The Figure in the Dusk

by John Creasey

  “Eh? Oh, just a sea-shell,” said Roger, glancing at the coloured plate. “Lovely, isn’t it? What about saying good morning?”

  “’Morning,” said Scoopy.

  “Hallo,” said Richard, meekly.

  Roger rumpled their hair, and went out. The kettle was nearly boiling, and Janet was still pretending to be asleep. The front gate banged; paper boy! He hurried downstairs and pulled the papers out of the letter-box, opening the Echo as he went back.

  “Darling!” called Janet. “The kettle.”

  “Coming!”

  He hurried upstairs, glimpsing the headlines.

  WEST CATCHES LATIMER

  DISARMS DANGEROUS GUNMAN

  He glanced at another paper – the Cry – as he went into the bedroom. The kettle was boiling furiously, steaming the mirror over the mantelpiece.

  LATIMER CAUGHT IN ROOF BATTLE

  WEST MAKES ARREST

  He dropped the newspapers and made the tea, yawned, picked up a paper and flung it across to Janet, who was now lying with her eyes wide open, but still sleepy. The boys were coming along the passage, unusually quiet for early morning.

  “See what a sensational husband you have,” said Roger.

  Janet took the paper, glanced at it, and gasped: “Roger!”

  “Hm-hm?”

  “You didn’t tell me you’d disarmed him.”

  “Anyone can take an empty gun off a chap.”

  “Empty!”

  “Between you and me, it was empty. That’s how heroes are made. For the next couple of days we shall have the Press telling us how right they were and how efficient the Yard is.”

  “I think it’s a crime,” said Janet. “In these days you ought to be armed all the time.”

  “And then you’d be jumping out of your skin in case the gun went off by accident while it was in my pocket,” said Roger. He poured out tea. “What about saying good morning to Mummy, boys?”

  “It’s a very funny shell,” said Scoopy.

  “’Morning, Mum,” said Richard. “I’m thirsty.” He toddled across for his orange-juice, while Scoopy seized the nearest paper and opened it wide; and shrieked! “Look!”

  Richard drank, calmly.

  “What?”

  “It’s Daddy—look!” Scoopy’s eyes were bright, his cheeks glowed. “A picture of Daddy in the paper again—did you arrest a man last night, Daddy?”

  “Yes, old chap, I’m afraid so.”

  “I’m going to be a policeman, too,” announced Richard. “I’m going to be on traffic duty; that’s a very important job.”

  “Silly,” said Scoopy. “I’m going to be a detective. It’s not a very good picture, Daddy, is it?”

  “Good enough,” said Roger.

  “Can I cut it out and take it to school?” asked Scoopy.

  “Tomorrow, maybe.”

  Roger lit a cigarette, and looked at the Echo again. It had the full story, with elaborations; he chuckled now and then. The other papers showed the same volte face. But after the first amused interest he became thoughtful; and remained thoughtful at the breakfast table and as he took the boys to school. But at the Yard he found Abbott just going in, smiling almost warmly. Eddie Day, the forgery expert, was grinning all over his face. There was an added briskness to the “good mornings” – the Yard was enjoying itself, and the measure of that proved the measure of its gloom until the previous night.

  Sloan was in, with papers on his desk.

  “Hallo, Roger! Nice work.”

  “Not so nice as it sounds.”

  “Oh, forget it,” said Sloan. “It took a hell of a nerve to go out on to that roof. I think you’re crazy; there wasn’t any need to take a chance like that.”

  “We wanted to make sure he was alive,” said Roger. “I had an idea that he might throw himself off the roof if we started threatening him with cannons. You know about the gun, I suppose.”

  “Yes. Pity. But it doesn’t make much difference; you’ve enough to hang him.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Roger. “I think he ought to be hanged, but I’ve a nasty feeling that there’s plenty of room for him to escape. How did you get on yesterday?”

  “So–so. I’m seeing Lionel Bennett’s lawyers this morning. I—”

  The telephone bell rang.

