The Figure in the Dusk (9 page)

Roger switched on the engine.

“Are you going to tackle the relatives?” Peel asked.

“My job for tomorrow,” said Roger. He turned on the police radio set. “Chief Inspector West calling, West calling and standing by.”

He lit a cigarette as the response came through in a clear, unhurried voice.

“Stand by, please; there is a message for you. Stand by, please.”

Peel said: “Hal-lo!”

The wait seemed a long one. Was it news of a third attack? Had the killer sprung out of the dusk to strike again?

“Calling Chief Inspector West; can you hear me?”

“I can hear.”

“Ralph Latimer believed to be at 8 Milbury Road, Fulham, repeat, Ralph Latimer believed to be at 8 Milbury Road, Fulham.”

“Message received!” cried Roger.

 

 

Milbury Road was in the residential part of Fulham near Hurlingham. The street was well-lighted, there were patches of garden surrounded by low walls in front of every house. Two cars were drawn up at one corner, two others in a side street. Sloan was standing round the corner as Roger pulled up, and he moved forward.

“You haven't lost much time,” he said. “I've only just arrived myself.”

“What's the story?”

“We found the address of one of the two girls who'd moved—Number 8. She has rooms here. We alerted the district, and received another report from a man on the beat—that someone roughly answering Latimer's description was known to have come here this evening, just after dusk. The constable kept an eye on the place, and no one's come out.”

“What's the girl's name?”

“Rose Morton—does a bit of dancing, a bit of singing, gets an occasional leg-show job and some night-club work, but she hasn't been working much lately. The rumour is that she has a man who now looks after her, and it could be Latimer. She's known Latimer for several years.”

“Let's go,” said Roger.

He climbed out of the car, and Peel got out the other side.

Sloan led the way.

“There's always a chance that he got out the back way, of course. We've had the back covered for the last twenty minutes, but he had plenty of time. There's a service lane—all of these houses have back gardens.”

“Go round to the back, Peel, will you?” asked Roger, and Peel hurried off.

Number 8 was near New King's Road, and across the main road they could see the traces of Parson's Green, cars passing, a bus slowing down, yellow light glowing from its square windows. The house was between street lamps, and the front door was as dark as any in the street. No one but police appeared to be near. There were a few lighted windows, but no light shone at Number 8.

Roger and Sloan approached the front door, and stood in a little square porch. Two Yard men were at the gate, a couple of yards behind them. Roger pressed the bell, but there was no response. He pressed again, and knocked; the knocking seemed to reverberate as if this were an empty house.

“Search warrant?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sloan, tapping his pocket.

“Let's try a window.”

“Half a minute,” said Sloan.

There was a movement inside the house, and a light came on. They stood on either side of the porch, Roger nearer the door. Someone fumbled with bolts and a chain, and then the door opened a few inches.

“Yes, who is it?” The woman's voice was sharp.

“Good evening,” said Roger, and placed his foot against the door. “We're police officers. Are you Miss Rose Morton?”

“
Police?
”
The door opened wider. She showed dimly, a tall, fair-haired woman. “Did you say you were police?”

“You heard. Is Mr. Latimer here?”

“Ralph?”

Roger said: “We'll come in, Miss Morton.” He pushed the door wider, and she didn't protest. There was a light behind her, on the first landing. Roger saw the dim outline of a light-switch on the wall, and pressed it down. Miss Morton, hennaed, tall, good-looking in a hard way, blinked at them. “Is he here, Miss Morton?”

“No, of
course
not!'

“Sure?”

“You've no right to—”

“Mind if we have a look round?” asked Roger. “We've a search warrant.”

“You ruddy coppers,” she said. Her voice had a common note. “Hounding the lives out of us; that's what you're always doing. No, he's not here; he's gone.”

“So he's been here.”

“Any reason why a man shouldn't come to see a lady?”

“When did he go?”

“Half an hour ago,” said Rose. “You'd better come upstairs.” She licked her lips, and turned to the staircase, which was opposite the front door. “My rooms are up here; you don't have to look in the others, it'll only cause trouble.”

“Trouble with whom?”

“My landlady—she's out,” said Rose Morton. “Gone to the pictures; they always go on Friday nights.”

“All right,” said Roger, but as she turned to lead the way up the stairs, he signalled to the plain-clothes men. They would go through the downstairs rooms, and make sure that Latimer had really left.

