The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  “Quick,” she said as she dropped on to the seat. “Straight on.”

  The driver changed gear and they moved off.

  “Go up to Notting Hill Gate and then to Edgware Road,” said Georgina. “Near Praed Street.”

  “Okay, miss.”

  The driver was huddled up in many coats, and didn’t trouble to look round. Georgina glanced out of the window, and saw no sign of Peel. She caught a glimpse of a small car, one of several, but didn’t give it any further thought. Her driver swung up Church Street into Notting Hill and along the Bayswater Road, and then he took side streets which eventually brought him out into the Edgware Road.

  Georgina had looked round several times, but hadn’t noticed anything to worry about. The small car was hidden by other traffic most of the time. She sat on the edge of her seat, and tapped the glass partition behind the driver. He pushed it farther open, still without looking at his fare.

  “Do you know Pullinger Street?”

  “Eh?”

  “Pullinger Street; it’s somewhere off Edgware Road, near Praed Street.”

  “Sure, I know it,” said the driver.

  He swung left, made several more abrupt turnings, and eventually slowed down at the end of a long street which looked dim and dismal. There were few lights. He pulled in at the kerb, and asked:

  “What number?”

  “This will do.”

  She paid the driver before getting out. As she stepped from the taxi, a small car passed the end of the street, going very fast; it showed as a green flash beneath a street lamp. No one else was about; of course, it wasn’t possible for Peel to have caught up with her. Yet she waited as the taxi drew off, looking up and down, as if afraid of seeing Peel materialise like a wraith. Two people walked hurriedly towards her, one behind the other, and vanished round the corner. Then silence fell, broken only by the tinny sound of music from a radio in one of the houses. She clutched her coat more tightly, and hurried away from the corner, glancing at the numbers on the fanlights of the houses. These opened straight on to the pavement; there were no front gardens and no areas; it was a dismal district. She walked past a big gap in the houses, as if the street were a gigantic mouth with some teeth extracted, and at the next number – 51 – she paused. Again she looked up and down the street. A car passed on the other side of the road, but it was too dark for her to recognise it.

  She went to Number 53, and banged nervously at the door. The banging sounded very loud. A man slouched past, looking at her curiously, and two boys on bicycles weaved their way along. One of them whistled at her.

  No one came to the door.

  She knocked again, very loudly; then stepped back and looked at the window which fronted the street. It was in darkness, and she could just make out the curtains inside the room, and the leaves of an aspidistra, one of them brushing against the glass.

  She shivered.

  She knocked again, and now she was biting her lips in vexation.

  The door opened – without any warning – before she heard a sound.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed.

  The door creaked, and she saw no one beyond, but as she stepped forward, the door closed sharply. It was quite dark.

  “Meg!” she gasped; and there was fear in the cry.

  A hand closed over her mouth.

  She started to scream, and the hand pressed more tightly, another clutched at her throat and pressed. She felt stifled. It lasted only for a moment, but it seemed as if her lungs would burst. She knew the fear of death. Then the hand was taken away, and a man said gruffly:

  “Don’t make a sound.”

  She stood quivering.

  “Where—where’s Meg?” she whispered hoarsely.

  For answer, the man shifted his hand from her mouth, and held her wrist, twisted her arm behind her, and then pushed her along the narrow passage. She was not aware of anything but the darkness and the tightness of his hold and pain at her elbow. He forced her to turn right, and kicked open a door. A candle burned in a small room beyond, and she saw its reflection in a mirror over the mantelpiece. The man pushed her farther in, then closed the door behind him, with his foot; it was astonishing that he could do it so quietly. He let her go, and she leaned heavily against a round table, which gave a little beneath her weight.

  “Quiet,” the man repeated.

  He wore a hat, pulled low over his eyes, and a scarf drawn up’ over the lower part of his face. The candlelight gleamed on his eyes, but she couldn’t be sure that it was Latimer. As she recovered, she scanned the corners for her sister, but there was no sign of Meg.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  She mouthed: “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  She dipped her hand into the V of her blouse, and drew out a bundle of one-pound notes. He snatched them away.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty-three,” she said. “That’s all—”

  “It’s not enough, I’ve got to have more!”

  “It’s all I had! Where’s Meg, where—”

  “She went out,” he said. “She said she was going to get me some food, but she isn’t back. Give me your hand.” He pulled at her wrist, and the single diamond in the ring on her right hand showed yellow and bright in the gentle light. “I’ll have that,” he said. “Take it off.”

  “But—”

  “Give it to me!” He almost screeched the words.

  She took the ring off, and he snatched it. She could hear his laboured breathing; he was a man desperately afraid. She still couldn’t be sure that it was Latimer, although she felt almost certain it was.

  “Were you followed?”

  “No!”

  “Sure?”

  “There was a man in Middleton Street, but I dodged him.”

  “I hope you did,” he said.

