The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  Roger spoke over his shoulder.

  “Sure everything’s watched at the back?”

  “Yes, sir,” said one of the men. “They can’t get away. Better have this, sir.”

  The man held an axe.

  Roger took it. “Thanks.” He was breathing normally again, and raised his voice. “Latimer, it’s no use—open the door.”

  No one replied.

  Roger said: “Open in the name of the law,” and went forward again; this time the phrase seemed like a cliché, an empty mockery. Why? He’d called to Latimer, and couldn’t be sure that Latimer was inside; couldn’t be absolutely sure that Meg Sharp was. That swiftly moving figure, visible only for a moment, might have been someone else; he might find himself fooled again.

  He smashed at a panel of the door, near the handle, and stood aside. His men stood by the wall, Peel nearest; all of them were thinking of the close-quarters shooting which had started this affair. There was a sound now, as if someone were panting.

  Roger struck again, and levered the axe, wood splintered, and there was room to put his hand through. He didn’t fancy it, but moved quickly. He had to grope for the key, expected a bullet or a weapon smashing against his fingers; it didn’t come. He turned the key and moved aside as the door swung open a few inches.

  “Now don’t play the fool,” he said, and kicked the door wide open.

  He saw Margaret Sharp, and relief surged through him. She was standing a few feet out from a corner, hands raised in front of her breast, braided hair loose, mouth open.

  “Keep away!” she gasped. “Keep away!”

  “Now don’t be silly,” said Roger.

  Was Latimer hiding behind her? She was big enough to conceal him. The man wasn’t in sight. Roger edged in, making sure that the room was empty except for that corner. Peel followed him, and went slowly towards a window, and the woman backed, as if to hide whoever was behind her. Roger darted to one side; she moved to block his path, and he swung round again.

  There was no one in the corner.

  Peel flung up the window, and called down.

  “Any one seen him?”

  The answer came promptly: “No.”

  There was one other door, which was closed. It was opposite the window. Roger knew the type of building well enough to be sure it was a tiny kitchen, with little room; probably there would be a window in it. He walked across as Meg Sharp flung herself at him. The waiting C.I.D. men grabbed her arms; she struggled and cried, but couldn’t free herself. Roger didn’t glance round, but there was a picture of her face in his mind’s eye; the open mouth and terrified eyes, as if she were looking at the end of the world. Now she was sobbing, wildly and unnaturally.

  He called: “Latimer, come out.”

  There was no answer; he wondered again if they were fooling him, if he would find Latimer beyond this door. He kicked it; it was more solid than the others. He smashed at it with the axe, wrenching the blade out after each heavy blow, and at last the door swung open. He stepped to one side. He was making almost a habit of this, and this time he was slower; he didn’t expect a bullet.

  He didn’t get one.

  The little room beyond was in darkness, but a breeze came soft on his face; a window was open.

  “Give it up, Latimer,” he said in an easy voice. “You’re not doing yourself any good like this.”

  He moved forward, trying to see into the room. The light from this was sufficient to show him a sink, the open window, a plate-rack and some crockery; if Latimer were in here, he was hiding behind the door. Roger pushed it, and it banged against the wall and swung slowly towards him again.

  There was no cupboard, no possible hiding-place.

  He stepped towards the window.

  From outside a man shouted: “Look out! He’s got a gun!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Capture

  Roger stood close to the side of the window, peering-out. There were lights outside, and more came on, filling the night with a yellow glow. Just within range, he saw uniformed policemen and plain-clothes men taking shelter behind walls, all staring upwards. The lights came from the lower floors of the buildings nearby and from powerful police torches. He drew nearer the window, with Peel on the other side.

  He saw a wall jutting out from this one, and a shadowy figure crouching on it. As he leaned farther out, he saw that it was the flat roof of an outhouse; there was a chimney-stack. The man crouched by the stack with his right arm outstretched; and the gun was in his hand. The men below could see it much more clearly than Roger.

