Ben Sees It Through. J. Farjeon Jefferson
got it. Buenos Dias! Funny how things come back all of a sudden. Buenos Dias—’
‘And if that isn’t Spanish, it’s damn like it!’ interposed the inspector, with another quick glance at Joe. ‘Now, you see, they’re all three tied together. The sailor knocks a policeman down while the Spaniard makes his get-away, and the girl puts a drink down while the sailor makes his get-away. And the girl speaks Spanish, so is obviously thick with the Spaniard. The circle’s complete. Well, we’ll have ’em all three under lock and key before bedtime tonight, or I’ll take up knitting!’
Upon which he swung round and left the pleasantly fuggy bar for the cheerless night outside.
‘There you are,’ said Joe.
‘Yes, and he couldn’t stop thanking you, could he?’ retorted the barmaid.
The retort hit Joe bang in the middle. Joe preferred recognition even to service. He looked pensive.
The barmaid also looked pensive.
‘Them two!’ she murmured. ‘Would you have believed it?’
This time Ben did not run in a circle. He found himself piloted by someone who preferred zizags. In Ben’s best moments he also preferred zigzags, but he had not had many best moments since he had left the ship, and he found it exceedingly restful, even while he panted, to act under orders again.
He realised, of course, the motive of this hastily resumed flight. The red-faced man was the motive. Those unpleasant pale blue eyes had never lost their suspicion, and it had been quite obvious that the fellow had not left the bar to go home. He had left the bar to return to it with company, and neither Ben nor Molly was in a mood for any company saving their own.
So they zigzagged ingeniously through dark and windy lanes. The darkness hid their forms and the wind drowned their gasps. But Molly, the pilot, was taking no chances. Elements might assist, but it was wit that won in the end, and when they came to forked roads she suddenly whispered, ‘Wait!’ and darted up one of them.
Ben waited. He endured with wavering fortitude a score of lonely seconds. The wind blew his cap off, and he only just saved it from sailing over a hedge. If he had not saved it, the whole course of his immediate future would have been changed.
‘I ’ope she ain’t goin’ ter be long!’ he thought, fixing the rescued cap more tightly on his anxious head.
She reappeared an instant later, materialising out of the blackness like a happy ghost. But it was a ghost with only one shoe.
‘Where’s it gorn?’ asked Ben.
Perhaps he would not have noticed the absence so soon if the unshod foot had not been so pretty. Neat, it was! But then she was neat all over. Lummy, she could tell some o’ them toffs off when it came to looks! Neat as a pin—and as sharp, too, when she liked, as she now proved.
‘I’ve lost it,’ she smiled.
‘Yus, and I nearly lorst me cap,’ said Ben. ‘We’ll go and find it.’
‘No fear!’ she answered. ‘We’ll let a bobby find it. Ever heard of a false trail? Come on!’
And, seizing his arm, she started him off again up the other fork of the road.
They ran for another ten minutes. Then,
‘How’s your breath?’ she whispered.
Hers seemed unimpaired.
‘Gorn,’ he gasped.
‘Stick it for just a minute more,’ she urged.
She took his arm and guided his tottering feet round a corner into a narrow, rutted lane. Fifty yards up the lane she suddenly stopped and pulled him towards a clump of trees. Under the trees was a big black shadow. It was a barn.
A few seconds later they were in the barn, and Ben lay panting on a little mound of hay.
Molly sat beside him. When he tried to speak, she put her fingers on his mouth. Ben yielded gratefully to the silent injunction, and slowly gasped back to life.
‘Now, then,’ said Molly at last, ‘let’s try and straighten things out a bit. Only we must speak low, or we may be heard from the road. You didn’t really have anything to do with that murder, did you?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ answered Ben.
‘Of course you couldn’t have,’ she nodded. ‘You’ve been white ever since I’ve known you. Which is more than I can say for myself!’
‘Now, don’t start that, miss,’ replied Ben. ‘There ain’t nothink wrong with you!’
‘Oh, no! I only pick pockets.’
‘Go on! You’ve give that up, ain’tcher?’
‘Ses you! Well, p’r’aps. But we won’t worry about that just yet. I want to hear things.’
‘Sime ’ere! ’Ow did yer git ter England?’
‘Like you.’
‘Eh?’
‘On a boat.’
‘Yus, but—’
‘Your boat started first, I know. But mine was a bigger boat, and we raced you.’
‘Go on!’
‘It’s true. I’ve been in Southampton two days.’
‘I’m blowed!’
‘Well, try and blow a little less loudly!’ she warned him. ‘We’re not out of the wood yet!’
She crept away from him as she spoke and groped her way to the barn door. Then she came back again, and reported all clear.
‘If you was ’ere afore me,’ said Ben, who had been thinking, ‘why wasn’t yer on the dock ter meet me?’
‘Oh, I’ve not been in easy street,’ she answered, cryptically. ‘I would have met you if I could have. As it was, I got there just too late, and then I had to pick up the threads.’
‘Yer mean clues, like?’
‘That’s it. And they weren’t nice clues! When I heard about the murder, and that a sailor had jumped out of the taxi and disappeared—well, I guessed by the description that it was you. They’ve got you tabbed, Ben! We’ll have to do something about it.’
‘Yer mean, me descripshun’s aht?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But I ain’t done nothink, miss!’
‘Wasn’t it Molly last time?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, there’s no need to go back on a good thing! No, Ben, you haven’t done anything, but your whole trouble, ever since I’ve known you, is that you get mixed up with other people who have. You’ve got mixed up with this Spaniard—’
‘Yer mean, Don Diablo?’
‘That’s a good name for him! Yes, Don Diablo! And you’re mixed up with me—’
‘Now, look ’ere, miss—Molly,’ interposed Ben, seriously, ‘we ain’t goin’ ter ’ave none o’ that. You ain’t doin’ no more pickpocketin’, see, and wot you done afore weren’t your fault.’
‘Oh? Then whose fault was it?’
‘The