The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  “Those boys of mine.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Sloan. “Well, don’t tell the A.C., or he’ll ask you if you mean to bring them in to help you. That’ll be his mood this morning.”

  “It’ll pass.” Roger tossed the newspapers aside. There was a pile of reports, inches high. “Been through these?”

  “Yes. I had Peel in, to help sort them out. He was here first.”

  “Our Jim’s very anxious to justify himself,” said Roger. “Pity things went wrong last night; he and Smithson deserve a good break. What do you make of things?”

  Sloan said: “One fact sticks out a mile.”

  Roger nodded.

  “Everything we hear about Latimer is in flat contradiction to what we know about the murderer,” said Sloan. “You can’t have missed that.”

  “I haven’t, Bill.”

  “Darned if I know what to make of it,” Sloan grumbled. “He’s surely hard up, or he wouldn’t have had both women take him money. He might have hoped that Meg would get her hands on another hundred; but if he had several hundred, he wouldn’t take risks for a few pounds. According to her, he was hungry, too—and that ties up with his statement to Georgina. In fact, it all ties up.”

  “And leaves us what?”

  Sloan stood up. “This damned mystery man.”

  “How we need a missing Raymond Arlen, instead of a dead one,” said Roger. “No remote chance of mistaken identity over Raymond Arlen’s body, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. He’s our other mystery. Everything else seems answered, except what he was doing when he didn’t get home late that night, and—”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed Sloan.

  “Now what?”

  “I didn’t tell you—it’s there, though. Came in this morning. Raymond Arlen didn’t make any business calls in North Wales. The customers he usually saw there haven’t seen him for a month. He certainly didn’t go away on a business trip.”

  Roger said: “Well, well!”

  “I suppose—” began Sloan, and hesitated.

  “Yes, he could have killed Wilfred Arlen and Lionel Bennett, and he could have attacked Mrs. Drew; but he certainly wasn’t about last night,” said Roger.

  “Even I can see that. But is it possible that Latimer did the attacking last night, for some reason we don’t yet know? And that Arlen did the murders in order to—”

  Roger grinned. “Yes?”

  “That’s where I come to a full stop,” confessed Sloan.

  Roger said: “Try it this way, Bill. Raymond Arlen, for some reason as yet unknown, started to get rid of some of his relatives. He then came to see us, and drew attention to his own likeness to Latimer. He then told us of Arnold, the son of the insane Uncle Simon. Add that all up, and you have the possibility that he was the killer, turning our attention to a possible homicidal maniac. If that happened, it wasn’t so bad, but—who killed Raymond Arlen?”

  Sloan said: “The shots were fired at close quarters; they could have been self-inflicted. I suppose the Newbury people haven’t slipped up, in looking for the revolver.”

  “Automatic pistol. No, they wouldn’t have to look far—you know they haven’t slipped up. We can accept the possibility that Raymond did the first murders and the attack on Mrs. Drew, but we haven’t the answer to his murder, unless Latimer discovered what he was doing. Latimer’s been very insistent that he was being framed. His story of being scared because of the drug business, and then getting into a panic because everyone thought he’d killed Wilfred and Lionel, isn’t all that strong. On the other hand, if he killed Raymond Arlen because Arlen was framing him, then we’d have a pretty strong motive. What’s the snag?”

  Sloan pondered, and then said: “The same gun was used.”

  “That’s it. Well, we could invent another possibility,” said Roger. “That Raymond Arlen and Latimer met, that they had a quarrel, that Latimer took Raymond’s gun—that would explain away one puzzle. I suppose I could take this along to the A.C. and make out quite a case for it. We’d first have to establish that Latimer and Raymond Arlen knew each other. If we did that, we might catch Latimer and find that he’s a self-defence case—would plead not guilty to the first jobs, and self-defence in the other. That would work out nicely, wouldn’t it?”

  Sloan said: “You’ve tied it all up pretty neatly. I didn’t hear anything about this yesterday.”

