Ben on the Job. J. Farjeon Jefferson

not quite so patiently.

      ‘’Allo,’ said Ben, and just saved an outburst at the other end by adding, ‘Oi! Do yer know Norgate Road?’

      ‘What about it?’

      ‘Yer do? Well, see, there’s a dead body on the floor of the cellar at Nummer 15.’

      Then he slammed down the receiver.

      The next five minutes were devoted to separating himself as widely as could be done in the time, and in the fog, from both the telephone booth and Norgate Road. His next stop was a pillar-box. He liked things to lean against. Indeed, this afternoon he needed them.

      Well? Next?

      The corpse had, so to speak, been ticked off, and second on his list was the woman in the photograph. Bushy Brows came third—a matter perhaps for longer consideration. But rather to Ben’s surprise the woman in the photograph did not seem to require any consideration at all. He had to know a little more about her, and as the only place where he had any chance of this was the address of the murdered man—sayin’, mind yer, ’e ’ad been murdered and ’adn’t committed suissicide—well, there he would have to go. But the finger with which Drewet Road beckoned to Ben was a very sinister one! Was Drewet Road, as a health resort, likely to prove any more salubrious to Ben than Norgate Road?

      Perhaps none of us are complete fatalists. We rebel against the idea, even if we cannot disprove it, that we are mere movements in a flow that started before the world was born—that never started at all, in fact, since Time is limitless, with neither beginning nor end. It is humiliating to feel one is merely the ephemeral shape of a wave in a permanent sea.

      But Ben was as near to a complete fatalist as you could get. In fact, if he could have explained his own position, he would have said that he spent most of his life in a fruitless attempt to avoid doing what he was compelled to do. In his own lingo, ‘Yer tries not ter but yer finds yer ’as ter.’ Take, for instance, the last fifteen minutes. He had tried not to go back to Norgate Road, but he had had to. He had tried not to revisit the cellar, but he had had to. Sometimes, of course, Fate gets caught as well as you, and you’re out of a house before either of you had bargained for it. That had happened after that very nasty shock in the cellar. But after such moments the flow goes on again, and he had tried not to telephone to the police, but he had had to, and now he was trying not to go to Drewet Road, but he knew he would have to. ‘Once yer in it, yer in it!’

      But although Ben put it down to Fate, there might be others, with individualistic ideas, who would have argued that Ben had a soft spot inside him that was all his own, and that it was his own self that made him leave the pillar-box, where he could have remained in quite nice comfort, and turn in the direction of SW3.

      It was not going to be so easy to get there, for all the workings of destiny. In the first place he had never heard of Drewet Road, although he had heard of SW3. In the second, fog didn’t help. In the third, even if he found the right tube or bus—and his knees felt a bit too wobbly for a long walk—could you pay for your fare with a one-pound note? It was while he was pondering over these snags that he was handed an opportunity for solving all three. A taxi loomed out of the mist, and before he knew it he had hailed it. Ben taking a taxi! Lummy, wot did yer know abart that?

      The taxi stopped, and he jumped in quickly before the driver could refuse so unpromising a fare.

      ‘Drewet Road,’ he called.

      As he sank in the seat the driver’s face twisted round and peered at him through the glass window that divided them. Sliding the window aside, the driver called back through the aperture, after a squint at his passenger.

      ‘Can you pay for it?’

      This was a repetition of the coffee-stall keeper’s scepticism that morning. Nobody seemed to think Ben could pay for anything. Quite often they were right.

      ‘If yer can chinge a one-pahnd note,’ replied Ben.

      ‘Let’s see the note?’

      Ben fished it out and held it up.

      ‘Oh,’ said the driver. ‘Well, which Drewet Road do you want?’

      ‘The one in SW3,’ answered Ben.

      ‘What number?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘What number Drewet Road?’

      Ben hesitated. Taking this taxi was a bit of a risk, and it was a pity the taximan was having such a long look at him, though Ben hoped the corner he was sitting back in was too dark to reveal his features plainly. One of these days the driver might be asked to describe his passenger!

      ‘There yer’ve got me,’ said Ben. ‘I know the ’ouse but I dunno the nummer. Stick me dahn at one hend, and I’ll find it.’

      ‘Okay. I hope you ain’t in a hurry?’

      ‘Tike yer time.’

      ‘I’ll have to in this fog. You wouldn’t be slipping out on me, would you, at the traffic lights?’

      ‘Yer can ’old the stakes if yer like,’ retorted Ben, and thrust out his hand with the note.

      The driver looked at the note, smiled, and shook his head.

      ‘That’s all right, chum,’ he said. ‘But we get some funny fares sometimes, and have to be up to their tricks.’

      The journey began. Ben closed his eyes, and decided to make his mind a lovely blank. He was so successful, and the blank was so complete, that aided by the soporific comfort of the cab he went to sleep, and did not wake up again until the driver’s voice again called to him through the window.

      ‘We’re there, chum.’

      Ben opened his eyes. Lummy, so they were! The taxi had stopped.

      ‘Sorry to wake you,’ grinned the driver. ‘You can sleep on, if you like, at five bob an hour.’

      ‘No, thanks, I wants a bit o’ change aht o’ me pahnd,’ retorted Ben. ‘’Ow much do I tip yer?’

      ‘Oh, nine bob’ll do.’

      ‘Mike it pence, and add it ter the bill.’

      The change amounted to fourteen and threepence, and as Ben poured it into his pocket it all came out on to the pavement. Most of Ben’s pockets were mere passages. It was a nuisance, because the friendly driver insisted on getting down from his seat and helping to recapture the coins, which further stamped Ben upon his memory. It was unlikely, however, that even without this addition Ben would have been forgotten.

      ‘All right now?’ inquired the driver. ‘I’ll take you along to your house, if you like?’

      ‘No, I can manidge,’ answered Ben, the coins now secure in a pocket that functioned. ‘Good ’ealth!’

      The driver got back into his seat, gave Ben one more glance to make sure he hadn’t been dreaming, and drove off, Ben filling in the time by inserting a fag-end he had found with the coins between his lips and sucking it. That is all you can do when you have used your last match.

      Alone again at last, and trying not to feel anxious and depressed—an impossible effort—Ben began to walk slowly along Drewet Road. He found himself at the low-numbered end, which meant that No. 18 was not far off. He came to it, in fact, in less than a minute, and as he turned his head to the front door it opened, and a lady came out.

      It was the lady of the photograph.

       4

       The Lady of the Picture

      There was no mistaking her. Ben recognised her at once, not only by her dark hair and