by John Creasey
Roger said: “Did Lionel Bennett know Ralph Latimer?”
“I can’t imagine why you’re talking about Lionel,” said Mrs. Arlen in a sharper voice. “Of course he didn’t know Ralph. I’ve told you the truth about that. Do you want to humiliate me any further? Isn’t it bad enough—”
“I don’t want to humiliate you or anyone,” Roger said gently. “I just want to get at the truth. How is your son?”
She didn’t answer.
“Does he know yet?” asked Roger.
“He—he knows that his father was hurt, that’s all. Some neighbours have been looking after him; they’ve been wonderfully kind. They say that he took the news very well. I ought—I ought to have told him myself, but just couldn’t bring myself to it. The whole thing has been—damnable! It would have been bad enough in any circumstances, but to bring Ralph into it—Mr. West, do you seriously think he had anything to do with it? Tell me, please. I keep turning it over and over in my mind, I can’t get any peace.”
“We don’t know. We can’t find him.”
“Can’t find him? Do you mean he’s run away?”
“I don’t know. Mrs. Arlen—” Roger went across to her and looked down, wondering what was passing through her mind. He was sure that she was in torment. Her eyes looked heavy, yet bright, as if she had a blinding headache. “Did you ever lend Mr. Latimer any money?”
She started violently.
“So you did,” said Roger.
“I—I helped him once or twice! And he invested some money for me. It was mine—not much, but mine; I didn’t want—my husband—to handle it. I always told him that I was quite capable of looking after my own affairs.”
“How much?”
“I—I’m not sure. About—about two thousand pounds, I suppose.”
“Recently?”
“No, not really—six months ago was the last. Mr. West, you must tell me why you’re asking all these questions. I must know!”
“You trusted him implicitly, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did!”
“I wish you hadn’t,” said Roger, and was still gentle. “He wasn’t worth it.”
“You can’t mean that; you’re lying!”
“I’m afraid not. He’s borrowed money from other women.”
She gave a little whimpering sound. “Oh, no! No.”
There was utter silence in the room. She sat back in her chair, her head resting on the back, staring straight in front of her, as if she were looking into horrors. Roger, letting the news sink in, felt sorry for her, and knew he now had a chance that wouldn’t be repeated.
She relaxed.
“He’s not worth suffering for, Mrs. Arlen. It was Latimer last night, wasn’t it?”
“No!” she cried. “No, it couldn’t have been; Ralph wouldn’t have killed. I tell you it wasn’t—I know it wasn’t him. It doesn’t matter how you blacken his name; he didn’t come here and attack me.”
“You couldn’t see his face.”
She didn’t answer.
He tried a shot in the dark.
“Did he paint?”
“Paint? No, of course not. I—I don’t believe that he borrowed money from other women. I just don’t believe it; you’re trying to trick me. And you can’t, because I’ve told you everything I know.”
“All right,” said Roger quietly.
He went out; and repeated the trick of leaving the door ajar and looking back into the room. Muriel Arlen leaned back in her chair, with her eyes closed, and her expression reminded him vividly of Meg Sharp’s.
She was in love with Latimer, she was a handsome woman, and when she wasn’t suffering like this, she would be intelligent; a woman of taste, too. Like the other. What had Latimer about him to make two such women fall in love with him? They weren’t young girls.
They were about the same age, both unhappy and lovely in their different ways; easy meat for a plausible rogue.
Mrs. Aden’s sister was waiting at the foot of the stairs.
“Have you upset her?” she asked abruptly.
“Bad news will upset her,” said Roger. “How much has she told you?”
“About this man Latimer, you mean? Everything. And it wasn’t as bad as you think.”
“Sure?”
“I can’t imagine why she should he to me now,” said the sister. “I think it’s true. She wasn’t his mistress in the usual sense. She hoped to get a divorce and remarry, but there was always Peter.”
“Had she ever mentioned Latimer to you before?”
“No. I knew she wasn’t happy. Wilfred was an impossible bore. Oh, I know he’s dead, but it’s true. I can understand what happened. Is Latimer any good?” she asked abruptly.
“No.”
“Poor Mew!” said the sister, gently. “I’ll go up to her.”
“Just a minute,” said Roger. “I want a list of your relatives—especially blood relations of Mr. Arlen. Can you help?”
Roger used the telephone in the downstairs room, and talked fast, to Sloan.
“They were cousins. Take down these names and addresses of other relatives. Have each one warned to be very careful at night. Then start probing—find out if any of these relatives know Latimer.”
“Right!” Sloan was brisk.
It was after half-past seven when Roger reached home. Richard was singing at the top of his voice, as he often did before going to sleep. Janet was moving about upstairs. She went into one of the rooms, and he heard her say firmly: “You mustn’t worry about it, Scoopy. Sit up and read, or do some drawing—you can’t always get off to sleep quickly. Good night.”
She closed the door with a snap, then came hurrying downstairs. She wore a green dress, her hair was freshly brushed and glossy. Her face brightened at sight of him. He stood at the foot of the stairs, she on the step above, and they kissed lightly.
“Can’t Scoopy get off to sleep again?”
“He’s having a bad spell, and it’s worrying,” said Janet. “I suppose he’ll be all right.”
“I’ll pop up—”
“It’ll only excite him; leave it for a bit,” said Janet. They went into the kitchen, his arm round her waist. “How’s the case going?”
“So–so.”
“I don’t like it much,” said Janet. “I’ve seen the Evening Echo. The man can’t be sane.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Roger.
“Have you found him?”
“No. Forget him for an hour; I may get a call any time. Anything for a hungry man?”
“You go and sit down; I’ll get supper,” she said. “You’re looking tired already, and it’s only just started. What is Mrs. Bennett like?”
