Murderer’s Trail

Copyright

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain for Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1931

Copyright © Estate of J. Jefferson Farjeon 1931

Cover design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover background images © shutterstock.com

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008155919

Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008155926

Version: 2016-06-28

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1: Invisible Fingers

Chapter 2: Ben Versus Ghosts

Chapter 3: The Stomach of a Ship

Chapter 4: Confidences in the Dark

Chapter 5: What Happened at Hammersmith

Chapter 6: The Third Officer

Chapter 7: The Faggis Jigsaw

Chapter 8: In the Captain’s Cabin

Chapter 9: Cross-Examination

Chapter 10: The Man with the Sack

Chapter 11: On the Boat Deck

Chapter 12: Hanging Over Space

Chapter 13: Grim Preparations

Chapter 14: Re-Enter Faggis

Chapter 15: Death Tries Again

Chapter 16: Six in a Boat

Chapter 17: The End of the Voyage

Chapter 18: The Landing

Chapter 19: The Mountain Track

Chapter 20: Arrival at the ‘First Hotel’

Chapter 21: The Conference in the Hut

Chapter 22: The Binding of Ben

Chapter 23: The Chamber of Horrors

Chapter 24: Spain Intervenes

Chapter 25: How Mr Sims Killed Ben

Chapter 26: Life Grows Worse and Worse

Chapter 27: The End of the Bridge

Chapter 28: Through the Night

Chapter 29: In a Spanish Bedroomio

Chapter 30: En Route for Villabanzos

Chapter 31: Exchange Is No Robbery

Chapter 32: Ben’s Passenger

Chapter 33: Flying Knives

Chapter 34: Confidences in a Cellar

Chapter 35: An Official Visit

Chapter 36: ‘The Last Resort’

Chapter 37: The Events on the Road

Chapter 38: The Battle in the Cellar

Chapter 39: The Fruits of Actions

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also in This Series

About the Publisher

1

Invisible Fingers

‘Now, then,’ frowned the policeman, ‘where have you come from?’

The human scarecrow, of no address and with only half a name—the half he had was Ben, and the other half had been lost years ago—removed his eyes from the poster he had been staring at. The poster said, ‘Old Man Murdered at Hammersmith,’ and it was a nasty sight. But the policeman wasn’t much improvement. Policemen were blots on any landscape.

Where had he come from? Queer, how the world harped upon that unimportant question! As a rule it was an Embankment seat, or a coffee-stall, or a shop where they sold cheese, or an empty house where one could pass a night rent free. What did it matter? But the nosey-parker world seemed to think it mattered, and was always worrying him about it. Policemen in particular.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ demanded the policeman. ‘Where’ve you come from?’

‘Not ’Ammersmith,’ answered Ben.

His eyes wandered back to the poster. The policeman’s frown increased. Bent on being a nuisance, he persisted, with a tinge of sarcasm:

‘Quite sure of that?’

Faint indignation stirred within the scarecrow’s meagrely-covered breast. That was another thing about the world. Ben couldn’t do anything, but the world was always accusing him of everything!

‘Orl right, ’ave it yer own way,’ he said, with a sarcasm that far exceeded the constable’s. ‘I was walkin’ by ’im and I didn’t like ’is ’ead, so I chopped it orf.’

‘I suppose you think that’s funny?’ inquired the policeman.

‘Yus,’ retorted Ben. ‘There’s nothink like a nice little murder ter mike yer larf!’

Then the policeman decided that, unless the interview were concluded, the law stood a good chance of losing its superiority in the encounter without gaining anything in return; so, uttering a warning generality against the dangers of loitering and of back-chat, he leisurely adjusted his belt, turned, and trudged away.

Ben shivered. Despite the way in which he stuck up to them, policemen always made him shiver in his secret heart. If they never did anything to him, they always carried the threat! It wasn’t only the policeman, however, that made Ben shiver as he stood blinking in the gloaming. He had holes in his clothes, and the gloaming got through. There was a place on his knee open to three square inches of breeze. He had torn it on a nail seven weeks ago, and it occurred to him that it was about time to try and bump into someone with a needle and cotton. After seven weeks, the spot was getting cold.

But, even more than the holes and the policeman, the poster made Ben shiver. At first he had stared at the words vaguely. You know—as one does, when one is hard up for hobbies. Then the words impressed themselves upon his mind, with all their unpleasantness. This murderin’ business—it wasn’t no joke! Yet Ben had made a joke about it, as he often did about the things that scared him most. He had suggested that he had committed the murder himself, and had cut the old man’s head off! There was a nasty idea! And suppose the policeman had believed him …

‘Oi!’ he gasped.

