The Figure in the Dusk (19 page)

“
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.

 

 

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.”

“We've only your word for that.”

“No, you haven't,” said Georgina, and there was a glint in her eyes; she was bracing herself against the shock, seeking grounds for hope. “We had visitors—two people from the flat below; they stayed for half an hour. Meg didn't kill Wilfred Arlen, and—she was here when one of the others was killed. No! When you were at York. What is all this?” She looked younger, and her eyes were bright with suspicion. “What are you trying to do?”

“Sorry,” said Roger briefly. “She is being held on a charge of murder, Miss Sharp. We know beyond all reasonable doubt that she killed Mr. Ernest Bennett last night. She ran away from the nursing-home. She used the gun which was used to kill the others. You've made the other alibi for her.”

“Oh, no,” said Georgina; but the brightness had gone. “Another? Last night? And—”

“And Latimer was in jail, so it wasn't him.”

Georgina fumbled for the matches again, lit one successfully, and drew in the smoke. She coughed.

“I don't know about last night. It doesn't seem reasonable—not Meg, to kill. But she certainly didn't kill Wilfred Arlen; that's quite impossible. If she didn't—who did? Latimer?”

“Did you see anyone except Latimer at the house near Praed Street?”

“No.”

“Your sister said that someone else was there. Have you any idea who it was?”

“No.”

“Do you know any other friends, who might be involved?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet Raymond Arlen?”

She shook her head, and this time just whispered: “No.”

“Did your sister know him?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't think so; I never heard her mention him.” She drew in smoke again, and moved to Peel, who was standing awkwardly at ease. “Jim, is this all true? I can't believe him, but I don't think you would lie to me. Is Meg under arrest?”

“Yes, Gina.”

“I—see.” She backed away, and sank into a chair as if the strength had drained out of her. “And you can prove it, she's going to be hanged. Poor, poor Meg! I knew it wasn't right; there was something evil in it—there was evil in Latimer, and she couldn't see it. She was quite blind, and I think she loved him. He turned her bad.” She didn't close her eyes, but did not appear to notice either of the men. “I sensed it, from the beginning. She started to take drugs, and he gave them to her; but I fought against that, and she stopped. At least, I thought she stopped; she seemed to get better. But she turned vengeful because of it, she began to hate me. How did he do it? How did he manage to turn
her
bad?”

She stopped, and darted a glance at Roger. “I must see her. I must, do you understand? Take me to her.”

 

At the Yard, Sloan said: “She's right, of course she's right—Meg couldn't have killed the others.”

“We hardly needed telling that,” said Roger. “And we haven't found the stolen goods yet.” Roger didn't answer.