‘Well?’ repeated Mr Smith.
Again Ben did not reply. He was trying to get out of a red mist that had suddenly filled the cellar at the sight of the dead cat.
Ben never liked seeing dead things, but he had seen so many human corpses in his troubled life that, in a sense, he had got used to them. That did not mean, of course, that they could not make him run; just that as a rule he thought more about himself than the corpses at their meetings. But he could never get used to seeing dead animals. See, they ’adn’t ’ad no charnce. One of the reasons he enjoyed cheese, quite apart from the wonderful taste of it, was that you didn’t have to kill anything to get it. You just did something to milk, which couldn’t feel, and lo! there was cheese! It wasn’t like that with animals. They, well, sort of trusted you, especially when they were the kind you made companions of. Sammy had been Ben’s companion. He’d taken to it, and they’d slept together—and now, here it was lying dead, with its head looking as if someone had …
‘It is only a cat,’ said Mr Smith.
He was looking at Ben curiously.
‘That’s right,’ muttered Ben.
‘The one, I take it, you referred to?’
‘That’s right. ’Oo done it?’
‘I did not,’ Mr Smith replied, ‘if that is what you are thinking. People like you and I, Mr Jones, would hardly waste our efforts on such small fry. Please interpret your emotions for me. Is it grief for a departed feline—or just surprise?’
There was something in Mr Smith’s tone, and also in his expression, that warned Ben against revealing the truth of his feelings. He was trying to build himself up as a hard-boiled crook, or at any rate as a man who was prepared to participate in criminal crookedness, and acute sorrow over the demise of a cat was not consistent with the role. He decided therefore that it would be safer to plump for the surprise, and he gathered from Mr Smith’s reception of the false information that he had chosen wisely.
‘I am relieved,’ said Mr Smith, ‘for you are going to have far more than the death of a cat to face before you have finished. But why the surprise? Or, rather, so much of it? Did you expect to see something else?’
‘Wot else?’ replied Ben, cautiously.
‘True—what else could you expect, since you were not really in a position to expect anything? Or were you?’
‘’Ow could I be?’
‘That was my point. You could only have expected to find something here if you had already been in the room.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you haven’t been in the room.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Or have you?’
‘Now I comes ter think of it, corse I ’ave. As I ’adn’t got no key I jest took the door orf the ’inges! Fancy me fergettin’!’ Feigning indignation, he went on, ‘’Ow many more times ’ave I got ter tell yer? Yer mikin’ so much of it, seems like there was somethink ’ere I wasn’t s’posed ter see—so now wot abart me arskin’ a bit? Was there?’
Mr Smith rubbed his chin, and then smiled.
‘As a matter of fact, Mr Jones, there was,’ he said.
‘Oh, there was?’
‘There was.’
‘Wot?’
‘Yes, I think I’ll tell you.’
‘Well, ’ow abart doin’ it?’
‘Our last caretaker was in this room,’ said Mr Smith.
‘Oh!’ muttered Ben. ‘So that’s ’oo ’e was!’
‘Who what was?’
‘Eh? Well, the chap yer tellin’ me abart, ain’t it?’
‘You did know, then, that there was a chap?’
‘You’ve just said so!’
‘And you have just confirmed my impression that you already knew it, though you may not have been certain of the chap’s identity. What was he doing? Knitting?’
‘’Ere,’ complained Ben. ‘I’ve ’ad enough o’ this.’
‘But I haven’t, quite,’ replied Mr Smith. ‘You see, I am wondering how—’ He turned and glanced towards the door. Suddenly he cracked his fingers. ‘But of course! How simple! The keyhole!’
He turned back to Ben, his eyebrows raised enquiringly. Feeling he was losing whatever advantage he may have had, Ben tried to regain it.
‘Well, s’pose I did ’ave a peep through the key’ole?’ he retorted, ‘wot was there against that? If you was alone with a locked door, wouldn’t you try a squint?’
‘I very likely would,’ answered Mr Smith, ‘but I would not keep anything I saw from those I was supposed to be working with.’
‘You’ve kep’ plenty from me, and that’s wot I wanter know! Am I workin’ with you? If I am, why doncher put me wise proper?’
Ignoring the question, Mr Smith again turned to the door, and then took Ben’s arm. ‘Come outside for a moment,’ he said, and led him out into the passage.
‘Wot’s this abart?’ demanded Ben.
‘You’ll see in a moment,’ replied Mr Smith.
He closed the door, and then put his eye to the keyhole. Then he stood away, and ordered Ben to do it. While Ben’s eye peered through, Mr Smith enquired behind him,
‘What do you see now?’
‘Nothink,’ answered Ben.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Ain’t I sed so?’
‘What time did you look through the keyhole last night?’
‘Why?’
‘What time—’
‘’Ow do I know? I ain’t got no watch, and even if I ’ad why would I write it dahn? At two minits past seven I coughed, at three past I scratched a tickle, at four past I looked through a key’ole. Some of the questions yer arsk’d mike a kipper cry!’
‘Whatever time it was, I expect it was dark?’
‘Yus. Yer can ’ave that one.’
‘Darker than it is now.’
‘Eh?’
‘I have not known you for twenty-four hours, yet in that time I must have heard you say “Eh” over a thousand times. Would you try and vary it a little? It must have been darker, for now a little light is coming into the cellar through the grating. Yet you can still see nothing. How, then, did you see anything yesterday when you were looking through the keyhole?’
‘I ’aven’t sed—’
‘No, but I’m saying it. Be very careful, Mr Jones. You’re either going to make a lot of money or you’re going to lie on the floor just as you saw the last caretaker doing—and as the cat is now doing. It’s up to you. You may as well admit what I already know, and what you should have told me at once. You saw the caretaker lying dead, didn’t you?’