  “Hallo?” He held out the receiver. “A friend of yours,” he said.

  A throaty and somewhat nervous voice sounded at the other end of the line.

  “Chief Inspector West?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Mr. Bennett—Mr. Arthur Bennett. Is what I read in the papers this morning quite true?”

  “Oh, we’ve caught Latimer,” said Roger.

  “Excellent, excellent,” said Mr. Arthur Bennett. “I knew that it was only a matter of time, of course, but I confess I was nervous. Very nervous. Especially after the attack on my dear sister. I congratulate you, Chief Inspector; it was obviously a most courageous act on your part—most courageous. And I shall sleep much more easily—so will my brother. We’re delighted—delighted.”

  “Good,” said Roger, and wondered why the man had troubled to telephone.

  “Of course I am worried about the situation,” Bennett went on. “Most worried. The relationship is—er—bound to come out, I suppose?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Roger held his punches.

  Bennett made a noise which sounded like tck-tck.

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so. On the other hand, it would only be necessary to—ah—to prove a motive, wouldn’t it? If in fact Latimer has some other motive, or—and I really believe this is possible—if in fact he isn’t Simon Arlen’s son, then there would be no need for this hurtful matter to come into the open. Would there?”

  “Oh, we’ll have to prove identity,” said Roger.

  “You will, of course, of course.” Bennett sounded more cheerful. “And if reasonable doubt could be shown—if for instance we could prove that Simon Arlen’s son is alive somewhere else, or even that he is dead—that would constitute all the proof needed.”

  “Yes. But how can you do that?”

  “We can try,” breathed Bennett. “After all, think of the pain that such revelations will cause to so many people. My wife, my sister-in-law, my poor sister, and all the children, my nieces and nephews. It will be a dark and heavy shadow; it might have most grievous results. I feel bound to do everything I can to save them all from that, Chief Inspector, and I am sure I can rely upon your discretion until—until such time as there is undoubted proof of his identity.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” breathed Bennett. “I’m grateful. Goodbye, Mr. West. I hope we meet again in somewhat happier circumstances; I do indeed. Goodbye.”

  He hung up.

  Roger put his receiver back and looked at it, darkly.

  “What’s he up to?” asked Sloan.

  “I’m not sure,” said Roger. “He’s no fool, but he pretends to be one. Now he thinks he might be able to prove that the real son of Simon Arlen is someone else. He didn’t know a thing about the son when I saw him, but he’s now thinking differently. I wonder why Latimer saw Raymond Arlen.”

  Sloan shrugged.

  Roger said: “I’ll go and see Latimer. Then after the hearing I think I’ll slip up to Birmingham again. If you can get through with your job this morning, we’ll go up together.”

  “I wish I knew what you were after,” said Sloan.

  Roger grinned.

  Latimer said that he had telephoned Raymond Arlen, before the murder train began; that he had discovered the relationship and had tried to persuade Arlen to give him some money. Arlen had refused. He swore that he had not seen any of the others in the family, except Muriel Arlen. And he said that
he had started to try to get in with his family, without any definite plans, had set out to meet Muriel Arlen and fallen in love with her.

  He was much more self-possessed, more the man whom Muriel Arlen knew; and he seemed confident that he would come through safely. Shaved, bathed, alert, he seemed to be a different man from the shivering creature on the roof.

  He was brought up at Bow Street, and the hearing started at a quarter to eleven. Roger made the charge – assault on the person of a police officer, Charles Smithson, who was proceeding in the course of his duty. It was strong enough to hold him, and Roger asked for an eight-day remand in custody, pending further inquiries. The formal charge and request took less than two minutes, and Roger stepped down from the box.

  The magistrate, a middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows and small glasses, peered round the court.

  “Is the accused represented in Court?”

  The magistrate’s clerk stood up and whispered; and another man stood up from the solicitors’ benches. Roger had noticed him before – Llewellyn, a member of a leading firm of West End solicitors.

