Ben Sees It Through

‘It’s true. I’ve been in Southampton two days.’

‘I’m blowed!’

‘Well, try and blow a little less loudly!’ she warned him. ‘We’re not out of the wood yet!’

She crept away from him as she spoke and groped her way to the barn door. Then she came back again, and reported all clear.

‘If you was ’ere afore me,’ said Ben, who had been thinking, ‘why wasn’t yer on the dock ter meet me?’

‘Oh, I’ve not been in easy street,’ she answered, cryptically. ‘I would have met you if I could have. As it was, I got there just too late, and then I had to pick up the threads.’

‘Yer mean clues, like?’

‘That’s it. And they weren’t nice clues! When I heard about the murder, and that a sailor had jumped out of the taxi and disappeared—well, I guessed by the description that it was you. They’ve got you tabbed, Ben! We’ll have to do something about it.’

‘Yer mean, me descripshun’s aht?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But I ain’t done nothink, miss!’

‘Wasn’t it Molly last time?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, there’s no need to go back on a good thing! No, Ben, you haven’t done anything, but your whole trouble, ever since I’ve known you, is that you get mixed up with other people who have. You’ve got mixed up with this Spaniard—’

‘Yer mean, Don Diablo?’

‘That’s a good name for him! Yes, Don Diablo! And you’re mixed up with me—’

‘Now, look ’ere, miss—Molly,’ interposed Ben, seriously, ‘we ain’t goin’ ter ’ave none o’ that. You ain’t doin’ no more pickpocketin’, see, and wot you done afore weren’t your fault.’

‘Oh? Then whose fault was it?’

‘The fault o’ the street yer was born in.’

‘It’s a nice idea! But—were you born in Park Lane?’

‘’Oo?’

‘Your street didn’t turn you into a thief!’

‘Well, yer see—I comes from Nelson,’ mumbled Ben. He hated any kind of washing, even white-washing. ‘Any’ow, we ain’t thinkin’ o’ the past, we’re thinkin’ o’ the fuchure—’

‘When we ought to be thinking of the present,’ interrupted Molly. ‘How did you come to be in the taxi with—with the man who was killed?’

‘Yus, that was a funny bizziness right from the start, miss—’

‘Molly!’

‘Eh? Oh! Molly.’ He liked her little interruptions. They kept things warm, like. ‘Well, ’e ses he can find me a job, and so ’e arsks me ter come along with ’im, see, but fust ’e buys me a new cap—’

‘Why, did you lose your old one?’

‘Yus. It’s gorn ter see Father Nepchune.’

‘But why should he buy you a new one?’

‘Well, ’e was with me when the old ’un went. Barges inter me, and so ’e ses ’e must git me another. And we gits in the taxi, and ’e buys me the new cap—’

‘The one you’ve got on?’

‘That’s right. Bit of orl right, ain’t it? And then, jest as we’re goin’ ter the stashun, I suddinly thinks of you, like, and that letter I was goin’ ter ’ave waitin’ fer yer at the Post Orfice, so aht I nips ter send it orf, and I sends it orf, givin’ yer the address o’ that job I was goin’ ter, and then—blimy, I gits a shock proper.’

‘What happened?’

‘No good arskin’ me!’ muttered Ben, sepulchrally. ‘It ’appened while I was writin’ that there letter. I—I gits back inter the cab, see, and I ses “Ain’t I bin quick?” and ’e—’e jest stares back at me from the nex’ world, like. So I jest thinks, “Oi,” and ’ops it. Well, I arsk yer?’

‘I can guess what you felt like,’ she answered, with a little shiver. ‘And then?’

‘I told yer.’

‘What?’

‘I ’opped it.’

‘But the Spaniard? Don Diablo! You mentioned him.’

‘Oh! ’Im!’ Ben gulped at the memory. ‘’E’s a proper nightmare, ’e is! Fust time I bumps inter Don Diablo ’e ketches ’old of me with a blinkin’ ’and wot ’as a scar on it—funny thing, if a ’and ’as a scar on it, it jest mikes fer me!—but I gits away, on’y the nex’ time I don’t git away, see, and ’e arsks me a lot o’ questions, like wot was I doin’ with the deader, and did I know ’is nime, it was White, and did ’e give me hennythink, and wot was the address of the plice I was goin’ ter for the job. Lummy, tork abart a woman! Old Diablo’d beat a dozen. And then ’e begins to feel in me pockets, and me born ticklish, and then a bobby comes up, and ’e scoots, and I ’its the bobby, and then I scoots—’

‘Sh!’ whispered the girl, suddenly, and gripped his arm.

Ben stopped abruptly, with his mouth still open. Footsteps were sounding along the road.

For a few seconds they listened in strained silence. The footsteps grew closer, and as they grew closer they also grew slower. Molly slid suddenly to the barn door and began feeling about in the dimness.

Ben knew what she was feeling for. A bolt, or a crossbar, or some contrivance that would secure them from outside.

Her search was unsuccessful.

The footsteps had now stopped. Then, all at once, the dead stillness was broken by a welcome little sound. A match was being struck. They even caught a momentary glow of the light as it flickered into brief life on the other side of a crack. A few moments later, the footsteps were resumed, grew fainter, and died away.

‘Aren’t we a couple of mugs?’ whispered Molly, returning.

‘Well, two’s better’n one,’ murmured Ben.

The words were hardly complimentary, but Molly smiled. She understood the meaning behind. Then the smile faded, and she became thoughtful.