Ben gave up.
‘Orl right, orl right,’ he grunted. ‘I did. And I didn’t tell yer ’cos I thort it’d be better if you told me, knowin’ yer must of knowed it. And if yer don’t git that, I carn’t ’elp yer!’
‘What I don’t get is how you saw the corpse, and that’s what you’re going to tell me. One more lie, and you’re finished.’ Something pressed into Ben’s back. Mr Smith, still behind him, laughed. ‘Only my finger, Mr Jones. But next time it won’t be. Answer my question. One—two—’
‘Some’un switched on a torch.’
‘Ah! And then?’
‘That’s orl. I’d seed enough!’
‘What you saw being the corpse and the person with the torch?’
‘I didn’t want ter see no more.’
‘Did you see enough to describe to me the person with the torch?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Try. Have a shot.’
‘I tell yer, I didn’t. When some’un’s standin’ in the darkness with a torch, orl yer sees is wot the torch is on. It was on the corpse. I saw ’im!’
‘Rather a thin man?’
‘Well, most of ’em looks thin when they’re dead. Sort of like they’d bin punchered. But the one with the torch, ’e was orl in the shadder.’
‘Nevertheless,’ suggested Mr Smith, ‘I expect you saw enough to know it wasn’t a giraffe or an elephant?’
‘Eh? Oh! Well, corse! Wotcher gittin’ at?’
‘Or whether it was a man or a woman?’
‘It was a man.’
‘So you did see him a bit, then. Was he tall? Short? Bald? Hairy? Did you see his feet?’
Feet? What did he want to know that for? And why did the question vaguely worry Ben? Feet—something about feet. What was it?
‘I carn’t tell yer nothink not more’n I’ve told yer,’ replied Ben, ‘so it’s no use goin’ on arskin’. But wot I wanter know is where did ’e come from, and where did ’e go ter, seein’ ’e ain’t there now, no more than the corpse is! I can see you know ’oo ’e is, so ain’t it time yer told me? Wot do I do if ’e comes poppin’ aht arter me when you’ve gorn?’ Feet … Feet … ‘Yus, and wotcher want ter know abart ’is feet for? Is anythink wrong with ’em?… Lummy, does they sahnd like a wet sponge when yer ’ears ’em?’
Mr Smith did not answer. He seemed to be thinking rather hard. So was Ben. He was thinking of the crunching sound of the footsteps he had heard in the night.
‘Nah, listen!’ he said, earnestly. ‘I can stand a lot, well, ain’t I done it, and play fair with me and I’ll do the job I’m ’ere for, but there’s one thing I bar. I ain’t goin’ ter be left ’ere alone with no monnertrocity! I see a cubberd in the cellar. I wancher to open it, jest ter show me it ain’t there. See, yer sed yer’d got a gun, so if it is there and mikes trouble yer’ll be able ter deal with it when I couldn’t. That mikes sense, don’t it?’
Mr Smith shook his head.
‘The most sensible thing to do,’ he answered, ‘will be to let sleeping dogs lie for the moment—or perhaps I should say cats—and get back to the kitchen to finish our conversation there.’ He moved to the cellar door as he spoke and relocked it. ‘There’s not much more. And then you can have your breakfast.’
‘Yus, and wot do I do if the monnertrocity comes in while I’m ’avin’ it ter join me?’ replied Ben.
‘He won’t. Don’t argue. I’ve got to get back to my own breakfast. Come along!’
Back in the kitchen, Mr Smith took a small sealed packet from his pocket, and handed it to Ben.
‘This morning, at half-past ten,’ he said, ‘someone will call to look over the house. The house-agent will be with him. If the agent asks you whether you have anything for him, give him that packet, and then be ready to assist him in any way he may require. And when I say any way, I mean any way. Do you get that?’
Ben nodded.
‘He may not require your help. In that case you will go up to the top room and wait until he comes for you, or until he goes. After he has gone, just carry on here as usual until you get your next orders. Now is all that clear?’
‘Clear as ditchwater,’ answered Ben.
‘Just to make sure, repeat what you’ve got to do.’
‘At ’arf-past ten the bell’s goin’ ter ring and I’m goin’ ter let in a ’ouse-’unter and a ’ouse-agent. I’m ter give the ’ouse-agent this ’ere packet wot ’e arsks for, and if ’e arsks me ter ’elp ’im from lendin’ ’im me pocket-’ankerchiff ter ’ittin’ the ’ouse-’unter on the ’ead, I’m ter ’elp ’im, but if ’e don’t want no ’elp then I’m ter go up and sit on me thumbs till the clouds roll by.’
‘Admirable!’ exclaimed Mr Smith. ‘I think you’ll do! To be quite frank with you I have had my moments of doubt, but I believe that you know by now which side your bread is buttered—’
‘And I’m waitin’ fer the jam!’
‘You shall have it, if you behave.’
‘I be’aved orl right, didn’t I,’ Ben reminded him, ‘when that bobby called larst night?’
‘Keep on like that, and you won’t hear any complaints,’ answered Mr Smith.
‘Yer sed ’e wasn’t comin’ back.’
‘He isn’t.’
‘But yer never sed wot it was yer done ter ’im?’
‘You’d be surprised!’
‘I wunner! Well, ’ere’s me guess, any’ow. Wotever yer done ter ’im, nobody won’t see that bobby no more!’
‘You couldn’t have put it more beautifully!’ smiled Mr Smith.
This time, Ben smiled, too.