The Figure in the Dusk (20 page)

 

Margaret looked up from the single bed in the cell at Cannon Row, and nodded distantly to Georgina. She showed no hostility and no real interest, and she hardly spoke a word. Roger, who was by the door of the cell with the station sergeant, gave them ten minutes, then went in and put a hand on Georgina's arm.

“Better come away now.”

Georgina turned, and there was a film of tears in her eyes. She looked back at her sister, but Meg was staring at the ceiling as if she were completely disinterested in anything and anyone. She had hardly spoken since she had been charged.

In the courtyard, walking towards the Yard itself, Georgina said in a steady voice:

“I'll spend every penny I have to help her. You know that, don't you? I still can't believe it; that man must have the Devil in him.”

“How long has she been jealous of you?”

“Jealous?”

“How long has she resented the fact that you have a steady job, of its kind, and earn fairly good money?”

“She's never really been happy about that, I suppose. But we've shared everything; that was the understanding we had as we started to live together. Meg had some money of her own—not much, but more than I. We lived very modestly until I started to earn, and I owed her a lot and didn't mind paying it back. I wanted her to be—happy. Mr. West, is there anything you can do to help her?”

Roger said: “I'm a policeman and have a policeman's job, Miss Sharp. So has Jim Peel. Don't forget that, will you?”

She walked on, and stumbled at the first of the flight of stone steps.

 

Sloan came bustling into the office, scowling. He flung his hat on a chair and wrenched at his tie until the ends hung down. He lit a cigarette.

“Well, where do we go from here? How the hell did Meg get out?”

“She slipped away after tea—they have it at the nursing-home at half-past three. No one went into her until after six. Our radio let us down. Simple.”

“Damnable! We still want our mystery man. And what about Latimer? This lets him out—we wouldn't have a chance in hell of making the case stick, as Meg Sharp had the gun. Don't you agree?”

“Things have brightened for Latimer,” Roger agreed.

“And darkened for us. Roger, what the devil is behind all this?”

Roger smiled faintly. “Something simple, I think. Hate plus greed.”

“Equals murder this time—but—by whom?”

Roger said: “Don't go too fast. What do we know? That the son of Simon Arlen was undoubtedly cheated, robbed of his birthright; and when that's over a million pounds, it's a pretty useful birthright. Small wonder Simon's son thought that he had a right to get some back.”

“But Latimer—”

“And how would he get any?” asked Roger, absently. “By killing and robbing the victims of a few thousand pounds' worth of jewels? That might make him happy, but it wouldn't last him for long, and I think he was after big money. How would he get it?”

“You're asking,” Sloan said.

“He
might
get his hands on it if part of the fortune fell into the hands of one of the relatives,” said Roger. “Remember, those wills. On the death of any of the family, a large sum went to the others. At the moment there are two left. Those two share a pretty big fortune between them, don't they?”

“Arthur and—Mrs. Drew? But—”

“Hold it,” said Roger. “Supposing the son of Simon Arlen was working this way, and making sure that he could do what he liked with whoever was left to last. Supposing, in fact, he had an understanding. Then two people would have a motive, wouldn't they? The surviving relative of that particular generation and Arnold Arlen.”

“Are you saying that Latimer
isn't
the son?”

“I'm saying we shouldn't think in terms of Latimer, but in terms of Arnold Arlen, Simon's son. It's only when we take him into account that the thing really makes sense. Now we'd have to assume that one or the other of the same generation relatives needed money, shouldn't we? Otherwise he wouldn't come to terms with his cousin. Which of them was hard-up?”

“Raymond, I know; but he died. Remember?” Sloan was sarcastic.

“I did hear something about it,” said Roger. “But perhaps some of the others are also hard up. Not Wilfred—we know he was wealthy. Not Mrs. Drew—her husband is lousy with money. Not Lionel—he died worth half a million. You might do some high-pressure work and find out whether Bennett Brothers Limited is as sound a concern as it seems on the surface.”

Sloan stared.

“I know, I'm crazy,” said Roger. “Try it, Bill.”

 

Margaret Sharp stood in the dock, pale-faced and dry-eyed, and didn't speak. The charge was over briefly, and she was remanded in custody for eight days. Georgina was in the public gallery. A well-known solicitor represented Margaret and did not oppose the custody.

