by John Creasey
He bustled down the stairs, and Sloan led the way into the study.
Here, three men were working, two looking for finger-prints, one sitting at a desk with some rough drawings in front of him; drawings of the position in which the woman had been found. Sloan talked briskly. The child, Peter, who was now with neighbours, had been restless, woken up and called for his mother and, not hearing her reply, had gone to find her. He’d seen her lying unconscious in front of the safe, bleeding from a wound in the head. He’d run, screaming, and neighbours had heard him.
“What time?” asked Roger.
“Just after twelve—I didn’t lose any, calling you.”
“It’s nearly one,” Roger said. “What’s the family’s name?”
“Arlen.”
“Husband?”
“It’s a funny business,” Sloan said. “She says he is usually home by eight; she was going to call us at midnight, but the burglar arrived just before. He had Arlen’s keys, and threw them at her, told her to open the safe. Then he hit her. I’ve a call out for the husband and his car—a new Austin Sheer line. Arlen is the Southern sales representative for the Spark Engineering Company—doing very well, obviously. He covers London and the South, never stays away at night without giving her warning, and seldom stays away anywhere. He was so regular that she began to feel worried when he was an hour late, but didn’t care to call us. She says he must have been held up on the road and his keys stolen.”
“Could be.” Roger fingered his chin. “Where was he today?”
“Brighton, Horsham and Guildford.”
“Sheerlines aren’t two a penny,” Roger said.
“Oh, we’re checking.”
“Anything found here?”
“No dabs,” said Sloan. “The man wore gloves. He couldn’t have been here more than twenty minutes, but cleared the safe out.”
“Much there?”
“Several thousand pounds’ worth of her jewels, and some money—she doesn’t know how much, but not a great deal.”
“And Malby says she was worried out of her wits,” said Roger thoughtfully.
“About her husband, of course.”
“Because he was an hour or two late?”
“Well, if he was usually prompt—”
“Forget it,” said Roger. “Did she tell anyone else about Arlen being late?”
“She hasn’t said so. I started to ask her, and Malby broke in.”
“There’s time,” said Roger, heavily.
The telephone bell rang. There was an instrument on the desk, and as Roger went to it, Sloan said: “There’s an extension downstairs.”
Roger picked this one up. “Hallo.”
There was a pause, and then a man said: “Is that—is Mrs. Arlen there?”
“Who is that, please?”
There was another pause, before the man asked abruptly:
“Are you the police?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, lord!” The man rang off.
The fact that the burglar had Arlen’s keys was the one unusual factor. Roger refused to jump to the obvious conclusion, but arranged for a special watch to be kept on the roads. He had finished at Merrick Street by half-past two, and by then Mrs. Arlen was sleeping under a drug given her by her own doctor, who had arrived soon after Roger. The nurse – a policewoman – was with her. Neighbours volunteered the information that the servants were seldom in on Wednesday nights; confirmed that it was exceptional for Arlen to be home late.
By three o’clock Roger was back at Bell Street.
Janet was asleep; she didn’t stir until he got into bed beside her, then gave a little satisfied grunt and went straight off to sleep again. He didn’t go off quickly. He hadn’t seen the child Peter, but whenever a child was involved, he was on edge. His own two boys, Scoopy and Richard, were sleeping in their small rooms; when children were affected, the man as well as the policeman was touched. Arlen might have been attacked and robbed, or might simply have been careless with his keys. Nothing he yet knew suggested that Arlen was careless by nature.
Everything was in hand; he went over the routine in his mind.
By the morning details of the stolen jewels would be circulated. All the Home Counties police were alerted for Arlen and the car. He would get a report on Arlen’s movements on the previous day as soon as he reached the office; a visit to his employers would be one of the early jobs. The discovering of apparently unrelated facts, the vast mass of information which was mostly unimportant but would conceal a few things that mattered – oh, it was well in hand. There was nothing to keep him awake, but he couldn’t sleep.
It wasn’t often a case began to prey on his mind so early.
The telephone, at his bedside, woke raucously to life and also roused him. He blinked. Janet wasn’t by his side. The boys were talking gaily, and it was broad daylight. He heard the door open and Janet come in, saying: “Why must they call now?” He stretched out his hand for the telephone, and she took it first, but wasn’t playing this time.
“Mrs. West speaking.”
Roger watched her. She hadn’t been up long, and still looked sleepy and untidy. Her face was pale, because she had on no make-up. The massive figure of Martin, called Scoopy, then nearly seven, stood in the doorway, watching her, a thumb at his mouth; the habit was almost incurable. Richard, more than a head shorter and much slighter, was trailing behind Scoopy, blue eyes looking huge. They were both of an age when they were realising the significance of the fact that their father was a detective.
Janet said: “Yes, he’s here.”
She gave Roger the receiver, and turned to shoo the boys out. They scurried off, staring over their shoulders, and she closed the door and went across to the kettle, now singing on the gas-ring in the fireplace.
It was Detective Inspector Evans, of the Yard.
“They’ve found Arlen’s body,” he said.