The light from the landing actually came from a back room. It was comfortable, but not particularly attractive – a living-room with a divan in one corner, and oddments of furniture, none of which matched. Rose had a swaying, attractive walk, and now that they could see her better, she proved to have a good, full figure. She looked sullen.

“Now what's it all about?”

“Why did Latimer come to see you?”

“He's a swine,” she said. “He wanted some money—he's always after money. I'd told him I wouldn't have anything more to do with him; my—my
husband
wouldn't like it. I didn't think he knew where I lived, but he turned up tonight. Thank heavens, my
hubby
wasn't in.” Having got away with ‘husband' without being questioned, she seemed much easier. There was a gold ring on her engagement finger. “He said he was pushed for twenty pounds, and I gave him a fiver to get rid of him. It was all I had. I said if he came again I'd have the police on him.”

“For what?” asked Roger.

“Never you mind!”

Roger said: “Now listen, Rose. We haven't anything against you; we don't want to make difficulties. If you're settling down and you've got a steady man, that's fine. But we want straight answers about Latimer. Have you seen the evening papers?”

She said: “No. What's he been doing?”

“We're not sure that he's been doing anything yet, but he may be able to help us about the Arlen murder.”

“Murder,” she said, and, to their astonishment, giggled. “Ralph, a murderer? Don't make me laugh; he hasn't got the guts to punch a man on the nose.” She giggled again. “You've made some mistakes in your time, copper, but not a bigger one than this. Ralph's small cheese. He wouldn't kill; he'd be too scared. He'd put up a good front, but I know him—I know he's got water where most men have blood.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He—he peddled snow,” said Rose Morton abruptly. “
I
didn't fall for it. Snow and heroin; other dope too, I wouldn't be surprised. I found it out from one of my girl friends, and wild horses wouldn't drag her name out of me, so you needn't waste your time. I told him tonight that if he came again I'd tell the police about it—I don't think he'll come again.”

“What made him come?”

“I've told you.”

“You haven't told us why he thought he could get money out of you,” said Roger.

“He knew I'd settled down, and wouldn't want my hubby to know some of the little games I got up to in the past. He's always putting on the squeeze, if he gets half a chance. But I wasn't having any, and I told him so—after this once, he could tell Fred anything. In fact” – she put her chin up – “I'm going to tell Fred myself. I don't see any point in living under a shadow, and if he's as fond of me as he says he is, Fred won't mind. I think he
is.
”

“That's right,” said Roger. “You tell him. Did Latimer say why he wanted the money?”

“He said he had to pay someone back some money he borrowed.”

“Did he tell you he was on the run?”

“No, but it doesn't surprise me—he looked scared, for once. Usually he covers it up, but he couldn't cover it tonight. He wasn't here ten minutes.”

“Which way did he go out?”

“Why, the front way, of course.”

Roger said: “It's no good, Rose; you're lying.”

“I'm not; you damned splits never believe any thing!” She glared at him. “He went out the front—”

She broke off.

“That's right; try second thoughts,” said Roger.

“Now I come to think of it, I didn't hear the front door close,” said Rose. “I was so glad to get rid of him, I told him he could find his own way out, and slammed the door on him. He could have gone out the back door; he would if he knew you were after him, wouldn't he?”

The men who had been searching came into the room.

“Nothing here,” one said.

“Of course there's nothing here,” snapped Rose Morton. “I've told you the truth—he wasn't here for ten minutes.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Why should he? No, he didn't.”

Roger said: “All right, Rose; but listen. We want to find Latimer, and if he shows up again, hold him on some excuse and let us know. Don't let any fool ideas about loyalty stop you, because if you help him get away, you'll find yourself in trouble with us. Your Freddy wouldn't forgive that so easily, would he?”

“Coppers,” sneered Rose.

 

They were back at the Yard at half-past nine. There had been no reports of any trouble, and there was no fresh information.

 

The morning newspapers splashed the murders and the photograph of Latimer. Roger left home just after eight, and by nine was looking at a mass of reports on his desk; reports from people who thought they had seen Latimer. He had been in thirty-one places at the same time, according to these. The largest file was in the Metropolitan area; Roger would need to go through those first. He wanted to start on the other angle, the relations of Arlen and Bennett, but he'd have to sift through these first.

He was on edge, half expecting a report of a third attack at any moment. None came.

Sloan was late.

He finished going through the reports, marked a dozen for special attention, and left them for Sloan, then pulled the files which covered the relatives towards him. There were four, in all; a woman and three men.

