by John Creasey
“It’s so unlike him. He wouldn’t go off like this, if he could help it. I—I must speak to the police again.”
“Allow me,” said Cuff.
“No, sir, there’s been no word. I think we’d better put a call out and have the movements of the car traced … Yes, sir, I’ll call you the moment we have any news.”
It was an unusual situation. Of course, there was the staff, three in all; but they were at the back of the house. Cuff sat in an easy-chair in one of the spare bedrooms, the best spare room at Hillbrae, with a whisky-and-soda by his side. He was undoubtedly doing the right thing; no one worthy of the name man could leave the little woman alone. The problem was whether he was doing everything he could and should to ease her mind.
It was a remarkable situation.
He knew Lionel Bennett well. Was it possible that he was a dark horse, and – no! No, that was absurd. True, he might be a dark horse where the ladies were concerned, and no one would blame him for that, but he wouldn’t select tonight as an occasion for a peccadillo. Bennett had a proper respect for others, had always admired success, and certainly there were few more successful men in England than Sir Henry Cuff. Was it, perhaps, amnesia? That could happen – it was worrying, especially worrying for Mrs. Bennett. Sweet and charming little woman; it was a thousand pities that he hadn’t been able to see her at her best. Had Bennett telephoned to say that he would be late, for instance, she would have resigned herself to an evening in his company, and they would have enjoyed it; undoubtedly, enjoyed it.
He glanced at his watch; it was five minutes to twelve.
He had loosened his collar and shoes, but was fully dressed. The room was pleasant and warm – not so warm as it had been downstairs, but happily anxiety had prevented Mrs. Bennett from thinking of the fire, which had died low later in the evening. She must be – distracted. She must be. Would it – would it be discreet to go and see her? She would be in bed by now, probably; or perhaps she was restless and hadn’t yet undressed. There was surely no harm in going to her door and finding out what was happening.
He stood up, fastened his collar, smoothed down his hair, cleared the corners of his eyes, and turned to the door. Then he realised that his shoes were undone, and glanced down at them; it would be better to do them up properly. He bent down with an effort, and the blood went to his head; as he straightened up, he was quite giddy. That soon passed, and he went towards the door, remembering the room into which Mrs. Bennett had gone; the one on the right. Next to it was her husband’s study, where, had things gone according to plan, he and Bennett would have talked over port and cigars.
He opened the door.
A man, wearing a trilby hat and with a scarf over his face, was coming out of the study.
Cuff opened his mouth in an O of astonishment.
The man moved his right hand.
There was a flash and a roar …
Chapter Nine
Coincidence
Roger looked up from the kitchen table, where he was having breakfast, and Scoopy came in from the garden, cheeks flushed, short, straight hair untidy, a smear on the side of his nose. He looked very solemn. Richard, wearing a school cap back to front, came running after him.
“No, Scoopy, no!”
“Daddy—” began Scoopy.
“No, I’ve got to ask him!” cried Richard. “You said I could. It’s not fair.”
“Daddy—could—you—take—us—out—to—tea—this—after—noon?” The request came out with a rush from Scoopy.
“I wanted to ask you,” cried Richard. “It’s not fair, I hate—”
“Could you, Daddy?”
Scoopy was wide-eyed with hope.
“Did you tell Richard he could ask?” asked Roger.
“No, I—”
“Oo, you did! You wicked liar, you did! You—”
“Easy on the language,” Roger said sharply.
“Well, he is a liar.”
“Oo, I’m not,” denied Scoopy. “I thought of it first.”
“You, didn’t!” Richard’s eyes were very blue and bright whenever he was angry, and his cheeks flushed. “I thought of it first. I hate Scoopy!”
He punched Scoopy on the shoulder, and it had not the slightest effect.
“Richard—”
Janet was hurrying downstairs.
“What on earth’s the matter? Scoopy! Richard! Stop fighting. Stop it!” She came hurrying in, and muttered beneath her breath. “You’re hopeless; I can’t leave them to you for ten minutes without something like this. Scoopy! Richard!”
The boys stopped fighting, but glared at each other.
The telephone bell rang.
“I’ll go,” said Roger, and hurried out, dabbing at his lips. He grinned as Janet proceeded with a scolding, and the boys stood mute. He turned into the front room, and the telephone was still ringing. “Hallo!”
“Roger?” It was Bill Sloan.
“Yes.”
“Get here as soon as you can,” said Sloan. “There’s been a second Arlen job.”
“Those St. Albans people were quick,” said Bill Sloan. “They found one of the two bullets in Bennett’s head, close to the surface, and it’s up with Scrymmy now. He can probably give us a report. If those bullets don’t tie up with the couple we took out of Arlen’s head, I’ll eat my hat.”
“Don’t risk your hat,” said Roger.
They were in his office.
“St. Albans saw the similarity between this job and Arlen’s, and the Hertfordshire Chief didn’t lose any time asking if we’d help,” Sloan went on. “It’s an almost identical case, except that they found the body earlier. Mrs. Bennett gave the alarm, there was a special watch, and they found out the road that the Rolls had taken. It was discovered—”
“The Rolls?”
