by John Creasey
“So he’s been here.”
“Any reason why a man shouldn’t come to see a lady?”
“When did he go?”
“Half an hour ago,” said Rose. “You’d better come upstairs.” She licked her lips, and turned to the staircase, which was opposite the front door. “My rooms are up here; you don’t have to look in the others, it’ll only cause trouble.”
“Trouble with whom?”
“My landlady—she’s out,” said Rose Morton. “Gone to the pictures; they always go on Friday nights.”
“All right,” said Roger, but as she turned to lead the way up the stairs, he signalled to the plain-clothes men. They would go through the downstairs rooms, and make sure that Latimer had really left.
The light from the landing actually came from a back room. It was comfortable, but not particularly attractive – a living-room with a divan in one corner, and oddments of furniture, none of which matched. Rose had a swaying, attractive walk, and now that they could see her better, she proved to have a good, full figure. She looked sullen.
“Now what’s it all about?”
“Why did Latimer come to see you?”
“He’s a swine,” she said. “He wanted some money—he’s always after money. I’d told him I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him; my—my husband wouldn’t like it. I didn’t think he knew where I lived, but he turned up tonight. Thank heavens, my hubby wasn’t in.” Having got away with ‘husband’ without being questioned, she seemed much easier. There was a gold ring on her engagement finger. “He said he was pushed for twenty pounds, and I gave him a fiver to get rid of him. It was all I had. I said if he came again I’d have the police on him.”
“For what?” asked Roger.
“Never you mind!”
Roger said: “Now listen, Rose. We haven’t anything against you; we don’t want to make difficulties. If you’re settling down and you’ve got a steady man, that’s fine. But we want straight answers about Latimer. Have you seen the evening papers?”
She said: “No. What’s he been doing?”
“We’re not sure that he’s been doing anything yet, but he may be able to help us about the Arlen murder.”
“Murder,” she said, and, to their astonishment, giggled. “Ralph, a murderer? Don’t make me laugh; he hasn’t got the guts to punch a man on the nose.” She giggled again. “You’ve made some mistakes in your time, copper, but not a bigger one than this. Ralph’s small cheese. He wouldn’t kill; he’d be too scared. He’d put up a good front, but I know him—I know he’s got water where most men have blood.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He—he peddled snow,” said Rose Morton abruptly. “I didn’t fall for it. Snow and heroin; other dope too, I wouldn’t be surprised. I found it out from one of my girl friends, and wild horses wouldn’t drag her name out of me, so you needn’t waste your time. I told him tonight that if he came again I’d tell the police about it—I don’t think he’ll come again.”
“What made him come?”
“I’ve told you.”
“You haven’t told us why he thought he could get money out of you,” said Roger.
“He knew I’d settled down, and wouldn’t want my hubby to know some of the little games I got up to in the past. He’s always putting on the squeeze, if he gets half a chance. But I wasn’t having any, and I told him so—after this once, he could tell Fred anything. In fact” – she put her chin up – “I’m going to tell Fred myself. I don’t see any point in living under a shadow, and if he’s as fond of me as he says he is, Fred won’t mind. I think he is.”
“That’s right,” said Roger. “You tell him. Did Latimer say why he wanted the money?”
“He said he had to pay someone back some money he borrowed.”
“Did he tell you he was on the run?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me—he looked scared, for once. Usually he covers it up, but he couldn’t cover it tonight. He wasn’t here ten minutes.”
“Which way did he go out?”
“Why, the front way, of course.”
Roger said: “It’s no good, Rose; you’re lying.”
“I’m not; you damned splits never believe any thing!” She glared at him. “He went out the front—”
She broke off.
“That’s right; try second thoughts,” said Roger.
“Now I come to think of it, I didn’t hear the front door close,” said Rose. “I was so glad to get rid of him, I told him he could find his own way out, and slammed the door on him. He could have gone out the back door; he would if he knew you were after him, wouldn’t he?”
The men who had been searching came into the room.
“Nothing here,” one said.
“Of course there’s nothing here,” snapped Rose Morton. “I’ve told you the truth—he wasn’t here for ten minutes.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Why should he? No, he didn’t.”
Roger said: “All right, Rose; but listen. We want to find Latimer, and if he shows up again, hold him on some excuse and let us know. Don’t let any fool ideas about loyalty stop you, because if you help him get away, you’ll find yourself in trouble with us. Your Freddy wouldn’t forgive that so easily, would he?”
“Coppers,” sneered Rose.
They were back at the Yard at half-past nine. There had been no reports of any trouble, and there was no fresh information.
The morning newspapers splashed the murders and the photograph of Latimer. Roger left home just after eight, and by nine was looking at a mass of reports on his desk; reports from people who thought they had seen Latimer. He had been in thirty-one places at the same time, according to these. The largest file was in the Metropolitan area; Roger would need to go through those first. He wanted to start on the other angle, the relations of Arlen and Bennett, but he’d have to sift through these first.
He was on edge, half expecting a report of a third attack at any moment. None came.
Sloan was late.