  “Where’s Meg?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “I don’t believe—”

  “I’ve told you!” the man snarled, and gripped her wrist again, twisting it painfully. “Listen. I didn’t kill anyone—understand? I didn’t kill them; it’s a frame-up—I wouldn’t kill anyone. But they’ll get me for it, if they catch me. I must get out of the country. Meg said she would help me, she promised—-”

  “Where is Meg?”

  “You little damned fool, she went out; she hasn’t come back. You wait here for her; I daren’t wait any longer. Tell her to meet me at the usual place, some time after midnight. If she lets me down—”

  He didn’t go on, but twisted her wrist until she gasped in pain.

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he muttered.

  The words sounded absurd; almost petulant. He let her go, pushed past her, and went into the hall. He closed the door, but she didn’t hear the key turn in the lock. She took a step after him, opened the door an inch and saw him disappearing into one of the rooms which led off the passage nearer the front door. She could just make out his shape; he made no sound. Her own courage was returning, and she turned abruptly and went across to the fireplace. There was a long poker, part of an old-fashioned set of fire-irons. She picked the poker up and went back to the door – but he burst in before she realised that he was coming. He didn’t seem to notice the poker, but gave a strangled cry.

  “The police!”

  He struck at her, and she fell to one side, the poker banged against the wall. He saw it for the first time, bent down and snatched it up. She was sliding down the wall when she saw him rush to a corner of the room, where a window was curtained with some gay folkweave. He pulled this aside, thrust the window up and climbed out. As he did so, there was a thud at the front door.

  She got up and went unsteadily towards the passage.

  A shout came from the back garden, followed by a thud and a
clatter, as if a man had kicked against a dustbin. Thudding came again at the front door. Georgina rushed towards that, aware of the other sounds, terrified without quite knowing why. She opened the door and heard Peel’s voice; she couldn’t recognise him because he was against the dim light.

  “Where is he?”

  The dustbin lid clattered again.

  He pushed past her, and she knocked against the wall. He disappeared into the candlelit room, and she heard him shout: “Smithson!”

  There was no answer.

  She followed him and stood in the doorway, trembling now. He disappeared through the window, calling the detective’s name again. In between his calls there was silence. She thought she heard an exclamation, which was followed by a hush, then by quick footsteps. Peel appeared at the window, his face clear enough in the candlelight. He went past her like the wind, and as he reached the front door, blew a police whistle. It sounded deafening. She stood against the wall, hearing odd sounds – a man running, another whistle, from farther away, and then muttering voices. The running footsteps followed, and Peel came back. He looked at her without speaking; there was contempt in his eyes. He went out by the window.

  She followed him, and there was just sufficient light for her to see him bending down over another huddled figure. Then a policeman in uniform came along the passage, saw her, and said:

  “Now take it easy, miss.”

  His voice was quiet and reassuring; she was glad of his hand on her shoulder. She allowed him to lead her to a chair, as another policeman entered. By then Peel was hoisting Smithson up, with the help of a policeman, and they carried him through the window. Even in that dim light she could see the ugly mark over his forehead and knew that it had been caused by the poker.

  A car screamed up outside.

  Peel shot her another searing glance, as he helped to carry Smithson through the room. She didn’t know whether the man was badly hurt. She leaned back, with her eyes closed, conscious of the sounds that the others were making. A deep, authoritative voice sounded in the hall, but not that of anyone she knew. Her head ached, her wrist and elbow ached; it wouldn’t be easy to forget how Latimer had gripped her wrist. Peel said: “Let’s have some more light.”

  “The bulb’s gone,” said a constable. “Get one from another room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Georgina knew that Peel was standing alone with her in the room, but he didn’t speak. The other sounds seemed to be farther away now, fading voices. They grew stronger, suddenly, and then faded again; she was losing her self-control, and thought she was going to faint. She made herself sit upright, gritting her teeth. She knew that a second man was in the room, but she didn’t think about what he was doing until a bright light flashed against her eyes; a bulb was in the socket.

  The glare hurt her eyes.

  Peel said: “Now try the upstairs rooms, and—”

  His voice broke off, and Georgina sensed the reason; he had been shocked into silence. The policeman gave a little gasp, which trailed off.

  She opened her eyes.

  Meg was lying in a huddled heap in the corner, partly hidden by a chair.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mystery Man?

  Georgina screamed: “No!” and sprang out of the chair, past the startled and silent men. She flung herself on her knees beside Meg, and pulled at her hands. Meg’s legs were bent under her, her head was propped against the wall; it slipped a little as Georgina pulled. Her cheeks were very pale. Her dress had been torn, and one creamy shoulder showed through. “No!” screamed Georgina. “Meg, wake up; Meg, listen to me; it’s Gina! Oh, Meg, Meg!”

  A hand touched her shoulder.

  “Steady,” said Peel.

  He helped her up, and she didn’t resist. He supported her back to the chair, and now there was only pity, not anger, in his gaze.