  “An empty mind fills up quickest,” said Roger, “and mine was emptied for ten minutes this morning.” He laughed. “I won’t tell Chatworth that, either! What do you think of the build-up?”

  “It seems to answer everything.”

  “Except Margaret Sharp and her possible hidden motives and secrets,” said Roger. “And there’s the big gap—did Raymond Arlen know Latimer? What was he lying about?”

  “You’re pretty sure this is the answer, aren’t you?”

  “Not yet, but it could be. Bill, let’s try a new tack. You take some time off, see Raymond Arlen’s employers, find out how he was doing. Then have a dig at the Bennetts, and find out if there was any reason, except silly shame, why they hushed up the history of Simon Arlen. Your best way will be through Lionel Bennett’s solicitors. Go deep.”

  Sloan nodded.

  “Anything from Birmingham, and the only known surviving blood relations?” asked Roger briskly.

  “Not much. Both Arthur and Ernest Bennett were watched by the Birmingham people last night; there was a special guard at dusk and during the night. Nothing happened. Neither of them stirred out of their homes after dusk. I can’t say I blame them! The Newbury people say that Mrs. Raymond hasn’t added anything. Nor has Mrs. Drew, who’s come round—she didn’t recognise the man who shot her. Muriel Arlen is up and about again, and her son’s back home.”

  “Oh,” said Roger. “I suppose we haven’t taken too much for granted with her.”

  “Such as?”

  “That Latimer was just a boyfriend. All right, lover. I’d say she was just as much in love with Latimer as Meg Sharp.”

  “Whichever way you look at it, Latimer was a bounder,” said Sloan. “But there seems to be two of him—or rather two versions of the same man. To Mrs. Muriel Arlen he was a cultured type, couldn’t have been better, and yet—”

  “I think I’ll have another talk with her,” Roger said. “But I want to be present when Georgina and Margaret Sharp have their reunion. Ring me at Merrick Street, will you?”

  The wizened-looking man-servant at Merrick Street opened the door. He took Roger into the drawing-room, with its restful charm. Roger heard a boy’s voice, sounding bright enough; so Peter had not succumbed to the shock. There were footsteps, and Mrs. Arlen came in. Roger caught a glimpse of the boy, peering at him; he was probably eager to set eyes on a man from Scotland Yard.

  Mrs. Arlen closed the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. West.”

  “I’m sorry to worry you again,” Roger said formally, “but we’re still looking for Latimer, as you know.”

  “I’ve read everything about it,” said Mrs. Arlen. “Please sit down.” She sat opposite him. Her colour was better, she looked too bright about the eyes, and was obviously restless, but she was in much better shape than when he had seen her before. Her glance was calm and direct. “You will think I am foolish, but I feel quite sure that Ralph did not commit those murders. It is not the kind of thing he would do.”

  So many people, even with intelligence, seemed to think that you could tell a murderer simply by looking at him.

  “I hope you’re right; but why doesn’t he come into the open?” Roger asked mildly.

  “I can believe that he would be frightened into hiding,” said the woman. “After all, the newspapers make it quite clear that he is suspected of the murders. I am seriously thinking of asking for l
egal advice, Mr. West.”

  “Oh?”

  “It amounts to libel. No man should be judged until he’s found guilty.”

  Roger said: “No. I don’t think the papers have gone too far yet; they’ve stated the simple truth—that we’re looking for him, and have twice missed him near the scene of—”

  “How can you be sure he was the man you failed to catch?”

  “Some evidence is there.” Roger was still mild; judged that she would, if necessary, fly to the defence of Latimer; marvelled that she should feel like this—and that Meg Sharp should have equal faith in the man. Latimer had qualities which didn’t show in most of his record. “Have you any idea where he is, Mrs. Aden?”

  “I have not!”

  “Or where he might be?”

  “You or your colleagues have asked me that so often that I shall soon think that I am branded a liar,” she said coldly.

