‘Go on! Wot’s a car?’ he chided himself.
As the car approached he adopted an attitude of excessive unconcern and decided to whistle. You can’t whistle when you’re worried, so if he whistled it would prove he wasn’t worried. The only snag in the theory was that he found he couldn’t whistle.
Only one car in ten thousand would have stopped on seeing Ben. This proved to be the one. The brakes were applied sharply, and there was an unRollsroycian squeak. Now Ben did not even try to whistle.
What was the car stopping for? Perhaps the driver wanted a drink, too? Thus Ben clutched at his straw. But the straw slipped away in his hand. The driver wanted Ben.
‘Hallo, there!’ he called.
Ben’s stomach turned over with relief. It was the petty officer whose duty on board a ship lately arrived at Southampton had been to look after a man who looked after cows. The future will be simplified if we admit that the officer’s name was Jones.
‘Hallo, there! Not a bad distance for Shanks’s pony,’ cried Jones. ‘Where are you heading for?’
‘Anywhere,’ replied Ben, noncommittally.
‘Well, that’s as good as anywhere else,’ grinned the officer. ‘But you’re not going to tell me you were going to pass that pub?’
‘Eh?’
‘Say, have you ever counted how many “Eh’s” you say per day? It must be somewhere in the thousands. However, I’ve something more int’restin’ to talk about. Have you seen a blood-thirsty Spaniard anywhere about?’
Ben’s heart jumped. On the point of another ‘Eh?’ he altered it to ‘’Oo?’
‘Eh, ’oo, ’ow and oi—that’s about all the bright conversation you’ve got! Spaniard! A murdering Spaniard! He’s around loose somewhere. Have you seen ’im?’
‘Wot for?’ murmured Ben.
‘Well, not for pleasure, I’d imagine! I say, what’s up with you? You look as green as cabbage!’
‘Go on!’ retorted Ben, slowly fighting back. ‘Anybody’d turn green, ’earin’ abart a murderer, wouldn’t they?’
‘Murderer’s right,’ nodded Jones, with a frown. ‘And now you can get ready to turn a bit greener. Who d’you s’pose he’s murdered?’
‘Wot—did ’e do it?’ gasped Ben.
‘Hallo!’ cried Jones, sharply. ‘Do what?’
‘Eh?’
‘Oh, shut that! What do you know about this?’
‘Me?’
‘No, Ramsay MacDonald, of course! Buttons and braces, have you ever been known to answer a question properly? What do you know?’
‘Nothink.’
‘Then what did you say “Did ’e do it?” for?’ pressed Jones. ‘What did you mean by “it”?’
‘That was the murder.’
‘Well, go on?’
‘You sed ’e done a murder, didn’t yer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s the one I’m arskin’ abart,’ said Ben. Jones gave it up.
‘The chap who’s been murdered,’ said Jones, ‘is our supercargo.’
‘Go on!’ muttered Ben. And then suddenly added, ‘Well, if ’e done it, it’d let anybody else aht, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not an accomplice,’ answered Jones, ‘and he’s believed to have had one. It’s a queer business altogether. You see, the fellow was killed in a taxi-cab, and this other bloke seems to have bunked out of the taxi immediately afterwards. However, don’t ask me for details,’ he added. ‘All I know is that the police are after both of ’em, and that I wouldn’t care to be in either of their shoes. Like to jump in and join in the hunt?’
Ben gulped, and shook his head.
‘Why not? Free ride!’ urged Jones. ‘You’ve got no other appointment!’
‘Yus, I ’ave.’
‘Oh! What?’
‘Gotter see a man abart a helefant.’
‘Blamed fool! About a drink, you mean! Hallo, where did you get your new cap from?’ He stared at Ben, and then suddenly swung his head round. ‘By Jove!’ he cried. ‘Hear that? Police whistles!’
In a flash he was turning his car. Not far off, shrill blasts pierced the gloaming. A second or two later, the car vanished back along the road.
Ben stared after it. Had he been a fool? ‘Arter orl, I ain’t done nothink!’ he told himself. But he had been blamed for hundreds of things he hadn’t done. And he had to admit that, in his fright, he had acted suspicious, like. And when you act suspicious, like, people aren’t apt to believe you, like.
So he resisted a momentary impulse to go after Mr Jones, and decided that the best plan was to keep right out of it.
The next instant, however, he was right in it. Someone slipped out of a shadow and laid a hand on his shoulder. He had only seen the hand once before in his life, but he recognised it the moment it touched him. And, this time, he was unable to wriggle away.
If you can move, move quickly. If you can’t, keep quite still. Such was Ben’s motto in the horrible moments of life. This was a horrible moment, and he kept quite still.
The owner of the hand that was pressing on his shoulder with fingers that felt like hot sharp knives also kept quite still. Utter immobility seemed to be a mutual need while the police whistles sounded fainter and fainter in the distance, and until they finally died away. But when silence reigned again, the owner of the hand moved; and, to his surprise, Ben found himself moving, too.
The hot sharp knives were propelling him and directing him. They propelled and directed him into the long shadow of the wall, and they kept him in the long shadow until the wall took an unexpected, narrow turn. Now Ben was between two walls, and there was nothing whatever but shadow. He felt as though he were being marched along a black plank, with a drop into further blackness at the end of it.
Then, suddenly, the unpleasant journey concluded, and he was jerked into a halt. Behind him, in a low fierce whisper, sounded the voice of his captor.
‘Now, say!’ the voice commanded. ‘Who are you?’
‘Wotcher mean, ’oo am I?’ muttered Ben. ‘That won’t ’elp yer!’
‘Answer!’
‘Well, tike yer ’and orf me neck—’
‘Sst!’
‘And don’t spit!’
‘Diablo!’ hissed the man behind him, and Ben’s heart gave a jump. Diablo! He’d heard that before! Diablo was Spanish for ‘Bother!’ … ‘Answer, as I say!’
‘Corse, it’s heasy ter tork when yer ’avin’ yer gullet choked,’ retorted Ben. ‘But if yer want it, me nime’s Ben, and me At ’Ome Day’s fust