Chapter Four
Bad News
Roger reached Merrick Street a little after twelve, was admitted by a policeman, and approached by a small, wiry man – an anxious man, who came from the back of the house.
He stopped when he saw Roger.
“I hoped it was Mr. Arlen,” he said. “Who—”
“Chief Inspector West,” said Roger. “You’re one of the staff here, are you?”
“George Rickett, sir. Me and my wife look after Mr. and Mrs. Arlen. Is there any news?”
Roger said: “Not yet.” The door was still open, and a tall man wearing a raincoat and a dilapidated trilby stood near the porch; a man with remarkable ears and a vivid imagination, the star crime reporter of the Daily Echo. “Close the door, will you?”
The constable began to close it.
“Anything for me, Handsome?” called out the newspaperman.
“Later,” Roger waved, and the door closed.
“It’s a terrible thing to have happened,” said Rickett. He had a pale face, a thin neck with prominent veins, and a long, pointed nose. “My wife’s very upset by it, Mr. West. To think it happened when we were out.
She says it’s my fault, we oughtn’t to have slept out; but we didn’t know Mr. Arlen wasn’t coming home, did we?”
“No,” said Roger. “Tell her not to worry.” He turned to the policeman as Rickett moved off. “Who else is here, officer?”
“Nurse Deacon, sir, still with Mrs. Arlen.”
“Go and tell her I want a word with her, will you?”
Roger followed the constable upstairs, and waited in the doorway of the study. The desk chair was facing the door, behind the desk. Instead of seeing it empty, he saw it as it would have been had Arlen been sitting there. A rather plump, biggish man with a round face, curly hair well brushed, dressed in dark grey. Roger knew what he looked like because of the photographs he’
d seen here, not because he had been able to get a clear picture of the face. There had been two shots, fired at close quarters.
The nurse, tall and bony, came out quickly.
“Is Mrs. Arlen all right to leave for a few minutes?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“No relatives turned up yet?”
“The nearest are at Newbury and St. Albans. They’re not here yet.”
“Friends?”
“Several have inquired, but I said the doctor had ordered complete rest.”
“Good. Has she said anything?”
“Very little,” said Nurse Deacon. “It’s a bit funny, sir.”
“How?”
“It’s not easy to explain,” said the nurse, whose face was tanned, as if she had just come off holiday. She had keen, intelligent grey eyes; her dark hair was pushed rigidly beneath her nurse’s cap. “She’s very worried.”
“How?”
“I’d say that she fears the worst, sir. Almost as if she knew. I don’t want to make too much of it, but she isn’t ill; she should be much more herself by now, but—well, her doctor says it’s shock.”
“You’ve seen plenty of shock cases,” said Roger.
“It could be shock.”
“I see,” said Roger. “When do you go off duty?”
“Any time now, sir; my relief’s due; but I waited to have a word with you.”
“Thanks. Make a detailed report and let me have it as quickly as you can, will you?”
He went towards the bedroom, opened the door and stepped quickly inside.
Mrs. Arlen glanced at him, and there was more interest in her expression than he’d seen last night. She was very pale, and her eyes were shadowed now. He closed the door firmly and walked towards her. She watched him closely.
“You’re the Chief Inspector, aren’t you?” Her voice was faint.
“Yes—my name’s West.”
“Is there any news?”
It wasn’t the first time he’d had to tell a woman he didn’t know that her husband was dead; and it wasn’t the first time he had wondered, before telling her, whether she already knew, or guessed.
“Some news, Mrs. Arlen. Did you tell anyone else that your husband was late last night?”
“I—”
“Did you?”
“No!”
He thought she was lying. She was frightened, and the nurse had been quick to see it; was she frightened of what might be discovered?
“We shall deal with everything in strict confidence, Mrs. Arlen, but we must know the truth.” Roger drew nearer the bed. She sat up a little straighter, staring at him; he thought that she already had an intimation of the news he brought. Did she know? “I’m really sorry. I’ve bad news for you.”
Her hands clutched the sheet; she didn’t speak.
“We’ve found your husband,” he said.
She closed her eyes, and he thought that she was going to faint; yet he hadn’t said that they’d found the body. His manner was enough to unnerve her, but hers wasn’t a normal reaction, but that of someone who was frightened.
“Murdered.” He flung the word out.
It sounded brutal; he was being brutal. He watched her closely, and saw the way she sat rigid, as if she had been prepared for the blow. She didn’t open her eyes for a long time. After a while, the tense way in which she clutched the sheet eased, and she leaned back.
“The murderer obviously stole his keys,” Roger said. “Do you know of anyone who would want to kill your husband, Mrs. Arlen?”
She opened her eyes. “No!” She spoke too abruptly, too emphatically, and there was no easing in her fear. It had not been fear of the news she would get, but of something else. “No, of course not! He’d no enemies.” When Roger didn’t speak, she went on hoarsely: “Why should anyone want to kill him? Why? Unless that man—”
“Did Mr. Arlen keep anything except jewels and money and his securities in the safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you know everything about his business life?”
