LITMIR.BIZ

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thinkin’ o’ the fuchure—’

      ‘When we ought to be thinking of the present,’ interrupted Molly. ‘How did you come to be in the taxi with—with the man who was killed?’

      ‘Yus, that was a funny bizziness right from the start, miss—’

      ‘Molly!’

      ‘Eh? Oh! Molly.’ He liked her little interruptions. They kept things warm, like. ‘Well, ’e ses he can find me a job, and so ’e arsks me ter come along with ’im, see, but fust ’e buys me a new cap—’

      ‘Why, did you lose your old one?’

      ‘Yus. It’s gorn ter see Father Nepchune.’

      ‘But why should he buy you a new one?’

      ‘Well, ’e was with me when the old ’un went. Barges inter me, and so ’e ses ’e must git me another. And we gits in the taxi, and ’e buys me the new cap—’

      ‘The one you’ve got on?’

      ‘That’s right. Bit of orl right, ain’t it? And then, jest as we’re goin’ ter the stashun, I suddinly thinks of you, like, and that letter I was goin’ ter ’ave waitin’ fer yer at the Post Orfice, so aht I nips ter send it orf, and I sends it orf, givin’ yer the address o’ that job I was goin’ ter, and then—blimy, I gits a shock proper.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘No good arskin’ me!’ muttered Ben, sepulchrally. ‘It ’appened while I was writin’ that there letter. I—I gits back inter the cab, see, and I ses “Ain’t I bin quick?” and ’e—’e jest stares back at me from the nex’ world, like. So I jest thinks, “Oi,” and ’ops it. Well, I arsk yer?’

      ‘I can guess what you felt like,’ she answered, with a little shiver. ‘And then?’

      ‘I told yer.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I ’opped it.’

      ‘But the Spaniard? Don Diablo! You mentioned him.’

      ‘Oh! ’Im!’ Ben gulped at the memory. ‘’E’s a proper nightmare, ’e is! Fust time I bumps inter Don Diablo ’e ketches ’old of me with a blinkin’ ’and wot ’as a scar on it—funny thing, if a ’and ’as a scar on it, it jest mikes fer me!—but I gits away, on’y the nex’ time I don’t git away, see, and ’e arsks me a lot o’ questions, like wot was I doin’ with the deader, and did I know ’is nime, it was White, and did ’e give me hennythink, and wot was the address of the plice I was goin’ ter for the job. Lummy, tork abart a woman! Old Diablo’d beat a dozen. And then ’e begins to feel in me pockets, and me born ticklish, and then a bobby comes up, and ’e scoots, and I ’its the bobby, and then I scoots—’

      ‘Sh!’ whispered the girl, suddenly, and gripped his arm.

      Ben stopped abruptly, with his mouth still open. Footsteps were sounding along the road.

      For a few seconds they listened in strained silence. The footsteps grew closer, and as they grew closer they also grew slower. Molly slid suddenly to the barn door and began feeling about in the dimness.

      Ben knew what she was feeling for. A bolt, or a crossbar, or some contrivance that would secure them from outside.

      Her search was unsuccessful.

      The footsteps had now stopped. Then, all at once, the dead stillness was broken by a welcome little sound. A match was being struck. They even caught a momentary glow of the light as it flickered into brief life on the other side of a crack. A few moments later, the footsteps were resumed, grew fainter, and died away.

      ‘Aren’t we a couple of mugs?’ whispered Molly, returning.

      ‘Well, two’s better’n one,’ murmured Ben.

      The words were hardly complimentary, but Molly smiled. She understood the meaning behind. Then the smile faded, and she became thoughtful.

      Ben found himself staring at the vague silhouette of her figure as she stood before him. It occurred to him that another lady he’d heard of called Venus de Smilo or something wasn’t in it with Molly Smith. This superior silhouette just a few inches away from him wasn’t only pretty. It was companionable. Matey. And prettiness wasn’t really no good unless it was matey, too. When you thought of the darkness outside, and of the unfriendliness of it, and of the size of it—it stretched as far as the stars, with nothing in between—it sort of frightened you. But you only had to hold out your hand an inch or two and touch that silhouette, and—well, then everything was all right, wasn’t it?…

      ‘You know, Ben—we haven’t got it all straightened out even yet,’ said Venus’s superior. ‘Tell me! What did—old Diablo want? Was he trying to get that address when he started on your pockets, do you think?’

      ‘I dunno wot ’e was arter,’ answered Ben.

      ‘You believe it might have been something else?’

      ‘Lummy, it’s a riddle! See, e’ arst if the chap wot was dead ’ad give me somethink—’

      ‘And did he?’

      ‘Wot?’

      ‘The man who’s dead—you said his name was White, didn’t you?—did White give you anything?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘No! But Don Diablo thought he might have! Look here, Ben, how does this sound to you? Do you suppose Don Diablo killed White—never mind for the moment how he did it—do you suppose he killed him because he wanted something White had on him? And, as you were with White, Diablo now thinks that you’ve got it on you?’

      ‘Got wot?’

      ‘What Diablo thinks you’ve got?’

      ‘Wot’s that?’

      ‘Oh, Ben! How’ve you lived all this time?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘With no one to look after you?’

      ‘People don’t look arter me—they runs arter me!’

      ‘And now this beastly Spaniard’s joining in the chase!’

      ‘Yus. Corse, there was that pocket-book that barmy barmaid talked abart, but ’e didn’t give me no pocket-book, orl ’e give me was this cap, and if yer arsk me,’ added Ben, as his mind harped back to the inn, ‘that barmaid ’eard more’n wot ’appened, and then said more’n wot she ’eard. There’s some folks turn a pea inter a mellon afore yer can say Jim Crow!’

      ‘Yes, yes, but we’re not getting anywhere!’ sighed Molly. ‘You know, Ben, I think I’m right—I think Don Diablo does believe you’ve got something that he wants! P’r’aps it’s only the address White gave you—the address of the job, you know—though what he could want with that I don’t know. It may be something else. By the way, what is the address?’

      ‘Eh? Oh! I’ve fergot.’

      ‘But wasn’t it written down—’

      ‘Oh, yus, that’s right. In me pocket. ’Ere it is.’

      He groped in his pocket, while she watched him. He groped in all his pockets.

      ‘Well, I’m blowed!’ he muttered. ‘Where’s it gorn?’

      But now she wasn’t watching him. Footsteps again resounded in the lane outside. Tottering, staggering footsteps.

      ‘Funny,’ thought Ben, ‘’ow nothink can go right.’

      A moment later, something fell with a thud against the door.

      

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