Murderer’s Trail. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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СКАЧАТЬ If the captain had judged that Ben needed the chair, he had judged right. All sorts of funny things were happening inside Ben.

      ‘Now, then,’ said the captain, beginning again, ‘we’re not going to have any more nonsense. I want you to tell me, without any prevarication—you know what prevarication means—?’

      ‘Wobblin’, ain’t it?’ guessed Ben.

      ‘Well, that will do for our purpose,’ agreed the captain, with a faint smile. ‘Tell me, without any wobbling, what you are doing on board this ship, and why you came on board?’

      Now for it! Ben hesitated. If he told the truth, he would entangle the girl. That was what she’d said, wasn’t it? Well, he wasn’t going to tell the truth. Not yet, anyway …

      ‘’Cos of me mother,’ said Ben, as three pairs of eyes bored into him.

      ‘Oh! And what about your mother?’ asked the captain.

      ‘Yus,’ said Ben.

      ‘Is she on board too?’

      ‘Yus. No.’

      ‘Which do you want?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Where is she?’

      ‘Where I wanter git ter. She sent me a letter, see? “Come an’ see me,” she ses, “’cos p’r’aps I won’t be ’ere much longer.” That’s wot she ses.’ Ben looked out of the corner of his eye to see how the story was going. What he saw wasn’t very satisfactory. ‘So ’ere I am,’ he ended lamely.

      ‘Have you got the letter on you?’ inquired the captain.

      ‘I never keeps letters,’ he answered. ‘I bin blackmailed afore.’

      ‘Where was the letter sent?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Didn’t you hear?’

      ‘Yus, sir.’

      ‘Then answer me!’

      ‘Well, I am hanswering yer, but yer goes so quick. I ain’t feelin’ well. The letter was sent ter—well, ter where I lives.’

      ‘Where’s that?’

      ‘My ’ome.’

      ‘Give me the address of your home?’

      That was a nasty one. Ben hadn’t had a home for years. He began to wish he’d made up another story.

      ‘Popler Street,’ he said.

      ‘Popler Street where?’

      ‘Popler.’

      ‘Any particular number—or is the street all yours?’

      ‘Eh? Number 22. Tha’s it. Nummer 22 Popler Street, Popler, Lunnon.’

      There was a pause. The three men looked at each other. Two were impatient, but the third, the captain, remained unperturbed. He knew what the other two men did not know—that anger would develop hysteria or its antithesis, numbness. He had read Ben’s condition when he had offered him a chair.

      ‘Twenty-two, Poplar Street, Poplar,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Well—admitting that for the moment—was there anything else on the envelope?’

      ‘I tole yer,’ replied Ben. ‘Lunnon.’

      ‘No name?’

      ‘’Corse there was a nime.’

      ‘What name?’

      Ben looked at the captain suspiciously.

      ‘What name was on the envelope?’ the captain pressed. ‘Just “Ben, 22 Poplar Street, Poplar?”’

      This was getting too complicated. Ben gave it up, and waited for the next. The next was even more complicated.

      ‘Where did your mother write from?’ inquired the captain.

      ‘From where she is,’ countered Ben.

      ‘And where is she?’

      ‘Well, where this boat’s goin’.’

      This was too much for the third officer.

      ‘Yes, but where’s the boat going?’ he interposed angrily.

      ‘If you don’t know, you better sweep a crossin’,’ replied Ben.

      The captain turned to the third officer.

      ‘Mr Greene,’ he said, ‘we had better not have any interruptions.’

      For a brief moment, the world became sweet again. Ben grinned.

      ‘Tha’s right, sir!’ he chuckled. ‘Tick ’im orf!’

      The sweetness vanished. The captain was now frowning heavily at Ben.

      ‘You’ll be ticked off yourself, if you don’t watch that tongue of yours!’ he exclaimed.

      Now it was the third officer who grinned. The reaction and the grin sent Ben suddenly off his balance. He heard himself shouting. Perhaps the bump also had something to do with it. It was a painful bump.

      ‘I was born ticked orf!’ came his hoarse complaint. ‘Wot I was thinkin’ of, comin’ inter this world without fust askin’ everybody’s permishun, I’m sure I dunno! I’m a bit o’ mud not fit ter wipe yer boots hon—’

      ‘Say, do you allow this kind of language?’ interposed Mr Holbrooke.

      ‘Langwidge is like ’ens’ heggs,’ almost wept Ben. The room was growing misty. ‘If it’s comin, it’ll come.’

      Another silence followed this philosophy. When the heat had died down a little, the captain delivered his ultimatum.

      ‘I think I have been patient,’ he observed, ‘and I am willing to remain patient for a minute or two longer, but I warn you, my man, that if there are any more outbursts this interview will come to an end, and you will not receive the benefit of very considerable doubts. Please remember that I am making every excuse for you, in view of your condition. Now, answer the rest of my questions quickly and plainly, and do not let us have any more foolery. Do you know where this ship is going?’

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