The Figure in the Dusk (10 page)

“I'm sorry about that.”

“Our sister—Mrs. Drew. She was on the telephone;
very
upset. Most upset,” said Ernest. “She is highly strung and nervous at the best of times, and this, naturally, has greatly worried her. However, you were doubtless doing only your duty as you conceived it.”

“Thanks,” said Roger. “This is Detective Sergeant Peel.”

Two grey heads nodded, but Ernest had little time for a mere detective-sergeant.

“You understand, Chief Inspector, that we are by no means convinced that there is any need for us to feel that we are—er—menaced. Menaced is the word, of course. The deaths of Lionel and Wilfred, deeply regrettable though they are,
could
be unconnected, couldn't they?”

“Of course,” said Roger.

“Told you show,” interpolated Arthur, from behind his left hand.

“We knew it, of course; it was obvious,” said Ernest, but he couldn't hide his relief. He had really been worried, and that meant he probably felt that he had some cause to worry. “This unhappy affair can be exaggerated, and the family connection is—well, very far-fetched. Very. It would mean that someone had reason to hate us, wouldn't it, Chief Inspector?”

“And no one has?”

“Ridiculous to suggest it!”

“Abshurd,” lisped Arthur.

“All of us are good citizens. I like to think that we have played a proper part in the communal and social life of our times. In fact, I know that Arthur and I have; we have made it an unvarying rule. And no one has
any
reason to dislike us. None at all.”

“Good,” said Roger.

“Shigarette?” asked Arthur, splutteringly explosive.

“Oh, yes, and do sit down,” said Ernest, gustily hospitable. “I will arrange for some tea; you must be tired after your long drive. I will—”

He stepped towards the fireplace and a bell-push.

“You're very kind,” said Roger. “I believe that your uncle, Simon Arlen, had a serious illness many years ago.”

Ernest's hand stopped a few inches off the bell push, but his arm didn't drop. Arthur forgot his naked gums, and stared open-mouthed. The words had come so casually and pleasantly, and affected them like a physical blow.

Slowly, Ernest lowered his arm.

“Really,” said Arthur, weakly.

“So you know about Uncle Simon,” said Ernest slowly. “Well, well. Of course—it has nothing to do with this, nothing at all.
Nothing!
It's ridiculous.”

“
Abshurd.
”

“It was most unfortunate, but these things happen in any family,” said Ernest. “My uncle Simon was injured in the first World War; it deranged him; he was always rather strange—in fact I know that he was advised not to marry, but—well, he was headstrong. Most headstrong. Then he imagined his wife was faithless, and attacked her; that was just before the child was born. A great tragedy—great tragedy. Of course, we—we were anxious to do all we could for the child, and we felt it better that he should not know the—er—the circumstances of being orphaned. We had the responsibility, because his brothers—Wilfred's father and Raymond's father, you understand—were dead. Wilfred and Raymond were too young to act. So we—mind you, we were guided by Lionel: Lionel was the eldest—we decided that the best thing to do was to have the child adopted.”

He stopped, and moistened his lips; and both men dabbed their foreheads with handkerchiefs.

“How did you know?” asked Ernest.

Roger said casually: “We don't have much difficulty getting information, Mr. Bennett. How long ago did this happen?”

“Eh? Well, so long—”

“Shirty-one years,” Arthur declared. “Remember it well. Wash twenny-seven myshelf at the time. You'd be shirty, Ernest.”

“So the child would be thirty-one,” said Roger.

“Sh'right.”

“What was his name?”

“Arnold.”

“What was the name of the family which adopted him?”

The brothers paused.

Peel coughed suddenly, and made them glance at him sharply. Afterwards, there was silence.

“Surely you remember the name,” said Roger.

“Well—no.” Ernest moistened his lips again. “We agreed with Lionel on the general course of action, but he was the eldest; he handled the whole affair. He preferred to tell us nothing; we—”

Roger said abruptly: “You just wanted to get rid of the child, so that you need never be worried.”

