J. Farjeon - The House Opposite

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain for Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1932

Copyright © Estate of J. Jefferson Farjeon 1932

Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover background images © shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008155865

Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008155858

Version: 2016-06-28

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Part I: Number Twenty-Nine

Chapter 1: The Caller

Chapter 2: Creaks

Chapter 3: Ben Accepts a Job

Chapter 4: At the Coffee Stall

Chapter 5: The Contents of a Parcel

Chapter 6: A Taste of Death

Chapter 7: The Will of a Woman

Chapter 8: Ben Finds New Quarters

Chapter 9: The Seat

Chapter 10: Back Again!

Chapter 11: What You Can Do When You Matter

Chapter 12: How Not to Kill an Indian

Chapter 13: A Queer Association

Chapter 14: Ben Sees a Murder

Chapter 15: Ben Commits a Murder

Chapter 16: Ben Takes the Plunge

Part II: Number Twenty-Six

Chapter 17: The Spider’s Parlour

Chapter 18: Cocktails in Jowle Street

Chapter 19: Mr Clitheroe’s Big Idea

Chapter 20: Wheels Within Wheels

Chapter 21: Little Hymns of Hate

Chapter 22: The Friendly Surface

Chapter 23: Midnight

Chapter 24: Across the Roof

Chapter 25: Nadine Goes In

Chapter 26: Mahdi Takes Control

Chapter 27: When Morning Came—

Chapter 28: The Performance

Chapter 29: The Terms of Silence

Chapter 30: Ben Gets In

Chapter 31: Outside the Cellar Door

Chapter 32: The Conversation in the Hall

Chapter 33: The Long Wooden Box

Chapter 34: Into the Box

Chapter 35: Out of the Box

Chapter 36: And Life Goes on

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

‘GAWD!’ muttered the temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street. ‘That’s done it!’

He was eating cheese. His dining-table was a soap box. His view was peeling wallpaper. And his knife, fork and spoon were eight fingers and two thumbs. Not, of course, that one needs a knife, fork and spoon for cheese. Eight fingers and a couple of thumbs are sufficient for anybody.

Despite his primitive accessories and his faded, dilapidated view, the temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street had been quite content until this moment. He had lived in more empty houses than anyone else in the kingdom, and he knew a good one when he came across it. Beginning with No. 17, he had worked upwards and downwards, numerically, until his addresses had included every number under fifty. The usual method was to enter the houses slowly and to leave them quickly—and he had left the last one very quickly. But No. 29 had suggested a longer stay. Its peeling walls and rotting staircase had whispered comfortingly, ‘No one has been here for years and years, and no one will want to come here for years and years.’ This was the message of welcome one most appreciated …

But, now, this bell!

‘I ’aven’t ’eard it,’ decided the diner. ‘’Cos why? It ain’t rung, see?’

He continued with his cheese. The bell rang again. Again, the cheese halted.

‘Wot’s the good of ’is ringin’ like that when nothink ’appens?’ grumbled the diner. ‘If ’e’d got any sense ’e’d go away and know there was nobody ’ere.’

The bell rang a third time. The diner concluded that Fate was not going to let him have it all his own way. When people rang thrice, you had to decide between the alternatives of letting them in or ’opping it.

You could ’op it, in this case, through an open window at the back. It would be quite easy. On the other hand, it was a nice house and a nasty night. Sometimes boldness pays.

The bell rang a fourth time. ‘Gawd, ain’t ’e a sticker?’ thought the diner, and decided on the policy of boldness.

He had selected for his meal the front room on the second floor. He always liked to be high up, because it made you seem a long way off. Moreover, this was the only room in the house that was furnished. None of the other rooms had any soap boxes at all. Still, there was one disadvantage of being on the second floor. You had to go down two flights of creaking stairs to get to the ground floor, which you didn’t exactly hanker after in the evening. And then, murders generally happened on second floors.

The temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street faced the discomfort of the creaking stairs, however, because he felt he couldn’t stand hearing the bell ring a fifth time, and he felt convinced that, unless he hurried his stumps, it would. He hurried his stumps rather loudly. No harm in being a bit impressive like, was there? He even cleared his throat a little truculently. The world takes you at your own valuation, so you must see it’s more than tuppence.

Reaching the front door, he paused, and at the risk of his impressiveness called:

‘’Oo’s there?’

The bell rang a fifth time. He fumbled hastily with the latch, and threw the door open.

He had vaguely expected an ogre or a fellow with a knife. Instead he found a pleasant-featured young man standing on the doorstep. For an instant they regarded each other fixedly. Then the pleasant-featured young man remarked:

‘Say, you’re a little streak of lightning, aren’t you?’

‘You bin ringin’?’ blinked the little streak of lightning.

‘Only five times,’ answered the caller. ‘Is that the necessary minimum in your country?’

The little streak of lightning didn’t know what a necessary minimum was, but he was interested in the reference to his country. It suggested that it wasn’t the caller’s country. So did the caller’s bronzed complexion. Still, this wasn’t a moment for geography.

‘Wotcher want?’ asked the cockney. ‘No one lives ’ere.’

‘Don’t you live here?’ countered the visitor.

‘Oh! Me?’

‘Yes; you. Who are you?’

‘Caretaker.’

‘I see. You’re taking care of the house.’

‘Yus.’

‘Well, why don’t you do it better?’

‘Wot’s that?’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yus.’

‘Then why did you say “Wot’s that?”’