Ben on the Job

Finally, just to round the incident off, he came to roost on the body of a dead man.

This was an obvious situation for a further bounce, but by now Ben was beyond it. Instead, he removed himself carefully, and then gazed, panting, at the thing he had removed himself from.

It was a well-dressed man lying flat on his back. He had pale cheeks—whether they were normally pale it was impossible to tell—and across one was a very ugly mess. Without this mess, as far as one could judge, the face would not have shown any special distinction. The lips were rather thick and loose, the features rather characterless, though here again judgment could not be final since the spirit behind the features had departed. Light hair sprayed untidily over a bruised forehead … Oh, yes! The man was dead. No doubt whatever about that. Ben was an expert on corpses. They just wouldn’t let him alone.

He recalled the first corpse he had ever come across. He had jumped so high he had nearly hit the ceiling. But now—though, mind you, he still didn’t like them—they usually had a less galvanic effect upon him. He could feel sorry for them as well as for himself. They must have been through a nasty time. This bloke, for instance …

He heard somebody coming down the stairs. The somebody from whose footsteps he had been flying. The somebody who had barged into the pail outside. But Ben did not move. He wasn’t going to run no more, not fer nobody. Not even fer the ruddy ’angman. You get like that, after a time.

‘Hallo! What’s up?’

It was a constable’s phraseology, but it wasn’t a constable’s voice, nor was it the voice of the passer-by who had been with the constable. Someone new. All right, let ’em all come! Ben turned his head slowly, and in the dimness saw a tall, bony man descending towards him. His big boots made a nasty clanging sound on the cold stone. His trousers were baggy. Not neat, like the trousers on the corpse. He had high cheek-bones, which looked even more prominent than they were as they caught the little light that existed in the basement. The light came through a small dirty window set in the wall at the foot of the stairs. His eyebrows were bushy. His hair was black. His nose was crooked. A boxer’s nose. That was a pity.

‘What’s up?’ repeated this unattractive individual.

‘Doncher mean, wot’s dahn?’ replied Ben.

Anyhow, it was easier to talk to this chap than to a bobby.

The newcomer regarded the prone figure on the ground with frowning solemnity. Having reached the bottom of the flight he did not move or speak for several seconds, and suddenly conscious of the length of the pause Ben blinked at his companion curiously. He was not reacting to the situation in a quite normal manner, although Ben could not have put it in those terms. What he would have said was, ‘’E don’t seem ter be be’avin’ nacherel like, if yer git me?’

‘Looks dead,’ the man said at last.

‘’E more’n looks dead,’ replied Ben. ‘’E is dead.’

‘Oh! You know that?’

‘I won’t stop yer, if yer want ter find aht fer yerself.’

The man removed his eyes from the dead to the living.

‘Did you kill him?’ he inquired.

‘I wunnered when that one was comin’,’ answered Ben.

‘Well, did you?’

‘Corse I did. I pops orf anybody ’oose fice I don’t like. That’s why I carry a pocket knife.’

The bushy eyebrows shot up.

‘Bit of a comic, ain’t you?’

‘Fair scream. ’Aven’t yer seen me on the telervishun, Saturday nights?’

‘I must look out for you. Meantime, suppose we stop being funny. What would you do if I went for a policeman?’

‘Well, there’s nothink like tryin’ a thing ter find aht, is there?’

‘True enough, but I reckon I’ll find out a bit more before I try! What did you kill him for?’

‘You carn’t learn nothink, can yer?’

‘Meaning you didn’t kill him?’

‘Corse I didn’t!’

‘You told me just now that you did.’

‘Well, fancy you arskin’. Wot abart me arskin’ if you killed ’im?’

‘How could I, as I’ve only just come?’

‘Sez you!’

‘What’s that mean? All right, all right, let’s get on with it! If you didn’t kill him, what are you doing here?’

Now what was the answer to that one? Ben pondered.

‘Come along! Out with it! You’ve been running like a bloody hare—’

‘Well, wasn’t you arter me?’

Ben thought that quite good, but it did not seem to satisfy his interrogator, who thrust his face closer to Ben’s. It was a nasty face, you couldn’t get away from it—and you wanted to get away from it!

‘You’re a queer cove, if ever I’ve seen one,’ grunted the man. ‘Is anybody else after you?’

That was a teaser, but Ben evaded it. ‘Ain’t one enough?’ he retorted. And then to divert further questioning on the point and to clear himself generally, he burst out, ‘’Ave a bit o’ sense! Yer chaised me in ’ere, didn’t yer, so if I’ve on’y jest come in ’ere ’ow could I of ’ad time ter kill that bloke, let alone ’ow I did it and why? Orl right! Now yer know why I’m ’ere, but yer ain’t said yet why you’re ’ere—’

‘I’m here because you’re here, you fool!’ exclaimed the man impatiently. ‘Haven’t you just said yourself I chased you in? Or would the right word be “back”? If you’d been here before you’d have had plenty of time, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, and so’d you,’ returned Ben, ‘with nobs on!’

Now, of course Ben knew he had not been here before, but—yus, come ter think of it serious like—he did not know that this unpleasant bushy-browed individual had not. Suppose he had? After all, in regard to the reason for their presences here at this moment, both were lying. Ben was not here through being chased by this man since it was not this man who had chased him. Therefore the man must have accepted Ben’s version for his own convenience, and his presence must be due to some other cause! Lummy, it was a fishy business from the word go! Because—another thing—here was a deader on the floor, and neither of them was making any move to get a policeman!

Suddenly the man’s mood changed. Or seemed to. ‘Don’t let’s lose our wool,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out who this fellow is, shall we? And how about picking up that broken chair?’

He moved forward and began to stoop over the victim of the as yet unsolved tragedy. His large hands groped about the dead man’s clothes. Ben glanced at the broken chair but did not pick it up. A piece of rope lay near it.

‘You wanter be careful,’ Ben warned his companion.

Ben’s mood was changing, also, although he could not decide just what it was changing to or whether the change would last. Bushy Brows had not become any more lovable, but his mood certainly seemed less threatening.

‘What do I want to be careful about?’ asked Bushy Brows. ‘He’s not going to jump up and bite me!’

‘Yer never know—I seen a chicken run abart withaht its ’ead,’ retorted Ben, ‘but I wasn’t thinkin’ o’ that. Wot I meant was—well, seein’ as ’ow this ain’t like jest stealin’, but a bit more serious like, and seein’ as ’ow you and me ain’t done it, sayin’ we ain’t—’

‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’