The woman was a Mrs. Lilian Drew, and lived on the outskirts of York. Her husband was known to be extremely wealthy, director and chief shareholder of a large chain of grocery stores. Two of her brothers, Arthur and Ernest Bennett, lived in Birmingham. Lionel had been the fourth member of this family – their mother had been an Arlen, sister of Wilfred's father.

The two brothers were the only directors of Bennett Brothers Limited, a small manufacturing company, the shares of which were not quoted on the Stock Exchange.

The other man was Raymond Arlen, of Newbury; his father and Wilfred Arlen's had been brothers.

The provincial police had been quick; there were comprehensive reports on all of them. All four were people of the upper middle-class social strata, with good incomes, all married and reputable. Their ages ranged from Arlen's forty-seven to Ernest Bennett's sixty-one. Each had been warned the previous evening, and there was a telephoned report from the local police, saying that nothing had happened to any of them up to six a.m.

Sloan came in breezily.

“'Morning, Roger. Haven't kept you, I hope.”

“Oversleep?” asked Roger.

“Good Lord, no! I got the address of that other woman Latimer knew, and paid her an early call on my way. She says she hasn't seen him for months. She's living at Ealing, married and respectable; there's nothing to it. No more trouble, I hope.”

“Not yet,” said Roger. “I'm going to Birmingham first, I think, and I'll take Peel with me. These Bennetts—”

The telephone bell rang.

Roger took off the receiver. “West here.”

“'Morning, sir.” It was the sergeant on duty in the hall. “A Mr. Raymond Arlen is here, sir, asking to see you.”

 

 

This Arlen was tall, lean, an obvious open-air type. He came in swiftly, nodded his thanks to the sergeant who had brought him up, and looked from Sloan to West.

“Good morning, Mr. Arlen,” said Roger. “I'm Chief Inspector West.”

Sloan pushed up a chair.

“Sit down,” said Roger. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.” Raymond Arlen seemed completely at ease, and looked curiously round the office. “This is the first time I've been in a police station—if you call Scotland Yard a police station.”

“It'll serve,” said Roger. “How can I help you?”

“I thought it time I showed up,” said Arlen, and smiled. He had fine white teeth, dark hair—he was by far the youngest of the cousins, and showed no sign of going grey. “I had your message last night, of course—kept it to myself; it would have scared the wits out of my wife.”

“Better that than have you killed.”

“Oh, yes. But is there seriously any risk of that?” asked Arlen. “I don't mind telling you that if anyone has a crack at me, I shall fall back on the law of justifiable homicide.”

“So long as you make sure it's justifiable, no one will mind,” said Roger easily. “You'd heard about the murder before we telephoned, of course.”

“Only just.” Arlen drew at his cigarette and blew two smoke-rings. “I'd been away for a couple of days, and had missed the newspapers. Couldn't get
The Times,
and I've no use for the scandal sheets. I was reading about it when the telephone rang. My wife had seen it, of course; she was pretty worked up—and that's one of the reasons I've come to see you.”

“Yes?”

Arlen said easily: “We're just about to have our child, Mr. West. It's due in a few weeks' time, and my wife is pretty nervous. You can understand that, can't you? I don't want her worried any more than I can help. So I thought if I came to see you it would save you coming to see me, and perhaps save her a lot of worry. I have to come to town on business quite often; caught an early train this morning—she's no idea that I've come here, of course.”

“Thoughtful of you,” said Roger. “It's saved me a journey, too. What time did you get home last night?”

“About seven. Soon after.”

“And you'd been away for two days?”

“Yes—North Wales. Business, of course. I travel for Willersons, the paper people.”

“Your murdered cousins were salesmen, weren't they?”

Arlen grinned.

“If you'd called Lionel or Wilfred a salesman, you'd have come away with a flea in your ear—they were travelling representatives. Lionel was more than a salesman, anyhow. Yes—that's about the only thing we really had in common—the gift of the gab. It runs like that sometimes.”

“Your other cousins don't seem to have it,” said Roger. “The Birmingham couple are—”

“They run their own business—small tools,” said Arlen. “They can talk all right!” He laughed. “But I haven't cottoned on yet, Mr. West—why should you think that there's any danger for the rest of us? I take it you warned all the lot.”

“Yes.”

“Well, why?”

Roger said: “On the simple principle that it's better to be safe than sorry. I've no grounds for thinking that the murderer might have a go at you, but it's an odd coincidence, isn't it? Have you read this morning's scandal sheets?”

Arlen grinned.

