bin ringin’?’ blinked the little streak of lightning.
‘Only five times,’ answered the caller. ‘Is that the necessary minimum in your country?’
The little streak of lightning didn’t know what a necessary minimum was, but he was interested in the reference to his country. It suggested that it wasn’t the caller’s country. So did the caller’s bronzed complexion. Still, this wasn’t a moment for geography.
‘Wotcher want?’ asked the cockney. ‘No one lives ’ere.’
‘Don’t you live here?’ countered the visitor.
‘Oh! Me?’
‘Yes; you. Who are you?’
‘Caretaker.’
‘I see. You’re taking care of the house.’
‘Yus.’
‘Well, why don’t you do it better?’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yus.’
‘Then why did you say “Wot’s that?”’
‘’Oo?’
The visitor took a breath, and tried again.
‘Our conversational methods seem at some variance,’ he said; ‘but perhaps if we try to like each other a little more we may meet somewhere. When I asked why you didn’t take care of the house better I was referring to its condition. It doesn’t look as though anybody ever took care of it at all.’
‘It ain’t exactly Winsor Castle,’ admitted the tenant.
‘And then, you were the devil of a time answering the bell, weren’t you?’
‘P’r’aps it didn’t ring proper?’
‘I’m sure it rang proper!’
‘Well, and now I’m ’ere proper, so wotcher worryin’ abart?’
‘To tell the truth, old son, I’m worrying about you,’ answered the visitor. ‘Rather queer, that, isn’t it?’
‘If yer like.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I tole yer.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Caretaker.’
‘Oh, yes! So you did! But what’s your name?’
‘Wotcher wanter know for?’
‘Trot it out!’
‘Ben—if that ’elps.’
‘It helps immensely. Well, Ben—’
‘’Ere, gettin’ fermilyer, ain’t yer?’ demanded the cockney. ‘’Oo’s give you permishun ter call me by me fust name?’
‘You haven’t told me your last,’ the visitor reminded him. ‘What is it?’
‘Moosolini.’
‘Thank you. But I think I prefer Ben, if you don’t mind. How long have you been the caretaker here?’
‘Eh?’
‘Who engaged you—?’
‘’Ow long ’ave I gotter stand ’ere answerin’ questions?’ retorted Ben. ‘I’m goin’ ter ask you one, fer a change. ’Oo are you? That’s fair, ain’t it?’
‘Who am I?’ murmured the visitor, and suddenly paused.
‘’E don’t want me ter know,’ reflected Ben. ‘Fishy, the pair of us!’
The next moment he realised that there was another reason for the pause. A door had slammed across the street. The visitor had turned.
The door that had slammed was the front door of the house opposite. The number on it was ‘26’. For an instant Ben stared vaguely at the number, as the movement of a figure in front of it rendered it visible after a second of obscurity. A girl’s figure; she appeared to be leaving hurriedly. But Ben found himself less interested in the girl on the doorstep of No. 26 than in the man on the doorstep of No. 29, for the man suddenly left the doorstep and made for the pavement.
‘Wot’s that for?’ wondered Ben. ‘Wot’s ’e arter?’
He appeared to be after the girl. The girl was hastening towards a corner, and the young man looked as though he were going to hasten after her.
‘Lummy, ’e don’t waste no time!’ thought Ben.
But if the young man’s intention had been to follow the girl he abruptly changed it when she had turned the corner and disappeared. Instead of following her, he veered round towards the house she had just left. No. 26 Jowle Street. Ben watched him from No. 29.
‘Well, ’e’s fergot me, any’ow,’ reflected Ben. ‘If ’e wants me ’e’ll ’ave ter ring agin!’
He closed the door quickly and quietly. A bang might have brought the young man back. He waited a few seconds, just to make sure that the young man wasn’t coming back again, and then began to ascend the stairs to resume his interrupted meal.
It has been said that Ben had lived in many empty houses. He had. But he had lived in them for reasons of economy rather than of affection, and it depressed him that he had not really and truly grown to love them. Perhaps this was because he had had a bad start. His first empty house, ‘No. 17’, had given him enough nightmares for life. But it must be admitted, and you had better know it at once, that Ben was not one of the world’s heroes, and if there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was creaks. ‘Give me the fair shivers, so they does,’ he confessed to his soul. (Ben had a soul—you had better know that, too, lest in what follows you may be tempted to be hard on him.) Yes, even in his able-bodied days he had hated the creaking of ships. Even when he had been surrounded by fellow-seamen. But all alone, in empty houses …
‘In the langwidge o’ them psicho-wotchercallems,’ decided Ben, ‘I got a creak compress.’
The creaks seemed rather worse going up the stairs than they had seemed coming down them. Somehow or other, the visit of that young man, his rather odd behaviour, and the sudden termination of the interview, had worried Ben more than he cared to admit. The shadows seemed deeper. The creaks louder. The subsequent silences uncannier.
But he reached the second floor without accident, and he found his room just as he had left it. There were no corpses about, and no one had been at his cheese. If he’d had a cup of tea, he could have soon got back to his condition of lethargic, vegetable comfort. Well, he’d have to get back just on cheese.
‘P’r’aps
