by John Creasey
Roger said sharply: “Peel?”
Peel looked up, as he swung open the gate.
“Hurry,” said Roger.
He climbed out; starting the engine again would only warn the man. Was it possible that he’d timed it perfectly, run into another attack? The notion seemed absurd, but he jumped off the drive on to the grass verge, with Peel by his side, and began to run.
“What?” asked Peel, sharply.
“Man at the window,” Roger grunted.
There was a light on in one of the front rooms of the house. A woman was outlined against it, with her back to them. She turned, suddenly, as if to pull the curtains – and saw them.
The window was open.
She screamed, splitting the quiet.
Peel gasped: “We’d better slow down, or—”
He broke off as another figure appeared at the window. A man. A hand stretched out and gripped the woman, swinging her round. She screamed again. Roger slid his hand into his pocket, and then shouted: “Thief!”
He gasped as he finished, drew out a police whistle and managed to give a long blast, without slowing down. Peel was gaining on him.
The light went out.
They could see nothing in the house now, and could hear only the thud of their own footsteps on the grass. Then Peel kicked into a stone, and went flying. Roger heard his cry and the thud which followed. He didn’t stop, but blew the whistle again. The front door of the house was closed, and he veered round towards the side, where the man had appeared. As he neared it, he saw that there were French windows, wide open.
He blew again.
The shrill blast was almost deafening, but it didn’t cover the roar of a shot.
Roger reached the corner of the house, and intuitively slackened his pace. He couldn’t hear Peel. The echo of the shot still rang in his ears. He reached the loggia, and as he neared the French window a man appeared. He could only see the outline, for it was nearly dark. He didn’t see the gun in the man’s hand, but flung himself to one side. He thudded against the wall as he saw the flash and heard the roar, lost his footing, and fell. He felt a spasm of terror; fear of death at its worst. He heard another roar, and something hit the wall just above his head. He heard nothing else – no footsteps; nothing. He didn’t know how long it took him to get to his feet.
Peel was shouting: “You there, Roger? You there?”
Roger called unsteadily: “This way!”
There was a light in a house about a hundred yards away, and a figure appeared against it, running fast. Roger started to run, but his legs wobbled. Peel caught him up, shouted: “There he is!” and raced past. He didn’t see the man again, but went on running. Lights sprang up at other houses; he saw a man come out of a doorway.
There was a shout, farther away but loud and distinct.
Then a car engine started up.
It roared, blasting through the quiet night. Roger couldn’t see the car, but heard it moving off. Then it appeared against the light-coloured surface of the road, moving away from them. It swung round the corner of a house and disappeared.
Peel was shouting.
Another car started up, and headlights silvered the open doors of a garage. He saw Peel running towards the other car.
Roger slowed down; Peel couldn’t be seriously-hurt.
Roger heard voices as the ear was backed out of the garage; Peel’s dark figure appeared by its side, then disappeared into it.
The second car scorched along the road and swung round the corner, but the glow of its headlights showed above the trees and the houses.
Then, from behind him, a woman screamed.
Chapter Fourteen
Fourth Victim?
Roger’s left shoulder and knee were painful; he limped as he hurried towards the house. The light had come on, and the woman screamed again. He broke into a run as the third scream came, but couldn’t keep it up. He tripped against the step of the loggia, and nearly fell, biting his lips at the sudden pain. He steadied, and stepped into the room.
A young girl stood in an open doorway, a hand at her mouth, eyes wide in terror.
A woman lay on the floor in the middle of the room, and there was blood on the carpet and on her grey hair.
The girl screamed again: “No, no, no!”
Roger said: “Steady, now.” He had to quieten her, had to ignore his wrenched knee. He reached the woman and knelt down. “Telephone for a doctor—quickly, please.”
“What is it?” a man called. “What is it?”
“Get that doctor!” Roger rasped.
The girl turned and ran out of the room.
The woman was unconscious, and might be dead. The blood came from a wound in her forehead; she was lying on her side, and the wound was uppermost. Her legs were bent, and she lay awkwardly with an arm doubled up beneath her. He felt her pulse; she was alive.
He moved the grey hair aside, gently. There was some bleeding. He straightened up, and a man said: “This is—dreadful.”
He was tall, grey, distinguished-looking—and there was horror in his eyes.
“Lily,” he said, and came forward.
Roger said: “She is alive. Is that doctor on the way?”
“My—my daughter’s calling him. This is—terrible”
“It could be worse. Get blankets and hot-water bottles, quickly, and have some tea made—very sweet.”
He hurried out with the man, and they reached the kitchen. Roger took a bowl of water and a towel.
“Where’s your antiseptic kept?”
“Eh? Oh, there’s a bottle here.”
The man was putting on a kettle.
“I’ll bathe the wound,” Roger said.
The bleeding wasn’t serious, and he had finished when the man came back with blankets and a hot-water bottle.
“Where were you when it happened?” Roger asked.
