Detective Ben. J. Farjeon Jefferson

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      ‘Who are you?’ asked the man.

      ‘Bloke,’ replied Ben.

      ‘What sort of a bloke?’

      ‘’Ollywood star.’

      You might as well die game. Life couldn’t be an utter failure if you made your last word a joke. It was a pity, though, that the man with the revolver didn’t smile at the joke.

      ‘Let’s try again,’ said the man. He had patience, anyway. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Nothink.’

      ‘Ever heard of the truth?’

      ‘Well, wotjer want me to say?’ demanded Ben. ‘Pickin’ ’ops?’

      ‘I’ve no doubt you’re quite good at hopping,’ remarked the man, dryly, ‘but two o’clock in the morning is rather late to be hopping about, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s early fer me.’

      ‘Never go to bed?’

      ‘Yus. On’y they ain’t turned dahn the sheets yet at The Ritz.’

      This time the man did smile. Ben smiled back, trying to consolidate the happier atmosphere. Funny, what a smile did! Couple of blokes meet, all glum. One of ’em smiles. Blinkin’ sun comes out!

      ‘Been here long?’ the man inquired next.

      ‘Depends wot yer call long,’ answered Ben cautiously. ‘Long fer a toothache, but not fer a nap.’

      ‘An hour?’

      ‘Lumme, no!’

      ‘Five minutes?’

      Now for it! Ben took a deep breath and trusted to luck.

      ‘Abart that,’ he replied. ‘Or p’r’aps six.’

      ‘Six,’ repeated the man, thoughtfully. ‘Not longer?’ Ben shook his head. ‘But six was long enough for you to see something interesting?’

      ‘Yer mean—the deader?’

      ‘Yes. The deader?’

      ‘That’s right. I see ’im.’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘Well wot? I didn’t dead ’im.’

      ‘I know you didn’t.’

      ‘Go on!’

      ‘You couldn’t have.’

      ‘That’s right, sir. I didn’t of. But ’ow did you know? Every time anythink ’appens this side o’ China, it’s always Ben wot’s done it!’

      ‘Ben?’

      ‘That’s me. ’Aven’t yer never bought me on a postcard?’

      The man in the squash felt hat stared at Ben rather hard. Solemnly Ben stared back. Then the man said:

      ‘I’ll tell you how I know you didn’t kill that fellow, Ben. I killed him myself.’

      Ben opened his mouth and gaped at this self-described murderer. Lumme, he didn’t look that sort! But, of course, he had a revolver. Ben closed his mouth to swallow, then whispered hoarsely:

      ‘Coppers didn’t know, eh?’

      ‘Oh, yes, they knew,’ responded the man. ‘The chap was a wrong ’un.’

      ‘Well, I’m jiggered!’ murmured Ben. ‘And I thort ’e was jest a poor bloke like me!’

      The man glanced at him sharply.

      ‘Oh—you knew something about him, then?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘What made you think he was just a poor bloke like you?’

      ‘Oh! Well—I come upon ’im, see? And findin’ ’im leanin’ there—well, orl crumpled like, I felt sorry fer ’im—you know, it bein’ late and orl that—and as I thort ’e was goin’ to commit suissicide I spoke to ’im—’

      ‘You spoke to him?’

      ‘I’m tellin’ yer. I didn’t know ’e was dead. I gener’ly seen ’em stiff. But, corse, that’s arter.’

      ‘Arter?’

      ‘Yus. Limp fust, stiff arter. “Doncher go chuckin’ yerself over,” I ses to ’im. “Stick it aht, mate,” I ses. That’s right, ain’t it? And then I looks at ’im a bit closer like—’cos ’e didn’t say nothink, see?—and, Gawd, ’e looks back at me from the nex’ Kingdom, if yer git me. It was—narsty.’

      ‘I’m sure it must have been,’ replied the man, with a note of sympathy. ‘And then what did you do?’

      ‘I arsk yer!’ answered Ben.

      ‘No, I’m asking you!’

      ‘Eh? Oh! Well, I come over ’ere.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘’Cos ’e was over there.’

      ‘It sounds a good reason.’

      ‘You bet it was a good reason. If yer lookin’ fer a ’ero, guv’nor, it ain’t no good lookin’ at me! And arter that, the police car comes along, and now you’ve got the lot.’

      ‘No, there’s one more thing,’ said the man, lowering his eyes from Ben’s face.

      ‘Wot?’ asked Ben.

      ‘The thing you’ve got in your hand,’ responded the man. ‘How did you get hold of that?’

      Now Ben lowered his own eyes, also.

      ‘Lumme, ’ave I still got it?’ he muttered. Clutched in his fingers was the ugly little skullpin. ‘Well, it ain’t my pickcher!’

      ‘Where did you find it?’

      ‘On the ground. By the dead bloke. I was jest ’andin’ it back to ’im when I fahnd out—’

      He stopped short and shivered, recalling the unsavoury moment.

      ‘When you found out that he was past needing it?’ queried the man.

      ‘That’s it, guv’nor.’

      ‘But how did СКАЧАТЬ