Somebody had blundered into him. He hit out wildly—the rule is to hit first and to think afterwards—but his fists went wide, and the somebody toppled in between them. For an amazing moment he held the somebody in his arms. It was an amazing moment because the somebody wasn’t in the least like the somebody he had expected to find there. It was a rather small somebody who clung to him, limply, gasping; a somebody with a bit of hair that tickled his cheek, and a little ear, and a rather nice sense of soft warmth. Then the amazing moment passed, and the somebody shot away from him in a panic.

Ben saw her more distinctly now. He saw her eyes, bright with fear, and the flutter of her heaving breast, and her slender legs, slim and taut, beneath her short brown skirt. For an instant she stood there, poised before the grim background, ‘Old Man Murdered at Hammersmith.’ The word ‘Murdered’ leered between her knees, and ‘Hammersmith’ between her ankles. Pretty ankles, alive with grace and elasticity. Then the ankles got to work, twisted as though suddenly touched by electricity, and bore their owner round a corner.

‘’Ere! ’Arf a mo’!’ called Ben.

But the girl had vanished.

Ben decided that it was time he did a bit of vanishing. The sensation was creeping over him that unpleasant things were happening, and that invisible fingers were stretching towards him to draw him in. He knew the signs. He’d been drawn in before. He’d been drawn into cupboards and coffins and corpses, into cellars and wells and dark passages, and had been tossed about by the invisible fingers like a blinkin’ shuttlecock! Well, he wasn’t having any more of it. All he wanted was a quiet life, same as he’d heard about, and he meant to get it, if there wasn’t an old man left alive in Hammersmith!

So he departed from the corner where a poster had delayed his aimless wanderings, and shuffled along the moist streets to a coffee-stall a couple of blocks away. It wasn’t raining, but the streets were moist as though with their environment. Water was in the atmosphere, and the damp aroma of London docks.

‘Cup o’ tea,’ he said, to the stall-keeper.

The stall-keeper looked up from a coin he was holding. In the pleasant little glare of his temporary shop, and surrounded by cheering edibles, hungry folk would have described him as handsome.

‘Who’s going to pay for it?’ he asked.

‘You are,’ replied Ben.

‘Oh, am I?’ exclaimed the stall-keeper, and reached the conclusion, after a close scrutiny of his impecunious customer, that perhaps he would. We’ve all got to try and get into heaven somehow, and the ticket would be cheap for a cup of tea. ‘Well, you can share my bit o’ luck, if you like. Last customer left in too much hurry to take his change.’

He held up the coin he had been examining. It was a two-shilling piece. A new one. Then he turned his head and glanced along the road, where the last customer was vanishing into the murk.

‘One o’ them—well, jerky chaps,’ the stall-keeper went on, as he slopped tea into a thick cup. ‘Up they come like a jack-in-the-box. “Sandwich!” And they’ve hardly got their fingers on it before they’re off. I reckon when they say their prayers they jest say, “Hallo God, good-bye!”’ He chuckled at his little joke while he shoved the cup across. He always served spoons with his saucers, to prove that he knew Ritz manners, but the spoons were always drowned. ‘Couldn’t have gone quicker, not if a bobby’d been after him.’

Ben did not offer any comment at once. The tea claimed first attention. But when he had drunk half of it and the warmth began to percolate through the chills in his soul, he observed, meditatively:

‘P’r’aps one was!’

‘Well, you never know, do you?’ replied the stall-keeper, now becoming meditative himself. ‘New money and old clothes always makes me suspicious if it ain’t Christmas-time. And, then, there’s another thing. There was a nasty mark on his face. That’s right. A nasty mark. And not one he’d got in the war.’ He paused, to visualise the nasty mark. It had been on his left cheek. ‘Read about the bloke they’ve done in at Hammersmith?’

Ben frowned. Wasn’t there any way of keeping this old man from continually popping up?

‘It’s in the paper,’ said the stall-keeper.

‘Well, I ain’t read it,’ answered Ben. ‘I belongs to one o’ them inscripshun libraries.’

The stall-keeper’s head disappeared behind the expanded pages of an afternoon journal. Invisible, it announced:

‘Ah, here we are. “Old Man With His Throat Cut. Hunt in Hammersmith. Rich Recloosey.” Don’t seem no end to ’em. But they’ve got the knife, I see, and it ses here that the police are on the track of an important clue.’

‘Well, the dead bloke’s a clue, ain’t ’e?’ queried Ben, making an effort.

‘And we’re to look out for a feller six foot one, in a dark suit.’

‘And wot do we do when we finds ’im?’ inquired Ben. ‘Go hup ter ’im and hask, “Beg pardon, guv’nor, but do you ’appen to ’ave done a murder terday?” They tike us fer blinkin’ mugs, don’t they?’

But the stall-keeper wasn’t listening to Ben. He was thinking. ‘Six foot one. Six foot one. And a dark suit. Well, that’s queer—or am I barmy?’

