Murderer’s Trail. J. Farjeon Jefferson
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Название: Murderer’s Trail
Автор: J. Farjeon Jefferson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные детективы
isbn: 9780008155926
isbn:
‘P’r’aps I didn’t either,’ muttered the other.
‘Getting nervy, eh?’
‘Nerves your hat!’
‘Then what was it?’
‘A blankety rat, probably, running across the coal. Oh, shut your mug and let’s get back to it! Do you think you can find your way here all right? That is, supposing you have to?’
‘I suppose so. But wouldn’t you be coming with me?’
A contemptuous snort followed the question.
‘Bit of a darned fool, aren’t you?’ said the curt voice. ‘How am I going to manage that?’
‘How am I going to manage fourteen ladders and seventeen corners and ninety-six passages?’ came the retort, delivered with warmth.
‘You may have to!’ The warmth was reciprocated. ‘Anyway, Sims would manage the first half of the journey for you.’
‘What! With that load?’
‘Yes, with that load! Sims has muscles. And d’you expect I’d have taken you on board if I hadn’t seen yours?’
‘Maybe one of these fine days you’ll feel ’em!’
‘Maybe elephants grow grass on their heads! You’re a useful sort of a tyke, aren’t you? How the blazes could I get away? It’ll be all hands on deck if this little business comes along, don’t you worry!’
‘Yes, but s’pose—’
‘Do you suppose an officer can afford to be missing during an affair of that sort?’ cried the officer under consideration. ‘God, you used your brains at Hammersmith, didn’t you?’
Hammersmith! Ben stopped breathing. Hammersmith …
‘I used something else, as well, at Hammersmith,’ snarled the other; ‘and you’re going the right way to get a taste of it.’
‘Say—have you ever been at a murder trial, and seen the old man put on his black cap?’ asked the curt voice, after a momentary pause. ‘I reckon you’re going the right way to get something too. Now, listen! We’ve been here long enough. Get back to your quarters, Mr Hammersmith Stoker, and lie low till you’re wanted. And if you think of using that pretty little spanner I see in your hand, just remember the black cap.’
There was a silence, and the sound of moving feet. Then the slow voice observed, contemplatively:
‘We’ve all got to die some time, you know.’
‘Like hell, we have,’ agreed the curt man. ‘But there’s ways and ways. I prefer a bed to a rope.’
The voices were farther off. Now they ceased altogether. But Ben did not move. His spirit was lying, frozen, in Hammersmith.
A whisper close to his ear brought him back to coal.
‘For God’s sake, let’s get out of this before we suffocate!’ it said. ‘You and I’ve got to talk!’
Thud-thud! Thud-thud! Thud-thud!
‘’Oo are yer?’ muttered Ben.
‘Wait till we’re out,’ came the whispered response.
‘Yus, but ’ow do we git aht?’ Ben whispered back.
This time a brilliant little light answered him. It illuminated the improvised coal cavern, and revealed it as considerably smaller than he had imagined it to be. A few points and sharp edges dazzled close to his eyes; then, as the little light became more distant and the shaft changed its direction, shadows shot towards him from the points and edges, which now became blurred outlines beyond moving pools of black.
Suddenly the little light went out, and all was darkness again. Ben tried to hold his breath, and discovered that he was already holding it. When terrified, he had not the power to keep anything in reserve. That was why he frequently went beyond the reserve. Five long seconds ticked by. He thought he heard them ticking, but couldn’t be sure. Then the light was switched on again, almost blinding him.
‘Wotcher put the light aht for?’ he demanded weakly.
The situation was complicated by the fact that he did not know whom he was talking to. He was entirely vague as to what attitude he ought to adopt.
‘I thought I heard them coming back,’ replied the person who held the light.
‘Oi!’ said Ben. ‘Yer got yer foot in me marth.’
The foot moved away. So did the rest of the little warm bulk to which it belonged. Cautiously, Ben followed.
By painfully slow degrees, the journey proceeded. It seemed a mile long, but actually its length was only a yard or two. The foot that had been in his mouth proved, subsequently, of use as a sign-post. It was small and shoeless, and Ben developed a strange affection for it. While he saw it, there was hope. When it disappeared, overwhelming loneliness descended upon him, accompanied by a kind of panic. It must be remembered that Ben had been through a lot.
Once he caught hold of the foot just as it was vanishing, and hung on to it like an anchor.
‘What are you doing?’ came the sharp whisper.
‘Not gettin’ fresh,’ mumbled Ben; ‘but I ain’t got nothin’ helse ter go by.’
The foot slipped out of his grasp. He glued his eyes on it. Then it slipped over a precipice and vanished.
‘Oi!’ chattered Ben.
As there was no immediate response, he repeated his observation, and then a voice whispered up from somewhere below him.
‘You seem to love that word,’ said the voice; ‘but I wish you’d say it a bit softer.’
‘Where are yer?’ asked Ben.
‘On the ground.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Be quick! Want any help?’
‘Yus. Me boot’s got on top of me some’ow, and seems to ’ave caught on a ’ook.’
Two small hands appeared from the precipice over which his companion had vanished. He stretched one of his own hands towards them, giving the hooked boot a jerk at the same time. There was a crackle overhead, and the roof descended upon him.
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