“Sorry, Bennett’s body—the car’s gone. He was discovered behind a hedge by a constable who’d been told to keep a sharp look-out. That was just after one o’clock. Half an hour earlier there’d been a report of a burglary at the Bennetts’ house; Sir Henry Cuff was shot—and died before he could speak.”
“What was he doing there?”
Sloan told him what he knew.
“And Bennett’s wife?”
“She heard the shot and came rushing out, and saw the man disappearing through the front door. He’d been in the room next to hers, and hadn’t made a sound. The safe in the study had been opened with keys—and Bennett’s keys were missing. About two hundred pounds, several thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery and a few other oddments were taken.”
“How much have you put in hand?” asked Roger.
“Not much. Peel’s trying to find out if Bennett and Arlen were associated, of course. St. Albans are doing the preliminary work.”
“Latimer?”
“Still missing.”
“Anything to indicate that Mrs. Bennett really knew anything about it?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Sloan, “but apparently she was wide awake; yet says she didn’t hear a sound. The house is well carpeted; St. Albans say that it’s possible. The killer let himself into the house with a key, of course—it’s almost a carbon copy of what happened yesterday.”
“Let’s go and see Scrymmy,” said Roger.
The little ballistics expert was standing at his bench, examining two bullets between the special double microscope. He didn’t look up, but kept turning a small wheel. The others saw that he had cut two bullets into two, longways; two halves were on the bench, the others under the instrument. He stood with his back to Roger and Sloan for several minutes, then straightened up with a hand at the small of his back.
“This lumbago,” he muttered. “I’ll have to lie up for a day or two.” He moved, and almost fell. “Oh, it’s you, is it?”
“Bad luck, old chap,” said Roger.
“A fat lot you care. Well, you ought to be happy.”
“Same gun?” cried Sloan.
“Take a look.”
There were two lenses; Sloan and Roger took one each. Roger fiddled with the wheel. The two halves of the bullet were gradually brought together; there were differences on the markings, but some looked very much alike. After a few minutes, the main markings, which showed in lines, matched up; these looked like two halves of the same bullet.
Roger drew back and picked up the other halves. One was labelled ‘Arlen’ and the other ‘Bennett’.
“Your hat’s safe,” he said to Sloan. “Three killings, same man. The nurse told me that Arlen has relatives at Newbury and St. Albans. Find out if the lives of any of the three victims crossed, and it’s urgent. Maybe there’s a family vendetta.”
Chatworth was at his desk, and looked up at Roger sourly, like a farmer looking at a field of ripe corn after a high wind and heavy rain. Roger put a bundle of papers on the desk and stood waiting. Chatworth shook his head slowly, and said: “Oh, sit down.”
“Thanks. The same gun was used.”
“You didn’t ever think it was a coincidence, did you?”
“It wasn’t likely,” said Roger. “Latimer’s still missing.”
“With his bloodstained clothes, I suppose,” said Chatworth sardonically. “You jumped at Latimer too quickly. Now you can’t find him. Why?”
“He walked out of his flat about half-past twelve and hasn’t been seen since. We’ve questioned most of his girl friends, and not one says she saw him. Most can prove they were with someone else. Three can’t, and I’m checking further. Two I haven’t found. There’s no sign that anyone’s lying.”
“Any more of them give money to Latimer?”
“Three,” said Roger.
“What about the Sharp women?”
“They seem straightforward. The older one, Margaret, was in love with Latimer—there isn’t much doubt about that. I’m having them watched; Peel’s on the job.”
“Why?”
“If Latimer runs short of money, he’s as likely to try the Sharps as anyone.”
“If Latimer did these jobs, he isn’t going to run short of money very soon.”
Roger shrugged.
“Well, is he?” barked Chatworth.
“I doubt if he’ll get rid of those jewels easily; they’re much too hot. He’s collected a bit of money in cash, but we have the numbers of most of the notes, which were new. He’ll see that, and be careful. A list of the note numbers has been circulated, of course.”
“What else?”
“I’m going down to St. Albans,” Roger said. “And I want to find out if any one of the three dead men knew each other. Sloan’s on that. The only other thing—”
“Yes?”
“I think we ought to give the Press Latimer’s photograph. Warn the public that he’s wanted for questioning after the two hold-ups. If we hold the picture any longer and there’s another one tonight or in the next day or two, they’ll scream blue murder at us. We don’t want another mess of that sort, do we?”
“Never mind what the Press will say about us; will it help if the papers have that photograph?”
“I think so.”
“All right, give it to them. Got one here?”
Roger opened his file and selected the picture of Latimer that he had taken from the flat. It was full face. Chatworth studied it for a long time, and then looked up.
“What do you make of it?”
“It’s a long time since I started guessing from photographs,” said Roger.
“You’re too fresh,” growled Chatworth. “The man has a weak face—hasn’t he? His reputation is in line with it—sponging on different women, living on them, in effect. Is he the kind of man you’d expect to run around killing motorists?”
“Could be,” said Roger. “There isn’t much risk to himself, the way he does it; but if everyone is on the look-out there should be some risk. I’ll give it to the Press, then.”
