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

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СКАЧАТЬ some quite large ones. I rather like spiders, too. Beetles, for some occult reason, I am less fond of. There is one room here practically devoted to them. A small room at the back, with three loose boards. But in spite of the condition of the house, and the livestock, a big price is being asked for it, because it is really a valuable property—’ he paused, and an odd expression came into his face ‘—yes, a very valuable property, and so we are waiting until somebody comes along who realises its worth. But the price, of course, has nothing to do with you.’

      ‘No, I ain’t buyin’ it,’ said Ben.

      ‘That I hardly expected, and I merely mentioned it in case any people who are sent here by the agent make any comments about the price which you otherwise would not understand. The agent is Wavell and Son. The original Wavell died recently, and it is the son who carries on. You may meet him some day, but that is not very likely. He rarely comes here himself, but just sends his clients on with a list, which includes this house among others on his books. Wavell and Son. Make a note of it. The address does not matter to you.’

      Mr Smith paused, as though considering what else to tell his new caretaker. Ben took advantage of the pause to put a question.

      ‘No, the address of the agent don’t matter ter me,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t ’urt ter know the address of the ’ouse I’m lookin’ arter.’

      ‘That certainly would not hurt,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘The house is in Billiter Road, and the number is Nineteen.’

      ‘Oh! Nummer Nineteen?’

      ‘Anything wrong with it?’

      There was a lot wrong with it. Earlier that day Ben had been cogitating over numbers, sorting out the lucky ones from the unlucky ones, and as we know he had decided that all the teen-numbers boded no good!

      ‘If there is, I carn’t alter it,’ he replied. ‘Okay. This is Nummer 19, Billiter Road, and it’s fer sale at a top price, spiders and orl, and the agent is Wavell and Son. I got orl that. Wot’s next?’

      ‘You will answer the bell and then leave whoever comes to go over the house, staying here in this room till they have gone—unless otherwise instructed. The bell is all you will answer. You are not here to answer questions. Or, for that matter, to ask them.’

      ‘Why should I arsk ’em?’

      ‘That was one. I am telling you you shouldn’t. In fact, Mr Jones, you must restrain your bump of curiosity in every possible way, on every possible subject. You will remain in the house, and you will not leave it until you receive permission.’

      Ben considered this last instruction. It had its virtues. He did not want to go out—for a while, at any rate. There might be a policeman at the corner, and although he could go up to him and say, if the policeman did not speak to him first, ‘I’m caretaker fer the bloke wot murdered the man on the park seat,’ it was his, Ben’s fingerprints that were on the knife, and the truth about them would appear a somewhat tall story. Though, admittedly, it might be to prevent the opportunity for such a statement that Mr Smith wanted his caretaker confined to the house.

      But there were objections to staying perpetually indoors. One was the obvious one of shopping. How was Ben going to buy his food? Yes, and how about the money to buy it with? The question of salary had not yet been raised.

      He dealt with these two important points in order.

      ‘’Ere’s a cupple o’ questions fer yer, if I should arsk ’em or not,’ he said. ‘Fust, I gotter eat? Ain’t I ter go ter no shops?’

      ‘There is some tinned stuff in the larder,’ replied Mr Smith, ‘and as I shall call periodically, you can always tell me if there is anything you need.’

      ‘I see. You does me shoppin’ for me, like?’

      ‘Won’t that be kind of me?’

      ‘So long as yer don’t fergit me supper beer. Wot’s periodic? Wot time do I expeck yer?’

      ‘When you see me.’

      ‘Oh! Yer couldn’t mike it a reg’ler time?’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Well, I jest thort it’d be more convenient like.’

      ‘More convenient for you to slip out and get that supper beer? No, Mr Jones, we will not make it a regular time.’

      Ben gave that one up, and tried the next.

      ‘’Ow much are yer payin’ me?’ he asked. ‘Ten pahnd a week?’

      ‘I am not paying you anything,’ answered Mr Smith. ‘Not at the start, anyway. Later on, if you are good, I may raise your wages.’

      ‘Yer carn’t raise wot I ain’t got!’

      ‘Aren’t you a devil for accuracy?’

      ‘I dunno wot that means, but I never worked fer nothink afore. Fer standin’ in front of a ’orse yer gits tuppence!’

      ‘You will not be working for nothing. You will receive both food and shelter, and since you cannot go out, what would you spend your pocket money on?’

      Then Ben gave that one up, too. But all at once he thought of another question, and it hit him bang in the middle of his stomach.

      ‘Guv’ner,’ he said. ‘Yer ain’t sent that photo ter the pleece, ’ave yer?’

      ‘As a matter of fact, I shall probably do so,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘Yes, thinking matters over, I am inclined to believe it will be the wisest plan.’

      Indignation mingled with apprehension in Ben’s breast as he heard this callous statement.

      ‘Wot! Send it orf, arter yer sed—?’

      ‘I made no promise.’

      ‘P’r’aps yer didn’t, but it’ll put a spanner in the works! Wot’s the good of engaigin’ me fer yer caretaiker if yer ’ave me ’auled orf ter the pleece stashun?’

      Mr Smith laughed. Ben’s indignation grew. For the first time he raised himself and sat up, glaring at Mr Smith with challenging eyes.

      ‘Yer wants it both ways, doncher?’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, yer carn’t ’ave it, ’cos it won’t work, see? I expeck that’s why I ain’t ter go aht of the ’ouse, in caise I’m reckernised from the photo, as I would be, not ’avin’ a ordinary fice like your’n that might be anyone’s—’

      ‘But you aren’t going out of the house—’

      ‘Yus, I knows that! But wot abart them ’ouse-’unters wot I’ve gotter show over? Ave yer fergot them? They’ll reckernise me—’

      ‘Oh, no, they won’t,’ Mr Smith interrupted again. And again he laughed. ‘Have a look at yourself.’

      He went to the wall and brought back the mirror, thrusting it before Ben’s face. Ben gazed at himself in stupefaction. This wasn’t him! It was another feller! And—lummy!—he had on a clean dark suit, and СКАЧАТЬ