The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  He rang the bell, and there was an immediate answer.

  A woman, tall, big-breasted, wearing a navy-blue dress, looked at him inquiringly. He couldn’t see any likeness to Georgina, who was a race-horse to this cart-horse. But that wasn’t quite fair. The woman was magnificently proportioned, her dark hair was braided, and she had bold, handsome looks. Her eyes were dark.

  “Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” said Roger. “Are you Miss Margaret Sharp?”

  “Yes, who—”

  “I wonder if you can spare me a minute,” said Roger, and slipped past her. She was too surprised to try to stop him. He beamed at her and closed the door, then led the way into a room beyond this small hallway.

  It was much larger than he had expected, long and narrow, with tall windows. It had the charm of homemade furnishings, with a restful colour-scheme of blues and greys. A baby grand piano stood in one corner, there was a divan and several easy-chairs; the boards were polished and rugs were dotted about. Daffodils stood in tall vases on the piano, the window-ledges and the mantelpiece; an electric fire was on.

  “Really!” exclaimed Meg Sharp. “You’ve no right—”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  Roger still beamed, and showed his card.

  She gasped: “Police!”

  “Yes. I believe you’re a friend of Mr. Ralph Latimer.”

  “Ralph,” she sighed.

  “Yes—Ralph Latimer. Has he been here today?”

  “He—no. No! You—you want him?”

  “I’d like to have a word with him,” said Roger. “Nothing that need worry you, Miss Sharp, but I think he can help us.”

  “He—he’s not in trouble?”

  She stood facing the window, and he could see the lines at the corners of her eyes and her lips; she was not far short of forty.

  “Why should he be in trouble?”

  “You—you’re a policeman.”

  “We have to talk to a lot of people who aren’t in trouble,” said Roger. “How long have you known Mr. Latimer?”

  “About—about a year,” said Meg Sharp slowly. “Oh, this is so worrying. He was to have come to see me last night, and didn’t arrive. I was sure that something was the matter; he wouldn’t let me down. Not Ralph! I—oh, no! No, no, no! He hasn’t been—hurt.”

  She stretched out a hand, almost touching Roger’s, and her eyes glowed with alarm. He could understand what her sister had meant about Margaret Sharp.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Roger. “When did you see him last?”

  “Friday,” said the woman promptly; it had obviously been on her mind. “Friday; we went out to dinner. I thought he was worried; he—he wasn’t having any luck, you know; he’s the most unlucky man I’ve ever come across. Oh, I do wish you’d tell me what’s the matter.”

  “I just want to talk to him,” said Roger easily. “I’m sorry to hear about his bad luck. Betting, you mean?”

  “Oh, no. Ralph isn’t a betting man; it’s just that his business deals won’t go through; someone always stopped him. I tried to help him as much as I could.

  Oh, poor Ralph! I—” She broke off, only to breathe: “No!”

  Her sister must find her trying on occasions.

  “No!” she repeated. “Gina wouldn’t—Gina! She—that’s my sister—she’s just left; she’s been asking questions about Ralph’s friends; she—have you seen my sister?”

  “I had a few words with her.”

  “No!” cried Margaret Sharp. “It’s too wicked. Too, too wicked. Gina—Gina hasn’t told you anything?”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t believe she would let me down” gasped Margaret. “Anyhow, she’s wrong! I lent him the money; it isn’t true that Ralph stole it. I tell you it isn’t true; I lent it to him. If anyone did anything wrong it was me. I didn’t tell Gina that I was taking so much out of the account, but it was a joint account; it wasn’t a crime. And I’d do anything for Ralph, anything. He’s—wonderful! I’ll never forgive Gina, never; she—”

  “We wanted to have a word with Mr. Latimer before we saw your sister,” said Roger soothingly. “I shouldn’t blame her—-but if Mr. Latimer comes here, you’ll ask him to let me know, won’t you? Here’s my card.” He put it on the table, but she didn’t look at it, stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped in front of her massive bosom, like a prima donna about to break into song. “Good evening, Miss Sharp.”

