The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  Roger watched two boys chasing a lorry with its tailboard down, and clinging on to it.

  “Silly young asses!” he said. “Eh? What can I make of it? There’s an obvious possibility that Simon was actually put away so that the others could get hold of his money. Probably he was queer, had spells, actually used violence with his wife. The Bennetts, Lionel being the chief organiser, saw a wonderful chance and took it. But it might not have happened that way.”

  “If it did—”

  “It would give the son of Simon Arlen a pretty good motive for hate.”

  “But who told him about it?”

  “That’s the big question.”

  Sloan said: “Meaning what?”

  “Margaret Sharp says he ‘found out’. How? He wouldn’t be likely to remember the days of his infancy, would he? He was brought up as a Latimer. He didn’t know the truth when he lived at home with his foster parents and Margaret, apparently—remember she said that they lost each other for some years. If she wasn’t lying pretty slickly, he discovered the truth after his parents were dead. So—who told him, and why?”

  “Someone else with a reason for hate?”

  Roger said dreamily: “It could be, couldn’t it? Let’s go a step farther than we have. Let’s imagine that one of the family was hard up. Raymond, for instance, as he lost his capital. Let’s imagine that he told Latimer and egged Latimer on, believing that there was a chance that Latimer also had homicidal tendencies. They would show. Let’s imagine that the share clause in each will was a kind of gentleman’s agreement. And let’s suppose that the murder motive was to persuade Latimer to kill off the family, so that a useful pile came to Raymond—or whoever gave Latimer the information. Murder by proxy, as it were.”

  “And then Latimer turned on Raymond?”

  “Could be,” said Roger.

  “What do you expect to get out of the Bennetts?”

  “They may know more than they’ve told us. They’re pretty jittery already, about this shameful thing in their past, and it’ll be more shameful if it’s suggested that in fact Simon wasn’t insane, and that it was a plot to get hold of his money. With that hanging over their heads, they’ll tell everything they can, I fancy.”

  Sloan smiled. “I like seeing you at work! Who are you going to see first?”

  “Arthur,” said Roger. “He’s the younger, and he seems to have a decent streak. We might get everything out of him with a lot less trouble than we got it out of Ernest. Velvet glove with Arthur, and if necessary—”

  “Iron mitt for Ernest! I wonder if there’s any news at the Yard.” He switched on the radio, but there was no response. “This won’t work,” he said.

  “Forget it,” said Roger.

  The traffic slackened, and Sloan stepped on the accelerator.

  Arthur Bennett’s house was much older than Ernest’s – a big, red brick place with tall, narrow windows. It stood in an acre or more of ground at the end of the long private road, and the garden was in perfect order; they could see that as they went along the drive, just after seven o’clock. It was hardly dusk; the brightness of the day was only just beginning to fade, and the colours in the flowers in the beds beneath the windows and on either side of the drive showed in all their beauty. At one side of the house were rose-gardens and terraces, giving promise of beauty in June.

  There was a big sweep in the drive in front of the house. Sloan stopped opposite the front door, and they sat and looked at the big, brown-painted door and the brightly polished brass bell and knocker. No one stirred, but the birds were noisy; somewhere nearby a woodpecker was calling.

  “We’re not here for a rest cure,” Roger said.

  Sloan grinned, and they got out.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged man, dressed in black; somehow, Roger hadn’t expected Arthur to have a butler. The man was tall, with iron-grey hair, portly and stately; he spoke in a refined, muted voice, led them into the hall and then to a small room, switched on the light, promised them that he would not keep them waiting, and went off.

  “Arthur will have time to get used to the idea,” said Sloan.

  “He won’t keep us waiting.”

  Arthur didn’t. He came in himself, bustling, hand in front of his mouth: but his lisping had gone, he had conquered the disability.

  “Why, Mr. West, how are you?” He shook hands warmly with them both. “How are you? Most unexpected, but most fortuitous; I am expecting my brother any minute now. Most fortuitous. But come into the drawing-room; you must have a drink—detectives do drink while on duty, I hope.”

