter that, I don’t know. But yer puts two and two tergether, doncher, so I jest thort it might be, seein’ as ’ow it was next to ’is boot, and thinkin’, don’t fergit, that ’e belonged to one o’ them Suissicide Clubs.’

The man nodded, and regarded the pin meditatively.

‘Yes, it was his,’ he said.

‘Then wotcher arskin’ me for?’ demanded Ben.

‘I didn’t ask you if it was his, I asked you how you knew it was his. It was in his coat. I expect it must have dropped out.’

‘Well, I don’t want it in my coat!’ declared Ben emphatically. ‘Yer can ’ave it fer a birthday present.’

But the man did not take the offering. Instead he continued to regard it for a few seconds, and then raised his eyes again to Ben’s face.

‘In your coat,’ he murmured. ‘That’s an idea!’

‘Oh! Well, I ain’t ’avin’ the idea!’ retorted Ben. ‘And if yer’ve finished with me, can I go?’

The man made no answer. He seemed to be thinking hard. Suddenly it occurred to Ben that perhaps he was entitled to ask a question.

‘Wotcher kill ’im for, guv’nor?’ he inquired.

‘It was self-defence,’ said the man.

‘Ah—’e went fer yer?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Why?’

‘Let’s say—a guilty conscience. I told you he was a wrong ’un.’

‘Yus. Well, if ’e went fer yer, they can’t ’ang yer.’

‘Thanks for the consolation. But if they’d wanted to hang me, would those bobbies have left me behind?’

‘So they wouldn’t!’

‘Getting wise?’

‘Yer mean, yer a ’tec?’

The man nodded. ‘But even detectives make mistakes sometimes—’

‘Go on!’

‘—and I showed myself a bit too soon. Don’t ask any more questions for the moment. Just stand by. I’m thinking. Maybe—you can help me.’

‘’Ow luvverly!’ murmured Ben.

A new sense of discomfort began to enter into him. He was no longer afraid of this man. He was no longer threatened by either a revolver or the gallows. But he was threatened by something else—something that lurked in the grinning little skull he was holding, and the detective’s last words, and the depressingly likeable quality of the detective’s eyes. He was the sort of man you might easily make a silly fool of yourself for. Yes, you wanted to be careful of him, or you’d promise yourself into a pack of trouble!