  Roger was at the door before she had turned round. He closed the outer door with a bang, but didn’t latch it; after a moment, he pushed the door open and crept to the door of the big room.

  The woman was standing where he had left her, looking out of the window, with tears falling slowly down her cheeks.

  Sloan was in the office, at Roger’s desk, and looked up eagerly as Roger came in. It was nearly half-past six.

  “We’re moving,” he said abruptly. “That Austin’s been found. It was in a builder’s yard at Hammersmith—not damaged. Coming?”

  “Am I!” They went out of the office together. “What else?” asked Roger.

  “Not much. The builder is a small one, who buys second-hand cars occasionally. He wasn’t in to business today; the workmen at the yard thought this was a new buy, and didn’t say anything about it. A bright constable passed the yard and took the number—I didn’t have word until ten minutes before you came in.”

  They reached the main hall of the yard.

  Peel and Georgina Sharp were walking up the steps, smiling and cheerful, and Peel had a helping hand on the girl’s elbow.

  Chapter Eight

  Dusk

  Mr. Lionel Bennett, at sixty-three, was a happy man. He had all the prerequisites of contentment, for he was wealthy, he played golf with a handicap of five, and a surprisingly agile game of tennis. He had a pleasant house on the outskirts of St. Albans and – because of his remarkable foresight twenty-two years ago, when he had married a woman fifteen years younger than himself – he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was going home to a comely and attractive wife who studied his whims and fancies, and who would always be a source of pride as well as comfort.

  He had reached the summit of his ambitions three years ago. Then he had retired and been asked to name his own parting gift from his company – of which he had been a loyal and successful servant for nearly forty years. He had dared to suggest a dream; a substantial dream, in the shape of a Rolls Royce.

  He had always longed for a Rolls Royce, because he believed that it would set the crown on his worldly success. He told himself that he did not really value worldly success; he was a regular churchgoer, and subscribed with reasonable generosity to many charities and goodwill organizations. He was also a Mason.

  Moreover, he had two sons, one aged sixteen and the other aged eighteen, who were already proving a credit to him; the elder was almost certain to get his cricket Blue at Cambridge when he went up; and to make sure that Mr. Bennett’s joys were evenly spread, his younger son was showing promise as a brilliant mathematician; quite exceptional, Bennett had been assured.

  That evening, as dusk fell, he strolled from the clubhouse of his golf club, a few miles from his home, and stood for a moment admiring the lovely lines of the Rolls Royce. If anyone had told him that he was in love with it, he would have laughed, and said ‘Nonsense’; yet the look in his eyes was very like the look which he had bent upon his wife twenty years ago.

  Stanway, the club secretary, came out of his office.

  “Like a lift, George?” asked Bennett.

  “No, thanks, I’m not quite finished,” said Stanway.

  “Oh, well, if you’re sure.” Bennett moved towards the car. “Everyone else is busy; I have to be home at eight sharp tonight. Sir Henry Cuff is dining with us.”
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br />   “Oh, really,” said Stanway. “Good night, old man.”

  Bennett sat at the wheel, fiddled with the instruments, listened with delighted ear to the soft purr of the engine as the self-starter worked; this was the perfect machine. He took her out of the main gates and then turned along the road which led to the main road and, soon, his home.

  It was a narrow, winding road, and because he was by nature careful, and also because the slightest scratch on the shiny black surface appeared to him as a major tragedy, Bennett drove with great care. Although it was not really dark enough for them, he switched on his headlamps; at the sharper corners he made the deep, trumpet-like horn sound. He handled the car, in fact, as if it were a precious toy, and had been doing that for over two years.

  He turned a corner slowly.

  Out of the hedge at the side sprang a man – tall, dark. He stood in the middle of the road, quite still. Bennett jammed on his brakes; the Rolls Royce had seldom been called upon to stop so suddenly.