  “Occasionally,” said Roger. “Thanks very much.”

  “Come along, come along.” Arthur led them across the big hall, with its huge oil-paintings and massive doors, into a room which seemed to reek of the Victorian age. There was big furniture, an old grand piano, there were antimacassars on the chair-backs, the rich Persian carpet looked old, but was in good condition. Lights sparkled from a chandelier on to glasses and bottles in a mahogany cabinet. “I think I can offer practically everything, practically everything,” said Arthur, when he picked up a bottle; Iris hand wasn’t quite steady. “Whisky?”

  “Thank you.”

  Whisky bubbled, soda spurted.

  “Your very good health,” said Arthur. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am at the news that Latimer is apprehended. It was alarming—we tried to make light of it the other day, but it was alarming. Latimer—”

  “You knew Latimer was your cousin, didn’t you?”

  “Cousin! Well—yes, yes. That’s how it looks, and it’s a distressing thing to have to contemplate, Mr. West. My brother isn’t sure, you know; he is always rather obstinate.” Arthur gave a little laugh. “If he doesn’t want a thing to be true, he will spend a fortune trying to prove that it isn’t. He’s like that. Very like that. I wonder why he hasn’t arrived? He’s due at seven-fifteen, and he’s a most punctual man. Most.”

  “It’s only seven-twenty,” said Roger.

  “Yes, we must allow him a little grace, mustn’t we? And traffic is so thick in Birmingham; it really is getting a serious problem. Well—congratulations again, Mr. West, and I’m yours to command. Command,” he repeated, and sipped his whisky.

  “You’re very good. Mr. Bennett, was there any shadow of doubt, at the time, about the mental condition of Simon Aden?”

  Arthur nearly dropped his glass.

  “Doubt?”

  Roger said: “It’s a peculiar story. Your family doctor and your brother Lionel made the necessary application for Simon to be put away. We have to go deeply into the whole matter, of course.”

  “Why?” whispered Arthur. “What good—”

  “We have to establish a motive, you know that. If Latimer believed that he had been cheated of his father’s fortune, then it would explain many things, wouldn’t it?”

  Arthur said: “Oh, no. No!”

  “The matter was handled by your elder brothers,” said Roger. “Had you any doubts about it? Any uneasiness?”

  Arthur didn’t speak.

  “Sufficient uneasiness to try to trace your cousin and to make some amends?” asked Roger. “That would reflect very great credit on you, Mr. Bennett, and in court—”

  “Court,” sighed Arthur. “You really think—” He broke off, and closed his eyes. He was holding his glass so awkwardly that whisky dripped on to the carpet. “It has really—really come to this. Well, well. Evil—evil will out. Mr. West, I—I have been unhappy about this for many years. Many years.”

  Roger said: “Why?”

  “It was—a strange business, very strange. I knew Simon Arlen well. He was a strong-tempered, strong-willed man. I can remember that he gave Lionel and Ernest a thrashing, took on the two of them together, and—yes, he was wild, very angry indeed. He always flew
into a rage when he was crossed, and yet—yet when he was certified it was a great shock to me. I’d rather—liked Simon. We got on better than the others, you see, and he was a fine, handsome man. I was always something of a weakling. I was out of England at the time; I came hurrying back. It was all over by then, and his poor wife was dead. And—I was suddenly a wealthy man. It wasn’t until later that I began to wonder. Conscience—you know. But I was doing very well. I mentioned it to Lionel and Ernest, but they were most emphatic, and I took the line of least resistance. We—we came to an understanding.”

  He paused.

  “About what?”

  “Well, we were once very close together, so were the Arlens; we tried to insure against one having bad fortune—left a portion of our estates to be shared. Yes.”

  He stopped.

  “I know,” said Roger.