“Every one—I've never seen so many headlines in my life. You mean, this chap Latimer.”

“Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Did you recognise him?”

Roger said: “Well?”

“As a matter of fact, I had a feeling that I'd seen him before somewhere,” said Arlen. “I couldn't place him at first. And then—” He laughed. “It's nonsense, I expect, but—well, look at
me
”

He sat there, without smiling now, in the pose which Latimer had shown in the photograph which had been widely circulated. Roger stared. Sloan came round to the other side of Arlen's chair, and looked down at him. There was silence in the office, broken by the rumble of trams and the hum of traffic on the Embankment.

“Well?” Arlen asked abruptly.

“Yes, there is a slight likeness,” said Roger, cautiously. “I shouldn't call him your double, but—”

“It's a likeness all right,” said Arlen. “I don't mind telling you that when I realised it, it shook me. I happen to have a photograph in my pocket.” He took out his wallet, and handed Roger a photograph of himself and a handsome, smiling woman. It was head and shoulders only, and had been taken in a good studio. “See what I mean?”

Roger put one of Latimer's photographs by the side of it.

“Well, it's there,” said Sloan.

“You can imagine why it shook me,” Arlen said. “I didn't discover it until this morning, of course, after I'd decided to come and have a word with you. After that, every time anyone looked at me I thought they were comparing me with this chap. At Paddington I felt quite sure that a couple of policemen were coming to clap their hands on my shoulders, but they only stared. Your sergeant downstairs positively jumped when he looked up and saw me.”

“It isn't such a strong likeness as that,” said Roger. “May I borrow this photograph?”

“Er—well, yes. Yes, I suppose so.”

“And you've never heard of the man Latimer or, as far as you know, ever seen him before.”

“No.” Arlen was emphatic.

“Thanks,” said Roger, and leaned back and rubbed his eyes. “Did either of your murdered cousins ever talk of any personal worry or anxiety, Mr. Arlen?”

Arlen grinned.

“Never! We had another thing in common; I forgot to tell you about that. Boastfulness. We didn't often foregather; it must be five years since we all met—we happened to be in London at the same time. You should have been there—hearing fishermen telling their stories was nothing to it. Each of us had to beat the other on income, sales record, wife, house—it would have been nauseating if I hadn't seen the funny side of it. Odd thing,” went on Arlen, “I knew that I was as bad as the rest, but I think I was the only one who kind of stood outside myself and saw what was happening. They were deadly earnest about it all.”

“No reason, as far as you know, why any of them should have been frightened?”

“Good lord, no!”

“Did you ever do business together?”

“No—no cause to.”

Roger said: “I've had six names altogether: Mr. Arlen—yours, the two Bennetts in Birmingham and their sister, isn't it? Mrs. Drew, of York. And the two dead men, of course. Have you any other relatives?”

Arlen hesitated again.

“Most people can claim more than five,” murmured Roger.

“Well, we were a small family,” Arlen said. “And we had rough luck during the wars—some of the family were wiped out, in bombing raids in both of them. And I lost a brother at Arnhem. We six are the only relations who really rate, I think.”

“But there's someone else?”

“Er—yes, I suppose so.” Arlen wrinkled his nose. “It's a mucky business, this kind of inquiry. All the dirty linen comes out for washing. There
is
another relative, or rather there was. One of my father's brothers, Simon, was a kind of family skeleton. I knew him when I was a child, but he vanished soon afterwards. I didn't realise until a few years ago that he was put away—in an asylum. You know how families hush up that kind of thing. He was married and there was one child, I believe—I couldn't prove it, but my mother told me there was.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Oh, a male of the species.”

“What was his name?”

“Arnold.”

“What happened to him?”

Arlen frowned, and looked ill-at-ease.

“I don't exactly know, but I gathered that it wasn't anything my mother was particularly proud of. The wife died, not long after the child was born, and the kid was farmed out. She told me that she tried to keep in touch with the foster-parents, but my—my father and the rest of the family wouldn't have any of it. Not a pretty story, is it?—they could be hard on kids, in the old days. I don't see how it can help, and yet—”

Roger said: “It can help a lot, and you know it, Mr. Arlen. Have you told us everything?”

“All the way up I've been racking my brains to recall everything I can,” said Arlen. “My mother was ill when she told me; she died soon afterwards. I think she had an attack of conscience, and wanted to die with it off her mind. She rambled a bit, but the general outline is about right—my uncle went off the rails and he was homicidal, so they jugged him. Rather than let anyone think there was a taint in the family, it was hushed up. The sickening thing is that they wished the boy on to foster parents, presumably without saying anything about the family history. Ugly kind of business.”

