Number Nineteen: Ben’s Last Case. J. Farjeon Jefferson

and found it powerless.

      ‘I gorn numb,’ he concluded.

      He had. Not only his fist, but every part of him. The sardonic face was draining all the strength out of him, and seemed now to be curling round him, as though he were imprisoned inside it. If only he could get free for a moment, lummy, he’d show it! Hit and run—hit and run—hit and run! But there was no escape from this facial cage, and even the moustache had grown to a mile in length and seemed to be binding him … And now wasn’t there a second face? Smaller—vaguer—but somewhere about. And what was that prick in his arm? Had that happened this moment, or very long ago? Long ago—yes, of course—very long ago. Because after that—don’t you remember—there was that little golden-haired girl. You saw her standing there and wanting to get across the road, and you went up to her and said, ‘I’ll tike yer across, missie,’ and she put her hand in yours, trusting you jest like you might be anybody …

       2

       More Trouble on a Bed

      When Ben opened his eyes he decided that he was still asleep. You often wake from one dream into another, and it was of course quite impossible that he should be lying like this on a bed. Wasn’t he on a park seat, and even if he had rolled off the seat because of something that had happened—and he felt sure something had happened, though his mind was too muzzy to recall just what it was—he would have rolled off on to the grass, well, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have bounced into a bedroom, because even though Ben was good at bouncing he couldn’t bounce quite as far as that.

      And there was another thing that proved this must be a dream. He could just see the tip of one of his boots, and it wasn’t his boot. His boots were old and shabby; in fact one of them, owing to sundry gaps, could hardly be called a boot at all. You just put your foot in and it came out at the other end. But this boot he could see the tip of—yes, it was the left boot, the one with the gap—had no gap at all. Nor did it look old and worn. It was miraculously complete, and there was even a bit of polish on it. So, well, there you were. It was just another dream.

      He hoped it would prove a nice one. He had an idea that the preceding dream had not been so good. If he lay very still, so as not to disturb it, a door might open somewhere and the Prime Minister might come in. And he might say, ‘Don’t move, Ben. I know you’re feeling bad—’ he was ‘—but you did a noble act dashing in front of that car and saving that little girl from being run over. You might of got killed. Well, England doesn’t forget brave acts like that, so we’re going to reward you with Ten Thousand Pounds—’ Yes, that would be a very nice dream.

      He closed his eyes, and waited for it. But the Prime Minister did not oblige. A door did open somewhere, however, and suddenly feeling convinced that it did not herald the arrival of anyone so beneficent as a grateful Premier, Ben opened his eyes again quickly, jest to be ready like. Again he saw that impossible, polished toe. He still believed he was dreaming, but he was sure by now that the dream was not going to be a nice one.

      The person who had come in had entered by a door behind the bed. He seemed in no hurry—assuming it was a ‘he’—for after closing the door there was no further sound for a full minute. Then the approaching footsteps were resumed, reached the bed, and continued round the foot of it. Then they ceased again, and Ben found himself regarding no longer the surprisingly polished boot but the face above it, and as he gazed, remembrance came flooding back. It was the face of the man with the dark brown hair and the small moustache. The face that had enveloped him before his black-out.

      ‘This,’ decided Ben, ‘is goin’ ter be narsty!’

      For a few moments the two men regarded each other silently. It was Ben who broke the silence.

      ‘Go on! Let’s ’ave it!’ he muttered.

      ‘Ah, you have recovered your voice,’ replied the other. ‘Have what?’

      ‘Wot it’s orl abart!’

      ‘But you, of all people, should know what it is all about?’

      Ben gulped, then tried to steady himself. Things was wobblin’ somethink ’orrerble!

      ‘I knows a bit,’ he said, guardedly.

      ‘And what bit do you refer to?’ came the enquiry.

      ‘Do yer need me ter tell yer?’

      ‘I am asking you to tell me.’

      Ben gulped again.

      ‘Orl right, guv’ner, ’ere goes. I knows that summon’s bin murdered!’

      ‘Murdered?’

      ‘Does it surprise yer?’

      ‘It’s a nasty word, but—no, I cannot say, truthfully, that it surprises me.’

      ‘It wouldn’t. See, yer was there, wasn’t yer?’

      ‘And so, I gather, were you?’

      ‘I was.’

      ‘Then of course you will know who did it?’

      ‘I knows.’

      ‘Then perhaps you would tell me?’

      ‘Yer want me ter say?’

      ‘I should be interested. It was a shocking thing, was it not? Who did do it?’

      Ben swallowed, to clear his throat for the next. Of course the man knew Ben knew who had done it, but it is never pleasant to inform a murderer of his crime, especially when there is nobody else about.

      ‘You did it,’ said Ben.

      ‘Come, come!’ smiled the man.

      ‘That ain’t no good,’ retorted Ben. ‘I seen yer!’

      ‘I’m afraid that is no good, either,’ answered the man, ‘for is it not just what anybody in your position would say?’

      ‘Eh? In my persishun?’ repeated Ben, blinking. ‘I don’t git yer?’

      The man continued to smile. It was one of the least pleasant smiles Ben had ever seen.

      ‘Please do not disappoint me, my good man. I credited you with some intelligence. Are you speaking the truth? Don’t you really and truly get me?’

      And then, all at once, Ben did, and sweat appeared upon his brow.

      ‘Yer—yer ain’t meanin’—?’ he began, but he was interrupted before he got any farther.

      ‘Let us go slowly,’ said the man. ‘Sometimes it is not quite wise to say exactly what one means. We have plenty of time, and as this is going to be a long conversation, I think I will take a chair.’

      He turned away and walked towards a chair in the corner of the room. How about a dash while his back was turned? Ben had not heard a key turn, so evidently the door was not locked. Yes, that was it! A couple of leaps and then ’ell for leather! He wouldn’t get another chance.

      But unfortunately Ben was not in a condition for leaping. He could only leap in spirit; his body refused to oblige. Lummy, he didn’t half feel weak!

      ‘There is a mirror on this wall,’ remarked the man, as he reached the chair, ‘and I have something in my pocket which would get to the door before you possibly could. As a matter of fact, it would pass through you on its way. Let me repeat my advice. Take things slowly. You may find—if you are sensible—that your position has its saving graces.’

      ‘Savin’ ’oo?’ muttered Ben.

      As the man returned with the chair his teeth became prominent below his little moustache. He smiled with his teeth.

      ‘Do