  The magistrate peered at Llewellyn over the top of his glasses.

  “Yes, Mr. Llewellyn?”

  “I represent the accused, your worship, and ask for bail.”

  The reporters, lined up at benches behind him, made furious notes and whispered. The crowded public gallery sat back to relish this unexpected development. Peel looked at Roger, frowning; he had expected Latimer to ask for legal aid.

  “Bail, eh?” asked the magistrate. “Bail? No, I don’t think so; this is a serious charge; I don’t think so. No, Mr. Llewellyn. You may, of course, apply again at the next hearing. The case is adjourned for eight days.”

  Llewellyn made no secret of the fact that Mrs. Wilfred Arlen had engaged him.

  There was a message from Sloan on Roger’s desk when he reached the office: “Don’t leave for Birmingham until I’ve seen you” So Sloan had discovered something from Lionel Bennett’s lawyers, and had found time just to put the message through. The case was as boiling hot as it had been before; only the Press and the public were reassured.

  There was plenty to do in the office. Roger waited, busy but impatient.

  Sloan rang just after three o’clock.

  “Hallo, Roger—sorry I’m late. Meet me at the corner of Leadenhall Street—Aldgate end—will you? We’ll get up to Birmingham together; the quicker we see the beautiful Bennett brothers the better.”

  “Why?”

  Sloan said: “Simon Arlen was once a very rich man, and his son didn’t get any of the money.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Arthur Bennett Hurries

  Ernest Bennett sat in his office in New Street, Birmingham. It was a small but well-appointed office, and in glass cases fastened to the walls were samples of the small tools which he and his brother made, through the firm of Bennett Brothers Limited, and which they had made for many years. The office was spick and span; Ernest was spick and span, but obviously agitated – so agitated that he bit at his nails as he stared at the telephone.

  As if with sudden decision, he snatched it up.

  “Get me Mr. Arthur.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the operator.

  Ernest waited, still biting his nails, but now looking out into the street. It was crowded, for it was early evening, and the offices and factories of the Midland metropolis were disgorging the workers.

  After a long wait, Ernest snatched up the receiver again.

  “I asked for Mr. Arthur!”

  “I’m trying to find him, sir; they say he’s still at the factory.”

  “Hurry,” said Ernest, and banged down the receiver.

  It rang, almost at once.

  “Mr. Arthur, sir.”

  “Oh—Arthur. Arthur, listen. I have just had a most disturbing conversation with Pye … Of course you know Pye, Lionel’s solicitor … Of course it isn’t anything to worry about, but the police have been questioning him; they’re making inquiries into Lionel’s past. Eh?”

  Arthur made a mumbling noise.

  “I can’t hear you properly,” said Ernest testily. “I said the police have been making inquiries into Lionel’s past. Pye is a pompous old fool; he said he thought that we should be informed, but I expect he told them everything they wanted to know. We’d better discuss the situation … Eh?”

  He listened.

  He squeaked: “Never mind social appointments!”

  He listened again.

  “Oh, very well; I’ll come and see you. What time will you be home—seven? All right, I’ll be there at seven-fifteen, and we shall have to have an hour alone, you understand … Mary’s relatives can wait for a change. I’m sick of relations! Goodbye.”

  He broke off, and began to bite his nails again. Then suddenly he stopped, threw out his chest, and said: “Nonsense! I’ve nothing to be afraid of.” He lit a cigarette and smoked with an air of defiance, which was punctured when the telephone operator rang through to ask if she was wanted again. It was ten minutes past six.

  “No, no! Go home. Go home.” He replaced the receiver, stared at the windows in the buildings opposite, and added explosively: “Clock-watching little brats—that’s all the young people think about these days. Drat them!”

