by John Creasey
Roger said: “Whom did you tell last night, Mrs. Arlen? It isn’t any use pretending there was no one, I know there was. The sooner I know his name, the sooner everything will be cleared up. Who was it?”
She gasped: “Ralph wouldn’t kill; he wouldn’t kill.”
Chapter Five
Build-Up
Roger pulled up outside Scotland Yard, and the tall reporter with the dilapidated hat grinned at him from the steps.
“In a hurry, Handsome?”
“I’m always in a hurry.”
“Any crumbs for me?”
“Try the Back Room Inspector,” said Roger, and pushed past the newspaperman, who grinned crookedly as he disappeared. West in a hurry always meant a story.
Roger stormed past the sergeant on duty in the cold, bleak hall, was lucky with the lift, and soon reached the second floor. An inspector in a brown suit, with a large stomach and a pointed nose and receding chin – one of nature’s less fortunate men – spun round as if caught in a blast.
“What’s up, Handsome?”
“See you later, Eddie.” Roger turned into his own office, where Sloan was sitting at one of two desks, fair head golden in the sun which shone across the Thames and into the long, narrow room. “Look after it, Bill?”
“I sent Peel.”
“Fine.”
Roger slammed the door and hurried – only to pause as he reached another door; a door which even he would not open without tapping. He tapped.
“Come in.”
Behind a large glass-topped desk, sitting in a tubular steel armchair, was the Assistant Commissioner. His office was stream-lined, and he sat at the desk looking as if he’d just stepped off a farm-cart. He wore pale brown Harris tweeds, and his round face was a browny-red, darker than the tweeds, his iron-grey hair was grizzled, leaving a brown bald patch in the centre. He had guileless blue eyes.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said.
“Good afternoon, sir; I’m glad I’ve found you in.”
“What’s the matter?” Sir Guy Chatworth was by nature suspicious, and never more suspicious than of West when he was respectful. “The Arlen job?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you’ve caught the man, you haven’t lost much time. Have you?”
“Not yet, but it’s moving nicely.” Roger dropped into a chair at a wave of Chatworth’s big hand. “I wanted to see you this morning, but—”
“Why lie?” asked Chatworth coldly. “You went haring off to Kingston and didn’t tell me, in case I told you to get formally invited.”
“No need for an invitation from Surrey, sir; it was already our job. You’ve seen the report—”
“A sketchy one. I want to know more.”
“Arlen was last seen alive by the driver of a lorry as he turned off the main road to Kingston and took the lane.”
“Know why he took a slow road?”
“They say—his wife and his business associates—that it was habit. He may have stopped en route; I’m checking that. Two miles along the road he was forced to pull up—braked very sharply. The tyre-marks on the gravel surface showed he stopped within ten feet or so. From then on he had a passenger on board—I’ve checked that he wasn’t in the habit of giving lifts to strangers, although his wife tried to pretend that he often did. A mile and a half farther on he was in trouble—nearly ran over a girl on a bike. She came a cropper in the hedge, but caught sight of the number-plate and went home and told her parents what she thought of road hogs. Not far from there, Arlen turned left. The car was stopped in the middle of the road. There’d been some struggling in the car, judging from the way the banks on either side were damaged. The car stopped near a gate.”
“Arlen was probably shot in the car, dragged out and carried through the gateway. He was found just after seven-thirty this morning by a farm labourer, who walked across that field to his cottage, and was going home to breakfast. Some of the contents of his wallet were taken, and everything of value—money, gold watch, cigarette-case and lighter and signet ring. The ring was taken off smoothly, nothing vicious about that. The Austin was then driven off towards London, was noticed by several police patrols, but not seen beyond Putney. It hasn’t been found.”
“How much of this are you guessing?” growled Chatworth.
“It’ll stand up to anything,” said Roger, confidently. “That’s one angle. Next, the wife and her story. She was nervous because he was late, telephoned her boy friend, didn’t telephone anyone else and, later, was attacked by a man who was masked, whom she says she didn’t recognise, and who had Arlen’s keys. She wasn’t hurt badly—just about enough to make it look as if a burglar with no interest in her had done the job. But when she came round, she was scared, and it wasn’t because of her husband.”
“Still guessing?” Chatworth was in a dour mood.
“No. She didn’t take long to break down part of the way. She’d telephoned a Ralph Latimer. She and Latimer have been friends for three years—more than friends most of the time, I fancy. He’s thirty-one, several years younger than she is, gay bachelor, showing some signs lately of being less gay. She says she was worried about her husband and called him to ask his advice, but she didn’t trouble to call anyone else. I think Latimer himself rang up Merrick Street late last night. I answered the call myself. I’m having Latimer’s movements checked, and Latimer himself followed. I’d like a search-warrant for his flat, sir.”
“Why?”
“He’s out now. He has a service-flat, so we could get in. I think half an hour there before he returns would save us a lot of trouble.”
“Why?”
Roger began to feel impatient.