  “Let’s wait,” Peel said. “We can get the okay for using guns on this; I can be back with a couple in twenty minutes. Or we could send—”

  Roger said: “I don’t want him to kill himself.” He went farther forward, and knew that the man on the roof could see him. He couldn’t see the other’s face. He called: “Latimer, don’t be a fool. Come back.”

  There was no reply.

  Roger said: “You’re only making it worse for yourself. We shan’t ill-treat you. Come and talk it over.”

  “Keep away!” the man muttered.

  “You can’t do any good by using that gun—you won’t help Meg or yourself.”

  Roger was now clearly outlined against the window, and could see that it was a simple matter of stepping out on to the roof. He was an easy target. He began to climb over the window-sill.

  “Don’t be a fool!” hissed Peel. “He’s mad—he’ll shoot.”

  “You’ve told Meg and her sister that you haven’t killed anyone,” Roger said in a quiet, reassuring voice, “and if that’s true, you haven’t anything to worry about.”

  “It’s true! But you’ll frame me, you swine.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Latimer. We won’t frame an innocent man. That’s a promise.”

  Roger ducked beneath the top of the window, and then drew his other leg through. He stood on the roof, two or three yards from the man with the gun. Another powerful light flashed on below. It shone on the man by the chimney-stack, giving a distorted view of his face, making his eyes look empty like those of a skeleton. Roger put one hand in his pocket, and moved a little nearer.

  “Keep back!”

  “I’m not going to keep back,” said Roger. “I don’t believe you’re a fool, Latimer. You know if you shoot me, you’ll be hanged. You won’t be hanged if you didn’t kill the others. So there’s no point in shooting me, is there?”

  He went still nearer. It was impossible to be sure that the man was Latimer, but he didn’t think there was any serious doubt now. Everyone else was silent; it was almost possible to hear the hush. Torches were kept steady, and he could see much more clearly; if it weren’t for the shadow of the chimney-stack, he would have been able to see all of the crouching man’s face. Only four or five feet separated them now, and he could not only see the gun, but the shadow of it against the wall behind the chimney.

  He drew his hand out of his pocket, with his cigarette-case in it, took out a cigarette and lit it slowly – and then tossed the case. It struck against the man’s arm. Roger leapt, and smashed a blow at the shadowy face. The man fell back, the gun dropped. Roger grabbed his outflung wrist, and pulled him forward. The man started to struggle – then squealed, as Roger pulled him round and forced his hand behind him in a hammer-lock.

  Peel was scrambling through the window.

  “All over,” Roger said. He was covered with cold sweat. “Is it Latimer?”

  Peel could see the man clearly in the light.

  “Of course it’s Latimer,” he said.

  Latimer climbed through the window into the room, and stood shivering. The woman had been taken away. Latimer licked his lips and looked round. Peel climbed in, with the gun in his hand. A big C.I.D. man with stiff greying hair moved ac
ross and took Latimer’s left wrist; handcuffs clicked.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” gasped Latimer.

  He wanted a shave, blue-black stubble made a shading on his chin and cheeks. There were dark patches under his eyes. He hadn’t washed for some time and there was a streak of dirt across his forehead. His lips stayed parted, and he couldn’t stop them from trembling; he was shivering from head to foot.

  His lower lip jutted out, and his short upper lip looked as if it had a moustache rubbed on with black crayon. His clothes were rumpled and dirty.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “If you didn’t, we’ll prove it,” said Roger, still calmly. “Let’s have a look at his gun, Jim.”

  “It’s a point 32,” Peel said.

  The murders had been committed with an automatic of this size. It was squat, grey, ugly-looking. Roger sniffed it; there was nothing to suggest that it had been fared recently.

  “I didn’t shoot anyone!”

  “You were going to shoot then,” Peel said roughly.

  “Easy.”

  Roger unfastened the magazine, opening up the handle. He looked inside, conscious of the tense gaze of the others.

  Latimer was gasping, as if he had been running.