A couple of sailors came along. They were noisy and half-drunk. Not feeling social (and you need to feel social if you are going to get any change out of half-drunks), Ben finished his tea, thanked the good-natured stall-keeper, and slipped away. In two minutes, the pleasant coffee-stall was merely a memory, and the dark, moist streets were closing in upon him again.

From beyond the dimness on his left came the depressing sound of a tram. The sound was some way off, and painted no sylvan picture. Ahead, moist vistas. On his right, a wall. A high wall. An interminable wall. Every now and then the wall was punctuated by an opening guarded by a gate or a door. The doors, being solid, revealed no glimpse of what lay beyond the wall, but through the occasional gates one got little peeps of a queer, derelict land, of unpopulated spaces, of rails that seemed to have no purpose, of large, barren buildings and of other walls. One could not see water, but one knew it was there. It hung in the greyness, and breathed up above its level. It was both depressing and invigorating—it whispered of lapping ooze and of vivid colours, of blue seas and blackened bodies. It gave you the taste of salt and the tang of wet rope. It filled your subconscious soul with a prayer for liberty and a knowledge of captivity, even the subconscious soul of a scarecrow like Ben, who had no knowledge of his soul or of what it was passing through.

‘Gawd, wot a smell!’ he thought once. ‘Tork abart dead fish!’

Yes, even his nose was shocked. Yet there was something about the smell … Ben, in almost-forgotten days, had been to sea …

Hallo! One of the doors was ajar! Hardly conscious that he did so, he slipped through. Perhaps he thought that, on the inner side of this wall, there would be fewer inquiries when he found his pitch for the night. Perhaps the water’s breath, or that queer, dead-fish smell, had led him to follow an unreasonable impulse. Or perhaps the invisible fingers from which he was endeavouring to escape had stretched out through the open door, had closed round his frail frame, and had drawn him in. A moment of sudden terror, born of he knew not what, supported the latter theory as he stood on this threshold of dockland.

‘Garn, yer idgit!’ he rounded on himself the next instant; and he comforted himself by his time-worn philosophy, ‘One plice is as good as another, ain’t it, when there ain’t nowhere helse?’

So, quelling his fear and imagining himself a hero once more, he advanced over the derelict spaces of the dock to find a corner where he could lie down and dream of kings and queens.

And the invisible fingers closed the door in the wall behind him.

2

Ben versus Ghosts

‘Oi! Git orf me!’

Ben sat up abruptly, with a clammy sensation that a nightmare had pattered over him. Then fear of death was succeeded by indignation against life. Why had life, as momentarily represented by a black and shadowy dockyard, nothing better to offer a weary man than the horrible spot on which he lay?

Ben did not often sleep between clean sheets, but he had his standards. A bit of a carpet, with a footstool under your head—the corner of an empty attic, particularly if the attic were triangular to improve the wedge-like snugness of the angle, and if the peeling wall-paper kept off your nose—a couple of chairs with a minimum of seven legs—even a table, either on it or under it, according to which least reminded you of granite—these were supportable and permitted you to retain the one per cent of self-respect unfeeling life had left you. But cold and slippery stone, an equally cold and slippery post that vanished from behind you every time you moved your head half an inch to scratch it, leaving you outstretched, and rats!—these were conditions that even a worm might turn at, destroying its faith in the god that looks so inadequately after the Lesser Things!

Yes, the rats in particular. Ben hated rats. Nasty, slimy creatures, with evil eyes and bodies four sizes too large. Mice, now—they were different. You could chum up with a mouse when you knew how, and give them little bits of cheese. But rats took the cheese without waiting to ask. They just watched you from a dark corner or a crack, then darted forward with a swift swish, clambered heavily over you like giant slugs fitted with feet, used your face as a floor, and left their foot-marks on your soul.

‘Next rat I see,’ thought Ben, ‘I’ll wring its neck!’

A large dock rodent accepted the challenge, leapt at his cheek, and bounced away again into the blackness. Ben’s eyebrows only escaped contact through being raised out of the rat’s route in terror. A month previously an Asiatic’s eyebrows had been less fortunate in Smyrna.

‘Blimy, wot a life!’ muttered Ben, wiping his forehead with a red handkerchief. The handkerchief was already four weeks late for its annual laundering, but, even so, handkerchief was preferable to rat, and he wiped hard to make certain that no trace of rat remained. ‘I ’opes I’m born somethink dif’rent nex’ time!’ He carried the thought a stage farther. ‘I ’opes there ain’t no nex’ time!’

