Читать книгу: «No. 17»

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Enter No. 17

Ben stared at the street door, now open wide, and then at the young woman, whose hands were clasped in fright. Ben’s own heart was beating somewhat rapidly.

‘Was that yer customer, miss?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, dear! What’s it all mean?’

Ben had a theory, but, before expounding it, he played for security. Both the street door and the door to the inner room were open. They required closing.

He walked to the street door first. He peered cautiously out into the wall of yellow, coughed, drew his head in again, and closed the door. Then, even more cautiously, he shuffled across to the inner room, a small portion of which was dimly discernible through the aperture.

‘Is anybody in there?’ whispered the woman.

‘If there is, ’e can blinkin’ well stay!’ Ben whispered back, as he whipped the door to and locked it. ‘The on’y chap it’d be is that chap wot was at the winder, and if ’e come hin at the winder, then ’e can go hout o’ the winder. I reckon that’s fair, ain’t it?’

‘Yes,’ murmured the woman. ‘Why do you suppose he ran out like that?’

‘’Cos ’e was runnin’ away from somebody,’ answered Ben obviously, ‘and the somebody was the chap at the winder. Pline as a pikestaff, ain’t it? ’Ide and seek in the fog. Yus, and you thort somethin’ was hup afore I come along, didn’t yer?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘He acted so peculiar.’

‘’Ow—peckyewlier?’

‘Well, he put his head in first, and had a quick look round. Then he went out again, and then he came in again. “Say, give me something to eat,” he says, “and I’ve no time to waste.” One of those Yanks. I never did like them. And in he goes to that room just as if the whole place belonged to him.’

‘That’s a Yank,’ said Ben.

‘And once, when my back was turned,’ she went on, ‘he came out of the room quietly, and gave me such a turn. He went to have a look out of the front door, and I said, “Isn’t the fog awful?” just to make conversation, and he grinned and replied, “I like it.” “I like it,” he said, and then went back to the room sudden, as if it was a joke, Of course, I thought I was just silly,’ she concluded, ‘thinking that way about him. But, you see, I wasn’t!’

‘No, you wasn’t,’ agreed Ben. ‘’E’s a wrong ’un.’

He glanced uneasily at the door of the inner room, and the young woman followed his glance.

‘I say,’ she said quietly. ‘Suppose there is somebody in there?’

‘That’s why I locked it,’ replied Ben.

‘Yes—but oughtn’t we to go in and have a look round?’

‘Not till I’ve got somethin’ in me stummick. Wot abart that Carlton lunch, miss?’

‘Yes—in a minute,’ she answered, her eyes still glued on the door. ‘I think we ought to have that look round first, though.’

‘Wrong order, miss,’ Ben assured her. ‘Eat fust, ’eroism arterwards. It’s a motter in the Merchant Service.’

But she hardly listened to him. In spite of her fear, a sense of duty was reasserting itself within her, and Ben noted this transition with inward misgivings.

‘You wait a minute,’ murmured the young woman, coming away from the counter. ‘I’m going to open that door!’

Ben protested.

‘Wait a minit yerself,’ he said. ‘Ye’r’ actin’ silly.’

‘No, I’m not! Unless you mean I’m acting silly standing here, doing nothing.’

‘’Ere! ’Arf a mo’!’ gasped Ben, as she made another movement towards the locked door. ‘I’ll show yer ye’r’ silly, if yer like.’

‘Go on, then,’ she answered, pausing. ‘But be quick about it.’

‘It don’t tike two ticks. Fust, s’pose there ain’t nothin’ in that there room?’

‘I don’t suppose there will be.’

‘Orl right, then. Wot’s the use o’ wastin’ yer time, goin’ hin?’

‘But there might be something.’

‘Ah, then you’d be an idjit to go hin,’ exclaimed Ben, triumphantly crowning his point. ‘Get me?’

‘I get you that you’ve no pluck,’ she retorted, frowning.

‘Ah, you orter seed me in the war, miss. I was blowed up by a mine once, and come dahn singin’.’

‘Go on with you!’ she said, trying to remain severe, and finding it rather difficult. He was a queer card. ‘If that’s true, go in there singing!’

She took hold of his arm, but he backed hastily away.

‘That’s dif’rent,’ he frowned. ‘We was orl together in the war like. But—wot’s ter say there ain’t a corpse in there?’

‘Here—enough of that!’ cried the woman.

‘Lummy!’ muttered Ben, following his new train of thought.

‘I’ll bet that’s wot it is. A blinkin’ corpse. That feller at the winder got in arter that Yank, the Yank murders ’im, and ’ops it.’ Gentle perspiration moistened the theorist’s brow as he added, ‘Nah, miss—’oo’s goin’ ter hopen that door?’

‘I am,’ responded the woman breathlessly.

Ben’s theory terrified her, but it also decided her. The man in there might not be dead; he might be merely hurt, and require their aid. The utter silence of the inner room lent colour to these notions. Yes, yes—clearly, the door must be unlocked and opened without any more delay.

‘Orl right—yer will ’ave it!’ chattered Ben, as she turned the key. He looked round for a missile or weapon of some sort. A wooden chair was nearest, and he seized that. The door was flung open, and the woman entered.

Some breathless moments went by. She did not reappear.

‘Oi!’ shouted Ben, in a sudden frenzy. ‘Oi!’

