Detective Ben

‘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!

Just the same, she had implied that this was not going to be a comedy, and with that Ben very earnestly agreed. Whatever her job was, he had a job of his own, and he was going to hang on to it till kingdom come. And it probably would come. But he could not complete his job till he knew hers. So what was it?

The darkness refused to tell.

‘Nex’. Wot abart this journey?’

Blank.

‘When’s it goin’ to start?’

Blank.

‘Where’s it goin’ to be to?’

Blank.

‘’Ow am I goin’ to git out o’ this ’ouse, s’posin’ I want to?’

Blank.

‘Yus, and wot’s goin’ on in this ’ouse? That’s the fust thing, ain’t it? Wot’s goin’ on?’

This time he received an answer startlingly, but though it was illuminating it merely threw light upon himself. A thin beam shot across the room, played on him for an instant, and vanished.

He leapt to his feet, to be out of its path if it reappeared. He stood stock-still in the new spot to which he had leapt. For five seconds nothing happened. Then the beam shot across the room again, picked him out as before, and vanished as before. It was following him.

‘Lumme, it’s one o’ them death rays!’ he thought, palpitating. A second thought was more comforting. ‘Then why ain’t I dead? So I ain’t!’

A sound outside the door switched his mind to a fresh unpleasantness.

‘She’s still outside!’ he reflected. ‘She’s bin there orl the time, listenin’. Crikey, ’ave I bin torkin’ in me think?’

The key turned. The door slowly opened. Once more the thin streak of light revealed Ben’s features. Its source was an electric torch, held in the hand of a tall, thin, shadowy figure.

4 (#ulink_e36893cc-e41c-52d3-9464-fa45ab0f7a9b)

The Man in the Next Room (#ulink_e36893cc-e41c-52d3-9464-fa45ab0f7a9b)

‘Good-evening, Mr Lynch,’ said a soft, effeminate voice. ‘That is, I take it you are Mr Lynch?’

Ben also took it that he was, and struggling to conceal his fright, he replied, with hoarse gruffness:

‘That’s me!’

‘It is a sweet name,’ went on the soft voice. It reminded one vaguely of dressmaking. ‘Almost too sweet to believe. So perhaps, after all, we need not believe it?’

‘Eh?’

‘I expect you have chosen it to indicate your habits?’

A thin, ghostly hand moved up to the speaker’s collarless neck, engaging it in a pale and flabby clasp.

‘The last one called himself Churchyard, but I always thought that was a grave mistake. It proved prophetic. Yes.’

‘I s’pose you know wot yer torkin’ abart?’ inquired Ben.

The visitor’s attitude was not balm to the spine, but at least he did not appear immediately menacing, and this circumstance assisted the process of recovery.

‘You,’ he answered. ‘Mr Harry Lynch. You will look charming one day in wax. Meanwhile, I am very pleased to meet you in the flesh and to welcome you to our little home. Do you like it?’

‘Well, I ain’t seen much of it,’ remarked Ben.

‘You will see more of it.’ He had been standing in the doorway, but now he suddenly entered, closing the door quietly behind him. ‘Perhaps more than you want, but that is only a guess. I spend a lot of my time guessing. Life is terribly boring, apart from its occasional highlights—yes, there are occasional highlights—and you must fill in the time with some occupation. Even staying in bed tires you, after a certain number of hours. Once I played golf. Yes, really. I got so I could hit the ball. But you can’t play golf here. So I guess. I guessed right about Mr Churchyard. Do you mind if I examine you a little more closely? You seem an unusually interesting specimen.’

Once more the electric torch—the only source of illumination—nearly blinded Ben.

‘’Ere, I’ve ’ad enough o’ that!’ exclaimed Ben.