sort—but didn’t you say yourself just now that stealing was a different thing? Even if stealing’s the right word for taking a bit of loose change from a man who won’t need it any more! After all, in this naughty world, there’s no saying how he got it!’
Bushy Brows was smiling, but Ben detected a note of uncertainty in his voice. In a flash, his friendly mood might change again. This was the moment when Ben had to give up the game or continue it, and to go on playing it harder.
‘Bit slow, guv’nor, ain’t yer?’ he responded.
‘Meaning?’
‘Well—fer one thing, when I meets a bloke wot I ain’t never seed afore, I don’t put me cards plump dahn on the tible!’
‘Ah!’
‘Yer’ve said it!’
‘And for another thing?’
‘Fer another thing, yer gotter be careful wot yer tike orf a bloke wot’s been killed. See, even if yer didn’t do it, it might mike some think yer did!’
‘Quite a brain, Eric!’
‘Oh, I got one, even if sometimes I keeps it dark!’
‘And for another thing? Or is that the lot?’
‘There’s another.’
‘Let’s have it.’
‘Eight and a tanner! I arsk yer!’
Bushy Brows laughed.
‘Not enough?’
‘Wot do you think?’
‘How about this, then?’ He dived into his pocket and brought out one of the pound notes. ‘Will that do for the moment?’
‘If yer mike it a short moment!’
Ben snatched the note, donning an expression intended to convey the fiercest greed. As it was entirely spurious, and occurred on a face surprising enough even without it, Bushy Brows had never seen anything like it before.
‘After you’re hanged, Eric,’ he commented, ‘there’ll be a three-mile queue outside Madame Tussaud’s! Now let’s see what else we can find?’
He continued his search, while Ben watched him closely. That Bushy Brows was a wrong ’un was now beyond all possible doubt, and this confirmed Ben’s determination to maintain his pretence of being a bird of the same feather. But just how much of a wrong ’un Bushy Brows was remained in doubt. Murder was not yet proved.
‘Ticket for the Odeon,’ said Bushy Brows. ‘Or, rather, the counterfoil. Best seat. Hallo!’ He gave a low whistle. ‘Now, this is interesting!’
‘Wot is?’ asked Ben.
‘The date. What’s today?’
‘I never trouble.’
‘It’s the thirteenth.’
‘Corse it is.’
‘Why?’
‘Look wot’s ’appenin’!’
‘I get you, but superstition never worried me. Anyhow, where’s the bad luck? Aren’t we making a bit?’
‘’E’s ’ad the bad luck.’
‘But we’re not him! What I’m interested in is the date on this counterfoil. It’s today’s date, so it looks as if our friend was at the Odeon this afternoon.’
Ben considered the point.
‘Well, why not?’ he replied. ‘’E ’ad ter be somewhere!’
‘You—don’t—say!’ retorted Bushy Brows. ‘You know, Eric, we’ll get on faster when you drop your pose of being a mug! It’s a good wheeze—I’ve used it myself—but there’s no need to keep it up with me!’
‘Orl right,’ answered Ben, ‘I’ll work it aht fer yer if yer want ter see me brine. ’E goes ter the cinema, and ’e sees a fillum, and then ’e comes on ’ere ter think abart it, and when ’e’s ’ere ’e bumps inter somebody ’oo murders ’im but wot we’ve agreed atween us ain’t you or me. Is that orl right or ain’t it?’
Bushy Brows narrowed his eyes, as though all at once considering Ben again.
‘You’re quite, quite sure it wasn’t you he bumped into?’ he said.
‘It wern’t me if it wern’t you,’ returned Ben. ‘So was it?’
Bushy Brows looked exasperated, shrugged his shoulders, and bent down over the body again. He came up next time with a letter-case.
‘Nah we’ll know,’ said Ben.
‘If there’s a card in it,’ answered Bushy Brows. ‘Or a letter.’
There was a card. Bushy Brows slid it out of its special little space and contemplated it with thoughtful eyes. He contemplated it for so long that Ben took a peep over his shoulder, and although the light was so dim he could just make out the name inscribed upon it:
Then something else attracted Ben’s attention, something that had fallen out of the case while Bushy Brows had extracted the card and that now lay near the dead man’s foot. Ben stooped and quietly picked it up. It was a photograph of a woman. Rather a good-looker. Not one of your film stars, but a face you didn’t mind looking at, that was a fact. Indeed, the more Ben looked at it, the more he didn’t mind, without exactly knowing why. She was smart, and he was more at home with holes and patches. She had dark hair, and as a rule he preferred ’em blonde—if it was nacherel, mind, and not on one o’ them tarts. This wasn’t no tart! You could tell she was the sort that would draw away quick if she saw Ben coming. There was nothing to suggest that the admiration would be mutual.
One reason why the face appealed to him was that behind the photographic smile there was a hint of trouble which neither the photographer nor his subject had been able to eliminate. Possibly neither was aware of it. But Ben had a subconscious sense for trouble, and an instinctive sympathy for all who encountered it. Lummy, didn’t he know?
Bushy Brows’ voice brought Ben’s head up from the photograph.
‘What have you got there?’
‘Pickcher,’ answered Ben.
‘Oh! Where did you get it?’
‘Fell aht o’ the case, I reckon.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
Rather reluctantly Ben held it out, and the man took it. He seemed as interested as Ben, if from a different angle. When he had finished examining it he slipped it back into the letter-case.
‘Did