  “Women in love have been known to lie.”

  She flushed, and made as if to stand up, then dropped back into her chair.

  “I do not know where he is; I have no idea where he might be found. As far as I am aware, he had only one address, and I have told you about it.”

  “Did you know that he was a relation of your husband?”

  “I have read suggestions in the newspapers. I am not convinced that it’s true.”

  Roger said: “I see,” and stood up.

  If she were lying, she did it well. He bowed distantly, and went out, but he did not think that he had worried her. He let himself out by the front door, and as he stepped on to the porch, saw the boy, Peter. He was tall for his age, very pale, but starry-eyed. There was no doubt of his eagerness to meet a man from the Yard.

  “Hallo,” said Roger. “So you’re Peter.”

  “Yes, you’re Chief Inspector West.”

  “That’s right.”

  Peter licked his lips. “Have you—” He broke off.

  “Yes?”

  “Have you found that man who killed my father?”

  “We will, old chap,” said Roger.

  “I’d like to kick him,” said Peter. “I hate him.

  “I—”

  “Peter!” His mother called from the door.

  “Oh, all right,” said Peter, “I’m coming.” He gulped, and looked at Roger. “Goodbye, sir.”

  He offered his hand, and Roger gripped it firmly.

  The woman didn’t speak.

  If Latimer were the killer, her son hated the man she loved; and she must realise that whether he was a killer or not, Latimer was bad. What frame of mind was she in? If she had an opportunity to help Latimer, would she take it?

  He sat at the wheel of his car, pondering. A constable was on the other side of the road, a Divisional man whose job was to watch the house. He recognised Roger and nodded, but didn’t come across.

  Yes, she’d help Latimer, as readily as Meg Sharp would. She was already defiant, thinking in terms of defending the man. What had Latimer got, to cause such loyalty?

  At the Yard he said to Sloan: “I think we’ll have one of our men at Merrick Street, Bill; we don’t want Latimer to get his next lump of money from Muriel Arlen.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Roger. He dropped into his chair. “Nice job—all we can do now is wait until we find Latimer, except for that reunion of Sharps. When’s Meg coming out of the nursing home?”

  “In half an hour, in one of our cars. Chatworth wants to see—”

  “Tell him I’m at Middleton Street,” said Roger.

  Peel was outside Number 122.

  “Nothing fresh,” he said.

  “Seen Georgina this morning?”

  “No.”

  Ten minutes later a police car drew up and Margaret Sharp stepped out; the driver tried to help her, but she shook off his hand. She looked regal and pale.

  Roger waited five minutes, then went into the house, and stood at the foot of the stairs, listening. After a moment or two he went farther up. He heard a shout, as if someone were angry; it didn’t surprise him. When he reached the Sharps’ landing he could hear the voices more clearly; they were going at each other hammer and tongs. He stood with his ear close to the door, but couldn’t catch the words, and couldn’t see anything through the keyhole, except a closed door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He took out his knife, which had a pick-lock blade, twisted the blade in the lock, heard the faint click as it opened. He pushed the door gently, and heard Meg Sharp scream: “You always hated him; you’d like to see him dead!”

  “Meg—”

  “You’d like to see him hanged!” screeched Margaret Sharp. “Do you think I can’t tell? Why? That’s what I’d like to know. You make me sick! You sit around and do nothing, go and stare out of the window while that policeman makes cow-eyes at you. You’re—you’re just a nasty little tart. I’m not staying here any longer.”

  “Meg, don’t be silly. I don’t want him hanged, I j’ust want to make sure that you’re not hurt any more than you have been. I tried to help—”

  “Tried to help! You little liar! You brought the police to the house, didn’t you? You promised you’d come alone, but you had to bring that sloppy policeman—you can’t move a step without him. Well, I’m not sacrificing my Ralph to a little slut like you. He’s worth ten of you. He never liked you—always said there was something beastly about a woman sitting naked in front of a man while he painted her, and that’s true. You’re a slut!”

