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

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       5

       Behind the Locked Door

      Well, here he was! And the question he had to solve, while he lay on the bed and contemplated his unenviable position, was whether to stay or whether to cut and run?

      He weighed the two alternatives in his own peculiar fashion. S’pose he cut and run? Where’d he run to? And if he couldn’t think of anywhere—and he couldn’t—when he stopped he’d find himself somewhere, and what would he do with his face? Not to mention his suit? If he got rid of his face, which he might do in a public lavatory, though even so it would be tricky—if he got rid of his face and regained his own, his own would not fit his posh suit, and he could not get rid of his suit without being subsequently arrested for wandering about in an immodest condition. He was quite sure that his own clothing, such as it was, had been confiscated by the much too thorough Mr Smith.

      Then there were other arguments against cutting and running. One, he was a suspect, and would soon be on the ‘wanted’ list for murder. Two, would he get farther than the street? ‘I bet that bloke’s watchin’ the front door!’ he reflected. ‘Or if ’e ain’t, that friend of ’is is! Don’t fergit, there’s more’n one of ’em in this set-up, even if yer ain’t seed more’n the one so fur!’ And, three—and this alone could have been the deciding factor—he really didn’t feel up to cutting and running. His knees felt that weak, and he was all wobblin’ inside like.

      The arguments against staying were, of course, equally numerous. It was goin’ to be no picnic, getting entangled in Mr Smith’s affairs. Why, lummy, he’d be workin’ for a murderer! And how was that going to look, when it came out? ‘Corse, I wasn’t reely workin’ fer ’im, sir, if yer git me. See, I was cornered proper, so I thort if I ’ung on fer a bit I might turn the taibles like, and find aht wot ’e was up ter. Well, that wasn’t goin’ against the pleece, was it? No, it was tryin’ ter ’elp ’em!’ As Ben imagined himself explaining himself thus to a police inspector, he was struck with the force of his own argument. It was all too completely true. He was cornered … and he did want to turn the tables on Mr Smith … but, continuing with the arguments against staying, there were those beetles and spiders, how he hated them both, and that rat, and there was that locked door. And had that been a cry he had heard?

      It was not beyond reason to expect, if he stayed, an exceedingly creepy night.

      Then, quite suddenly, came two visions that settled the matter for him. The first was of a larder containing tinned food. He needed food, and the need would increase, and was there any food for him outside? He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets—strangely clean and holeless—to find them, as expected, empty. Mr Smith was hardly likely to have left him with any money!

      But the second vision, though it did not arise out of any personal need, he found even more compelling. It was of the man at the other end of the park seat. At one moment, quietly making notes in a notebook. At the next, limp, with a knife in his back. Ben had seen plenty of dead people, but if they had nice faces, and this chap had had a nice face if a bit stern like, and if they hadn’t died natural, it upset him.

      ‘’E may ’ave a wife or a kid,’ thought Ben. ‘I’ll find aht wot Mr Smith’s gime is, and I’ll see ’e swings fer it!’

      Having come to which decision, Ben felt a little better. Okay! That was settled, then. Next?

      The next thing was to get up, see if his legs would obey him, and if by some miracle they would, use them to tour the premises and to find the larder.

      Cautiously he raised himself to a sitting position and steered himself round and off the bed. To his surprise he did not topple, and after a moment or two he took a few steps. These proved that he was weak all right, but he could manage. Jest tike it easy, and yer can manidge.

      He began to walk round the room. Its atmosphere of gloom was accentuated by the fact that the daylight was beginning to fade outside, and suddenly realising this he looked about anxiously for an electric light switch or a lamp. He saw neither. On the mantelpiece were a couple of candles in worn metal candlesticks. Well, they were better than nothing, though candles made nasty shadows; and the sight of a box of matches by one of the candlesticks brought back a little of Ben’s fading comfort.

      Over the mantelpiece was the replaced mirror. As Ben drew up to it, he received a shock. Lummy, ’oo was this bloke lookin’ at ’im orf the wall? Then he remembered that it was his other self, and he glared at it. His other self glared back.

      ‘Wot am I goin’ ter do with yer, Marmerduke?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t know you and yer don’t know me, but if we carn’t git away from each other I expeck we’ll ’ave ter chum up some’ow, won’t we? I wish yer could jest see yerself—yer looks like Gawd knows wot!’

      Refraining from lighting a candle, for artificial lighting was not necessary just yet and if these were the only two he was destined to find he must not waste wax, he continued his tour of the room. It was a shabby incomplete affair. Bed, couple of chairs, a chest of drawers with three knobs missing, a small table that wobbled if you touched it, a cheap faded carpet, and no washstand. Why did he notice that there was no washstand? He always got along quite well without them.

      ‘That must be you, Marmerduke,’ he said. ‘You washes!’

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