  “You crazy fool!” He felt the blood rush to his head in anger. “Get out of my way!” He put his finger on the horn, and the note blared out. “Get out of my way!”

  The man moved, but kept a hand on the car. Bennett released the handbrake, but couldn’t move off without risking injury to the man. Suddenly, the other sprang to the door farther from Bennett, opened it and got into the car.

  “What the devil do you mean? Get out!”

  “You’re not very polite,” said the stranger, in a deep, sardonic voice. “You’re going to give me a nice ride.”

  “I’m damned well not! Get out, or I’ll push you out.”

  “Well, well, what vigour for an old man!” said the stranger, and put his left hand to his pocket – a movement which Bennett did not notice. “Drive on.”

  Bennett put on his handbrake again. “Get out!” He was almost incoherent with rage. “Get out before I—”

  “Before you what?” asked the stranger, and showed his gun.

  Bennett gaped.

  The gun rested on the stranger’s knee, pointing towards the dashboard. The car was wide enough for there to be plenty of room between driver and passenger, and Bennett couldn’t get at it, even if he’d had the impulse. He felt shivery; and shivered more violently when the stranger gave a little laugh. Bennett saw his face only vaguely.

  “Let’s go,” said the stranger.

  Bennett muttered: “What—what do you want? I haven’t any money with me—not much; I—”

  “Never mind that. I want a nice ride. Turn right at the next corner; you know the road, don’t you?”

  “I—I have an urgent appointment at home, I can’t be too long.”

  “They’ll wait for you, won’t they?” asked the stranger. “You’ve a nice little wife. What a lucky man you are! Have you ever realised that? What a very lucky man, with your lovely home and your family—”

  “Do—you know me?”

  “Perhaps I’m just guessing. Isn’t it time you started to drive?”

  Bennett moistened his lips, then let in the clutch. The car moved off slowly. The road to the right was half a mile farther along. He didn’t want to take it. He couldn’t safely put on speed along this lane; oncoming traffic was often careless here, and there were sometimes cyclists. His mouth was dry, but the shivering fit had passed. He was not without physical courage, but was getting on in years. He thought of grappling with the man, who looked strong.

  The gun still showed.

  The grass verge and the hedge showed up in the headlamps, and the signpost appeared; the right hand turn led to a hamlet several miles away, and to one or two isolated farmhouses.

  He slowed down.

  “You’ve remembered,” said the man with the gun. “That’s good. Be careful you don’t scratch your wings, won’t you?”

  Bennett gulped.

  “I—I’ve fifteen pounds in my pocket, take that and—”

  “But I don’t want your fifteen pounds,” said the stranger. “At least, that’s not all I want. You’re a happy man, aren’t you, Mr. Bennett? You’ve led a good life. A very good life.”

  The sneer was all too evident.

  “I—I’ve done everything I could to help others. I wouldn’t mind helping you, if you’d tell me what you want.”

  He had turned the corner. Here the hedges were high and the road narrower. It was much darker. The young leaves of hawthorn and bramble showed up pale in the light, and here and there a tall tree was thrown up in dark relief. A few stars now powdered the sky, and the red light of an aircraft moved overhead.

  “So you’ve done everything you could to help others,” said the stranger. “And you’ve got yourself a plump little wife and two children and a fine home, haven’t you? You’ve retired on a big income and you’ve plenty of money—everything you need in life.”

  “I—I get along.”

  “What a fine understatement!” said the stranger. “You get along! You’ll get along all right, Mr. Bennett.” He leaned forward, and Bennett slowed down. “Be very careful, and look at me.”

  Bennett obeyed. The man’s lips were parted, and his eyes were glowing; they looked as if there was fire in them, in spite of the gloom. Bennett started violently, the car swerved and scraped along the hedge.

  The stranger moved the wheel, to steady it.

  “So you’ve recognised me, Mister Bennett! I thought you would. Slow down and then stop—gently, or my gun might go off.”

  Bennett obeyed, but his hands were shaking. The car stopped.

