The Figure in the Dusk (14 page)

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

 

 

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 interruption 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 along 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?”

“Those boys of mine.”

“Oh, I see,” said Sloan. “Well, don't tell the A.C., or he'll ask you if you mean to bring them in to help you. That'll be his mood this morning.”

“It'll pass.” Roger tossed the newspapers aside. There was a pile of reports, inches high. “Been through these?”

“Yes. I had Peel in, to help sort them out. He was here first.”

“Our Jim's very anxious to justify himself,” said Roger. “Pity things went wrong last night; he and Smithson deserve a good break. What do you make of things?”

Sloan said: “One fact sticks out a mile.”

Roger nodded.

“Everything we hear about Latimer is in flat contradiction to what we know about the murderer,” said Sloan. “You can't have missed that.”

“I haven't, Bill.”

“Darned if I know what to make of it,” Sloan grumbled. “He's surely hard up, or he wouldn't have had both women take him money. He might have hoped that Meg would get her hands on another hundred; but if he had several hundred, he wouldn't take risks for a few pounds. According to her, he was hungry, too—and that ties up with his statement to Georgina. In fact, it all ties up.”

“And leaves us what?”

Sloan stood up. “This damned mystery man.”

“How we need a missing Raymond Arlen, instead of a dead one,” said Roger. “No remote chance of mistaken identity over Raymond Arlen's body, is there?”

“No.”

“Pity. He's our other mystery. Everything else seems answered, except what he was doing when he didn't get home late that night, and—”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Sloan.

“Now what?”

“I didn't tell you—it's there, though. Came in this morning. Raymond Arlen didn't make any business calls in North Wales. The customers he usually saw there haven't seen him for a month. He certainly didn't go away on a business trip.”

Roger said: “Well, well!”

“I suppose—” began Sloan, and hesitated.

“Yes, he could have killed Wilfred Arlen and Lionel Bennett, and he could have attacked Mrs. Drew; but he certainly wasn't about last night,” said Roger.

“Even I can see that. But is it possible that Latimer did the attacking last night, for some reason we don't yet know? And that Arlen did the murders in order to—”

Roger grinned. “Yes?”

“That's where I come to a full stop,” confessed Sloan.

Roger said: “Try it this way, Bill. Raymond Arlen, for some reason as yet unknown, started to get rid of some of his relatives. He then came to see us, and drew attention to his own likeness to Latimer. He then told us of Arnold, the son of the insane Uncle Simon. Add that all up, and you have the possibility that he was the killer, turning our attention to a possible homicidal maniac. If that happened, it wasn't so bad, but—who killed Raymond Arlen?”

Sloan said: “The shots were fired at close quarters; they
could
have been self-inflicted. I suppose the Newbury people haven't slipped up, in looking for the revolver.”

“Automatic pistol. No, they wouldn't have to look far—you know they haven't slipped up. We can accept the possibility that Raymond did the first murders and the attack on Mrs. Drew, but we haven't the answer to his murder, unless Latimer discovered what he was doing. Latimer's been very insistent that he was being framed. His story of being scared because of the drug business, and then getting into a panic because everyone thought he'd killed Wilfred and Lionel, isn't all that strong. On the other hand, if he killed Raymond Arlen because Arlen was framing him, then we'd have a pretty strong motive. What's the snag?”