The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  “Ralph, please. It’s so unlike him.”

  “He’s probably had a breakdown, and hasn’t had a chance to telephone,” said the man. “Don’t worry, my darling.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Muriel, there’s no need to worry,” the man said more emphatically. “No need on two counts—first because he’ll turn up like a bad penny—nothing ever happens to men who’re in the way—and second, because I don’t like you worrying about him. The trouble with Wilfred is that he’s a bad habit that’s grown on you. You can’t shake him off.”

  “I see,” said Muriel Arlen.

  “Darling! I don’t mean to upset you, but there isn’t any need to worry. You know I always get savage when I think about him. You and I could—”

  “Don’t let’s talk about that now, I can’t help being worried. Peter can’t get to sleep because of it, and I—well, I always fly to you when I’m in trouble.”

  “Then keep on doing it,” said Ralph. “Like me to come round?”

  “You’d better not,” she said; “he might be back at any time.”

  “That proves you really needn’t worry, and you know it yourself.”

  “I wondered if—”

  “Wondered what?”

  “I wondered if I ought to call the police.”

  “My darling, why on earth raise a scare because he’s a couple of hours late? Hasn’t he ever been late before?”

  “Never, without sending me a message.”

  “There’s one thing,” said Ralph, in a bitter voice, “you can always depend on him, and set your watch by his coming and going. How I detest that man! I—sorry, my sweet. Feelings got the better of me. Look here, I’ll call you in half an hour. If he hasn’t turned up, we’ll think about it again.”

  “No, I’ll call you,” said Muriel.

  He laughed.

  “Because you know he’ll probably be back by then, and wonder who’s calling! You’re not really worried, darling; you just wanted to talk to me.”

  “I always want to talk to you,” said Muriel. “Goodbye, my darling.”

  “Give yourself a good strong gin,” said Ralph. “’Bye, precious.”

  She put down the receiver, but didn’t move from the table. Fancied faces appeared in the fire: Wilfred’s and Ralph’s. She glanced up to the photographs, seeking Peter’s. The girls were older: twins of seventeen. They were old enough to understand, and from little things they had said she knew that they were sometimes puzzled by their father, and easily became impatient with him. Peter was different; and Peter’s heart wasn’t sound. But for Peter, she would have left Wilfred years ago. The irony of it was that she’d conceived Peter, hoping desperately that it would give Wilfred what he most wanted and turn him into a human being instead of a kind of automaton.

  She was as much a creature of habit as he; she normally wouldn’t drink until he was home, but she now went across and poured herself out a drink; it didn’t help. It was getting on for ten.

  Ralph was quite right, the police would probably laugh at her. ‘Really, madam? Two hours late? An hour and three-quarters? Well, it isn’t really serious, is it? If you will keep us informed.’

  She lit a cigarette.

  In the mornings she was never really happy until Wilfred had left and she had a day of freedom ahead. She began to withdraw within herself when he was due home, and from the moment his car sounded outside she became frozen – a shell, talking, smiling, pretending, doing everything mechanically – and satisfying him, because that was all he needed to make him satisfied. Yet she could worry like this because some trifling accident or hold-up had delayed him.

  “Ralph, it’s nearly eleven, and he’s not back yet.”

  “Good Lord! As you didn’t ring before, I thought he’d shown up.”

  “Something must have happened.”

  “Not necessarily serious. You know, sweet, you’ve always regarded Wilfred as a paragon, but he might have a little blonde tucked away somewhere, and—”

  “If he had, he’d leave her in time to be home, or send a message,” Muriel said. “Don’t be flippant about it.”

  “Sorry, darling. Shall I come round?”

  “It wouldn’t be wise, but I wish you could.”

  “Come and see me, then.”

  “You know I can’t, tonight. It’s Wednesday, the servants are still out. Ralph, ought I to telephone the police?”

  “Well—I shouldn’t think so yet, but if it will ease your mind, have a word with them. I wish—”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind,” said Ralph gruffly.

  “But I do mind.”

  “Then I wish you were jumping for joy because he was late, and you were having an evening on your own.”

  “It’s—Peter.”

  “Isn’t he asleep yet?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You know, darling, the trouble is that it’s too much of a strain. I’ve noticed it lately. You’re jumpy and edgy most of the time, living with him is getting on your nerves. That, and not living with me. Don’t go on too long, sweet. I know you think he’d never divorce you, but you can’t be sure with the righteous. He’ll probably call you a scarlet woman, and—oh, I’m sorry. But you know how I feel.”

  “Yes, darling,” said Muriel. “I think I’ll wait until midnight, and if he isn’t back then, call the police.”

  “Do that,” said Ralph.

  She went upstairs to Peter’s room. He was sleeping on his back, had a lovely colour, and looked fit and strong. His curly hair was rumpled; both the girls had straight hair. Peter had the good looks, too, although none of the children were really plain. She stood looking at him for several minutes, then went downstairs. She had never known such a long evening. She poured herself out another gin and orange, and tried to read, but couldn’t settle. Time passed so slowly. She was torn between the two attractions: home and Peter, and Ralph. It was easy to understand why Ralph was so impatient; an intolerable situation had been going on for three years. Few men would have been as patient as Ralph; he’d given devotion and in return received – nothing. Practically nothing, anyhow. He was right, too, it was a great strain.