The newspapers were torn between condemning the Yard for allowing Ernest Bennett to be murdered and praising them for saving Arthur.

 

Roger spent the day making a round of the families, except Arthur Bennett and Mrs. Drew. Mrs. Muriel Arlen was aloof, Peter wasn't at home. Mrs. Raymond Arlen was still badly shocked, and her own mother was with her. Mrs. Lionel Bennett was with relatives who lived nearby. Not one of them could recall any suggestion that the Bennett Brothers had asked for loans or given any hint that they were in financial trouble. That part of it was an empty day.

Other things filled it.

There was no shadow of doubt that Margaret Sharp had not killed anyone, until she had shot Ernest. She had an indisputable alibi for each of the other crimes. Latimer continued to swear that he knew nothing about it, but was now less abject. There were no reports of any close friend of Margaret's who might have killed the others; no further hint of a mystery man.

Roger was back at the Yard soon after five o'clock, and found a message that Peel would like to see him. He rang for the sergeant.

“Come in, Jim—how are things?”

“I'm all right,” Peel said. “You can guess what I feel, but I can't do anything about that. Roger, tell me straight—do you think Georgina is involved?”

“No.”

Peel said quickly: “Is that on the level?”

“Flat as it can be, Jim. Forget it. It looks as if you'll find Georgina about as forlorn and miserable as a woman can be, and you don't have to be on duty all the time.”

“It's a load off my mind,” said Peel. “I've been telling myself you thought she was in it. What about this man who's supposed to have been at Pullinger Street?”

“There wasn't any man. Latimer and Meg did the jobs between them,” Roger said. “No, I haven't any doubt about it, but we haven't the proof yet. Latimer did the early jobs, but kept doubling his tracks, showed up as two types of man. He had some cash, as we know, but hounded the Sharps and others for money. If we caught him, that would indicate that he certainly hadn't robbed anyone. It would be useful for the defence. Margaret helped him; she was with him from the beginning. If the worst happened, he'd be arrested and charged, and then she was to kill one of the others in exactly the same way, and escape. More ammunition for his defence—the killer was still abroad. Only Meg didn't escape. But if she'd managed to, then Latimer would have been in a better position, and with luck, they'd have been able to set up house together. The death of any one of the family after Latimer's arrest was the lynch-pin in the emergency plan. Only Margaret didn't do the job well enough; her nerves wouldn't stand up to it.”

“Is this—certain?”

“Not yet,” said Roger. “The stickiest part will be getting proof, but we've a line.”

He looked up as footsteps sounded in the passage outside, and grinned when Sloan positively stormed in. Sloan carried a large envelope, and slapped it down on the desk.

“Any luck?” asked Roger mildly.

“Luck! Bennett Brothers Limited are down the drain. They've been fighting against bankruptcy for years. Every stick and stone they possessed was mortgaged.”

“Not bad,” said Roger. “It's a pity it's so far to Birmingham.”

“No need to go to Birmingham,” Sloan said triumphantly. “I've brought Arthur along with me. He came like a lamb. I can't imagine why, but he seemed overjoyed when I said that Latimer was dangerously ill and hinted that he'd almost certainly die. He's
very
sorry for poor Simon's son.”

Roger's smile stopped at his eyes.

“Most unprofessional,” he said. “Still, as toothless Arthur's here, we may as well have a chat with him. Or better still—” He broke off, and stretched for the telephone. “Where is he?”

“In the waiting-room.”

“Hallo,” said Roger into the telephone. “Brixton Jail, in a hurry.” He held on until the remand prison was on the other end of the line. “West here … Yes, it's about Latimer. I'm going to send over for him; I want another little chat. How is he?”

“Well, how is he?” asked Sloan, when Roger replaced the receiver.

“Getting bolder and bolder,” said Roger, “and talking about black-outs and he can't always remember what he's been doing—warming up nicely for the insanity plea. He's about as insane as our little Arthur.”

“Going to put them face to face?” asked Peel.

“That's it—in the second waiting-room. After all, they won't know that we're looking through a window, will they? We should know if they're buddies as soon as they set eyes on each other.” He grinned. “I think we've reached the end now.”

 

Arthur Bennett, wearing striped grey trousers and black coat, was sitting on an upright chair in one of the waiting-rooms which had a communicating door with another. He jumped up as Roger entered, held out his hand and wrung Roger's fervently. He was eager and apparently cheerful, but that covered his nerves. His gums showed.

