Murderer’s Trail. J. Farjeon Jefferson

I—looked after you.’

      Ben nodded. He knew that he owed his present security to her, and he also knew why she was informing him of the fact. She was trying to enlist his gratitude.

      That puzzled him. Why should she do that? Wasn’t it obvious that he would not give her away? Bit of dirty work that’d be, wouldn’t it? The world had got its heel on both of them, and he’d hardly turn upon a fellow-sufferer. Perhaps there was something else, though! Yes, there might be something else. Perhaps …

      Ben thought hard for several seconds. He was trying to straighten things out with insufficient material to work upon. He fell back upon a generality.

      ‘Look ’ere, miss,’ he said, and the simple solemnity of his voice was not lost upon his companion, ‘you’re in trouble, ain’t yer? Well—so’m I. Ain’t that enuff?’

      There was a little silence. Then the girl answered, in tones equally solemn.

      ‘Seems as if I’ve found a pal. You’re white, aren’t you?’

      ‘Like blinkin’ snow,’ replied Ben uncomfortably. He never knew what to do with compliments. He hadn’t had much practice. Then, partly to change the conversation, and partly to settle the point that was worrying him most at the moment, he asked, ‘Wot are yer runnin’ away for?’

      ‘I’ll tell you as soon as you tell me why you are?’ Ben reflected. Why was he running away? The nightmare reverted to him in all its horror—the nightmare that was still to be played out.

      ‘Some’un went fer me, miss,’ he said.

      ‘Where?’

      ‘In the stummick.’ No, that wasn’t right. ‘In the dock.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘There you are!’

      ‘Don’t you know?’

      ‘P’r’aps ’e thort I’d seed too much.’

      ‘Oh! What had you seen?’

      ‘Well—it ain’t pretty, miss.’

      ‘Life isn’t pretty.’

      ‘Ah, but this—this wasn’t life. No, miss. This was—the hother thing!’

      He was conscious that she shuddered. He felt her draw closer, as though for comfort.

      ‘You mean—someone—dead?’ she whispered.

      ‘I might ’ave bin mistook,’ he murmured, unconvincingly.

      ‘Don’t hide anything, please. Nothing’ll help but the truth. The—person you saw—was dead?’

      ‘As a door nail,’ Ben confessed. ‘’E’d bin done in orl right. Funny—’ow yer can tell.’

      ‘What did you do?’

      ‘Oo?’

      ‘What did you do, after you came upon him?’

      ‘Oh. Well—I tikes a little walk rahnd, see?’ There was no need to mention that it had been rather a rapid walk. ‘And when I comes back agine, the deader’s gorn.’

      ‘Gone!’

      ‘Yus.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘I’m tellin’ yer. ’E was gorn. “’Allo!” I ses. “That’s bad.” And then I ’ears a splash. Like wot—well, then I ’ears a splash.’

      He paused. He didn’t like the story. The girl made no comment, and he decided to get the rest of it over in one sentence.

      ‘Well, arter that, this hother feller comes along and goes fer me, and so I ’ops it—well, ’oo wouldn’t, and I comes on another feller and I shoots onter the ship, see—well, ’oo wouldn’t?’

      He paused again. For a while the girl made no comment. The throbbing of the engines seemed to grow louder and more ominous. Then, suddenly, she shot a question.

      ‘Do you know how long you’ve been on this ship?’ she asked.

      ‘Couple of hours?’ guessed Ben.

      ‘Couple of days,’ she replied.

      Ben gasped.

      ‘Wot—couple of—days?’ he murmured. ‘Are you tellin’ me, miss, that you’ve bin lookin’ arter me fer a couple of days?’

      ‘That’s right,’ she nodded. ‘Hospital nurse and general provider. Part of the time, you were off your nut.’

      Off his nut! Wasn’t he still off his nut! His mind swung backwards and forwards. Then, suddenly, it stopped swinging, and he shot a question.

      ‘That fust feller—that feller wot was called Mr ’Ammersmith Stoker,’ he said. ‘Is ’e arter you too?’

      ‘Like hell, he is,’ answered the girl. ‘He’s killed two people, and if he finds me, I look like being a third!’

       5

       What Happened at Hammersmith

      Ben received the bad news numbly. For one thing, although it shocked him, it hardly surprised him. For another, his brain was getting a little dizzy and stupid. Two days …

      ‘Arter you too, is ’e?’ he muttered. ‘Wot for?’

      ‘P’r’aps—I’ve seen too much, like you,’ suggested his companion.

      ‘Ah!’ blinked Ben. ‘Sight ain’t always a blessin’. Wotcher seen?’ As she did not reply, he made a guess. It was a nasty guess, but they’d got to get straight with each other. ‘Was it—at ’Ammersmith—wot you seen?’ he inquired.

      She nodded. He detected the faint movement of her head against a ghost of light that dimly marked the position of the iron ladder mounting above them. His sympathy for her grew. And for himself.

      ‘Yus, but you didn’t do it,’ he said, as though he were informing her of a fact she did not know.

      Now she shook her head. She was quite aware of the fact.

      ‘Then you ain’t got no cause ter fear the police,’ went on Ben.

      ‘Haven’t I?’ she replied.

      It was an unsatisfactory reply. It told nothing, but it implied a lot. He put himself in her position—as much of her position, at least, as he knew—reviewed himself from her angle, and then advised her.

      ‘If I was you, miss,’ he announced, ‘I’d tell me.’

      ‘It mightn’t do you any good to hear,’ she answered.

      ‘There ain’t much I can’t stand,’ he retorted, ‘in the way of ’earin’. If you was ter say Windser Castle was blowed hup, I’d ’ardly notice it.’

      ‘You know, but for our tight corner,’ said the girl, ‘you’d make me laugh! I hope I meet you one day at a party. Meantime—well, let’s see if you can stand this! That—murdering fellow is my working partner.’

      ‘Is ’e?’

      ‘Well done! You’re sticking it! Want some more?’

      ‘Well, we’re orf now like, ain’t we, miss?’

      ‘You’ve said it! We’re off! And the next tit-bit is that I was in on the Hammersmith affair.’

      ‘Was yer?’