The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  Sloan came breezing in.

  “Hallo, Handsome. Late duty?”

  “I’m waiting for a call from the nursing home; I want to see Margaret Sharp as soon as she comes round.”

  “I hope she doesn’t wait until the morning,” said Sloan. “Peel’s down in the canteen, looking as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him. Smithson’s sitting glaring, which suggests he’ll swop sides, and start a murder agency of his own. Do you think they really got as close as that to Latimer?”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  Sloan said: “If it was Latimer, what’s wrong?”

  “What’s right?” asked Roger. “If Latimer lifted all that money, he wouldn’t be stuck for a few pounds. Unless he was afraid we should trace the lot, and he had to get some we couldn’t trace to him. But it doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You’re right it doesn’t,” said Sloan. “He swore to Georgina that he didn’t kill anyone, and he certainly doesn’t act as if he took that loose money. I can’t add it up, unless—”

  “There’s a mystery man.”

  “Almost a pity Raymond Arlen was killed,” Sloan said. “We’d be on to him by now. I wonder why he lied, and what he was doing. Anything else from the Newbury Police?”

  “Not a cheep,” said Roger, and the telephone bell rang. “Hallo?”

  He listened, and said: “Fine, I’ll come at once.” As he put down the telephone, he said to Sloan: “Margaret Sharp’s come round.”

  Her face was pale and her eyes enormous. She was wearing a white flannelette nightdress. Her braided hair was untidy, and her eyes had the curious brightness which sometimes comes when the pupils are very small. She lay propped up on the pillows, with a police nurse sitting in one corner of the small, drab room. On the bedside table was a small glass with a thermometer and some cotton wool in it, a carafe of water and a tumbler. The room had the sharp, penetrating smell of antiseptics. Her arms were stretched out over the bedclothes, and the sleeves of the nightdress hid everything but her long, slim hands.

  She was handsome and striking, even when like this.

  She looked up as Roger went in, and a flicker of recognition crossed her face. She looked away, towards the uncurtained window, and didn’t speak.

  The doctor had allowed him fifteen minutes.

  He drew up a high-backed chair and sat at the side of the bed, and she turned to look at him.

  “What is it you want?” she asked in a toneless voice.

  “I’d like to know just what happened, Miss Sharp.”

  “You’re—that police inspector.”

  “Yes. And if it weren’t for the police, both you and your sister might be dead.”

  “Might we?”

  “Ralph Latimer—”

  “Oh, no,” she said, in the same toneless voice. “Ralph wouldn’t have killed us. It was the other man.”

  “What other man?”

  “I didn’t see him very well,” she said. “Ralph was in the kitchen; I was just going out. The other man came and attacked me. He put his hands round my throat.” Her own hands moved to her throat, almost caressingly; she seemed too emotionless to feel any fear now. “He just squeezed and squeezed, and everything went black. It wasn’t—Ralph.”

  “But Latimer was there?”

  “Of course he was there,” she said. “He was in trouble, and asked me to help him. So I went to do what I could. I suppose you want to know everything, and I don’t mind helping, but you mustn’t think that Ralph killed anyone. He’s too—too kind.”

  Roger didn’t speak.

  “He rang me up, and I took him some chocolate and a little money. I hadn’t much; it wasn’t enough for him to get out of the country. I pleaded with him to stay and to give himself up, but he was too frightened. He said that everyone was sure he’d killed these people, and it was a he, he’d been—framed. I think that’s the word he used.”

  Her monotonous voice was like that of a woman in a trance. She showed no expression, and her full, shapely lips only moved a little.

  “Did he say who had framed him?”

  “He said he didn’t know. He was—in trouble. He was very silly; he took drugs some time ago, and sold them to some women. He said that you were after him for that; that’s why he went into hiding. One of the persons he sold them to said that she would tell you. So he went into hiding, and then—then everything began to happen. He was too frightened to give himself up, and I didn’t really blame him. He said that he could get out of the country; he had a false passport and everything he needed; he knew where to get some French francs, but he needed the money to buy them. He was—ill. I could tell that from looking at him. He said that he’d hardly had any food for the past few days: he’d had a few cups of coffee and a sandwich or two, that’s all. He was terribly worked up.”

  “Do you know what he was doing at the house in Pullinger Street?”

  “It belonged to a friend of his; he had a key.”

  “Had you ever been there before?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve met him there several times; it was our—trysting place.” Even those words came out flatly, with no sign of emotion. “Gina was always watching me, always interfering, and I wanted to have somewhere we could meet in secret.”

  “You didn’t tell us about that address.”

  “I didn’t want you to find out,” she said; she was like a big, floppy, simple school-girl. “So of course I didn’t tell you. I could see you thought he’d killed those people, and I was sure you were wrong. I asked him, and he swore on his heart that he knew nothing about it.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Of course I believed him,” said Margaret Sharp. “There wasn’t any reason why he should lie to me. In any case, I told him that if he didn’t tell me the truth, I wouldn’t help him. When he told me, I went out and telephoned Georgina and asked her to bring some more money. I didn’t know whether I could rely on her.”

