The Figure in the Dusk (18 page)

 

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!”

“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.”

Roger watched two boys chasing a lorry with its tailboard down, and clinging on to it.

“Silly young asses!” he said. “Eh? What can I make of it? There's an obvious possibility that Simon was actually put away so that the others could get hold of his money. Probably he was queer, had spells, actually used violence with his wife. The Bennetts, Lionel being the chief organiser, saw a wonderful chance and took it. But it might not have happened that way.”

“If it did—”

“It would give the son of Simon Arlen a pretty good motive for hate.”

“But who told him about it?”

“That's the big question.”

Sloan said: “Meaning what?”

“Margaret Sharp says he ‘found out'. How? He wouldn't be likely to remember the days of his infancy, would he? He was brought up as a Latimer. He didn't know the truth when he lived at home with his foster parents and Margaret, apparently—remember she said that they lost each other for some years. If she wasn't lying pretty slickly, he discovered the truth after his parents were dead. So—who told him, and why?”

“Someone else with a reason for hate?”

Roger said dreamily: “It could be, couldn't it? Let's go a step farther than we have. Let's imagine that one of the family was hard up. Raymond, for instance, as he lost his capital. Let's imagine that he told Latimer and egged Latimer on, believing that there was a chance that Latimer also had homicidal tendencies. They would show. Let's imagine that the share clause in each will was a kind of gentleman's agreement. And let's suppose that the murder motive was to persuade Latimer to kill off the family, so that a useful pile came to Raymond—or whoever gave Latimer the information. Murder by proxy, as it were.”

“And then Latimer turned on Raymond?”

“Could be,” said Roger.

“What do you expect to get out of the Bennetts?”

“They may know more than they've told us. They're pretty jittery already, about this shameful thing in their past, and it'll be more shameful if it's suggested that in fact Simon wasn't insane, and that it was a plot to get hold of his money. With that hanging over their heads, they'll tell everything they can, I fancy.”

Sloan smiled. “I like seeing you at work! Who are you going to see first?”

“Arthur,” said Roger. “He's the younger, and he seems to have a decent streak. We might get everything out of him with a lot less trouble than we got it out of Ernest. Velvet glove with Arthur, and if necessary—”

“Iron mitt for Ernest! I wonder if there's any news at the Yard.” He switched on the radio, but there was no response. “This won't work,” he said.

“Forget it,” said Roger.

The traffic slackened, and Sloan stepped on the accelerator.

 

Arthur Bennett's house was much older than Ernest's – a big, red brick place with tall, narrow windows. It stood in an acre or more of ground at the end of the long private road, and the garden was in perfect order; they could see that as they went along the drive, just after seven o'clock. It was hardly dusk; the brightness of the day was only just beginning to fade, and the colours in the flowers in the beds beneath the windows and on either side of the drive showed in all their beauty. At one side of the house were rose-gardens and terraces, giving promise of beauty in June.

There was a big sweep in the drive in front of the house. Sloan stopped opposite the front door, and they sat and looked at the big, brown-painted door and the brightly polished brass bell and knocker. No one stirred, but the birds were noisy; somewhere nearby a woodpecker was calling.

“We're not here for a rest cure,” Roger said.

Sloan grinned, and they got out.

The door was opened by a middle-aged man, dressed in black; somehow, Roger hadn't expected Arthur to have a butler. The man was tall, with iron-grey hair, portly and stately; he spoke in a refined, muted voice, led them into the hall and then to a small room, switched on the light, promised them that he would not keep them waiting, and went off.

“Arthur will have time to get used to the idea,” said Sloan.

“He won't keep us waiting.”

Arthur didn't. He came in himself, bustling, hand in front of his mouth: but his lisping had gone, he had conquered the disability.

“Why, Mr. West, how are you?” He shook hands warmly with them both. “How are
you?
Most unexpected, but most fortuitous; I am expecting my brother any minute now. Most fortuitous. But come into the drawing-room; you must have a drink—detectives
do
drink while on duty, I hope.”

“Occasionally,” said Roger. “Thanks very much.”

“Come along, come along.” Arthur led them across the big hall, with its huge oil-paintings and massive doors, into a room which seemed to reek of the Victorian age. There was big furniture, an old grand piano, there were antimacassars on the chair-backs, the rich Persian carpet looked old, but was in good condition. Lights sparkled from a chandelier on to glasses and bottles in a mahogany cabinet. “I think I can offer practically everything, practically everything,” said Arthur, when he picked up a bottle; Iris hand wasn't quite steady. “Whisky?”

“Thank you.”

Whisky bubbled, soda spurted.

“Your
very
good health,” said Arthur. “I can't tell you how relieved I am at the news that Latimer is apprehended. It was alarming—we tried to make light of it the other day, but it
was
alarming. Latimer—”

“You knew Latimer was your cousin, didn't you?”

“Cousin! Well—yes, yes. That's how it looks, and it's a distressing thing to have to contemplate, Mr. West. My brother isn't sure, you know; he is always rather obstinate.” Arthur gave a little laugh. “If he doesn't want a thing to be true, he will spend a fortune trying to prove that it isn't. He's like that.
Very
like that. I wonder why he hasn't arrived? He's due at seven-fifteen, and he's a most punctual man. Most.”

“It's only seven-twenty,” said Roger.

“Yes, we must allow him a little grace, mustn't we? And traffic is so thick in Birmingham; it really is getting a serious problem. Well—congratulations again, Mr. West, and I'm yours to command. Command,” he repeated, and sipped his whisky.

“You're very good. Mr. Bennett, was there any shadow of doubt, at the time, about the mental condition of Simon Aden?”

Arthur nearly dropped his glass.