is goin’ ter be narsty,’ decided Ben.
It was easy to guess how the police had got on the track. The chauffeur Fred had been caught, and had given away the address.
‘’Ere, git busy!’ he instructed his numb mind as he stared at the door waiting for it to open. ‘Wot am I goin’ ted say when ’e arsks, “’Oo are you?”’
He imagined the policeman putting the question. Then he imagined himself replying, ‘Bloke called Ben, see?’ As that information did not appear enough, he had to carry the conversation a little farther.
‘Oh, and who’s Ben?’ inquired the imaginary policeman.
‘Chap wot’s tikin’ on a detective’s job,’ answered the imaginary Ben.
‘Who’s the detective?’ asked the imaginary policeman.
‘Well, I don’t know ’is nime,’ said the imaginary Ben.
‘What’s the job?’
‘I can’t say ezackly. See, I’m findin’ aht.’
‘When did the detective give you the job?’
‘Lars’ night.’
‘Where?’
‘On a bridge.’
‘The detective wasn’t murdered, was he?’
‘As a matter o’ fack, ’e was. We was jest fixin’ things up when ’e was shot, so when the people wot shot ’im come along I pertends ter be one of ’em, like wot I was goin’ to any’ow, so’s I could git to know wot they shot ’im for. I’m pertendin’ now, lumme, yer can twig that, carn’t yer?’
Ben tried hard to make his imaginary policeman twig, but he failed miserably. Instead of twigging, the policeman responded:
‘You’re pretending all right, but it won’t wash, Harry Lynch. You’ve got to come along to the station with the others.’
‘’Ere, don’t be silly!’ retorted the imaginary Ben. ‘’Ow can I be ’Arry Lynch? ’Arry Lynch was killed on the bridge afore the detective was!’
‘Oh, no, he wasn’t,’ answered the imaginary policeman. ‘The fellow called Ben was killed on the bridge before the detective was, and you killed him!’
Ben’s brain reeled. He had imagined the conversation to the dizziest limit! Suppose the dead crook was really taken for himself—suppose he had got into the skin of Harry Lynch so tightly that there was no getting out of it? Well, in that case he would have to keep in it, until he had completed the job that would make the Big Five touch their hats to him, and could reclaim his own carcass!
‘Yus, that’s wot I gotter do,’ he decided. ‘I gotter go on bein’ Lynch, and Gawd ’elp me!’
He donned a Lynch-like expression as the door suddenly opened and the policeman walked in.
The policeman was disappointingly large in the close-up, and his own expression, aided by a bristling moustache, was quite as forbidding as Harry Lynch’s. Behind him stood Helen Warren and Stanley Sutcliffe, exchanging anxious glances.
‘Now, then, let’s hear your story!’ began the policeman, without ceremony.
‘Wot, ’ave I done somethink?’ inquired Ben, affecting innocent surprise.
‘What’s your name?’
Just in the nick of time Ben saved himself from tripping over the first question. Harry Lynch would never give the police his name unless he had to. Gazing over the policeman’s massive shoulder, he raised his eyebrows and asked:
‘Wot’s ’e wanter know for? Ain’t yer told ’im?’
He watched Mr Sutcliffe pull a coloured handkerchief from his pocket as the policeman exclaimed truculently:
‘You’ll learn what I want to know for in two ticks, and never mind what they’ve told me. What’s your name?’
‘Brown,’ said Ben, noting the hue of the handkerchief.
Mr Sutcliffe blew his nose appreciatively, but Ben’s mind spun a little. He was Ben pretending to be Lynch pretending to be Brown. If Brown had to pretend to be anybody, he was lost!
‘Brown,’ repeated the policeman.
‘That’s it,’ agreed Ben. ‘Wot yer git at the seaside.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ demanded the policeman.
‘Yus, I feel funny,’ returned Ben, ‘bein’ hinterrupted in the middle o’ me work!’
Was he showing the right shade of emotion, the correct degree of temper? It was a problem that would have puzzled the most acute psychologist and the cleverest actor, and Ben was neither. All he banked on was that Harry Lynch must have possessed a pretty sizable temper when it was aroused, but that Harry Lynch was smart enough to keep it under control when—like Ben—he was pretending to be somebody else. ‘Yer know, wot I really want,’ reflected Ben, ‘is a nice long ’ollerday!’ Which, unfortunately, was the very last thing he was destined to get.
‘Oh, so you work, do you?’ observed the policeman, glancing around.
‘I ’aven’t bin arst fer the weekend,’ replied Ben.
‘What sort of work?’
‘Well, seein’ we’re in a kitching, I expeck it’s shoein’ ’orses.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘’Arf-a-nour.’
‘Not in the kitchen, my man! Can’t you answer a thing properly? In your job!’
‘Well, ’ow am I ter know wotcher mean if yer don’t speak pline?’ grumbled Ben, again glancing over the policeman’s shoulder for a hint of the answer that would not conflict with previous evidence.
He had a queer, uncanny sensation, as Miss Warren quickly raised two fingers, that he was being assisted by the spirit of Harry Lynch and that alone he would have shown less cleverness. It was a humiliating thought, although it was redeemed by the knowledge that he was using a dead man’s brains to thwart his living associates.
‘Take your time, won’t you?’ said the policeman.
‘Well, I gotter think, ain’t I?’ retorted Ben. ‘I’ve bin ’ere a cupple o’ years.’
‘Two years, eh?’
‘Two was a cupple when I was a boy.’
‘Since you know as much about two, let’s get on to another sort. Ever heard of two o’clock?’
‘Yus.’
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