“In the garden shed. I thought I heard a shot and couldn’t understand it; then I heard a second. I hurried round—the shed’s at the bottom of the garden.” The man still looked dazed. “There was nothing else I could do; some men were running, there were cars. This is—terrible.”
The girl came along the passage outside.
Roger said again: “She’s alive, and with luck we shall have her in hospital in no time.”
He went across to a telephone in the corner, lifted the receiver and asked for the police. The man stared at him, the girl at the woman.
“Police Station, can I help you?”
“This is Chief Inspector West of Scotland Yard. I want an ambulance at a house named Corby, in Willow Lane, as quickly as you can get it here. Then give me the C.I.D.”
“Yes, sir!”
It was only a second before another man with a deep Yorkshire voice spoke.
“Chief Inspector West?”
“Yes. Latimer’s been here.” Roger couldn’t be sure of that; it might not have been Latimer, but the name would work like a charm. “He’s driven off from Willow Lane, pursued by my sergeant in a commandeered car. Have the net spread fast and as wide as you can make it—warn all other stations, and—”
“We’ll get him!”
“He’s still armed.”
“We’ll fix him all right,” the man said, and then broke off. “But—”
“Yes?”
“Did you say Willow Lane?”
“Yes.”
“But we’ve had a man there all day, just to make sure that it couldn’t happen.”
Roger said: “You’d better get some people up here as soon as you can; they might find your chap.”
He rang off, and wiped his forehead. Now both the man and the girl were looking at the woman. Husband and daughter, he thought. His knee was aching, but he could wa
lk, and there was hardly any trouble at his shoulder.
The girl began to cry.
The man said: “This is—terrible.”
An unconscious policeman was found near the shed at the end of the garden; he was not seriously hurt.
The Drews’ doctor, a middle-aged and non-committal man, went with Mrs. Drew to the hospital. Neighbours were thronging the house. Then a brisk young Detective Inspector took control, arranged for Drew to go into York to wait at the hospital, and for the daughter, whose name was Victoria, to stay with neighbours. She left the house in a daze.
The police-surgeon examined Roger’s knee, diagnosed a slight sprain and bound it securely.
“Don’t try it too much, and you’ll be all right,” he said. “Painful?”
“A bit.”
“Take three aspirins and a noggin.”
The brisk Detective Inspector came across to them. Roger was sitting back in an easy-chair, near the telephone. Outside it was quite dark; there was concealed lighting in the room. The Detective Inspector had a broad face, an amiable smile and a broad dialect.
“I’m glad to meet one of the big men of the Yard,” he said, with a boyish grin. “Don’t get much nearer you people than the newspapers, mostly. What brought you up here just now? I’ve heard you’re supposed to have a bloodhound’s nose; but it was more than that, wasn’t it?”
“I wanted to see Mrs. Drew, and thought it as good a time as any,” Roger said. He didn’t try to explain the urge which had driven him so fast along the road; few would believe him. “Well, now we’re pretty sure about the lie of the land—it’s a family vendetta.”
“You try telling my superintendent that,” said the Detective Inspector.
Roger grinned. “You try! While we’re here I’d like to go through all Mrs. Drew’s papers, and her husband’s, for that matter, looking for anything about a boy child born to her mother’s brother Simon, thirty-one years ago. How many men can you put on to the job?”
“We can be through in a couple of hours,” said the Yorkshireman.
There were no helpful documents; nothing to suggest that Mrs. Drew knew anything about Latimer. No connection with the rest of the case was found, except that she was one of the small family of blood relations of the late Simon Arlen.
From his room at the Black Swan Hotel, Roger called Janet; Sloan had already told her that he wouldn’t be back that night, and she was cheerful enough. Then he called Sloan, who was still at the Yard.
“Hallo, Roger. Got him?”
“No. Peel came back half an hour ago—they lost him. I don’t know how he’s managed it, but he’s slipped through. Keep everyone closely watched; he may sneak back to London, and one of them has probably been lying. Any word from the Sharp women, at Middleton Street?”
“No, nothing.”
“From Newbury?”
“There is,” said Sloan.
“Raymond Arlen?”
“Believe it or not, he lied about the time he reached home last night. It was after nine. His wife said half-past seven, but a neighbour saw him drive in at five past nine. He had time to get from St. Albans, if he had a car nearby and stepped on it.”
“Well, well! And he was away from home the night of the first murder.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you checked him in North Wales?”
“Not yet—give me a chance. But he didn’t go home to Newbury today, Roger. He wasn’t there half an hour ago, when I telephoned.”
“Well, well!” breathed Roger. “Put out a call for Mr. Raymond Arlen.”
“It’s out,” said Sloan. “Not for the Press yet, though.”
“No, not yet.” Roger hesitated. “About Latimer, now. Have you dug up anything more about his past?”
“Nothing.” Yet Sloan was obviously excited. “I’ve been wondering if Raymond Arlen could have a double identity. He’s away from home a lot, and might have run the flat at Mayfair. Tell me I’m letting my imagination run away with me, if you like, but it’s odd.”