“Really!” Ernest raised a hand.

“Sh'right,” Arthur said. He stood up and walked restlessly about the room. “It ish right, Ernest. Let'sh faish it. Often thought about it; wicked shing to do.” He stood in front of Roger. “You sheriously think this boy might have killed my brother and coushin? Sheriously?”

“Nonsense!” cried Ernest.

Roger said: “It's too early to form any opinion, gentlemen. We're just getting information together. Are you sure that neither of you knows the name of the family which adopted the child?”

Arthur said miserably: “No idea.”

“There was no need for us to know,” said Ernest sharply. “I am not at all sure that the information is relevant, Chief Inspector.”

“Did you ever discuss this with your brother Lionel?”

“Seldom.”

“How often?” Roger barked.

“Perhaps” once every two or three years. Chief Inspector, I don't like your manner. There is nothing at all reprehensible, and in any case this affair happened many years ago. Occasionally my Uncle Simon's name cropped up in conversation; we would mention it then, in passing.”

“You've never tried to trace the child?”

“Certainly not! And Lionel—”

“I did,” said Arthur, thickly.

 

 

Ernest gasped: “Arthur!” and backed away from his brother as if in horror.

Arthur looked at him defiantly, but there was something pathetic in his expression when he turned to Roger. He licked his lips and showed his gums again, and completely forgot to hide his mouth behind his hand.

“Yesh, I did. Wanted to get the name from Lionel. He wouldn't tell me—said he'd forgotten—pooh-poohed the whole affair. Sho I went to shee the doctor and nursh. Couple who attended the birth, undershtand. Must be ten years ago now. They couldn't help. Knew the boy had been adopted; Lionel had told them. No laws about it in those days—if there were, Lionel didn't worry about that. I asked at the Town Hall and the Registry office—no trace of the adoption anywhere. Birsh shertificate was there, of course—thash all.”

“Where were you living?” asked Roger.

“London—St. John's Wood,” said Ernest, as if he resented being left out of the conversation. “Arthur, I am astonished! If you'd told me, I—well, it was a foolish gush of sentiment. Nothing more or nothing less.”

Roger said: “Can you give me the name of the doctor and the nurse, Mr. Bennett?”

“Shink sho,” said Arthur, and began to mumble to himself, then took an envelope from his pocket and scribbled notes on it. “There y'are.”

“Thanks.” Roger put the envelope into his wallet. “Have you read today's newspapers, gentlemen?”

“Coursh,” said Arthur.

“Naturally,” said Ernest.

“So you've seen the picture of this man.”

Roger took out Latimer's photograph.

“I have never seen him before,” said Ernest thinly, “and I flatly refuse to believe that there is any connection between these dastardly crimes and the unhappy family affair upon which you have intruded. I must say that I think the police would be better employed if they—”

“Funny shing,” said Arthur, cutting across his brother's words, “but I did wonder. Take another look, Ernest. This is a better picture than the one in the paper.”

He took the photograph and thrust it in front of his brother's eyes.

Ernest moved back, then held it at arm's length.

“I have never—” he began, but broke off with a gulp. He shot a startled glance at his brother, looked anywhere but at Roger, and finally took the picture very close to his eyes. “It
can't
be,” he said in a strangled voice. “But there
is
a resemblance.”

“Raymond Coushin Raymond,” Arthur declared. “Image of him, when he was young. Image. Talk about a family likenesh. No doubt about it at all.”

 

Roger telephoned Sloan from the house, giving the names of the doctor and nurse who had attended Mrs. Simon Arlen.

“Find them tonight,” he said.

 

He drove out of the gates of the house, and sent the car hurtling along the winding road towards Birmingham. Peel sat silent and smoking by his side, knowing his man well, and realising that this wasn't a moment to speak. Roger turned on to the main road, and the speedometer needle crept up towards the seventy mark; they passed everything on the road. On the approaches to Birmingham, Roger slowed down, took a road signposted Leicester and said:

“Look up the road to York in that A.A. book, will you?”

