are, then, a tenant?’
This time Ben managed a ‘yus.’
‘And to whom do you pay your rent?’ inquired the Indian.
The inflexion was slightly acid. Ben fought hard.
‘That’s my bizziness, ain’t it?’ he retorted.
‘If you pay rent, it is your business,’ agreed the Indian, with the faintest possible smile. ‘But—if you do not?’
‘Wotcher mean?’
‘Then it would be—the police’s business?’
Police, eh? Ben decided he was bungling it.
‘Look ’ere!’ he exclaimed. ‘When I said I was a tenant, like you arst, I didn’t know as ’ow you knew orl the words, see? Wot I meant was that I live ’ere, see?’
‘But you pay no rent?’
‘Corse I don’t. Don’t they ’ave no caretakers in your country? If you’ve come ter look over the ’ouse, say so, and I’ll fetch a candle, but if you ain’t, then I can’t do nothing for you.’
The Indian considered the statement thoughtfully. Then he inquired:
‘And who engages you, may I ask, to take care of this beautiful house?’
‘No, yer mayn’t arsk!’
‘Pray oblige me. To whom do I write, to make an offer?’
Ben was bunkered.
‘So we complete the circle,’ said the Indian impassively. ‘You live here, but you do not pay rent, and you fulfil no office. And it becomes, as I said, a matter of interest to the police. Do we understand each other, or must I speak more plainly?’
‘P’r’aps I could do a bit o’ pline speakin’!’ muttered Ben.
‘Yes?’
‘Yus! P’r’aps I could arst yer ’oo yer are, and wot bizziness it is o’ yours, any’ow? People comin’ ’ere and torkin’ ter me as if I was dirt—’
‘People?’ interposed the Indian, his thin eyebrows suddenly rising. ‘Someone else, then, has been here—to inquire?’
‘Nobody’s bin ’ere,’ lied Ben. He did not know why he lied. Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps he disliked telling the truth to one who was so bent on drawing it from him. ‘Nobody’s bin ’ere. I was speakin’—gen’ral, like.’ The Indian shrugged his shoulders, plainly unconvinced. ‘And now I’ll speak speshul, like. This ain’t my ’ouse—but is it your’n?’
‘It is not mine,’ answered the Indian.
‘Orl right, then! It’s goin’ ter be a nasty night, and I ain’t takin’ no horders from foreigners! See?’
Whatever the Indian felt, his face did not show it. He merely regarded Ben a little more intensely, while Ben struggled to maintain his Dutch courage.
The Indian did not speak for several seconds. Removing his eyes from Ben at last, he gazed at the hall and the staircase; then he brought his eyes back to Ben again.
‘It is going to be a very nasty night,’ he said, in an almost expressionless voice. ‘And you, my friend, will get out of it as quickly as you can. I speak for your good.’
‘Fer my good, eh?’ queried Ben, ‘Meanin’ yer love me, cocky?’
Now something did enter the Indian’s expression. A sudden flash, like the glint of a knife. But it was gone in an instant.
‘You are nothing,’ said the Indian.
‘And so are you, with knobs on!’ barked Ben, and slammed the door.
He had made a brave show, if not a wise one, but as soon as the door was closed he was seized with a fit of trembling. He backed to the stairs, and sat down on the bottom step. He wondered if the Indian was still standing outside, or whether he was walking away? He wondered whether he would really go for the police, and, if so, why? He wondered whether he had really shut him out? Indians were slippery customers, climbing up ropes that weren’t there and what not, and perhaps this one knew a trick or two, and could duck into a house when the door was slammed on him! He might be in the shadows, now. He might have sprung by Ben, and have got on to the stairs. He might be behind Ben, at this moment, bending over him with a knife poised to prick his neck!
‘Gawd!’ gasped Ben, and leapt to his feet.
Nobody was on the staircase. Only shadows. It occurred to Ben that he had better go up himself, before his knees gave out. He went up, shakily. ‘’Ow I ’ate Injuns!’ he muttered. When he got back to his room, he sat down on the soap box, and thought.
Of course, he had only been putting up a bluff. The wise thing to do would be to leave at once. Yes, even though the weather was getting worse and worse, and darkness was settling on the streets, choking out all their kindliness. Even though the wind was rising, still you didn’t know whether it was the wind or a dog, and the creaking ran up and down your spine.
‘Wot I can’t mike out,’ blinked Ben, ‘is wot I come up orl these stairs agin for at all!’
Perhaps it was for his cap! Yes, one might as well keep one’s cap. He took it from under him. He had used it as a cushion. Then, dissatisfied with himself, and life, and the whole of God’s plan, he crept from the room and out into the passage.
‘If on’y it wasn’t fer that there creakin’!’ he muttered.
Creak! Creak! The house seemed to have become populated with creaks! Perhaps he was making them himself? He paused, on the top stair. The creaks went on. Creak! Creak! Below him. And, once, a sort of slither. Like someone coming in through a window … A window! A back window! A back window that had been left open!
Ben had been standing on the top stair. Now he found himself sitting on it. His knees had given out.
There was no mistake about it! Someone had got in through the back window! Those creaks were not the mere complaint of a dying house. They were not just the moaning of bricks or the cracking up of decayed wood. Life was causing those creaks—life forming contact with death—movement outraging the static! In the more simple language that shames metaphor, someone was coming up.
‘’Ere—wotcher doin’?’ gasped Ben to himself.
He caught hold of the rotting banister and heaved himself up. The banister just held. Then he sped back into his room, and waited.
He waited with his eyes on the door. The door was half-open, and he did not close it because, had he done so, he could only have followed the creaks in his imagination, and they could have ascended to the door without his knowing it. Now, at least, he could listen to them, in the hope that they would come no closer …
They came closer. Now they were on the lower stairs. Now a slight change in their character indicated the passage on the first floor. Hallo! They had stopped! What did that mean? Hallo; they hadn’t stopped! Where