  “Oh.” Arthur looked crestfallen. “You see the evidence of great family loyalty. Don’t you? But—but occasionally, usually on the anniversary of Simon’s birthday, I found all the old doubts rising. Some time ago; but I told you—I distinctly remember that I told you—I tried to trace his son. I failed. If only I had succeeded, this terrible thing might have been avoided. The evil that men do” he added, with a whisper, and then straightened up. “But—I may be wrong. I may have been nursing false suspicions all these years.”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  Arthur said in an unsteady voice: “I don’t know, I can only hope that I am wrong. I have been quite frank with you, Mr. West; you appreciate that—perhaps too frank. Ernest was here all the time; he knows much more about it than I do. Why—he’s nearly a quarter of an hour late! It’s most unlike him.”

  Roger said: “Where was he coming from?”

  “The city. Birmingham—our office there. It’s more convenient than at the factory. What has delayed him? It’s most unlike him.” He went across to the window and pulled one of the curtains aside. “No, there’s no sign of the car, and it isn’t all that dark. He needn’t be so late as this.” He turned away, but didn’t put the curtain back into place. He stood against it, and his hand went to the back of his head, much as Georgina’s had done when she was giving her signal. “I confess that I have been very jumpy at this hour of the evening for the past few days, very jumpy. But he’s caught; there can’t be any danger now, can there? Can there? It was Latimer, it was—”

  Roger watched him; and saw a movement just outside the window. He shouted, swift as thought, and moved. Arthur jumped. Roger thrust him aside and flung himself down, and a bullet smashed through the window.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Killer

  Sloan turned and raced out of the room, thudding towards the front door, pulling it open and rushing into the garden. Roger saw the figure outside move, as he rolled over. Arthur had fallen and was trying to get up.

  “Keep down!” snapped Roger.

  Arthur flopped on to his stomach.

  There was a flash and a roar, and more tinkling of glass. Then footsteps – Sloan’s, as he rushed to the front of the house. Roger saw the figure at the window turn and run, as he got unsteadily to his feet. He flung the window up, as Sloan rushed past, into the semi-darkness. The assailant was thirty yards in front of Sloan, and running awkwardly; as if drunk.

  Roger’s knee pained him, slowing him down.

  Sloan wasn’t far behind the fleeing figure, which stopped and turned round. Roger shouted involuntarily: “Down!” Sloan saw the move, and flung himself to one side, and lost his balance. Shot and flash came simultaneously, but the gunman lost no time, raced for the side of the drive, trampled over the flower-beds and made for the woods which lined the drive. Forcing himself to go faster, Roger passed Sloan.

  “Careful!” Sloan cried.

  He didn’t follow; so he’d hurt himself.

  Roger thought: ‘Not this time, you won’t get away this time.’ Damn his knee. The trees were thick, and it was not so easy to see the assailant, who was now near the low wall which separated the garden from the trees. Roger expected to see him vault the wall; he didn’t, but slowed down, turned again and fired.

  The bullet went wide.

  Roger ran to one side, was now against thick bushes, and couldn’t be seen so easily. The light beyond was better, and he saw the shadowy form start to climb the wall, awkwardly. Roger went forward like a stone from a catapult. Another bullet came, but that also missed. Then he flung himself forward, grabbed a leg and heaved upwards. The assailant toppled over the wall, and cried out. Roger hit against the wall, steadied, and put his hand on the top and hauled himself up. He could see the gunman below him, groping for something on the ground; groping for the gun. Roger jumped and flung himself bodily on to the gunman, jabbed at the nose, and then felt as if he were cushioned against billowy pillows.

  This wasn’t a man; it was a woman.

  Margaret Sharp didn’t say a word. She wasn’t badly hurt, just bruised and grazed. She stared at Roger blankly, with dull eyes, as if madness had been drained out of them.

  It was nearly six o’clock next morning when Roger reached Middleton Street. Peel was already outside Number 122, Roger had telephoned him from Birmingham to be there. All he told Peel was that Margaret Sharp was being held on a charge of shooting with intent to murder, and he kept back the news that Ernest Bennett’s body had been found in the car among the trees bordering the private road. Roger’s eyes felt prickly from lack of sleep; he’d dozed in the car from Birmingham while Sloan had driven. Margaret was already in London.