“If—”
“Did you?”
“No!”
“Didn’t he talk much about it?”
“No, he said it ought to be kept out of the home, he—”
“So you don’t really know if he had any enemies,” said Roger.
“No! No, that’s it.” She was suddenly and wildly anxious to make that point. “I was thinking of his friends—social friends; I don’t know his business friends!” She was clutching at a straw, to save herself from the deep waters of fear; the fear that still remained. “It’s—dreadful,” she said.
“I’m more than sorry to have to tell you about it.”
“Was he—in pain?”
“No, it happened very quickly.”
“Thank God for that,” she said. “He—but who did it? Who killed him?”
“That’s what we have to find out,” Roger said quietly. “Have you friends or relatives to come and help you? Children? I know about Peter, that’s all. You’ll need company, Mrs. Arlen.”
“I—I’ve a sister, in Manchester,” said Muriel Arlen. “She’ll come. I—I’ll telephone her. My daughters are at school; they—” She broke off, and caught her breath.
“Tell me the name of the school, and I’ll talk to the head mistress,” said Roger, now all friendly. “That will save them from discovering it from the newspapers. I’d advise you to let them stay where they are for today, anyhow, and probably until it’s all over.”
“You’re—very kind. They’re at Saldean, near Brighton.” She closed her eyes again. “Will you—ask my sister to come? She’s at …”
Roger made notes.
“You’re very kind,” Mrs. Arlen repeated in a husky voice. “It’s so hard to—to understand. I can’t understand it.” She was being too emphatic again. He judged that she was an intelligent woman; and judged, also, that Nurse Deacon had been wrong: she was suffering from shock. It prevented her from being herself; she was showing her fear too easily. And he’d increased the shock; it was a part of his job he didn’t much like. He watched her dispassionately, and wondered what secrets she was hiding. “Will you—speak to my sister?”
“Yes, of course. And until she arrives, I’ll have a nurse—”
“I don’t need a nurse!”
“I think you’d better have one for the next few hours,” said Roger. “You don’t want to overdo it. There’s your son to tell.”
That went through her, as a knife; he could see the pain in her eyes.
“He must have some suspicion that there’s plenty wrong already,” Roger said, and the tone of his voice was deceptively mild. “He—”
“You mustn’t tell him!”
Roger said: “Oh.”
“I’m not being silly; you mustn’t, he mustn’t be told! He’s not strong, his heart—and he was passionately fond—of his father. If it hadn’t been for—”
She broke off abruptly, and then turned her face away and began to cry. She sobbed wildly, trying to stifle the sound by burying her face in the pillow.
Roger watched her, still dispassionately, then went to the door. Another police nurse was standing on the landing. “Come in, and bring your note-book,” he whispered, and went back to the bedside. There was no slackening in that burst of crying for several minutes, but at last she was quiet.
Roger said: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Arlen, but you can’t keep news of this kind away from Peter.”
“You must!” she cried.
“The investigation might go on for weeks, we may even have to question him.”
“No!” She sat up, and glared at him. Her eyes were red and the lids puffy, her cheeks wet, her lips quivered and her body shook. “No
, you wouldn’t be so cruel; not Peter. There’s no need to talk to Peter.”
“We won’t, if we can avoid it. It all depends on how much we find out without talking to him. Did you tell anyone else that your husband wasn’t home last night?”
She didn’t answer.
Roger shrugged. “I’m sorry, but we must know.”
He wondered if the job were going to be easy. There were indications here of a carefully planned murder, followed by a burglary to cover it up. It wouldn’t be the first time that such plans went awry because one of the parties to it hadn’t the nerve to go on. She was distraught. Malby was sure she had been worried the night before, the nurse was sure there was something exceptional on her mind. He could see that she was trying to think, was bitterly angry with herself for her collapse, was trying to retain her self-control. Yes, she showed all the signs of guilt.
He said abruptly: “Were you and Mr. Arlen happily married, Mrs. Arlen?”
She almost screamed: “Yes!” and couldn’t have said “No” more clearly.
“I see. Mr. Arlen had no friends, close personal friends, whom you didn’t know, I suppose?”
“Of course he didn’t!” She should have said: “If I didn’t know them, how can I tell you?” but she wasn’t in a mood for logical thinking, and yet he sensed that once she had command of herself, she would be much more difficult to break down.
“Sure?”
“He wouldn’t, he—he had everything he wanted. Everything!”
“That’s good,” said Roger. “If you’ve nothing with which to reproach yourself, you’ll feel much better. I don’t think he had any idea what was going to happen. Well—not a great deal. I should say he was pretty badly scared for a while; he’d stopped to give someone a lift—that’s clear—and it happened soon afterwards. Was he the kind of man to give a lift to a stranger?”
“He—no. Yes! Yes, he was very kind, he—”
“Did he usually give lifts to strangers on the road?” Roger barked the question.
She didn’t answer.
“He’d be much more likely to give a lift to someone he knew, wouldn’t he?”
She kept silent.