  “I didn’t shoot anyone!”

  “Well, you couldn’t have shot me,” said Roger. “It’s empty. Did you know it was empty?”

  “Of course I did, I—I only wanted to frighten you. I didn’t kill anyone.” Latimer drew in a deep, sobbing breath. “Give me—give me a drink.”

  Roger took out his flask and handed it to Peel. Latimer gulped the brandy down, then drew the back of his hand across his forehead; he was still trembling. Roger shut the gun and slipped it into his pocket. From outside, someone shouted to ask if everything were all right. Peel went to the window to reassure them.

  Latimer said: “West, I didn’t kill anyone. I was dead scared. I thought you’d get me for selling that snow, and—I thought I was being framed. I was being proved guilty before I had a chance. I—I lost my nerve. I just lost my nerve, but I didn’t kill anyone. I haven’t done anyone any harm. That’s the truth. All I wanted was to get out of the country; if I’d had enough money I could have fixed it. Meg—Meg brought me the money. Don’t blame her, I made her.”

  “You nearly choked the life out of her.”

  Latimer opened his mouth. “What?”

  “At Pullinger Street.”

  “I didn’t touch her. I know I cracked that policeman’s head, but I lost my nerve; all I could think about was getting away. He—he didn’t die, did he?”

  Roger didn’t answer.

  Latimer shrieked: “He couldn’t have died; I didn’t hit him hard enough. I haven’t killed anyone; I’ve never had any ammunition for that gun. I couldn’t have killed anyone.”

  Roger said flatly: “What about Raymond Arlen?”

  “I didn’t kill him!”

  “Seen him lately?”

  “No—yes. Yes, I saw him, once, only for a few minutes, a couple of days ago. He found me. But I didn’t kill him—I didn’t kill anyone.” He licked his lips, and his voice fell away. “I swear I didn’t; but you’ll hang me for it, I know you’ll hang me. You’ll get me for crimes I didn’t commit. You police!”

  “Let’s get along to the Yard,” said Roger.

  Chatworth, burly and bustling like a farmer late for a sellers’ market, thrust open the door of Roger’s office. Roger had the telephone at his ear, waved and pointed to a chair. Chatworth muttered something, sat down and lit a cigarette.

  “I’ll come up,” Roger said, and put down the receiver. “That was Ballistics; they’re checking the gun—Scrymegour came in specially for the job. Like to come up with me, sir?”

  “Yes. Nice work, Roger.”

  “He couldn’t dodge us all the time,” Roger said. “It was fairly straightforward, after all. Margaret Sharp would sell her soul for him, and she worked with another woman—one of Latimer’s snow customers. Latimer’s done a lot of dope-trafficking in a small way; the woman who drove the car up for Margaret Sharp did it because she was promised some shots if she would. We’ve picked her up; Peel’s questioning her now. Margaret Sharp’s flopped out.”

  “Told the Press yet?”

  Roger grinned. “I have!”

  “There’s someone else I want to tell,” said Chatworth. “Let’s get upstairs.”

  Scrymegour, who lived near the Yard, was with the night duty man in the little Ballistics room. There was a faint smell of cordite; the automatic had been fired at a sheet of lead fastened on one wall. There were two bullets on the bench next to the special microscope, and two halves were beneath the lens, with Scrymegour peering at them. He didn’t glance up, and Chatworth didn’t interrupt him, although the duty man stiffened almost to attention.

  Chatworth sniffed, and fiddled with one of the bullets.

  “Can’t fail,” he said.

  “What can’t fail?” asked Scrymegour, straightening up. He turned, and started. “Good evening, sir!”

  “’Evening. Same gun?”

  “No,” said Scrymegour.

  Roger looked and Chatworth looked; when the bullets were magnified and the markings showed up clearly, it was obvious that they didn’t match. This wasn’t the gun that had been used to kill the Arlens or Lionel Bennett. Chatworth looked ludicrously disappointed, Scrymegour sardonic. Roger picked up the bullet fired from Latimer’s gun, and tossed it up, caught it, and said:

  “Let’s find out if we’ve anything that does match up, Scrymmy.”