  That complaining note about Georgina kept creeping into her story.

  “Yet you knew there was danger for her.”

  “Don’t be silly; there wasn’t any danger. I didn’t know the other man would come, did I? I came away in such a hurry I could only take some chocolate. There’s a café open round the corner, and I promised to go and get some food. I opened the door, and the man attacked me; I’ve told you about that. He was at the front door, and Ralph was in the kitchen. He was putting the kettle on: we were going to have some tea. I just don’t remember anything more.”

  Roger said gently: “All right, Miss Sharp; all we want is the simple truth. Are you feeling all right?”

  “I just feel unhappy,” she said. “For poor Ralph.”

  “You were in love with him, weren’t you?”

  “I am in love with him,” she said.

  “With your brother?” asked Roger, deliberately obtuse.

  She didn’t answer immediately, but the only sign of shock she gave was a rounding of her big eyes and a movement of her hands; neither of them amounted to much. She stared at him unblinking.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said again. “Ralph isn’t my brother. My parents adopted him, that’s all. So you’ve found out about that,” she added, with some sign of quickening interest. “I thought you would, sooner or later. I suppose you know the whole story, about his father—but if you think he’s mad, you’re crazy.”

  “How did you come to know about his father’s madness?” asked Roger.

  Chapter Eighteen

  More of the Past

  Margaret Sharp closed her eyes, and Roger wondered if she were going to take refuge behind pretended weariness. The police nurse shifted her position. Roger glanced at his watch; he had been here for twelve minutes, and that meant he hadn’t much time left. He might get an extension from the doctor, but expected an in
terruption at any minute. He doubted if he could make Meg hurry if he pressed too hard, and forced himself to wait patiently.

  Footsteps sounded in the passage, but a man passed.

  The woman opened her eyes.

  “Of course I knew all about it,” she said. “He was younger than I. I can remember when he was brought to my home, just a baby of a few months. I thought he was wonderful then, and I’ve always thought he was wonderful. Gina couldn’t understand it, but Gina’s such a little fool. All she thinks about is money and getting on in the world. As if that mattered! Happiness is the only thing that matters.”

  “And you were happy with Ralph Latimer?”

  “Not all the time, because I knew he was mixing with the wrong people. I lost touch with him for years, and only found him again by accident. That was about a year ago. I knew the whole story, you see; my mother had told me. He hadn’t known anything about his past; he thought he was my real brother. Then something happened to make him doubt. I don’t know what it was. He didn’t tell me much about it. But during the years when we were separated he found out everything he could about his past—whose son he was, why he had been adopted. I knew that it worried him. I think that was one of the reasons he was so delighted when we met again. He couldn’t talk about it to strangers, but he could talk to me. I reassured him, of course. I told him he needn’t worry about heredity; all he needed to worry about was getting out of die hands of these bad people.”

  “He owed them a lot of money; that was the trouble.”

  “I just had to help him, and so I took our money—that is, Gina’s and mine. I knew Gina would never understand what I felt for Ralph; she just has the normal reactions. She’d have thought that his mind was unreliable, and so I couldn’t tell her. Ralph was able to pay off everything he owed, thanks to me, and then—this woman blackmailed him.”

  “Do you know the woman?”

  “No,” said Margaret Sharp.

  “Didn’t he mention her—even her Christian name?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure he was being blackmailed.”

  “He told me so,” she said, simply. “And then these dreadful murders started, and he was frightened. He saw in a moment what everyone would think—that he wasn’t sane, had homicidal tendencies, like his father. I just had to help him. I knew people would call me foolish, but I didn’t worry about that. Did—did Gina give him the money?”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time, her eyes brightened.

  “Oh, that’s good! He’ll get away!”

  “Do you know where he was going?”

  “Somewhere in France, he said. He had a false passport—there isn’t much you can teach Ralph.” She was proud.

  “Did he mention any town or city? Paris, for instance?”

  “No,” she said. “He said that the less I knew about it the better; but he promised to get in touch with me when everything had blown over, so that I could go and join him. I expect he’ll find a way of writing safely. Once he had the money, he was quite sure that he would be all right. He speaks French like a native,” she added, still proudly.

  There were more footsteps in the passage outside; and this time the doctor opened the door.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll ever find him,” said Margaret Sharp.

  “She was unconscious for several hours,” Roger said to the doctor. “Would the strangling have affected her like that?”

  “No,” said the doctor. “She was drugged. Morphia, almost for certain. It wasn’t a big dose—just enough to send her off. She’ll be as right as rain in the morning, and then you can question her as much as you like.”

  The West boys had a kind of sixth sense where their father was concerned, and knew those occasions when he was hardly aware of their existence. Led by Scoopy, they meekly left the breakfast table next morning, and put on their caps and coats, for school. It was overcast and cold, with a promise, of rain. Janet stood up when she knew that the boys were ready, but didn’t go out immediately. She stood looking down at Roger, who was running through the third of several daily papers. The headlines were about Latimer’s escape. He was scowling as he buttered some toast and piled on the marmalade. She knew that he was hardly aware of her existence.