“Any luck with that doctor and nurse?”
“Not really. We traced them, but the doctor died six months ago; the nurse simply attended the confinement,” said Sloan. “I—half a minute, the other telephone’s buzzing.”
Roger looked at the cream-coloured wallpaper of the large bedroom with twin beds – he was to share it with Peel, who was still at the local police station. The new development set his mind racing, shook him out of the disappointment at having lost the assailant. Sloan was off the wire for a long time, and footsteps sounded at the door. Peel came in, whistling.
Sloan said tensely: “You there?”
“Yes.”
“Margaret Sharp’s missing,” said Sloan. “Her sister’s just reported it. She went out early afternoon, didn’t keep a tea-time appointment, and hasn’t come back.”
“Find her!” said Roger.
He and Peel were ready for the road at half-past seven next morning.
The only news was that Mrs. Drew would recover.
Roger limped into his office a little after two o’clock, after the long drive shared with Peel at the wheel.
Sloan, in his shirt sleeves and with his tie hanging loose, was speaking into the telephone; he sounded short-tempered. He banged the receiver down, and glared up at Roger, realised who it was, and forced a grin.
“Trouble?” asked Roger.
“Everything’s trouble. Raymond Arlen hasn’t turned up, Meg Sharp is still missing, and we’ve had about seven hundred more reports of Latimer. Seen the papers?”
“No.”
“The only one that’s behaving itself is the Echo” said Sloan, disgustedly. “The others are giving us a towsing for letting Latimer go. The Yorkshire police have got it in the neck, too; but you’re blamed—you were on the spot, weren’t you? The Echo runs the story that you saved her life; the others give a grudging admission. It’s merry hell. Chatworth is like a bear with a sore head, and keeps yelling for you. Better go and see him,” added Sloan; “you’re about the only one who can calm him down.”
The door opened.
“Oh, is he?” growled the Assistant Commissioner, and thrust the door back with a bang. He slammed it, and came towards them aggressively. “Where have you been, West?”
“York,” said Roger promptly.
“You didn’t have to stay there all night.”
“Sorry,” said Roger, briefly.
“You’re no more sorry than a log of wood. I can’t understand what’s got into you. Don’t you realise there have been three murders and one near murder, and three people are running around loose, cocking a snook at us? If there’s one thing I won’t have, it’s being made to look ridiculous.”
Roger didn’t speak.
Chatworth growled. “I can understand Latimer. I can just understand Raymond Arlen. But I thought we were supposed to be watching the Sharp woman.”
Roger said: “There’s nothing easier than shaking off a man, if you want to do it; we can’t blame anyone for that.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know, I—”
“You don’t know”
“It was Detective Officer Smithson, sir,” said Sloan, daringly. “Mr. West wasn’t—”
“See Smithson, find out why he’s sleeping on his job,” said Chatworth, and ran his hand over his bald patch. “Pick up those missing people. And make sure there aren’t any more Arlen relatives in the London area. Warn Birmingham; they’ll be fools if they let anything happen to the Bennetts.”
He stormed out.
Sloan gasped: “Phew! What’s got into him?”
“Just sent to try us,” said Roger. “He’s not looking so good, did you notice?”
“Trust you to make an excuse. But when you come to think
of it, it’s damned bad. Three people we can’t lay our hands on. If anything happens to them—” Sloan broke off, and laughed. “No sense in losing my head, but I’ve had a hell of a day.” The telephone bell rang. “That damned thing just won’t stop ringing; there isn’t a minute left to breathe.” He snatched off the receiver. “Sloan!” he barked.
He listened, scowling; the scowl faded into blankness and then tension.
He said: “Sure?”
He listened …
He put down the receiver slowly.
“Raymond Arlen’s dead,” he said. “Killed—shot—a few miles from his home. He’s been dead some hours.”
Mrs. Raymond Arlen, her face composed, sat awkwardly in a large chair at her home. The astonishing thing about the homes of this family was their similarity; they seemed to have been made on the same pattern; had excellent sites, the same charm of decor, the same delicate colouring.
The woman was in the late thirties, and sat with her hands on the arms of her chair. She wore a flowered smock, to hide her figure. She looked plump and well; the shock hadn’t made her lose her colour. She’d been told of the murder by a local doctor, some time before Roger had arrived at the house on the outskirts of Newbury.
“I’m sorry; I know I shouldn’t, but I lied about it. Raymond asked me to say he was in just after seven; I don’t know why he should. So when I was asked, that’s what I said. As a matter of fact, I was longing for him to come home. It’s a big house, and the servants were at the back, and I get so nervous these days.”
“Don’t you know why he asked you to say that?”
“I just haven’t any idea, I assure you.” She closed her eyes. “Then he left home yesterday morning, and said that he would be back by tea-time. When he didn’t get back, I was worried, but I didn’t want to call the police. I did, in the end. It began to prey on my mind, because—”
