Number Nineteen: Ben’s Last Case. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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СКАЧАТЬ swallowed, to clear his throat for the next. Of course the man knew Ben knew who had done it, but it is never pleasant to inform a murderer of his crime, especially when there is nobody else about.

      ‘You did it,’ said Ben.

      ‘Come, come!’ smiled the man.

      ‘That ain’t no good,’ retorted Ben. ‘I seen yer!’

      ‘I’m afraid that is no good, either,’ answered the man, ‘for is it not just what anybody in your position would say?’

      ‘Eh? In my persishun?’ repeated Ben, blinking. ‘I don’t git yer?’

      The man continued to smile. It was one of the least pleasant smiles Ben had ever seen.

      ‘Please do not disappoint me, my good man. I credited you with some intelligence. Are you speaking the truth? Don’t you really and truly get me?’

      And then, all at once, Ben did, and sweat appeared upon his brow.

      ‘Yer—yer ain’t meanin’—?’ he began, but he was interrupted before he got any farther.

      ‘Let us go slowly,’ said the man. ‘Sometimes it is not quite wise to say exactly what one means. We have plenty of time, and as this is going to be a long conversation, I think I will take a chair.’

      He turned away and walked towards a chair in the corner of the room. How about a dash while his back was turned? Ben had not heard a key turn, so evidently the door was not locked. Yes, that was it! A couple of leaps and then ’ell for leather! He wouldn’t get another chance.

      But unfortunately Ben was not in a condition for leaping. He could only leap in spirit; his body refused to oblige. Lummy, he didn’t half feel weak!

      ‘There is a mirror on this wall,’ remarked the man, as he reached the chair, ‘and I have something in my pocket which would get to the door before you possibly could. As a matter of fact, it would pass through you on its way. Let me repeat my advice. Take things slowly. You may find—if you are sensible—that your position has its saving graces.’

      ‘Savin’ ’oo?’ muttered Ben.

      As the man returned with the chair his teeth became prominent below his little moustache. He smiled with his teeth.

      ‘Do you know, I rather like you,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’

      ‘Winston Churchill,’ replied Ben. You might as well die game. ‘Wot’s your’n?’

      ‘I won’t respond with Clement Attlee. If you want something to call me—’

      ‘I could call yer plenty withaht no ’elp!’

      ‘I have no doubt you could, but I suggest Mr Smith. What am I to call you? I confess I find Winston Churchill rather a mouthful.’

      ‘Orl right. Yer can call me Jones.’

      ‘That being your real name?’

      ‘As much as I reckon Smith is your’n!’

      ‘Very well. Then that is settled—for the moment. I am Smith and you are Jones, and we are discussing the demise—or death, if you prefer simple terms—of a third party who so far has to be nameless.’ He sat down by the bed. ‘Oh, but perhaps you can tell me his name?’

      ‘Corse I carn’t!’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ow’d I know it?’

      ‘Well, it occurred to me that you might, since you were so obviously interested in him?’

      ‘’Ow was I interested in ’im?’

      ‘That is what I hope to learn, for only lunatics—and I haven’t yet decided that you are a lunatic, though it is a theory—only lunatics attack perfect strangers—’

      ‘Nah, then, I don’t want no more o’ that!’ interrupted Ben, with anxious indignation. ‘I never seed the bloke afore in me life, and you ain’t goin’ ter put that on me!’

      Mr Smith shook his head reprovingly.

      ‘I fear you are getting me all wrong,’ he said. ‘I am not putting anything on you—or, more correctly speaking, what I put on you need not matter. Your headache, Mr Jones, is what the police may put on you, and that actually is what you and I have got to discuss.’

      ‘The pleece carn’t put nothink on me!’

      ‘I wish I could agree.’

      ‘Well, as I didn’t do it—’

      ‘Somebody did it!’

      ‘Yus, but we ain’t torkin’ abart anyone else jest nah, we’re torkin’ abart me, and as I didn’t do it I ain’t got ter worry abart the pleece!’

      Mr Smith gave a little sigh, turned his head for a moment towards the door, and then turned it back again.

      ‘You really are being very difficult, Mr Jones,’ he complained. ‘Here I am, trying to help you—’

      ‘Oh, ’elp me, is it?’

      ‘Can’t you see?’

      ‘I couldn’t see that withaht a telerscope!’

      ‘You say the most delightful things. My desire to help you increases every moment, and the best way to prove it is to explain to you precisely what your position is, and what the police could put on you if you had the misfortune to meet them. I am afraid we can no longer mince matters, Mr Jones, and we shall have to say exactly what we mean, after all. And, come to think of it, you didn’t mince matters when you attempted to put the murder on me! Not many would forgive you for that, yet here am I, still sticking to you! Now, then, let us begin. You deny, I understand, that you stabbed the man on the other end of your seat?’

      ‘’Ow many more times?’ growled Ben.

      ‘One of your troubles, of course, is that you cannot prove an alibi. You know what an alibi is?’

      ‘Yus. It’s when yer can prove yer wasn’t where they say yer was.’

      ‘Correct. If ever you write a dictionary I shall buy a copy. And you cannot prove that you were not on that seat.’

      ‘Come ter that, ’oo could prove I was?’

      ‘Well—I could!’

      ‘That’s not sayin’ they’d believe yer.’

      ‘No, but then I could prove you were, if my word wasn’t good enough.’

      ‘’Ow could yer?’

      ‘You have a very short memory. Don’t you remember that, a few moments before the tragedy, I took a photograph?’

      ‘Lummy, so yer did!’

      ‘The police might give a СКАЧАТЬ