“York?”

“I want to see that sister,” Roger said, “and I'd like to get there before it's dark.”

Peel flipped over the pages, stopped, and said after a moment.

“You're all right for a bit; I'll fix the route in a few minutes. Going to tell anyone?”

“I'll stop a patrol car or a man on the beat and send word,” said Roger. “Haven't any appointment tonight, have you?”

He grinned, unexpectedly.

Peel laughed.

“Nothing firm!”

“Seeing Georgina again?”

Peel said: “I know what you were getting at yesterday, but you were jumping to conclusions. As a matter of fact, I thought it might be a good idea to get to know her better. I think she's all right, but I'm not so sure about her sister—she's soft on Latimer. And—er—oh, all right,” he added, flushing. “I wouldn't object to getting to know Gina Sharp after hours.”

Roger said: “Go easy, until this show is over. You don't want to run yourself into trouble.”

Peel said ruefully: “You're making pretty sure I do go easily, aren't you? That's why you've brought me up here.”

Roger glanced at him; and Peel was still flushed.

“Listen, Jim,” Roger said. “That's pretty clear proof that you're not thinking straight. You know damned well I wouldn't take you with me if I didn't think you were the best man to have. You may or may not get the flutters over Georgina Sharp, but I'm not wet-nursing you.”

“Sorry,” muttered Peel.

“She was at that flat, and she put up a pretty good show. She might have told the simple truth, but she might have been fooling us. There's one thing you've overlooked, Jim.”

“What's that?”

“We know—or think we know—that Meg Sharp was in love with Latimer. We don't know whether Gina Sharp had anything else against him. I'm not a bit sure that she would storm his place and go for him in the way she went for you, simply because he'd prised some money out of her sister. Oh, she might have done, but we don't take it as gospel.”

“What makes you think I've overlooked it?”

Roger laughed. “You'll do. What about that route?”

 

They had to stop on the outskirts of York, which they reached as daylight was fading, to get directions to the home of Mrs. Drew. The policeman who directed them finished and said mildly: “Coming along pretty fast, weren't you? Take it easy in this light, sir, please.”

Roger smiled. “Thanks, but I'm in a hurry. Will you call your station and tell them that I'm in the district and will turn up some time this evening?” He handed the man a card, and drove off as a startled face turned towards him. He saw the man grin.

Mrs. Drew lived at a house called Corby, in Willow Lane. There was a small stream, two miles on the eastern side of York, and over it ran a humpbacked bridge with white wooden rails. On one bank willows drooped leafy branches towards the rippling water. In the half fight the scene was pleasing, with low, wooded hills and a few houses showing against the sky-line. Several narrow roads turned off this, but the constable had been clear: they must go to the end of the road running alongside the stream, and Corby, the house, would be on the right-hand side.

The house loomed out of the dusk as Roger switched on his headlamps. A boy was cycling along near the river, two girls swinging tennis racquets stood at the gate of another house, chatting. Corby, which lay low, had a large garden with the stream running at the end of it. It was a two-storeyed brick house with pebble-dash at the top of the walls, nicely proportioned and, like all the houses in this family, owned by someone in a fairly high income group.

The gates were closed.

Peel glanced at his watch.

“Pretty good time, and you've made it just before dark. Bit eerie, isn't it?”

“Eerie?”

“You know what I mean,” said Peel. “That devil could be having another crack.”

“At whom?”

“
He
doesn't know you've warned the others,” said Peel.

Roger didn't answer, and Peel climbed out to open the gates. As he was bending to pull up the bolt, Roger looked at the house and saw a shadowy figure appear at the side. The figure, of a man, had come from some bushes on the right of the garden. Without looking towards the gate, the man went straight to a window and disappeared.

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.