28: The Performance
Chapter 29: The Terms of Silence
Chapter 31: Outside the Cellar Door
Chapter 32: The Conversation in the Hall
Chapter 33: The Long Wooden Box
‘GAWD!’ muttered the temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street. ‘That’s done it!’
He was eating cheese. His dining-table was a soap box. His view was peeling wallpaper. And his knife, fork and spoon were eight fingers and two thumbs. Not, of course, that one needs a knife, fork and spoon for cheese. Eight fingers and a couple of thumbs are sufficient for anybody.
Despite his primitive accessories and his faded, dilapidated view, the temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street had been quite content until this moment. He had lived in more empty houses than anyone else in the kingdom, and he knew a good one when he came across it. Beginning with No. 17, he had worked upwards and downwards, numerically, until his addresses had included every number under fifty. The usual method was to enter the houses slowly and to leave them quickly—and he had left the last one very quickly. But No. 29 had suggested a longer stay. Its peeling walls and rotting staircase had whispered comfortingly, ‘No one has been here for years and years, and no one will want to come here for years and years.’ This was the message of welcome one most appreciated …
But, now, this bell!
‘I ’aven’t ’eard it,’ decided the diner. ‘’Cos why? It ain’t rung, see?’
He continued with his cheese. The bell rang again. Again, the cheese halted.
‘Wot’s the good of ’is ringin’ like that when nothink ’appens?’ grumbled the diner. ‘If ’e’d got any sense ’e’d go away and know there was nobody ’ere.’
The bell rang a third time. The diner concluded that Fate was not going to let him have it all his own way. When people rang thrice, you had to decide between the alternatives of letting them in or ’opping it.
You could ’op it, in this case, through an open window at the back. It would be quite easy. On the other hand, it was a nice house and a nasty night. Sometimes boldness pays.
The bell rang a fourth time. ‘Gawd, ain’t ’e a sticker?’ thought the diner, and decided on the policy of boldness.
He had selected for his meal the front room on the second floor. He always liked to be high up, because it made you seem a long way off. Moreover, this was the only room in the house that was furnished. None of the other rooms had any soap boxes at all. Still, there was one disadvantage of being on the second floor. You had to go down two flights of creaking stairs to get to the ground floor, which you didn’t exactly hanker after in the evening. And then, murders generally happened on second floors.
The temporary tenant of No. 29 Jowle Street faced the discomfort of the creaking stairs, however, because he felt he couldn’t stand hearing the bell ring a fifth time, and he felt convinced that, unless he hurried his stumps, it would. He hurried his stumps rather loudly. No harm in being a bit impressive like, was there? He even cleared his throat a little truculently. The world takes you at your own valuation, so you must see it’s more than tuppence.
Reaching the front door, he paused, and at the risk of his impressiveness called:
‘’Oo’s there?’
The bell rang a fifth time. He fumbled hastily with the latch, and threw the door open.
He had vaguely expected an ogre or a fellow with a knife. Instead he found a pleasant-featured young man standing on the doorstep. For an instant they regarded each other fixedly. Then the pleasant-featured young man remarked:
‘Say, you’re a little streak of lightning, aren’t you?’
‘You 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