Ben on the Job. J. Farjeon Jefferson

think this meeting may turn out a good thing for both of us—but we won’t go too fast, eh? It’s nice and quiet here, and there’s plenty of time, and you’ve only just come in, and I’ve only just come in—that’s how it is, isn’t it?—so we’ve nothing to worry about while I find out what’s in this fellow’s pockets! Have we?’

      Nice and quiet—plenty of time—nothing to worry about? Hadn’t they? ‘Tork abart fishy!’ thought Ben, unhappily. ‘Lummy, wot’s this leadin’ ter? I—wunner—?’ He tried to stop wondering, for wondering can be exceedingly troublesome. It leads to thinking—or is it the thinking that leads to the wondering? Whichever way it is, just when you’re wanting peace and rest it comes along and throws a spanner into the works. Gives you—what do they call it?—a sense of responsibility like …

      And there was something else that Ben was wondering, though this had nothing to do with Bushy Brows. He was wondering why there was something familiar—or seemed to be—about the dead man on the ground? He’d never seen him before, he’d swear himself pink he hadn’t, and yet—

      ‘Ah! Here’s something!’ said Bushy Brows.

      ‘Wot?’ asked Ben.

      Bushy Brows did not answer at once. He was counting coins and notes. When he had finished he reported, ‘Five pound eight and six. Would you like the eight and six?’

      ‘Nah, then, none o’ that!’ replied Ben.

      Bushy Brows grinned.

      ‘You’re not going to tell me, Eric, you’ve never made a bit on the side?’

      ‘’Oo’s Heric?’

      ‘He was a good little boy.’

      ‘Was ’e? Orl right. I’m Heric.’

      ‘As you like. Then I’m to have the lot?’

      ‘Oi!’

      ‘Well?’

      ‘You better put that back!’

      ‘If I did, what would be the good of having found it? It’s no good to him any more, is it? Come off it, Eric! We’re getting to know each other, and you can’t pull that stuff on me!’

      He grinned again as he pocketed the money.

      Getting to know each other? Again Ben wondered. Was this a trick to catch him out? He’d known it played before. A ’tec comes along, mikes yer think ’e’s crooked, cheats yer orf the stright, and ’e’s got yer! Not that anybody had ever got Ben that way, because by that odd kink in his character Ben was straight, but he’d seen it done, and orf goes the poor bloke to the lock-up, and orf goes the ’tec to promotion … Lummy, here was an idea, though! Why shouldn’t he play the trick? Beat Bushy Brows at his own game, if it was a game, and if it wasn’t, see how far he could make him go? Corse, it’d be a bit of a risk if things went wrong, but this bloke on the floor was getting on Ben’s nerves, and ’e must of ’ad a ’orrible time afore ’e got lookin’ like ’e did! Blarst this wunnerin’! Fair blast it! But Ben knew he would not learn anything from Bushy Brows unless he won his confidence, and what he had to decide was whether to play for dangerous knowledge or to cling to the bliss of ignorance.

      ‘What’s going on behind your film face?’ asked Bushy Brows. ‘You and I wouldn’t do anybody in, would we? We’re not the murdering sort—but didn’t you say yourself just now that stealing was a different thing? Even if stealing’s the right word for taking a bit of loose change from a man who won’t need it any more! After all, in this naughty world, there’s no saying how he got it!’

      Bushy Brows was smiling, but Ben detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. In a flash, his friendly mood might change again. This was the moment when Ben had to give up the game or continue it, and to go on playing it harder.

      ‘Bit slow, guv’nor, ain’t yer?’ he responded.

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘Well—fer one thing, when I meets a bloke wot I ain’t never seed afore, I don’t put me cards plump dahn on the tible!’

      ‘Ah!’

      ‘Yer’ve said it!’

      ‘And for another thing?’

      ‘Fer another thing, yer gotter be careful wot yer tike orf a bloke wot’s been killed. See, even if yer didn’t do it, it might mike some think yer did!’

      ‘Quite a brain, Eric!’

      ‘Oh, I got one, even if sometimes I keeps it dark!’

      ‘And for another thing? Or is that the lot?’

      ‘There’s another.’

      ‘Let’s have it.’

      ‘Eight and a tanner! I arsk yer!’

      Bushy Brows laughed.

      ‘Not enough?’

      ‘Wot do you think?’

      ‘How about this, then?’ He dived into his pocket and brought out one of the pound notes. ‘Will that do for the moment?’

      ‘If yer mike it a short moment!’

      Ben snatched the note, donning an expression intended to convey the fiercest greed. As it was entirely spurious, and occurred on a face surprising enough even without it, Bushy Brows had never seen anything like it before.

      ‘After you’re hanged, Eric,’ he commented, ‘there’ll be a three-mile queue outside Madame Tussaud’s! Now let’s see what else we can find?’

      He continued his search, while Ben watched him closely. That Bushy Brows was a wrong ’un was now beyond all possible doubt, and this confirmed Ben’s determination to maintain his pretence of being a bird of the same feather. But just how much of a wrong ’un Bushy Brows was remained in doubt. Murder was not yet proved.

      ‘Ticket for the Odeon,’ said Bushy Brows. ‘Or, rather, the counterfoil. Best seat. Hallo!’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Now, this is interesting!’

      ‘Wot is?’ asked Ben.

      ‘The date. What’s today?’

      ‘I never trouble.’

      ‘It’s the thirteenth.’

      ‘Corse it is.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Look wot’s ’appenin’!’

      ‘I get you, but superstition never worried me. Anyhow, where’s the bad luck? Aren’t we making a bit?’

      ‘’E’s ’ad the bad luck.’

      ‘But we’re not him! What I’m interested in is the date on this counterfoil. It’s today’s date, so it looks as if our friend was at the Odeon this afternoon.’

      Ben considered the point.

      ‘Well, why not?’ he replied. ‘’E ’ad ter be somewhere!’

      ‘You—don’t—say!’ retorted Bushy Brows. ‘You know, Eric, we’ll get on faster when you drop your pose of being a mug! It’s a good wheeze—I’ve used it myself—but there’s no need to keep it up with me!’

      ‘Orl right,’ answered Ben, ‘I’ll work it aht fer yer if yer want ter see me brine. ’E goes ter the cinema, and ’e sees a fillum, and then ’e comes on ’ere ter think abart it, and when ’e’s ’ere ’e bumps inter somebody ’oo murders ’im but wot we’ve agreed atween us ain’t you or me. Is that orl right or ain’t it?’

      Bushy Brows narrowed his eyes, as though all at once considering Ben again.

      ‘You’re quite, quite sure it wasn’t you he bumped into?’ he said.

      ‘It