He finished going through the reports, marked a dozen for special attention, and left them for Sloan, then pulled the files which covered the relatives towards him. There were four, in all; a woman and three men.
The woman was a Mrs. Lilian Drew, and lived on the outskirts of York. Her husband was known to be extremely wealthy, director and chief shareholder of a large chain of grocery stores. Two of her brothers, Arthur and Ernest Bennett, lived in Birmingham. Lionel had been the fourth member of this family – their mother had been an Arlen, sister of Wilfred’s father.
The two brothers were the only directors of Bennett Brothers Limited, a small manufacturing company, the shares of which were not quoted on the Stock Exchange.
The other man was Raymond Arlen, of Newbury; his father and Wilfred Arlen’s had been brothers.
The provincial police had been quick; there were comprehensive reports on all of them. All four were people of the upper middle-class social strata, with good incomes, all married and reputable. Their ages ranged from Arlen’s forty-seven to Ernest Bennett’s sixty-one. Each had been warned the previous evening, and there was a telephoned report from the local police, saying that nothing had happened to any of them up to six a.m.
Sloan came in breezily.
“’Morning, Roger. Haven’t kept you, I hope.”
“Oversleep?” asked Roger.
“Good Lord, no! I got the address of that other woman Latimer knew, and paid her an early call on my way. She says she hasn’t seen him for months. She’s living at Ealing, married and respectable; there’s nothing to it. No more trouble, I hope.”
“Not yet,” said Roger. “I’m going to Birmingham first, I think, and I’ll take Peel with me. These Bennetts—”
The tel
ephone bell rang.
Roger took off the receiver. “West here.”
“’Morning, sir.” It was the sergeant on duty in the hall. “A Mr. Raymond Arlen is here, sir, asking to see you.”
Chapter Twelve
Raymond Arlen
This Arlen was tall, lean, an obvious open-air type. He came in swiftly, nodded his thanks to the sergeant who had brought him up, and looked from Sloan to West.
“Good morning, Mr. Arlen,” said Roger. “I’m Chief Inspector West.”
Sloan pushed up a chair.
“Sit down,” said Roger. “Cigarette?”
“Thanks.” Raymond Arlen seemed completely at ease, and looked curiously round the office. “This is the first time I’ve been in a police station—if you call Scotland Yard a police station.”
“It’ll serve,” said Roger. “How can I help you?”
“I thought it time I showed up,” said Arlen, and smiled. He had fine white teeth, dark hair—he was by far the youngest of the cousins, and showed no sign of going grey. “I had your message last night, of course—kept it to myself; it would have scared the wits out of my wife.”
“Better that than have you killed.”
“Oh, yes. But is there seriously any risk of that?” asked Arlen. “I don’t mind telling you that if anyone has a crack at me, I shall fall back on the law of justifiable homicide.”
“So long as you make sure it’s justifiable, no one will mind,” said Roger easily. “You’d heard about the murder before we telephoned, of course.”
“Only just.” Arlen drew at his cigarette and blew two smoke-rings. “I’d been away for a couple of days, and had missed the newspapers. Couldn’t get The Times, and I’ve no use for the scandal sheets. I was reading about it when the telephone rang. My wife had seen it, of course; she was pretty worked up—and that’s one of the reasons I’ve come to see you.”
“Yes?”
Arlen said easily: “We’re just about to have our child, Mr. West. It’s due in a few weeks’ time, and my wife is pretty nervous. You can understand that, can’t you? I don’t want her worried any more than I can help. So I thought if I came to see you it would save you coming to see me, and perhaps save her a lot of worry. I have to come to town on business quite often; caught an early train this morning—she’s no idea that I’ve come here, of course.”
“Thoughtful of you,” said Roger. “It’s saved me a journey, too. What time did you get home last night?”
“About seven. Soon after.”
“And you’d been away for two days?”
“Yes—North Wales. Business, of course. I travel for Willersons, the paper people.”
“Your murdered cousins were salesmen, weren’t they?”
Arlen grinned.
“If you’d called Lionel or Wilfred a salesman, you’d have come away with a flea in your ear—they were travelling representatives. Lionel was more than a salesman, anyhow. Yes—that’s about the only thing we really had in common—the gift of the gab. It runs like that sometimes.”
“Your other cousins don’t seem to have it,” said Roger. “The Birmingham couple are—”
“They run their own business—small tools,” said Arlen. “They can talk all right!” He laughed. “But I haven’t cottoned on yet, Mr. West—why should you think that there’s any danger for the rest of us? I take it you warned all the lot.”
“Yes.”
“Well, why?”
Roger said: “On the simple principle that it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’ve no grounds for thinking that the murderer might have a go at you, but it’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it? Have you read this morning’s scandal sheets?”
Arlen grinned.
“Every one—I’ve never seen so many headlines in my life. You mean, this chap Latimer.”
“Do you know him?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Did you recognise him?”
Roger said: “Well?”