“Plump, placid, almost prostrate, according to the local men who’ve seen her.”
Janet shrugged, and frowned.
The evening paper was lying folded on the seat of his chair. He picked it up, dropped into the chair and poured himself a whisky-and-soda; Janet had put the bottle and syphon out. There were pictures of the three murdered men and of the two wives; most of the front page was taken up with the story; Wycherley had used everything. The picture of Latimer was centred, an excellent reproduction of the photograph. By now the Yard was probably getting reports that the man had been seen; there would be a hundred such reports in by midnight; he would have been ‘recognised’ from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. And not one of the reports could be neglected, in case one might be the one that mattered. He sipped his drink, and turned to look out of the window. The half-light was full of shadowy gloom.
This was the time when two men had died.
He jumped up, put on the light and made himself think of routine. There would be hundreds of interviews, hundreds of reports, each one to be studied closely; he couldn’t leave it to
the others. Sloan would go through them first, and Sloan didn’t miss much; but unless there was an early clue, he’d have to handle the lot himself. He yawned.
Janet brought the supper-tray in.
They’d finished, and were listening to a quiz on the radio when the telephone went.
“Hallo,” said Roger, into it.
“We’ve traced one of the pound-notes he stole from Aden’s pockets,” said Sloan. “A café in Soho. I thought you’d like to know. Shall I go, or will you?”
“I’ll go,” said Roger. “Send Peel round, with all the photographs, will you? I’ll meet him there.”
It was a dingy side street in Soho, and might have been a thousand miles from the bright fights of Piccadilly Circus and the roar of London’s traffic. Near the café, which was open, was a small and exclusive restaurant, where Roger would take Janet on anniversaries. Peel was standing nearby. They met and went into the café, which was near a street lamp, so that they could read the sign: ‘Salvatore’s’. Inside, half a dozen men and several girls were sitting at small tables, obviously foreign, almost as obviously Italians. A red Cinzano sign hung on one wall. A man was eating spaghetti, crouching over the table and gulping it down, digging his fork into the big heap and twisting it round expertly. A little man with a round, oily face and thick dark hair which was combed back from his forehead in deep waves was standing behind a counter. He had a high colour, needed a shave, and his brown eyes had a velvety softness.
Roger and Peel stopped at the counter, near the hissing, bubbling coffee-urn, and the little Italian behind it smiled at them nervously.
“You polizia?”
“Yes,” said Roger, and showed his card. “Are you Salvatore?”
“Sure thing—come thissa way, mister.” He opened a flap in the counter; a buxom woman, even shorter than he, took his place by the urn. He led the way into a small back room, crammed with furniture and cardboard boxes. A double bed was in one corner, and there was only just room to stand alongside it. Rickety chairs dotted that space. “Sitta down, pliz,” said Salvatore, “I wanta to help da polizia”
They sat down.
“About this pound-note,” Roger said, and Peel took the note from his pocket. “How did you come to give it to the police?”
“Mister?”
Peel said: “His English isn’t too good. Two of our men sometimes come in here for a cup of good coffee, and did this evening. They asked him to show them his one-pound notes, and this was among them. It’s the only new one of the lot. He said he paid in to the bank this afternoon, and only changed three pound-notes up to the time he was questioned.”
“Si, si, I am da truth,” broke in Salvatore. He held up three fingers. “One, two, dree. And thatta one, he was bad man. Ver’ bad man; he looked like dis.” He scowled and hunched his shoulders, shot out an arm and whipped a trilby hat from a chair, jammed it on his head, pulled it low over his eyes, and glared round. “So! But he was not fat, no. Thin.”
“Would you recognise him again?”
Salvatore looked blank.
“Would you know him again?” asked Roger patiently.
“Si, si, signore!”
Roger took the photographs, which Peel had in a large envelope, and handed one to Salvatore; the man shook his head. He tried two more, before showing the picture of Latimer. For the first time, Salvatore paused.
Neither of the Yard men prompted him.
“Could be, yes; could be, no,” said Salvatore, pursing his lips as he finished. “Yes, no. I dunno!” He waved his hands. “Could be da man, could not be da man, yes?”
Roger showed three more photographs, and Salvatore brushed them all aside impatiently.
“Was he alone?”
“By himself, yes.”
“Had he ever been here before?”
“No, no.”
It wasn’t worth showing the pictures of the women.
“I am good man, yes?” asked Salvatore hopefully.
“Very good,” said Roger. “If that man comes again, give him coffee and food, and tell your wife to telephone Scotland Yard. Or to go and get a policeman. Do you understand?”
“I go myself, personal,” said Salvatore proudly.
They walked along the dark street, without speaking. All they had learned was that the murderer had changed one of the notes. There was no certainty that he had been at the café; he could have changed it through a third party. The likeness to Latimer was a long way from conclusive; the line had fizzled out, although the district would be combed for the man.
Peel said: “I hope nothing’s happened tonight.”
“So you have that feeling, too.”
“Couldn’t help it,” said Peel. “At dusk I was as jumpy as a cat. At least you’d warned all the relatives—Sloan told me about that. Given us a new slant, hasn’t it?”
“Rejecting the long arm of coincidence,” said Roger, and stopped by his car. “Yes. What have you made of that list of Latimer’s known friends?”
“It’s fizzled out,” said Peel. “Several of them were the girls whose photographs were in that album. There were only three men, and they don’t amount to anything. I’ve seen several of them; Sloan’s seen the rest, except for two. All of them can account for their movements, all swear they haven’t seen Latimer for a couple of days. The two have changed their addresses, and when I last heard we hadn’t found the new ones. Sloan may have them by now. Oh—Georgina Sharp made up a list; none of the names appear on both.”
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.
Chapter Eleven
8 Milbury Road
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.”