  “Take it easy,” he said, and turned back to Meg.

  The policeman was already on one knee beside her, and the shadow of his helmet was long against the wall and over Meg’s face. Georgina wanted to close her eyes and shut the scene out, but couldn’t. She followed every movement with a fascinated attention – the constable feeling Meg’s pulse, Peel bending down and peering into Meg’s face. She didn’t realise at first that she was holding her breath; then she began to take short, shallow breaths.

  “She’s not dead,” said the constable. “Not—dead?”

  “I can see that,” said Peel, and there was a world of relief in his voice. He turned round to Georgina. “No need to worry.” He flashed a smile, and then, with the policeman, began to straighten Meg out. She looked so big, lying at full length.

  Georgina jumped up and took a cushion from a chair and carried it across to the others. Now she could see that Meg was breathing, although she still looked dreadfully pale.

  “Blankets,” said Peel.

  “Yes, sir,” said a man from the door.

  Peel straightened up, and looked at Georgina, and gave a tight-lipped smile. Footsteps sounded on the stairs, heavy and deliberate; but the man was soon back with blankets, which they wrapped round Meg.

  “A doctor will be here in a few minutes, sir,” said the constable who had brought the blankets. “Soon as I saw her, I sent for one.”

  “Good.”

  Peel stood up and joined Georgina, but another car pulled up outside before he spoke. The doctor? She wanted to rush to the door, but Peel put a hand on her shoulder and prevented her from moving.

  “Is Sergeant Peel here?”

  Georgina recognised West’s voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Here,” Peel called, and turned away from her.

  They met in the doorway, and Peel lowered his voice, so that Georgina could not hear what he said.

  The whispered consultation was soon over, and West said in a clearer voice:

  “Take her into the other room.”

  She let Peel take her. She walked as if in a daze, and was glad to sit down in a small front parlour. The electric lamp was not so good-here, but it showed the photographs on the walls, the tassels of the lampshade, the old-fashioned plush furniture, the oilcloth on the floor. There was little room to move, because there was so much furniture. She leaned her head against the high back of the chair, and told herself that she must do better than this.

  “Like a drink?” West asked.

  He held out a flask, and she took it slowly and sipped – it was brandy. She wasn’t used to brandy. She didn’t take any more, but handed the flask back, and watched him as he screwed the cap on deliberately, then tucked it away in his hip pocket.

  “Now, what happened?” he asked, in a matter-of-fact voice.

  She licked her lips, and he didn’t try to force her.

  “Meg—Meg telephoned me. She wanted me to take as much money as I could—here. She told me where it was. I—came, and—”

  “We’d warned you not to.”

  “She—was frightened.”

  “She had reason to be. Did she say why she was frightened?”

  “She said it was—a matter of—life and death.”

  “Well, you knew that,” said West. “When are you going to grow up?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What happened when you arrived?”

  She remembered everything vividly, and was sure that she remembered everything Latimer had said; that he had not killed the others, that he wouldn’t kill anyone, and that he thought ‘they’ would frame him. She told the story slowly, trying to keep calm; and perhaps because of the brandy or because of the manner of the two men, she felt much better when she had finished.

  West nodded slowly.

  “So you made him a present of the poker.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Listen,” sai
d West. “You need to get some sleep and a good long rest, Miss Sharp; you’ve been living on your nerves for too long. Your sister isn’t badly hurt; she’ll be all right. I’m going to send you home.”

  “All—right,” she said.

  Peel and a constable went home with her. Peel asked the same questions as West, when they reached the flat. She gave him the same answers. Peel was quite cool and impersonal, and she felt that he was trying to catch her out in some contradiction, but she told the simple truth.

  “I know; it’s a bind,” Roger said. “I’d rather be holding your hands in the pictures, my sweet, but I must see Margaret Sharp.”

  “The bold, handsome woman,” said Janet.

  “A modern Juno, and you ought to know the rest! Sorry, sweet. I’ll get home as soon as I can.”

  “I won’t wait up,” said Janet.

  Roger replaced the telephone, lit a cigarette, and scanned Peel’s report and his own written report of the conversation with Georgina Sharp. Her story seemed to stand up, but there was a weakness; had she left home simply because she was frightened to stay away from her sister? Or was there a reason she hadn’t yet divulged? She had personality and strong will-power, and she would go her own way, daring the world to stop her. There was a lot to like about Georgina Sharp, even in her frame of mind at the house near Praed Street. But – was she a liar?

  Peel’s report was brief and factual; it really said there was nothing new.

  Roger didn’t know how much of the news had reached the Press; probably most of it. If the story of Latimer’s escape hit the headlines next morning, there would be another storm. He damned all politicians; they chose the worst possible time for putting down their silly feet.

  He’d almost given up hope that there would be news of Latimer. The man had gone to earth somewhere in London, and there wasn’t a squeak about where. Latimer wasn’t known outside his own set, and if any of those knew anything, they were putting up a strong defence.