  “Can do. Tonight?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay,” said Scrymegour. “Sorry this one’s missed.”

  Chatworth said: “He probably had another gun,” and then rubbed his bull-like neck and grinned ruefully. “What’s going on in that mind of yours, West?” It was always ‘West’ if anyone else was about.

  “He could have put one across us,” said Roger. “It would be a neat trick, to have this gun which hasn’t been used for a while and certainly wasn’t used to kill our trio, so that it looked as if part of his story stood up. He just recites the same story—he didn’t kill anyone. I wish there wasn’t talk of a mystery man.”

  “Cheese it,” said Scrymegour.

  “We’ll go to my office,” said Chatworth. He led the way, deflated as a child disappointed of a new toy; but that wouldn’t last long. He went straight to his desk and took out a bottle of whisky, a syphon and two glasses. “Have a drink,” he said, and poured out, then squirted soda. “What do you make of it, Roger?”

  “It’s a bit early to say,” said Roger. “We’ve got the man we wanted, and I think he’d have a job to prove his innocence; but we need to find that gun. The only helpful admission he made was that he saw Raymond Arlen a day or two ago, but he hasn’t said anything else. He’s closed up—he seems so frightened that he hasn’t a cheep in him. Almost too frightened.”

  “Dope?” Chatworth asked.

  “Could be.”

  Chatworth said: “Roger, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this case—now then, don’t grin at me. Deep thought. The dope angle hasn’t cropped up much, but we knew Latimer was involved in it, didn’t we? This woman Sharp—Margaret Sharp—hasn’t behaved normally. Could she be an addict? If she is, and if Latimer is, they may have kept themselves going on the stuff and folded up when they couldn’t get supplies.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Roger. He looked thoughtfully at his whisky. “We’ve had her in a nursing-home, and no doctor suggested recent drug addiction—only that she’d been doped that night. I agree, she behaves like a dopey. Pity about that gun—but we needn’t tell the Press about that.”

  Chatworth gave an explosive laugh.

  “I’m waiting to see the morning papers
,” he said. “Call me a fool. I oughtn’t to give a damn what they say, but they certainly got under my skin. Anyhow, we’ve got him all right now; up to you to build up the case and make sure he hangs.”

  “Or goes to Broadmoor.”

  Chatworth frowned. “Meaning, he’ll plead insanity.”

  “If his lawyers have any sense, he will—and they’ll have plenty of sense. It’ll be a chance of a lifetime to hit the headlines; there’s going to be some fun before this case is over.”

  “If you go on like this, you’ll be depressing me,” said Chatworth. “Anything you want now?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve arranged for Margaret Sharp to go back to the nursing home; she’s no good for anything as she is. They’ll tell us whether she’s suffering from drugs or not—I shouldn’t think she is. I’ll go down and have another shot at Latimer, but if he’s in the same mood, he’ll be so shivery that I shan’t get any sense out of him at all.”

  “I tell you I didn’t kill anyone,” sobbed Latimer. I didn’t kill anyone!”

  There was no trace of the cigarette-cases, money and other valuables stolen from the murdered men.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Big News

  Roger winked at Janet, who lay in bed with her dark hair spread over the pillow and her eyes heavy with sleep, got out of bed and went to the window. It was nearly half-past seven – the time the paperboy usually arrived. There was no sign of him in the street. He put the kettle on the gas-ring, yawned and stretched, and went out of the bedroom, leaving Janet snug and with her eyes closed. The boys were together in Scoopy’s room, whispering. Roger looked in. They were sitting together in Scoopy’s single bed, with a volume of the Children’s Encyclopaedia in front of them; they weren’t able to read it, but the pictures fascinated them.

  “This is a funny shell, Daddy,” Scoopy announced seriously, and pointed. “It’s got a lot of things sticking out of it. What is it?”