  She jumped up and looked in the mirror.

  When he’d said that she was jumpy and edgy, it had hurt; it hurt now. She studied her face, the face of an attractive woman of thirty-eight. Of course, she didn’t look like a girl, there were a few lines on her forehead and in the corners of her eyes, but – she didn’t look old. Did she? There were two streaks of grey in her dark hair, and she wouldn’t have her hair dyed. Was she foolish? Had Ralph really meant that she was losing her looks?

  No, he’d just meant what he had said, she was edgy under the strain of it. She couldn’t go on. He wanted her to tell Wilfred, had been begging her to, for nearly two years. Only Peter had stopped her. Ralph hadn’t much money, otherwise he would probably have been more insistent. Money!

  Peter would probably begin to notice that things were wrong. He was old for his years; too old.

  She turned away from the mirror and went to the front door, but there was no sign of the car.

  Probably it was a good thing that this had happened when George and Mary, the servants, were out. They would be out all night, they’d taken the job on condition that they could leave after lunch on Wednesday and not return until after breakfast on Thursday; they were such excellent workers that it would have been folly to complain. Usually she enjoyed the greater freedom; and Wednesday afternoons were often the afternoons of the week.

  Ralph—

  She shivered, because it was cold, and went back to the fire.

  It was twenty minutes to twelve.

  The fire was low, and she put several logs on and watched them blaze and heard them crackle. Usually they would have been
on much earlier, Wilfred would rub his hands in front of them and say ‘There’s nothing like a log fire, Mew,’ at least three times. In some moods, she would be at screaming point. She felt calmer than she had before, perhaps because it was nearly time to call the police. She would wait until midnight,.now. She relaxed and lay back in her chair, her eyes half closed and the firelight softening – and then she heard a sound in the hall.

  She jumped up.

  “Wilfred!”

  There was no answer. She went to the door and opened it, hurrying into the dark passage.

  “Wilf—” she began, and her voice trailed off.

  The light from her room showed a man standing by the foot of the stairs, with the front door closed behind him. He had a gun in his gloved hand, a scarf over his face, a trilby hat pulled low over his eyes.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Arlen,” he said in a hard voice.

  She didn’t speak. The gun and the scarf made him a sinister figure. The gun, pointing at her breast, didn’t move. She found herself breathing hard.

  “What—what do you want?”

  “You needn’t worry,” said the man. “I won’t hurt you if you do as you’re told. Where does Mr. Arlen keep his safe?”

  He spoke in a low-pitched voice, harsh and menacing; not natural. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly. He didn’t move.

  “Well, where does he?”

  “Why—” she hesitated. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I’m at the business end of the gun,” said the stranger. “And I’m in a hurry, Mrs. Arlen. I wouldn’t have worried you, but you’ve got good ears. Almost as if you were listening for someone!” That sounded like a sneer. “What about that safe?”

  “It—it’s upstairs.”

  If she had the nerve, she could turn and rush into the morning-room and slam the door on him, then call the police. The man would have to run; certainly he couldn’t do her any harm. But she had come too far, she wouldn’t have time to get back before he could shoot, and – she believed he would shoot. She just stood there, praying that he would turn towards the stairs.

  “Just show me where,” he said.

  “I—”

  “You argue too much, Mrs. Arlen. I wouldn’t object to shooting you. Then your children would be motherless, wouldn’t they? Poor kids!” He backed a few feet, so that there was room for her to pass between him and the stairs. “Lead the way, lady.”

  She found it hard to put one foot before the other, and it took an age to reach the stairs. She stared at him, but could see only a little of his cheeks and forehead. As she held on to the corner post and turned to mount the stairs he moved forward and pushed her shoulder.

  “Don’t waste time!”

  She made herself hurry up the stairs, and heard him following, although he moved softly. The gun would be pointing at her back. There was nowhere to give security on the gloomy, spacious landing. She was frightened now, almost at screaming point. She knew that if she screamed, he might shoot, and she must keep command of herself.

  And – a scream would wake Peter.

  Could she – fool him?

  “If you give me any trouble,” the man said, “I’ll shoot you in the back.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, then led the way to the door of Wilfred’s study. She thrust it open and stepped forward into pitch darkness.

  “Stop!”

  She stopped dead.

  “Put on the light,” the man ordered.

  She put on the light.

  “Now go into the middle of the room, and don’t turn round until I say so.”

  She took a long time to reach the middle of the small room, a study-cum-library – Wilfred’s ‘little den’. Books lined the wall, a big desk was in the window, there were two armchairs, light oak panelling.

  “Go to the safe,” the man ordered.

  It was in a corner, encased in an oak cabinet. She drew within a yard of it.

  “It’s—locked,” she said.