  Roger rang the bell under which was the card with Gina and Meg’s names. He rang again after a lapse of a few seconds, and listened intently; rang for a third time. Then they heard a sound instead, as of someone scuffling.

  Georgina opened the door.

  She was wearing a dark blue dressing-gown, heel-less slippers and a hair-net. She looked sleepy and young, but at sight of them, became startled and alarmed. She stood aside, without speaking; and she stared at Peel, not Roger.

  “Sorry to worry you so early,” Roger said. “May we go upstairs?”

  He led the way.

  “What’s—happened?”

  Roger didn’t answer, Peel returned a blank gaze to Georgina’s questioning eyes. She caught her breath, and started after Roger.

  “It’s Meg. Meg’s not—dead?”

  “No,” Roger said over his shoulder.

  Georgina didn’t speak again until they were in the big living-room. It was well past dawn, but there was a cold grey light. The room was tidy, but looked forlorn, almost unused. Georgina wrapped the dressing-gown more tightly about her, and stood with her back to the window.

  “Don’t torture me,” she said. “What’s happened?”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that you knew your sister had killed these people?” asked Roger abruptly.

  “Meg? Killed someone?” The words were like a long sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  But there was no spirit in her voice; she was frightened.

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I didn’t know anything of the kind. I don’t believe it’s true. Latimer—but you caught him! You caught him. Jim!” She swung round on Peel. “You came yesterday afternoon and told me he was caught, and that Meg was in a nursing home; you said there was nothing to worry about. Did you lie to me? Jim!”

  She clutched his hand.

  Roger said: “He hasn’t lied. Everything he told you was true. But now we know the murderer was your sister. She must have had the gun here.”

  “I’ve never seen a gun!”

  “She must have been away at the time of each murder, and you must have known it. Why not tell us the truth, Miss Sharp? You suspected it all along; that’s why you went to see Latimer. You knew that he’d planned it, she did it. That’s why you went to him with the
money; he threatened to tell us the truth if you didn’t. Lying won’t help now.”

  “Oh, it isn’t true.” She caught her breath, and her eyes looked enormous. “It can’t be true, not Meg—Meg wouldn’t kill. He—he’s tried to blame her. That must be it.”

  Roger said: “Miss Sharp, we’ve had plenty of these bright ideas from your sister and from you. We’ve watched the way you’ve both behaved, and there’s been no reason in it. You said yourself that she wasn’t behaving normally; you forgot to add that you weren’t. You aren’t necessarily involved. It’s not an indictable offence to withhold information from the police. Certainly it would be hard to blame you, if all you’ve done is try to shield your sister. We’ll find out if there’s anything else, so let’s have all the truth now.”

  She didn’t move – just stared at him.

  “Oh, but it’s not true. I didn’t suspect it, I didn’t dream—I don’t believe it now. Not Meg. Latimer’s fooled you, and—”

  “You knew they were related—she was his foster-sister. Didn’t you?”

  “I know you suggested they were related,” said Georgina. She moved towards Peel. They must have made a lot of progress the previous afternoon, for she took his hand. “Jim, don’t let him talk like this. He may believe it, but you can’t—not that I did anything like that. And Jim—is it true? Was it Meg?”

  Peel nodded.

  She said: “Oh, Meg, why?”

  She turned away, and fumbled for a cigarette from a box on a low table. She put it to her lips. Peel began to take out his lighter, but Roger shook his head, and Georgina took a box of matches and struck one; it broke off, and the flaming head hit the carpet. Peel trod it out. She didn’t strike another, just stood there with the unlit cigarette in her mouth.

  Then: “She didn’t kill them,” she said slowly. “I know she didn’t. She was here all that first evening, when Wilfred Arlen was killed. Every minute of it.”