Raising his chair high, he approached the door, but sprang back as the woman suddenly reappeared.

‘Lor’ luvvaduck!’ he gasped. ‘Wotcher wanter spring at a feller like that for?’

‘I wasn’t springing—you did the spring,’ she retorted, ‘and if you’re a specimen of the Merchant Service, then I’d sooner trust myself in a train!’

‘Yer carn’t do nothin’ when ye’r’ ’ungry,’ growled Ben. ‘Wotcher find in there?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Wot! Nothin’ at all?’

‘Nothing at all.’

Ben drank in this reassuring news. It put a new angle on things. He lowered his chair, and straightened his back—straightened it as far as it would straighten, that is. Then he said, impressively:

‘You was too quick, you was, miss. You didn’t give me no time, see? I’m a-goin’ hin!’

He marched to the door, but even though he knew the room was empty, he hesitated for an instant on the brink. Almost pitch-dark, for the light that should have entered the window was practically fogged out, it looked a gloomy hole. He could just discern the outline of the table in the middle of the room, and of a chair that seemed to have been hastily shoved aside. Yes, a very gloomy hole—yet a palace of delight to another Ben was soon to enter.

‘I thought you were going “hin”?’ observed a sarcastic voice behind him.

‘So I am goin’ hin,’ retorted Ben, ‘but I ain’t no hexpress trine!’

He entered cautiously. She had said the room was empty, but, after all, there might be somebody under the table, or behind that big arm-chair in the corner. He groped about, and suddenly, like a child anxious to get a nasty business over, he bent down and lifted an edge of the table-cloth. That he saw nothing was, at first, no proof that there was nothing to see, because in his terror lest he should see a pair of eyes staring out at him, he had instinctively closed his own eyes. But when he opened them, they met blankness, and he breathed again.

‘Thank Gawd!’ he murmured. ‘This is a narsty bizziness, s’elp me it is!’

His mind relieved, he now proceeded to examine the room with elaborate thoroughness. If the Merchant Service had lagged behind a little, it would at least prove that, when it once tackled a job, it tackled it properly. Ben examined the table, noting the half-finished meal (which in other circumstances he would very promptly have finished), and then he looked behind all the chairs—yes, even the big ones with the backs you couldn’t see round. He did take one curtain for granted, but he prodded the other one, and, as he did so, something slipped off the bottom of it.

‘’Allo—wot’s this?’ he queried.

He stooped and picked up the object. In the gloom he could hardly distinguish what it was, but it appeared to be a small cardboard ticket or badge. He struck a match. The light flared abruptly upon a number, written large upon the cardboard’s surface.

‘Seventeen,’ muttered Ben, staring at it. ‘Wot the ’ell’s that mean? Number Seventeen!’

He dropped the match suddenly. Someone had entered the bar parlour from the road. He could hear the steps. Lummy!

Then he smiled.

‘Idjut!’ he thought. ‘’Er father come ’ome, o’ course!’

He strode out of the room, making a brave show, and nearly fell into the arms of a policeman.

‘Hallo!’ exclaimed the policeman. ‘Wot’s this?’

For a moment, Ben was wordless—he never did feel really comfortable with policemen—and the woman explained.

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about him. But I’m glad you’ve come—there’s been funny goings on here, I can tell you.’

‘Yes, that’s why I’ve come,’ answered the constable. ‘This is pickpockets’ weather, and I’ve seen some funny characters round about here.’ He looked at Ben suspiciously. ‘I ain’t too sure this isn’t one of ’em!’

‘’Oo? Me?’ expostulated Ben indignantly. ‘Well, if that ain’t sorse! ’Ere I stays, ter proteck a gal, and now you comes along—’

‘Steady, steady!’ interposed the constable. ‘There’s funny people about, I tell you, and I’ve seen some of them about this place. One ran out of this inn just now, but I couldn’t catch him.’

‘Yes, there was something funny about him,’ agreed the woman. ‘He left in a hurry, without even finishing his meal.’

‘And I expect this man would have left in a hurry too,’ observed the constable, ironically. ‘Open your hand! What have you got there?’

‘Wot, this?’ answered Ben. ‘Picked it up in that room there jest now. ’Ere—don’t snatch!’

The constable whipped the piece of cardboard out of Ben’s hand.

‘Hallo!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s this?’

‘My age,’ replied Ben.

‘Now, then, don’t be funny,’ frowned the constable.

‘Well, ’ow do I know wot it is,’ retorted Ben. ‘You ain’t give me time to look yet. Got it off the floor—’

‘Yes, so you say,’ interposed the constable, and turned to the woman. ‘Have you seen this before?’

‘No, never.’

‘He says he picked it off the floor in the next room.’

‘Well, he may have done so.’

‘Were you in the next room before him?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘And you didn’t see anything on the floor?’

‘No. But it was dark. I didn’t look everywhere. I expect it belonged to that other man.’

‘Oh, you do? Well, that’s got to be proved, and meanwhile it’s on this man—’

‘Yes, but what is it, anyway?’ asked the woman, trying to get a peep at it.

‘Something—mighty queer,’ replied the constable darkly. ‘Don’t ask no questions, and you won’t be told no lies. But I dare say our friend here—’

He turned to Ben. But Ben was gone. He had decided to forgo his Carlton luncheon.