  “Listen! I—I’ll give you everything I have; take my watch, my cigarette-case, my wallet, take anything!”

  “But I don’t think it’s enough.”

  “Let’s go home; I’ve some money in the safe, some jewels, too; you can have those. There are several thousand pounds’ worth; I—”

  “If I let you take me home, you’ll find a way to call the police,” said the stranger, “and I should hate that. Look at me, Bennett.”

  Bennett looked at him.

  He didn’t see the gun move; only the flash followed by the deafening report.

  “But it’s so unlike him,” said Mrs. Bennett to Sir Henry Cuff, who was a self-important and most influential man. “I’ve never known it happen before. Sometimes he’s late at the club-house, but when we have guests he’s most punctilious.”

  “An accident, no doubt, an accident.” Cuff drew on his cigarette. “Don’t worry, my dear Mrs. Bennett. It will be a trifling affair, trifling. What a charming place you have here—so charming!”

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Mrs. Bennett eagerly. “It’s always nice to hear what others think. Lionel’s so fond of it.”

  “Lionel is a very lucky man,” said Cuff, and patted her arm.

  He was plump and red-faced, and had little hair; there was a faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, for the room was warm. A bright fire roared, the central heating had been turned on at full blast. They were in the drawing-room, overlooking the garden, which was now hidden by the night. A Knole suite of pale blue and gold, smaller chairs to match, draped velvet curtains – everything here was expensive and in excellent taste.

  Mrs. Bennett was short and fluffy, pink and white; her hair was hennaed to gingery blonde, like a young girl’s. She had on a little too much make-up, especially rouge. Her excellent teeth showed a great deal as she smiled. She couldn’t keep still, and kept shifting her chair,. looking round towards the door, behind her, and obviously listening for the sound she longed to hear.

  “I just can’t understand it,” she said. “I’ll telephone the club-house again; do forgive me.”

  The telephone was in a corner of the room. She stood by it, dress billowing, well corseted, a comfortable bundle of a woman who paid the proper attention to foundations. Cuff sa
t back on the couch and watched her in the concealed wall lighting, admiring her movements.

  “Hallo!—is that Mr. Stanway? Oh, Mr. Stanway, are you sure my husband has left? He’s not home yet; it’s Mrs. Bennett here … Could there have been a mistake?”

  She listened.

  “Oh, dear,” she said plaintively. “Well, thank you very much.”

  “He left at seven; he should have been home at half-past; that would have given him good time. I can’t understand it. Do you think I ought to telephone the police?”

  “My dear lady, if it will ease your mind, of course, of course. Allow me to speak to them,” said Cuff, in manly fashion, and stood up. When he reached her, he patted her shoulder. “It will prove to be a trifling delay, trifling, and I am in no hurry.”

  “You’re very good. Thank you so much. And there’s dinner, it’ll spoil. I—I’ll go and see cook.”

  She hurried out.

  “No, sir, there’s been no report of any accident,” said a man at the St. Albans Police Station. “No, nothing at all tonight … a Rolls Royce, driven by Mr. Lionel Bennett … Mr. Lionel Bennett! … We’ll keep a look-out, sir, and let you know if there’s any report … Yes, sir, I’ll let Mrs. Bennett know.”

  For Mrs. Bennett it had been a miserable dinner. She hardly noticed that her companion did full justice to Dover sole and roast lamb and extremely good justice to a sherry trifle; although she could have told that he had a sweet tooth.

  They were back in the drawing-room.

  “My dear lady, I can’t leave you in such distress, I really can’t.” Cuff fingered his watch; it was nearly ten o’clock. “I really can’t.”

  He was a widower.

  “Oh, but you’ll be so late, and you didn’t come to see me; you came to see Lionel.”

  “I have been delighted to spend the time with you, Mrs. Bennett. The problem is, what to do? What to do? The police would surely have informed us had there been any accident, have no doubt of that. He must have been—ah—he must have been—ah—”