“Because Latimer may have done the job, and the woman may have been involved. She could have told us a fairy story. It’s got every look of a put-up job—a burglary and assault by her boyfriend, just to fool us. We shouldn’t expect her lover to attack her, should we? You know how crazy they get when they get together to put a husband out of the way. There’s no doubt they were gone on each other. A man often called at 7 Merrick Street on Wednesday afternoons. The sen-ants were always out that day and the son, who lives at home, has a music lesson then. Invalid son,” he added. “It’s a hell of a business.”
“Sure this man was Latimer?”
“She says he usually called on Wednesdays, so do neighbours. He didn’t come yesterday. The woman’s in a pretty bad way, quite distraught.”
Chatworth scratched his nose.
“I don’t wonder, when you’ve been at her. You’re the oddest mixture of sentiment and ruthlessness I’ve come across. So you think it’s cut and dried?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me, and I think we could be sure if we’re lucky at Latimer’s flat.”
“He’d leave everything he stole in his flat, of course,” said Chatworth dryly.
“He’d dispose of it pretty quickly, but I’m after his clothes,” said Roger. “Bound to be blood on them. He could have destroyed them, but I’d like to be sure.”
“Oh, all right,” said Chatworth. “Have your search-warrant.”
Ralph Latimer had a flat in Mayfair, but it wasn’t all that it sounded. It was probably the oldest, smallest and dingiest-looking block of brick flats in London’s most exclusive residential district. It was in a small road behind Park Lane; there were twenty-nine other flats in the block, all of two rooms. It was run on service lines, and there was a restaurant in the basement, open to the public but mostly used by the tenants.
A venerable man, the caretaker, unlocked the door of Latimer’s flat, Number 21 on the third floor, mumbling protests.
“Thanks,” said Roger. “You can go now.”
“Even if you are the police, you’ve no right—”
“You’ve seen my search-warrant,” Roger said. “I’m in
a hurry.”
The caretaker shuffled off. At the entrance, where he acted as porter by day, were two plain-clothes policemen who would make sure that he didn’t warn Latimer.
Roger closed the door as Detective Sergeant Peel, who was with him, stepped in. Peel and Sloan were much alike, big, fair men with fresh complexions and blue eyes; and they had much in common – including clear minds and a habit of independent thought not always popular at the Yard. Peel was in fact slimmer and slightly shorter than Sloan.
“Not much to search, anyway,” he said.
A small square lobby, with hooks on one wall for coats and a door opposite, led to the bathroom and kitchenette. Another door, opposite the front entrance, led to a living-room, beyond that was the bedroom. Inside, the furnishings and the appointments were better than they had promised outside; without being luxurious, they were comfortable and good. It was obviously a man’s flat.
On a piano in one corner of the living-room was a photograph of Muriel Arlen, another of a youthful-looking, rather handsome man.
“She’s not bad looking,” said Peel, who hadn’t yet seen her. “I wonder if that’s Latimer.”
“I wonder,” said Roger. “You run through this room. He might be fool enough to have left the gun here, or some of the things he stole. If there’s any money, we want it; we may be able to check the notes Arlen had with him.”
He strode into the bedroom, where a large single bed stood against one wall with a lamp on a little table beside it. Wardrobe and chest of drawers were big and of good quality.
Roger went to the wardrobe. There were four suits; one navy blue, the others of various shades of grey. He took them down one after another, and felt them for signs of dampness, took them to the window and studied them closely, and saw nothing to suggest that the suits had been washed. There were no stains; and Arlen had bled freely. He found two overcoats and a raincoat; there were no stains on them. He studied the five pairs of shoes, all of them freshly cleaned; there was nothing to suggest to the naked eye that they’d been used for a walk in the country. A magnifying glass revealed nothing, either on the clothes or the shoes. Roger looked in a wall cupboard, under the bed and through every drawer, but found nothing of interest. He felt the first loss of buoyancy as he went back into the other room.
“Anything?” Peel looked up from a corner cupboard.
Roger shook his head.
“Nothing here, either,” said Peel, “unless you call that anything.” He touched a photograph album which was lying closed on top of a table. “He had plenty of girl friends.”
“So I gathered,” said Roger. “Pity.”
“Why?”
“Because if he were flitting from one to another, he wouldn’t want to marry Mrs. Arlen sufficiently to kill her husband for the privilege.”
“I suppose not,” said Peel. “He did himself proud—half a dozen bottles of whisky, a pretty good general cellar. There are a few oddments in the larder. There’s a drawer over there with some lipstick and face-powder, all the usual cosmetic stuff.”
“Any clothes in the kitchen?”
“No—nothing in the boiler, either; I had a look there. No gun, no gold cigarette-case anywhere. A gold wrist-watch and two or three sets of gold cuff-links in a drawer, that’s all.”
“Hum,” grunted Roger. He opened the photograph album, and the first page had a large photograph stuck in, of a young girl in an abbreviated bathing-dress, posing, enticing; a pretty little thing. “Where’d you find this?”
“In that drawer.” Peel pointed to a drawer in the corner cupboard. “Locked,” he added. “I didn’t have any trouble in forcing it.”
“Hmm.”
