Ben Sees It Through

Ben found himself staring at the vague silhouette of her figure as she stood before him. It occurred to him that another lady he’d heard of called Venus de Smilo or something wasn’t in it with Molly Smith. This superior silhouette just a few inches away from him wasn’t only pretty. It was companionable. Matey. And prettiness wasn’t really no good unless it was matey, too. When you thought of the darkness outside, and of the unfriendliness of it, and of the size of it—it stretched as far as the stars, with nothing in between—it sort of frightened you. But you only had to hold out your hand an inch or two and touch that silhouette, and—well, then everything was all right, wasn’t it?…

‘You know, Ben—we haven’t got it all straightened out even yet,’ said Venus’s superior. ‘Tell me! What did—old Diablo want? Was he trying to get that address when he started on your pockets, do you think?’

‘I dunno wot ’e was arter,’ answered Ben.

‘You believe it might have been something else?’

‘Lummy, it’s a riddle! See, e’ arst if the chap wot was dead ’ad give me somethink—’

‘And did he?’

‘Wot?’

‘The man who’s dead—you said his name was White, didn’t you?—did White give you anything?’

‘No!’

‘No! But Don Diablo thought he might have! Look here, Ben, how does this sound to you? Do you suppose Don Diablo killed White—never mind for the moment how he did it—do you suppose he killed him because he wanted something White had on him? And, as you were with White, Diablo now thinks that you’ve got it on you?’

‘Got wot?’

‘What Diablo thinks you’ve got?’

‘Wot’s that?’

‘Oh, Ben! How’ve you lived all this time?’

‘Eh?’

‘With no one to look after you?’

‘People don’t look arter me—they runs arter me!’

‘And now this beastly Spaniard’s joining in the chase!’

‘Yus. Corse, there was that pocket-book that barmy barmaid talked abart, but ’e didn’t give me no pocket-book, orl ’e give me was this cap, and if yer arsk me,’ added Ben, as his mind harped back to the inn, ‘that barmaid ’eard more’n wot ’appened, and then said more’n wot she ’eard. There’s some folks turn a pea inter a mellon afore yer can say Jim Crow!’

‘Yes, yes, but we’re not getting anywhere!’ sighed Molly. ‘You know, Ben, I think I’m right—I think Don Diablo does believe you’ve got something that he wants! P’r’aps it’s only the address White gave you—the address of the job, you know—though what he could want with that I don’t know. It may be something else. By the way, what is the address?’

‘Eh? Oh! I’ve fergot.’

‘But wasn’t it written down—’

‘Oh, yus, that’s right. In me pocket. ’Ere it is.’

He groped in his pocket, while she watched him. He groped in all his pockets.

‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he muttered. ‘Where’s it gorn?’

But now she wasn’t watching him. Footsteps again resounded in the lane outside. Tottering, staggering footsteps.

‘Funny,’ thought Ben, ‘’ow nothink can go right.’

A moment later, something fell with a thud against the door.

7 (#ulink_f6303c68-4095-5af2-ba81-1b432fe0b582)

Wanted, an Address (#ulink_f6303c68-4095-5af2-ba81-1b432fe0b582)

A thud is not a subtle sound. It is crude and blatant; but the very blatancy gives it a special distinction of its own. A footstep may be a murderer or a sweetheart. A creak may be a policeman or a child. A bell may be a creditor or a rich uncle. But a thud, in nine cases out of ten, eliminates all pleasant possibilities. It is a call to the listener that something has gone wrong.

And now the two inmates of the lonely barn knew that something had gone wrong on the other side of the barn-door. The question presented itself, should they risk their security by attempting to right what was wrong?

The question lingered only in the muddy mind of Ben. Molly, residing closer to the full range of her reactions, needed but a second to find the answer. The second over, she crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open.

On the coarse grass that separated the barn from the lane lay the crumpled figure of a man.

As Molly stared down at it, her silhouette now more distinct against the background of lane and evening sky. Ben roused himself from his momentary stupor. Lummy, you couldn’t let a slip of a girl face whatever she was facing all by herself! That was hardly in line with the best traditions of St George and the Merchant Service. No matter what your stomach was doing (and these things always hit you first in the stomach, just in the space that was waiting for food), you had to go and face it with her! That was right, wasn’t it?

So, before Molly had finished staring, Ben joined her and added his startled eyes to hers. And, having roused himself to this extent, he went farther and produced the first comment.

‘Dead, miss, ain’t ’e?’

In such moments of tension habit came on top, and the pleasant intimacy of ‘Molly’ was forgotten.

The girl did not reply. The words that expressed her own unspoken fear whipped her into action, and she stooped suddenly to examine the figure more closely.

‘Go ’way!’ murmured the figure.

She jumped up, in surprised relief. The surprise shot her back into Ben, for the Merchant Service, despite its good resolutions, had kept behind, guarding the rear, like. Now the Merchant Service toppled down on its own rear, like, and murmured shakily from the ground,

‘Wot did ’e say?’

The information was supplied by the other figure on the ground.

‘Go ’way!’ repeated the recumbent intruder. ‘Go ’way!’

The advice seemed excellent. Just the same, it had to be thought about.

‘’E’s drunk,’ reported Ben in a whisper, as he reassumed the perpendicular.

‘Dead,’ nodded Molly.

‘Eh?’

‘Dead-drunk.’

‘Oh! Well, it’s ’is licker, not our’n. Let’s ’op it!’