  “Open it,” he ordered, and something dropped on the floor just in front of her; Wilfred’s key case. She raised her hands, and half turned, in sudden realisation.

  “You’ve got his—”

  The man stepped forward and struck her on the side of the head with his gun. Her head whirled, she staggered back, and he struck her again.

  Chapter Three

  Call to the Yard

  The telephone bell rang in Roger West’s Chelsea home, and he stretched out his hand for it. His wife, sitting on a pouffe in front of the dying fire, shook her head slowly and deliberately, moved forward, and put her hand on the instrument before he could lift it.

  “No,” she said.

  “Yes,” said West.

  “Emphatically, no. You aren’t in, darling.” Her eyes were filled with laughter. “Try it, this once.”

  “Impossible. It’s half-past twelve.”

  “Darling, you’re impossible.” She pulled the receiver away and put it to her ear, and her eyes mocked West; she was gay and happy. “Hallo, who is that?”

  “Scotland Yard speaking. Is Chief Inspector West there, please?”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t,” said Janet in a sweet voice. “He’s out with his wife, and I think they’ll be very late.”

  “Do you know where they are, please?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Janet.

  “I see, Miss. Will you ask Mr. West to call the Yard as soon as he comes in?”

  “Oh, I will!’ said Janet, and put the receiver back. “I don’t think! See how easy it is, darling? You’re too soft. They always ring you first because they know you’ll turn out at all hours; now they’ll have to find someone else.”

  She leaned forward, looking up into his face. She was slightly flushed from the fire, her dark hair tumbled to her shoulders in unruly waves, she wore a dressing-gown, waisted and with padded shoulders – a gay flowered creation, open at the neck. She also wore a pale blue night-dress. The mischief was still in her eyes.

  “Won’t they?” she insisted.

  “And I shall be reported in the morning for not being on call,” said Roger lazily.

  “As if that matters. Take me to bed, darling.”

  “Later.” West leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose. He was a handsome man in the late thirties, fair-haired, grey-eyed, and looking younger than his years, absurdly young to be a Chief Inspector. “For this, you will dial Whitehall 1212 and tell them that I’ve just come in, and—”

  “Never,” said Janet.

  “Now,” insisted Roger.

  “I’m going to bed,” said Janet, stifled a yawn, and stood up. “I—”

  Roger jumped up, caught her in a bear hug that left her breathless, then took her right wrist and placed her hand on the telephone. He stood with his arm round her, and their cheeks were close together. She laughed, and picked up the telephone. He let her go.

  “Monster,” she said. “Darling, how many years is it before you can retire?”

  “About fifteen.”

  “Can’t you resign and get a real job?”

  “I’m not fitted for real jobs.”

  “Once a policeman always a policeman,” said Janet, and suddenly frowned. “All right, sweet, I’ll be good.” She dialled the Yard. “Hallo? … Someone called Mr. West just now; he’s come back.”

  Roger took the telephone.

  “West here.”

  “Inspector Sloan would like a word with you, sir,” said the operator, “if you’ll please hold on.”

  “Who is it?” asked Janet.

  “Bill Sloan.”

  “He ought to know better,” said Janet. “Darling, do you honestly like being called out at midnight?”

  “I love it,” said Roger.
“Life’s long dream … Hallo, Bill?”

  He listened.

  Janet watched him, saw his faint smile disappear, a frown replace it. He was absurdly handsome and absurdly precious to her, and of late he had seldom been called out at night. She couldn’t complain. And Sloan wouldn’t call him unless it were urgent.

  He said: “Yes, I’ll go round.”

  He put down the receiver, and Janet made a face, but stopped when she saw his expression.

  “Is it bad?”

  “Nasty. A woman attacked and knocked about, her small son found her. Not far from here, either—Merrick Street. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  When he’d gone Janet locked and bolted all the doors and made a tour of the windows.

  A policeman on duty outside Number 7 Merrick Street saluted Roger West. The front door was open, light shone out, several people were near the gate. Another constable was in the porch. Men were talking upstairs. Roger hurried up, and saw the tall, bulky form of Detective Inspector Bill Sloan, the portly figure of Malby, a police-surgeon, at the foot of a bed. He went into the big, well-furnished bedroom with twin beds. A woman lay on one, with her head bandaged, her eyes open and very bright.

  “Don’t question her again tonight,” the police-surgeon said. He was an ugly man, with broad features and full lips, bushy grey eyebrows and a habit of closing one eye. “I’ve sent for a nurse.”

  Roger grunted.

  “She’s given me chapter and verse,” Sloan said.

  “Description?”

  “Not much good. A tallish, lean man.”

  “Listen,” said Malby. “You can talk about this in the other room.”

  The woman lay staring blankly at Roger, but did not seem to be interested in him. She was easy on the eye. Her face wasn’t injured, and Malby wouldn’t allow her to stay here if she were seriously hurt.

  Roger turned and went out, and Malby said: “There’s one thing about you, Roger; you will take a hint. The woman’s worried out of her wits—was before this happened. And she might collapse under pressure. I must be off, I need some sleep.”