J. Farjeon - Detective Ben

‘Feelin’ fer the light?’ he asked.

‘We don’t need a light,’ replied the woman.

‘Oh, don’t we?’ murmured Ben. ‘Then ’ow do we see?’

‘We’ll see in a minute,’ she answered.

Now she was pressing something. A faint metallic drone responded. It seemed to come from heaven—if heaven still existed. Gradually it descended from the distant elevation, growing more distinct each second. A dim radiance appeared, gleaming through metal slats. ‘Corse, it’s a lift,’ thought Ben.

The lift reached their level and stopped. The drone ceased. A perfect hand reached over Ben’s shoulder—the woman was keeping studiously behind him—and pushed the gate aside.

‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked.

‘’Oo’s waitin’?’ retorted Ben.

He stepped in. The woman followed him and closed the gate. She pressed a button. The lift began to ascend, obeying a little finger that had power over the animate as well as the inanimate.

‘Which department are we goin’ to?’ inquired Ben. ‘Gimes and toys?’

‘You’re rather amusing,’ answered the woman.

‘Yus, reg’ler Charlie Chaplin. I mike the Chimber of ’Orrors larf.’

‘Do you make your victims laugh?’

‘That’s right. Tell ’em a limerick and kill ’em.’

The journey in the lift seemed endless, and the endlessness was accentuated by the fact that there were no glimpses of intermediate floors. The lift travelled up a long, unbroken shaft, giving Ben the sense that they would eventually emerge out of a large chimney.

‘’Ow much longer?’ he asked.

As he put the question the lift stopped. He stared at a blank wall beyond the metal gate.

‘Lumme, we’ve stuck!’ he muttered.

‘No, we haven’t,’ said the woman. ‘Turn round.’

He turned, and realised for the first time that there was another gate on the other side. It slid open as he stared at it, and so did a polished door. Now he stared into a luxurious little hall, with a soft purple carpet and heavily shaded lights. The rich comfort of the hall gave it a thoroughly unmurderous appearance … No, he wasn’t so sure. There was something sinister in the very softness of the carpet, something brooding in the stillness … Don’t be silly! Of course the place was still! You didn’t expect to see chairs and tables jumping about, did you?

‘Aren’t you going to move?’ asked the woman.

‘That’s right,’ answered Ben, jerking forward. ‘I was jest admirin’ of it, like.’

She followed him out, closed the gate, and slid the polished wooden door across. There was now no sign of the lift, for the door resembled the panelled wall on either side. They stood and faced each other in another world.

‘Do you approve?’ she inquired, with cynical amusement in her eyes.

‘’Ome from ’ome,’ replied Ben.

‘That’s satisfactory, since it may be your home for some little while. You know, of course, that you’ll be staying here till your next journey?’

‘Eh?’

‘Is your hearing bad?’

‘No. It’s a ’abit. So there’s goin’ to be another journey, is there?’

‘You didn’t suppose you were engaged for a short joy-ride in a car, did you?’

She spoke a little impatiently, but Ben guessed it would be a mistake to appear cowed.

‘If that was a joy-ride,’ he observed, ‘give me a chunk o’ misery. When do I start on this other journey?’

‘When I tell you.’

‘When’ll that be?’

‘Tomorrow—the next day—next week—next year. You’ll know when it happens.’

‘Wot—yer means I’ve gotter sleep ’ere?’

‘Of course! I gather already that apparent denseness is a part of your particular method, and I don’t say it’s a bad idea. I was told you were an unusual man. But you can shed your denseness with me, if you don’t mind, and save a lot of time. Now I’ll show you your room—and remember this instruction. You are to go into no other.’

‘Yus, but I ain’t brought my perjamers,’ remarked Ben.

She led him across the purple carpet to a passage. The passage was also carpeted, and their feet made no sound as they went along it. They passed two doors, one on each side. Ben strained his ears, but heard nothing behind the doors. No one came out of them.

Were he and the woman alone in the place? The evidence pointed to it.

He risked a leading question.

‘Orl the fambily asleep?’ he asked.

The question produced no reply. She was depressingly uncommunicative. They reached the end of the passage. Its termination was another door. She pointed to it.

‘Go in there,’ she ordered, ‘and don’t come out till you’re called.’

‘Do I put me boots out?’ he inquired.

‘Listen!’ she answered. ‘You’ve begun well, and I think you will do. There may be times when I will even enjoy your humour. But bear this in mind. You haven’t been engaged to play in a comedy.’

Whereupon she opened the door, pushed him in, and then closed the door. An instant later he heard the key turn.

‘Orl right!’ muttered Ben, while he listened for her retreating footsteps and heard none; the soft carpet gave away no secrets. ‘If it ain’t going to be no comedy fer me, it ain’t goin’ to be one fer you, neither!’

He rebelled against her abrupt departure. She had not even stopped to switch on the light. He stretched out his hand for the switch, touched something cold, and jumped away. He jumped into something soft, and jumped back. The cold thing was merely the doorknob, and the soft thing was only the side of a bed, but in the dark all things are horrible when you are not feeling at your best. It took him five seconds to recover.

He stretched out his hand again, more cautiously this time, for he was not certain of his exact position and he did not want to establish abrupt contact with any other objects. His position being quite exact, he touched the doorknob a second time, proved its identity, and worked his fingers north-westwards. It was good navigation. The fingers came to port at another cold thing. The electric light switch.

‘Got yer!’ murmured Ben.

He worked the switch. His only reward was the sound of the click. No light came on.

‘Narsty,’ he decided.

Leaving the door, he carefully retraced his way to the bed he had leapt against. He wanted to sit down. His knees weren’t feeling very good. But just as he was about to sit down—he was actually in process of descending—it occurred to him that somebody might be in the bed. This caused a rapid change of direction, and he sat down on the floor.

Well, for the moment, he would stay on the floor. When you’re on the floor you have had your bump, and you can’t bump any lower. Besides, by remaining where he was he would avoid the necessity of feeling the bed and perhaps finding something. Thus he took his rest on the carpet, and from this humble level set himself to think. His thinking shaped itself into a series of unanswerable questions.

‘Fust. ’Oo’s this ’ere woman?’

He stared into the darkness ahead of him, and the darkness remained uninformative.

‘Second. ’Oo am I?’

He could make more progress here, though not sufficient. He was the dead bloke he had spoken to on the bridge. And the woman had engaged him for some job. But if she had never seen him before, and had to identify him by a skull-pin, where had she engaged him from? A Murderers’ Registry Office?

‘Nex’. Wot is the job?’

Murdering certainly seemed to be connected with it. Had she not told him so, in effect, on the doorstep? Of course, that might have been just a bit of back-chat. She was a puzzle, she was—no knowing how to take her. And then do you engage people to kill each other at so much an hour, like sweeping a room? Go on!