Roger turned the page, and was faced by another girl; different in face and costume, but there was no more swim-suit here than in the previous one. Next was a head and shoulders portrait; then two more sun-bathing beauties. He ran through them, counting; there were fourteen, but Mrs. Arlen wasn’t in this pretty collection. Most of them were signed with a Christian name, and he studied the ink. All looked as if they had been written some time ago; he could have that tested and find out if any were recent signatures.
“Just a man with a lot of pin-up girls,” Peel sniffed.
“Meaning, not a man to love so deeply that he’d kill,” said Roger. “I wonder if I’m right.”
“It’s early yet.” Peel looked up. “Someone’s coming,” he said, and they listened as footsteps approached along the passage. There was only one other flat beyond this one. It was impossible to judge whether the footsteps had passed, but after a moment or two Peel shrugged and said quietly: “Wrong address.”
The front door bell rang.
“Right address,” said Roger, swiftly. “Not Latimer; he’d have a key. Keep out of sight, will you?”
He went to the lobby and opened the door slowly, so that he could take a good look at the caller. The footsteps had warned him to expect a woman.
She wasn’t much more than a girl.
She was hatless, nice to look at, well-dressed – and worried. Her frown faded when she saw a man she didn’t know, and she backed away a pace.
“Good afternoon,” said Roger. “Can I help you?”
“Is—is Ral—I mean, is Mr. Latimer in?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Roger.
She looked away from him, as if nervously, took a step towards the end of the passage, then quite suddenly jumped forward, pushed past him and ran into the room.
Chapter Six
Poor Peel
Roger went after her.
As she reached the living-room door, that of the kitchenette swung slowly to, and there was a crash; Peel had knocked something off the table. The girl flew into the room, flung the door back, and cried: “You beast!”
Roger didn’t see how it started, just caught a glimpse of the girl disappearing behind the door, with her hand raised. When he reached it, she was striking at Peel, who was crouching as if he had been trying to get into a low cupboard. He defended himself ineffectually as the girl slapped him across the head and punched when his” nose showed. When Roger caught her shoulder, she flung him off.
“You cowardly brute!” she cried, and leapt again.
Peel, straightening up, his eyes watering, flung up an arm to defend himself. She thrust it aside and hit him on the nose. Then Roger gripped both her shoulders and forced her away. She struggled, but didn’t kick.
Peel gasped: “Keep her away!”
“She’s all right now.”
“She’s dangerous! Why, I—”
Peel stopped, staring at her. She no longer struggled, but had become rigid. Roger didn’t relax his grip, was prepared for any trick; but this wasn’t a trick. Peel straightened up, and wiped his running eyes.
“It’s—not—him,” the girl sighed.
“Is that how you treat your boyfriends?” asked Roger mildly.
“Boy-friend! He—” She broke off. “Who are you? What are you doing in his flat? Why was he hiding?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” said Roger, and released her. “Don’t go on the loose again, or I’ll clap the handcuffs on you.” He was only half in jest. “Who are you and who did you come to see?”
“Ralph Latimer, of course; he—” She broke off again, and flung her hands up. “It can’t be!” she gasped. “I haven’t come to the wrong flat. I—no! I asked for him, and you said he wasn’t in.”
“He isn’t in.”
“Oh, hell!” said the girl. “What a fool I’ve made of myself!” She looked about her desperately, and Roger stood between her and the door. She went to a kitchen chair and sat down. “Are you—policemen?”
“What makes you think so?”
“I thought you might have caught up on him.”
“What’s he done, t
o let us?”
“If you don’t know, how should I?” she asked, becoming wary.
She was in the early twenties, Roger judged. She looked good, although still flushed from the battle. Her hair was untidy, and it suited her that way. She had a nice figure, and was tall for a girl. She stuck her legs out in front of her, slim, well-shaped and sheathed in nylons; and she wore a neat pair of shoes which made one want to glance at her ankles again.
She began to laugh half-heartedly.
“My friend doesn’t think it’s so funny,” Roger said. “You could be charged with assault.”
“Assault,” she sighed.
That stopped her laughter, but her sudden alarm eased when she saw Roger’s expression. Peel, who had been bathing his eyes, turned round, still dabbing at them. She had scratched his nose, and it was bleeding a little at the tip.
“That’s right,” he growled. “Common assault.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Listen,” said Peel. “If you ever get engaged, let me spend five minutes along with the fool who’s taking you on. I’ll stop it.”
Roger glanced at him, as if to say: “Ease off.” Peel, still disgruntled, dabbed at his eyes again, and took out cigarettes.
“Are you policemen?” the girl asked.
“Yes.” Roger showed his card.
“Chief Inspector West? The West?”
“Just a policeman,” Roger said. “Who are you?”
She raised her hands again, stifled a laugh, then drew in a deep breath. He didn’t expect what came.
“I’m Georgina Sharp—Gina for short, soft G; I’m twenty-four; I’m an artist’s model and like it; this is the first time I’ve committed a crime, I think, and I came to tell Ralph Latimer exactly what I thought of him.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“That he’s a rat!”
“Let you down?”
“Let me down? I wouldn’t let the Ralph Latimers of this world get within a yard of me. He’s poisonous. I told Meg so as soon as—”