“Yes, go ahead,” said Chatworth.
Roger closed the door softly. Chatworth wasn’t in a good mood, and there was no particular reason, unless it were a personal one. Roger went back to his office and lifted the telephone.
“Yes, sir.”
“See if you can get me Wycherly of the Daily Echo,” Roger said, “but don’t let anyone know it’s the Yard.”
“Right, sir.”
“So you’re releasing the photograph,” said Sloan.
“I’m beginning to think we were a day too late,” said Roger.
He fiddled with his cigarette-case, waiting for the bell to ring. It still hadn’t rung when there was a tap at the door, and Peel came in.
Roger looked at him without enthusiasm.
“’Morning,” said Peel.
“Why have you deserted Georgina Sharp?” asked Roger. “Tired of holding hands?”
Peel stared – and then coloured. His reaction was so startling that Roger forgot his impatience, and Sloan widened his eyes. Peel looked as if he were biting his lips to keep back a sharp retort, then relaxed and said formally: “She’s working. I’ve left a man to watch the place where she is, but she’s usually there all day.”
“Who’s the artist?” asked Roger.
“William Fell.”
“I never could understand a girl wanting to sit in the altogether while a chap paints her,” said Sloan, scratching his head with a pencil. “I suppose these artist chaps do get impersonal, but I wouldn’t like a daughter of mine to take up that job.”
“Wouldn’t you?” asked Peel, stonily.
The telephone bell rang.
“Hold on a minute, Peel,” said Roger, and lifted the receiver. “Thanks …”
He waited for a few seconds, and the voice of the tall and untidy reporter of the Echo came.
“Who wants me?”
“I do. It’s West. If you happen to be at the Back Room in about twenty minutes, you might get something interesting,” said Roger. “It’ll be your own fault if you don’t get there pretty quickly. Follow?”
“Well, well, a present from a policeman,” said Wycherley. “Could I ask the great Handsome West what he expects to get out of it?”
“A lot of space on the front page of the Evening Echo” said Roger. “Goodbye.”
He looked up into Peel’s eyes as he finished. Peel seemed to have recovered his poise, and was standing at ease. Roger offered cigarettes, and said easily: “I’ve a feeling we’re going to have some night work for the next week, Peel. Get some rest this afternoon, will you, and be here at about six o’clock? You’ll probably have to keep at the Sharp women. I’ve also a feeling Latimer might try to get some more money out of them.”
“Right-ho.” Peel was brisk. “I can manage night and day for a bit, if—”
“Not on a job where there’s a killer with a gun,” said Roger. “I’m going to ease up for a few hours myself. Was Meg Sharp at the flat when you left?”
“Yes—it’s watched.”
“Thanks,” said Roger.
Peel went out, and Sloan said: “Well, well! He hasn’t developed a soft spot for the little lady, has he?”
“We’ll find out,” said Roger. “I hope he doesn’t start mixing romance and work, but—no, Peel won’t fall for that.”
“Meaning?”
“If Georgina Sharp knows more than she’s told us, she might think it a bright idea to have a friendly policeman,” said Roger. “I’ll have a go at him myself, later on. Now I’m going out to see Mrs. Bennett.”
Mrs. Bennett was prostrate, and her doctor forbade questioning. Roger went through the papers in the study, checked with the St. Albans police, bu
t found nothing of interest.
While he was there, the Yard telephoned a report that the Rolls Royce had been found, parked behind some trees in the garden of an empty house at Hampstead. The only finger-prints were Bennett’s.
It was three o’clock before Roger reached Chelsea, and he didn’t go straight home. He telephoned the Yard from a call-box, was told there was nothing fresh to report, and then drove to Merrick Street. There was now only one policeman on duty, in the garden. A young, serious-looking woman – Mrs. Arlen’s sister – met him in the drawing-room. Yes, Muriel could see him; she was in her room but much better, and was actually sitting up. She’d just pop upstairs and warn her –
“Do you mind not doing that?” Roger turned. “Thanks. I know the way.”
He knew that the sister was standing and watching him as he went upstairs, but didn’t look back. He tapped on the bedroom door, and Mrs. Arlen called: “Come in.”
She was sitting in a chair in front of a gas-fire, wearing a flowered dressing-gown. She hadn’t made up, but her hair was neat, she was quite attractive – and still frightened. At sight of him, she started. He closed the door softly, and strolled across to her.
“I’m glad you’re better, Mrs. Arlen, and sorry I have to worry you again. It isn’t much, but—did your husband know a Mr. Lionel Bennett?”
“Lionel Bennett? Of course,” said Muriel Arlen. “They were cousins.”
Chapter Ten
Cousins
“I don’t see what’s so surprising about it,” said Muriel Arlen. “Why do you ask? If you think that Lionel had anything to do with—” She broke off.
Roger smiled.
“No, not that. Were they good friends?”
“I suppose you would say so,” said Mrs. Arlen. “They weren’t close friends; we only saw Lionel and Mary about once or twice a year. There wasn’t any quarrel or anything like that. Why?”
“Do you know when they last saw each other?”
“Just before Christmas. We went to their house, near St. Albans.”