“Yes. Have you ever discussed this with your cousins?”

“Er—I did once, with Lionel.”

“Why Lionel?”

“He was the eldest, and most likely to know something about it. I had a fancy to try to trace the boy, but there wasn't a thing I could do.”

“You didn't talk about it to any of the others?”

“No. Wilfred wasn't the type to have any sentiment about a thing like that, I don't know the other Bennetts really well, and their sister—” He shrugged. “She's always been pretty highly strung. Neurotic type. Between you and me she leads her husband a hell of a life. I certainly wouldn't discuss it with her, at any time. I doubt if the other Bennetts know much, although they probably know a little. I wish I could offer more help, but—well, I thought you'd better know about this. Especially as the man Latimer could be mistaken for me. I mean he
could
be one of the family, couldn't he?”

“Yes. How long are you going to stay in London?”

“Oh, I shall go back tonight. I shan't leave my wife at home alone until you've caught this chap; she'll be too jumpy. Shouldn't be going away much, anyhow. I wouldn't have gone this time—to North Wales, I mean—but there was a sticky customer, and I didn't want to lose any business.”

“Naturally you didn't,” said Roger, and stood up. “You've been very good. We won't worry your wife if it's avoidable, and I think we'll get all we want from some other source. You'll be careful when on the road or on your own, won't you?”

Arlen laughed.

“I tell you, I'll hit first at any suspicious stranger. Don't worry about me—the others were pretty soft, physically.” He laughed again, but there was no ring of confidence in it. “Er—I suppose it
could
simply be coincidence.”

“Oh, yes. Obviously.”

“Not good, feeling that you're next on the list,” said Arlen. “I'm thinking of my other cousins, of course;
I'm
all right.”

They shook hands; and Sloan saw Arlen downstairs.

 

“Superintendent Kennedy of Newbury for you, sir,” said the operator to Roger.

“Thanks … Hallo, Ken.”

“Hallo, Handsome, now what?”

“This man Raymond Arlen,” said Roger. “He tells me he reached home soon after seven o'clock last night. Check if you can, will you?”

“Think he was lying?” asked the Newbury Superintendent.

“Just being sure,” said Roger.

 

He drove, with Peel, to Birmingham after an early lunch and reached the home of Ernest Bennett, Merry-field, High Lane, Erdington, a little after half-past three. He had not warned the Bennett brothers that he would be there, and expected first to find Ernest's wife. A modern car was drawn up in the drive of a large house, which was built on the slope of a hill and stood in a large, attractive garden. There was a slight wind, waving the daffodils, some early tulips and wallflowers. A gardener was trimming the edge of a diamond-shaped lawn, and looked at the new arrivals with slow interest.

There was a front loggia, and in the room beyond it, reached by French windows, Roger saw the heads of two men, sitting at the far end of the room. Neither of them troubled to look round. The heads were almost identical; the men were grey-haired, each had a bald patch, and their ears stuck out.

A maid answered the door.

There were the usual preliminaries, and then she led Roger and Peel into the room. It was long, and ran right through the house, with French windows at either end. The ceiling was low, there was no picture-rail; everything was fresh and clean. The furniture was modern and restrained, the colouring was pastel shades of green and yellow.

Two men, almost identical in height, shape and size, but very different in face, now stood in front of the fireplace, where an electric fire glowed.

The first man held out his hand. He was broad-faced, with a broad nose, a pendulous lower lip and short upper lip. His cheeks were florid, as if he were out of doors a great deal, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses.

“
I
am Ernest Bennett,” he said. “Good afternoon, Chief Inspector. This is an unexpected visit. I expected a call from the local police, of course, but not from Scotland Yard. This is my brother, Arthur Bennett.”

Arthur had a thin face, sunken cheeks and, when he opened his lips to greet them, showed his gums.

Both men were dressed in striped grey trousers and black coats; both looked prosperous businessmen, who might have been found in any city.

“Most shurprished,” said Arthur Bennett.

Ernest coughed.

“My brother has been to the dentist this morning; you will allow me to do most of the talking, I hope. It's a dreadful affair, dreadful, and we both—
both
greatly appreciate your warning. Not that we can feel it is necessary, but it is as well to be on our guard—yes. Arthur fully agrees with me. However, it has one distressing result, Chief Inspector.”