  He stood up, and hurried out of the office, glaring at the girl who was already on her way, and went to his club. He was not in a social mood, but had two stiff whiskies before he left, a little after half-past six. He had plenty of time to get to his brother’s home, which was near Solihull, some distance from his own home. Then he ran into a stream of lorries and heavy traffic, and was forced to lose five minutes because of a minor breakdown with a bus. He fussed and stormed, and then crawled past the obstruction; but the stream of traffic took some time to thin out, and he was soon glancing at his watch and telling himself that he must hurry.

  He had a Humber limousine, a car of which he was as proud as Lionel had been of his Rolls Royce. It had a fine burst of speed, and he did not pay much attention to the speed limit that night. On the outskirts of the city he turned into a side road, and was soon driving along country lanes. He had made a point of keeping off country roads for the past day or two. Now he was going too fast for safety on the twisting, turning road, but was a skilful driver and without nerves. Mastery of the car turned him into a different man.

  He swung round a corner into a private road leading to Arthur’s drive – about half a mile away.

  It was getting dusk.

  A figure jumped from the side of the road, and stood with hands raised.

  He jammed on his brakes, but was going too fast to stop, swerved to avoid the still figure on the road, hit the bank, and nearly turned the car over. It stopped a few inches from the big, dark-clad figure with a trilby hat, pulled low, a long mackintosh which almost hid the trousers.

  He screamed: “What on earth are you doing, you fool?”

  There was no answer, but the menacing figure came slowly towards him – and suddenly took out an automatic.

  Bennett screamed again, but it was a different sound. His mouth was wide open, terror screeched – and the screech merged with the roar of the shot and the flash of flame.

  Roger picked Sloan up at their rendezvous, and then drove through the City and the densest part of London, before starting to talk. It was then nearly four o’clock; he would be in Birmingham by seven, if he had a clear road, perhaps a little before. He could see that Sloan was jubilant, but didn’t prompt him. Sloan sat back, relaxing, smoking a cigarette, obviously framing his words. When Sloan was as careful as that, he had plenty on his mind.

  “It’s a new angle, all right, Roger,” he said.

  “Simon’s money?”

  “Piles of it. He was a millionaire.”

  “Well, well!”

&
nbsp; “The family was wealthy before he inherited, and he had the little something which turns money into more money.”

  “I see.”

  “No doubt where he died,” said Sloan. “He was put away on a certificate issued by the Bennett and Arlen family doctors. I’ve checked; the Bennetts’ doctor is still alive. It was fairly easy to put people away in those days, wasn’t it?”

  “So they say.”

  “Oh, it was easy. Anyhow, that was the only authority. Before he went inside he gave Lionel Bennett power of attorney—complete power. If that wasn’t enough, his wife did the same, and his wife signed the papers which enabled Lionel and the other Bennetts to farm the son out. Then the wife died. The money was equally divided among the surviving Bennetts—six families, in all. Simon’s son was washed out, as far as money was concerned.”

  Roger said: “Where’d you get all this? Somerset House?”

  “And I also had a talk with Pye. He gave me some odds and ends of additional information. Wasn’t affable about it, but the documents were all there, and he knew I could use pressure if necessary. The story’s as plain as the nose on my face, Roger. If Simon Arlen hadn’t been put away, the others wouldn’t have started off with nearly a quarter of a million pounds apiece. There were lower death duties in those days; they did very nicely. Raymond and Wilfred Arlen were the youngest, of course—both at school. The Bennett brothers handled the whole thing, as the older generation of Arlens had died out. Wilfred and Raymond had no part in it—except taking the money. Raymond put a lot of his in a business, which went broke; the others were wiser—or luckier. What do you make of it?”

  “I’d like to see Wilfred and Raymond’s wills—and Lionel Bennett’s, for that matter.”

  Sloan gave a smug grin.

  “I’ve seen ’em. We ought to have gone to them straight away. There’s an identical clause in each. Two-thirds of the estate to wife and family, one-third to be shared equally among all surviving Arlens and Bennetts of the same generation. The two live Bennetts and Mrs. Drew get a tidy sum from Wilfred and Lionel, nothing to speak of from Raymond.”