  “Meg, be quiet!” Anger was rising in Georgina’s voice.

  “I won’t be quiet!”

  “You’re tired, you’re not yourself, or—”

  “I’m all right; I’m just beginning to see the truth about you. You with your cooing voice and your pretty smile and your sickening lies—you don’t want to help me; you never have wanted to help me. Never! And now you’ve tried to set the police on to Ralph. I’m glad he escaped; I knew he would. The police are fools. Fools, fools, fools! They even think he killed those people, and he didn’t! Do you hear me?”

  Georgina said: “Yes, I can hear you—so can the people in the street, I should think. Of course he killed them. You’ve been a blind fool, and now—”

  There was a gasp – then a thud, a slap, and the sound of a scuffle. Roger opened the door an inch, and looked inside. Meg Sharp was standing over her sister, who was bending back against a chair, trying to fend her off; and Meg was a much bigger woman. She struck again – and then gasped and drew back, and Roger just saw Georgina’s hand, clenched, coming away from the older woman’s stomach; a man couldn’t have hit more effectively.

  Meg staggered away.

  Georgina said: “You must be mad. To ask me for more money now, just for you to hand over to him! And you must be mad, to keep any secrets from the police. You know where he’s gone. Don’t you? You know where he’s gone.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Trap

  There was a moment of utter silence.

  Roger drew back, so that he couldn’t be seen, then heard Meg’s thin, hissing intake of breath, followed by a swift movement.

  Georgina cried: “Meg!” and there was fear in her voice.

  Roger shouted: “Stop that!” and flung the door open. He saw Meg with a big stone ornament in her hand, bringing it down towards Georgina’s forehead; and Georgina tried to dodge, but knocked against the chair. Roger leapt. The shout had distracted the bigger woman’s attention, she half turned, and the ornament caught Georgina on the shoulder. She started to strike again. Roger reached her, and gripped her arm, and she struggled wildly. She dropped the ornament, and it caught him on the side of the head. She wrenched herself free, and ran screaming towards the door. He reached it just in front of her. She swung round and ran into o
ne of the other rooms, slamming the door after her; the key turned in the lock. She was still screaming.

  Georgina, white-faced, said: “She’ll kill herself.”

  Roger reached the other door, put his shoulder to it, and pushed. It creaked. He thudded against it again, and the door gave way. He was in the bedroom.

  Meg Sharp was lying face downwards on a bed, sobbing, clutching at the bedclothes. She didn’t look round, didn’t seem to know that he had forced the door.

  Peel came rushing in.

  “What’s on? I heard—”

  He broke off, at the sight of Georgina rubbing her shoulder, and Roger looking at Meg, from the door.

  “All right,” Roger said.

  He withdrew, and left the door ajar.

  Georgina went across to it.

  “She’ll do something drastic,” she said; “she mustn’t be left alone.”

  “She doesn’t look like a suicide to me,” Roger said heavily. “But go and make sure, Peel.”

  Peel went in; and closed the door.

  Georgina was rubbing gently her left shoulder gingerly. Her hair was dishevelled and there was a scratch on her nose; a tiny globule of blood showed on it. She looked tired, too, and walked across to a chair and dropped into it. The ornament was at her feet – a big draped figure carved from a slab of marble.

  Georgina pushed it farther away with her toe. Even like that, she couldn’t conceal the natural grace of her body.

  “How did you get in?”

  “I heard the shouting and forced the lock.”

  “That’s just as well for me,” said Georgina. “I wouldn’t have believed she could act like it. What a fool she is! Can’t you—help? If you find Latimer and prove what he’s done, I might be able to do something with her.”

  “Why not let her work out her own salvation?” asked Roger.

  Georgina shrugged.

  “It’s become a habit to look after her. She needs help now, if ever she did.”

  “And you’ll help?”

  “As much as I can. I won’t try to fool you again, if that’s what you mean.”