  Suddenly he thrust the newspaper away, and grinned up at her.

  “Hallo! you here?”

  “Still waiting for you,” said Janet. “Darling, don’t take any notice of that nonsense. You’d think they’d get tired of baiting the Yard.”

  “Oh, I don’t know—Latimer’s dodged us twice when we ought to have caught him. Can’t expect much mercy from Fleet Street. Chatworth will be in a hell of a mood this morning.” He forced a laugh. “I’d better get off—are the boys ready?”

  Richard burst into the room.

  “Daddy—could—you—take—us—to—school—in—the—car?”

  “I wanted to ask!” cried Scoopy, hurtling along the passage, bumping into Richard and sending him forward unsteadily. But Richard, in his triumph, was unperturbed.

  “Could you, Daddy?”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Really?” asked Scoopy, as if he knew this wasn’t in tune with the breakfast-table mood. “Can I sit in the front?”

  “I asked first!” flashed Richard.

  “No, you didn’t; I—”

  “Who sat in the front last time?” asked Janet.

  “Scoopy did!”

  “Richard did!”

  Roger took a penny from his pocket.

  “We’ll toss for it,” he said. “Your call, Fish.”

  Richard’s big eyes followed the toss of the coin, Scoopy held his breath, and as Roger caught the coin, Richard squeaked: “Heads—no, tails.”

  Roger kept the penny covered.

  “Tails?”

  “Yes,” said Richard, and his thumb went to his mouth.

  Roger held out his hand, and the boys pressed forward, as he took the covering hand away slowly. It was heads.

  “I’ve won!” cried Scoopy, and turned and rushed out, to make sure that he couldn’t be dispossessed of the fruits of victory.

  Richard’s great eyes contemplated Roger for several seconds, while Janet stood with a hand on Roger’s shoulder. Then, with great deliberation, Richard said: “I really wanted heads.”

  “Then next time say exactly what you want,” said Roger. “Off with you.”

  Richard ran.

  Janet placed her hands on either side of Roger’s face.

  “Darling.”

  “Hm-hm?”

  “Do you wish you were single?”

  Roger started. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I often wonder,” said Janet, half-seriously. “You’ve so much on your mind, you want to think about nothing but Latimer; you really had to make an effort to pay the boys a little attention, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I made it,” said Roger, and took her wrists. He looked upwards, so that her face appeared upside down. “I love you.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Listen!” said Roger. “Don’t you start!”

  “All detectives ought to be single,” said Janet.

  “All detectives’ wives ought to be sensible,” said Roger, “and you ought to be used to it by now.”

  He took her hands away and stood up.

  The car horn sounded, outside, and Richard’s treble voice piped: “Don’t, Scoopy!”

  The horn sounded again.

  Roger put his arms round Janet, and said: “My sweet, if I hadn’t a wife to love and boys to bellow at occasionally, I’d go crazy. Ten minutes with you is like a long drink on a hot day.”

  He kissed her.

  A few minutes later, driving alon
g the King’s Road towards the school, he was smiling to himself and picturing Janet’s face, upside down to him. Even after he’d dropped the boys, he was still smiling, and thinking more of home than of the case. Nearing the Yard he began to think of Latimer and the headlines about his latest escape, and the advent of the mystery man; but he still smiled. There was one way to get everything out of his mind when it was clouded, as’ it was over this affair; the one way was at home.

  He pulled up in the Yard, chuckled, and climbed out.

  Superintendent Abbott, a tall and gloomy-looking man not renowned for his sense of humour, was walking across from Cannon Row.

  “You can’t have read this morning’s papers, West.”

  “Only three of them,” said Roger. “After our blood, aren’t they?”

  “After your blood.”

  “Sink or swim together,” said Roger, and chuckled again. “Latimer won’t have a much longer run. Been to the office yet?”

  “No.”

  “If anything that matters were in, I’d have heard about it,” said Roger.

  He was still blithe as he went upstairs. Sloan was already in his shirt-sleeves, but hadn’t yet unloosened his collar and tie. It was ten minutes past nine, and Roger lit a cigarette and slummed through other newspapers which were folded in a neat pile on his desk. The Daily Cry was almost venomous in its attack on the carelessness which had allowed Latimer to escape a second time.

  “What’s got into you?” asked Sloan, looking at him curiously. “Come into a fortune, or do you know where Latimer is?”

  “Not yet. Nothing in?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Ports and airports were all watched, no one remotely like Latimer left the country after you’d got Meg Sharp’s story about that faked passport. I doubt if he had time to get out before that, but I’m checking for passengers who bought their tickets at the last moment. As you ordered! I’m also having a stab at all the sources of Black Market francs, to see if he’d made contact. Not that I expect much from that.” Sloan sat on the corner of Roger’s desk, and smoothed down his thick, wiry fair hair. “Why so cheerful?”