“As a matter of fact, I had a feeling that I’d seen him before somewhere,” said Arlen. “I couldn’t place him at first. And then—” He laughed. “It’s nonsense, I expect, but—well, look at me”
He sat there, without smiling now, in the pose which Latimer had shown in the photograph which had been widely circulated. Roger stared. Sloan came round to the other side of Arlen’s chair, and looked down at him. There was silence in the office, broken by the rumble of trams and the hum of traffic on the Embankment.
“Well?” Arlen asked abruptly.
“Yes, there is a slight likeness,” said Roger, cautiously. “I shouldn’t call him your double, but—”
“It’s a likeness all right,” said Arlen. “I don’t mind telling you that when I realised it, it shook me. I happen to have a photograph in my pocket.” He took out his wallet, and handed Roger a photograph of himself and a handsome, smiling woman. It was head and shoulders only, and had been taken in a good studio. “See what I mean?”
Roger put one of Latimer’s photographs by the side of it.
“Well, it’s there,” said Sloan.
“You can imagine why it shook me,” Arlen said. “I didn’t discover it until this morning, of course, after I’d decided to come and have a word with you. After that, every time anyone looked at me I thought they were comparing me with this chap. At Paddington I felt quite sure that a couple of policemen were coming to clap their hands on my shoulders, but they only stared. Your sergeant downstairs positively jumped when he looked up and saw me.”
“It isn’t such a strong likeness as that,” said Roger. “May I borrow this photograph?”
“Er—well, yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“And you’ve never heard of the man Latimer or, as far as you know, ever seen him before.”
“No.” Arlen was emphatic.
“Thanks,” said Roger, and leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Did either of your murdered cousins ever talk of any personal worry or anxiety, Mr. Arlen?”
Arlen grinned.
“Never! We had another thing in common; I forgot to tell you about that. Boastfulness. We didn’t often foregather; it must be five years since we all met—we happened to be in London at the same time. You should have been there—hearing fishermen telling their stories was nothing to it. Each of us had to beat the other on income, sales record, wife, house—it would have been nauseating if I hadn’t seen the funny side of it. Odd thing,” went on Arlen, “I knew that I was as bad as the rest, but I think I was the only one who kind of stood outside myself and saw what was happening. They were deadly earnest about it all.”
“No reason, as far as you know, why any of them should have been frightened?”
“Good lord, no!”
“Did you ever do business together?”
“No—no cause to.”
Roger said: “I’ve had six names altogether: Mr. Arlen—yours, the two Bennetts in Birmingham and their sister, isn’t it? Mrs. Drew, of York. And the two dead men, of course. Have you any other relatives?”
Arlen hesitated again.
“Most people can claim more than five,” murmured Roger.
“Well, we were a small family,” Arlen said. “And we had rough luck during the wars—some of the family were wiped out, in bombing raids in both of them. And I lost a brother at Arnhem. We six are the only relations who really rate, I think.”
“But there’s someone else?”
“Er—yes, I suppose so.” Arlen wrinkled his nose. “It’s a mucky business, this kind of inquiry. All the dirty linen comes out for washing. There is another relative, or rather there was. One of my father’s brothers, Simon, was a kind of family skeleton. I knew him when I was a child, but he vanished soon afterwards. I didn’t realise until a few years ago that he was put away—in an asy
lum. You know how families hush up that kind of thing. He was married and there was one child, I believe—I couldn’t prove it, but my mother told me there was.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Oh, a male of the species.”
“What was his name?”
“Arnold.”
“What happened to him?”
Arlen frowned, and looked ill-at-ease.
“I don’t exactly know, but I gathered that it wasn’t anything my mother was particularly proud of. The wife died, not long after the child was born, and the kid was farmed out. She told me that she tried to keep in touch with the foster-parents, but my—my father and the rest of the family wouldn’t have any of it. Not a pretty story, is it?—they could be hard on kids, in the old days. I don’t see how it can help, and yet—”
Roger said: “It can help a lot, and you know it, Mr. Arlen. Have you told us everything?”
“All the way up I’ve been racking my brains to recall everything I can,” said Arlen. “My mother was ill when she told me; she died soon afterwards. I think she had an attack of conscience, and wanted to die with it off her mind. She rambled a bit, but the general outline is about right—my uncle went off the rails and he was homicidal, so they jugged him. Rather than let anyone think there was a taint in the family, it was hushed up. The sickening thing is that they wished the boy on to foster parents, presumably without saying anything about the family history. Ugly kind of business.”
“Yes. Have you ever discussed this with your cousins?”
“Er—I did once, with Lionel.”
“Why Lionel?”
“He was the eldest, and most likely to know something about it. I had a fancy to try to trace the boy, but there wasn’t a thing I could do.”
“You didn’t talk about it to any of the others?”
“No. Wilfred wasn’t the type to have any sentiment about a thing like that, I don’t know the other Bennetts really well, and their sister—” He shrugged. “She’s always been pretty highly strung. Neurotic type. Between you and me she leads her husband a hell of a life. I certainly wouldn’t discuss it with her, at any time. I doubt if the other Bennetts know much, although they probably know a little. I wish I could offer more help, but—well, I thought you’d better know about this. Especially as the man Latimer could be mistaken for me. I mean he could be one of the family, couldn’t he?”
