that.’
‘You could have seen from the window.’
‘I dessay, but—well, there was hother reasons, too. If I’d done a bunk, yer might of thort, “’E done it arter orl, or ’e wouldn’t of bunked.” That’s wot the pleece’d of thort, any’ow, so it seemed it’d be best ter stay ’ere—you ’avin’ trusted me, like.’
In spite of the distress she was controlling, she smiled faintly.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Eh? Ben.’
‘Just Ben?’
‘Nobody never troubles abart the other part.’
‘Then I won’t either. Yes, I do trust you, and perhaps I rather need somebody I can trust at this moment. I—I’m grateful that you caught me before I—before I left the house just now.’ He noticed that her eyes wandered for an instant to her suitcase, which she had put down on the floor beside the table when they had first entered the drawing-room. ‘Before you tell me what you have to say, would you like to hear what the police said?’
‘Yus, mum.’
‘They said somebody had ’phoned from a public ’phonebox, telling them to go to a house in Norgate Road where they would find a—a dead man. Do you know who that was?’
‘It was me, mum.’
‘I guessed so.’
‘Did they guess?’
‘How could they, if you didn’t tell them?’
‘Tha’s right. Funny wot silly questions yer arsks sometimes when yer mind’s goin’ rahnd. But if yer’d brort ’em in, I hexpeck they’d of knowd me voice.’
Again the faint smile appeared, though it was very faint.
‘I expect so, but so far they have nothing to go upon—oh, yes, they have,’ she corrected herself, ‘and perhaps I’d better tell you. They found fingerprints on the receiver at the telephone booth.’
That was nasty.
‘’Ow do they know I didn’t wipe mine orf?’ he said.
‘Did you?’
‘No, but I might of, and then wot they found’d be some’un helse’s, wouldn’t they?’
‘Have you ever had your fingerprints taken—or is that a rude question?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never been copped fer nothink, if that’s wot yer mean, mum,’ he answered.
‘That’s fortunate, because they’ve also found fingerprints on some of the things on my husband’s body.’
Ben nodded gloomily. ‘There yer are! And I told ’im not ter touch it—’
‘Told who?’ she interrupted sharply.
‘Eh? Oh! A bloke ’oo come along jest arter I fahnd it in the cellar. See, that’s wot I’ve got ter tell yer abart.’ She stared at him. ‘Was one o’ the things a letter-caise?’
‘Yes!’
‘With a visitin’ card in it, and that photo of you, but no money?’
‘Yes, yes, but who is this person you’re talking about?’ she exclaimed, with a new anxiety in her voice. ‘Tell me quickly! I have to go and identify my husband—they’re coming back to take me there—and I must know everything before I go! Somebody came to the house after you did? Who was it? And what took you there?’
Once more Ben noticed the direction of her glance. This time it was towards a photograph on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a good-looking man with a small dark moustache. But the glance meant little to Ben, and his mind was too occupied with other details to associate the photograph with the suitcase on the floor by the table. There was no reason why he should do so, although there was something in Mrs Wilby’s attitude he could not quite understand. You’d have thought she might have shed a few tears like?
‘What took me there, mum,’ be began, ‘was—well, I better go back ter the start, didn’t I? If yer’ve got ter ’ave it, I was runnin’ away from a cop arter a chap bumps inter me wot drops a jemmy, see, it wasn’t mine but the cop thort it was so I ’oofs it and slips inter this hempty ’ouse ter git away from ’im. And it was there I fahnd—wot I fahnd, and then this other bloke comes along, and we each thinks the other done it. If yer git me.’
‘What was he like?’
The question was asked quietly, but Ben was too absorbed in his story to note its tenseness.
‘Well, mum, I ain’t much good at dessercripshun, but ’e was a big feller with big ’ands and feet, and a crooked nose, and ’e ’ad black ’air and heyebrows like a couple o’ birds’ nests. I don’t suppose you know ’im, do yer?’
‘No,’ she answered, and as he had missed her anxiety, so now he missed her relief. ‘Go on! What took him to the house? Was he running away, too?’
‘No, mum.’
‘Then he wasn’t the man who dropped the jemmy—’
‘Lummy, no, I never saw no more of ’im, but I don’t know why this hother feller come. Corse we both begun with a pack o’ lies, and when ’e tikes the money orf the body, yus, and hoffers me one o’ the notes—well, then I gits proper suspishus, and seein’ as ’ow ’e was a wrong ’un I thort I’d pertend ter be a wrong ’un, too, ter see wot more I could git aht of ’im—not meanin’ more notes, o’ corse, but infermashun. Mind yer, it was a risk, but then that’s life, ain’t it? If yer git me? Yer born ter die. Any’ow, that’s wot I done, and when ’e sez ’e knoo ’oo done the crime—’
‘What!’
The anxiety that had been quelled by Ben’s description of the man returned. She tried to recover her composure while Ben blinked at her.
‘But, of course,’ she suggested, ‘he might—he could have said that just to put you off!’
‘Ter put me orf thinkin’ ’e did it ’imself? Yus, I thort o’ that,’ agreed Ben, ‘on’y sometimes yer can sorter smell when yer ’earin’ the truth, even when it’s liars wot’s tellin’ it, and I smelt ’e was torkin’ the truth that time. ’E knows, that I’d swear ter, but ’e didn’t go no further with it, ’e didn’t say ’oo it was, but soon ’e gits torkin’ abart some gime ’e’s got on, and ’ow if I went in with ’im I could do a bit o’ good ter meself—and so—well, yer see ’ow it was?’
Mrs Wilby did not answer for a few moments. She was sitting very still, staring rigidly across the room, as though afraid to move.
‘Or doncher?’
‘I think it will be best to tell me,’ she answered at last. ‘What did you do then?’
‘Well,