Indeed, it was a life! Why did one hang on to it? Not far away dark water oozed and sucked around big, stationary ships. All one had to do was to get up, feel one’s way over the damp ground, avoiding posts and chains and ropes—there wasn’t any need to hurt yourself on the way, was there?—until there wasn’t any wet ground, but only the dark water. ‘Couple o’ gurgles, and yer’ve done with knocks,’ he reflected. Then he chided himself. Wot, ’im a swizzicide? ’Im wot ’ad been in the Merchant Service and ’ad once asked a captain for a rise? ‘Ben, yer potty!’ he announced to his weaker nature. ‘Come orf it!’ And so, instead of seeking the dark water, he sought the post again, with the more temporary sleep it offered, discovered too late that the post wasn’t there, and found himself flat.

He gave a yelp. The yelp was echoed. Now Ben was no longer flat. He was on his feet, shaking like a struck tuning-fork. For if the second yelp had really been an echo of the first, its character had changed uncannily in the tiny space of time between!

Ben’s yelp had been the yelp of one in sudden pain. The other seemed to have come from one in sudden panic.

‘Well, I’m in a panic, ain’t I?’ chattered Ben, struggling for comfort in the thought.

He stood, listening—for thirteen years. The echo was not repeated. Then, deciding that any place was better than where he was, a condition which possibly explains the source of most human energy, he groped his way through darkest dockland in search of a happier spot. He did not know in what direction he was walking saving that, if the second cry had come from the north, he was unerringly walking south.

He came upon another post. It wasn’t a nice post. It was unnaturally white, and it fluttered. All at once it occurred to Ben that it wasn’t a post at all, and that he had better hit it. The blow proved, painfully, that it was a post, but the fluttering white costume still needed explaining. A match explained it. Matches, at certain moments, are wonderful company. The service performed by the present match, however, might have been improved on. The costume turned out to be a newspaper poster tied round the post with a piece of string, and the poster said:

OLD MAN

MURDERED

AT

HAMMERSMITH

‘Gawd! Ain’t I never goin’ ter git away from it?’ muttered Ben.

For a few seconds the match-light flickered on the gruesome words—words against which the holder of the match might have laid his head. But sleep was no longer in the immediate programme. A rat, an echo, and a placard had combined to demonstrate that dockland—or, at any rate, this particular corner of dockland—was unhealthy, and that the best thing to do was to get right out of it.

The match-light touched his fingers. He dropped it spasmodically, but suppressed the exclamation. He had an idea that ears were listening, and in the darkness that followed the match’s descent the policy of retreat became instantly more appealing. Even in the darkness the horrible placard was still visible. It shivered palely as a little night breeze slithered from the sides of ships, and suddenly Ben turned and darted away. His foot caught in a chain, and he made a croquet-hoop over it.

He remained, croquet-hooped, for nearly half a minute. Only by utter staticism, he felt, did he stand any chance that Fate would lose him and pass him by. He knew for certain by now that Fate was hunting him, and that the invisible fingers were groping to make their catch. It was only when he considered that it would not be dignified to be caught in the shape of a croquet-hoop that he cautiously rose and proceeded on his miserable way.

He trod gingerly. He raised his feet high over many chains that were not there, and failed to raise them over another that was. He didn’t fall this time, however. As the ground rose up towards him, like the deck of a rolling ship, he lurched his left leg forward with a bent knee, recalling a trick of his old sea days. ‘Not this time, cocky!’ He glared at the chain. But a couple of seconds later he looped over some fresh obstacle, and his hands descended on something soft.

‘Wot’s ’appened?’ he wondered. ‘Is the bloomin’ ground meltin’?’

Or was it grass? But what would grass be doing here? Soft. Soft and warmish. Now, what was soft and warmish?

The solution came to him in a sickening flash. Suddenly weakened, the human croquet-hoop went flat, doing a sort of splits north and south from the stomach. Then it bounded up towards the unseen stars. It is doubtful whether anything in dockland had risen so high in the time since the days of bombardments.

Obeying the laws of gravitation, Ben came down on the spot from which he had vertically ascended. In other words, he came down on a dead man. After that, he ran amok.

He ran without knowledge of time or direction. Actually, the time was five minutes, and the direction was a very large circle. He fought imaginary foes all the way, and at every fifth step he leapt high over imaginary corpses. By the time he had completed the circle, his breath was spent. But, as events were soon to prove, that needn’t stop you. You can always borrow a bit of breath from the future if you’re really pressed.

Back at the spot where he had started from, he paused. He knew it was the same spot for various reasons. One was the chain—the chain over which he had nearly tripped just before falling over the dead body. There it was. No mistaking it. Another reason was a shape looming on his left. A bit of a boat. He remembered that too. Another reason—the strongest reason—was instinct. He knew this was the same spot. Couldn’t say why. Just knew it. It was as though he had stepped back into a picture he had temporarily deserted, completing it again … Yes, but one thing wasn’t in the picture. What was it? What was missing?