“I've been wanting to see you again, Chief Inspector, I haven't properly thanked you for the wonderful way in which you saved my life. Wonderful. Such courage! I'm desolated, of course. Poor Ernest! But—let us face it, life is sweet, and time will heal all wounds. Won't it?”

“Sooner or later,” said Roger.

“Yes, yes. Time is a wonderful healer. I only wish they had tried
time
for poor Simon; but there it is, there it is. I hear that the man—Latimer—is sick.”

“It's surprising how news spreads,” said Roger blandly. “Is there anything new to tell me?”

“Oh, no. No, I don't think so. Doubtless as time goes on I shall remember details which you may find important, but—well, I confess I shall be very happy if poor Simon's boy dies. That may seem cruel, but in fact it would save such a lot of distress. Wouldn't it? No trial, no washing of dirty linen—nothing. Nothing like that.”

“We'd still have to deal with the woman.”

“The woman—ah, yes. Yes. Tell me,” asked Arthur, peering up short-sightedly, “has she confessed? Has she told you everything she knows?”

“I don't think she knows a great deal. She was in love with Simon's boy, and worked to try to save him.”

“Really,” breathed Arthur. “You know, Chief Inspector, it is remarkable how clever these people with unbalanced minds are, isn't it? Who else would have thought of a simple and yet crafty trick like Arnold and this woman? It isn't really surprising, I suppose, and yet—but how nearly it succeeded. The truth is, you know,” he went on earnestly, “few people realise how capable the police are. You and all your colleagues in this wonderful establishment. They underestimate you, Chief Inspector.”

“We usually catch up,” said Roger.

A buzzer sounded; the signal that Latimer was now in the next room. The door opened and Sloan and Peel came in. Roger went across to the communicating door.

“I wonder if you'll come into this room, Mr. Bennett.”

Roger thrust open the door.

Sloan and Peel went to a window, through which they could see into the next room, although no one in that room could see into this. Arthur went through cheerfully, peering about him shortsightedly. Roger let the door close, and nipped back to the window which looked like frosted glass from inside the room.

Latimer was sitting in a chair in a corner, and stood up abruptly as Arthur entered. Arthur caught sight of and recognised him. The two stared at each other, Arthur open-mouthed, Latimer with his hands clenched. He looked round swiftly, saw no one else, and said:

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Arnold!”

“So they've got you too,” said Latimer, and began to laugh. “They've got you, you cunning old hypocrite. I thought you were going to get away with it. You ruddy fool, why did you let them catch you?”

 

 

Roger slipped into the inner room.

Neither of the others saw him at first, they were too busy looking at each other. Arthur Bennett stood limp, body sagging, mouth wide open. Latimer relaxed, and the grin slowly faded from his face.

“They said—you were
ill,
”
sighed Arthur.

“Sure, I'm ill;
I'm
all right. I'm not sane, see. A few years at Broadmoor, and I'll be all right. But they won't be so kind to you, will they? They'll
hang you.”

“Arnold, don't,” said Arthur faintly.

“Don't Arnold me,” said Latimer. “We've messed it up. When they caught Margaret that finished any hope I had of being found not guilty; but remember—
I'm
crazy. But I have periods of sanity when my memory's good; that'll be a help.”

“You—wouldn't—”

Latimer glanced round and saw Roger. He licked his lips, and backed away from Arthur Bennett, as if from something of which he was terribly afraid. Arthur sagged.

“So you're old friends,” Roger murmured.

“Friends!” cried Latimer. “He put me up to it, he—” He broke off and licked his lips, his eyes became glazed, then stared wildly. He began to shiver. “I—I'm not well, I'm not well!” he gasped.

“We'll look after you,” said Roger. “And I think it's time we had another little talk, Mr. Bennett.”

Arthur mumbled, and his knees wobbled. Peel and Sloan came in, to look after Latimer, who was still putting on his act. Arthur allowed himself to be led out of the room, then collapsed on to a chair. It was ten minutes before he was able to start talking; but once he started, he wouldn't stop.

It was all Arnold's idea—

All
Arnold's, that was, and Ernest's. His brother was really guilty.

He, Arthur, hadn't
wanted
any part in it … Yes, he and Ernest had arranged the identical clauses in the wills; they were not too sound financially, it seemed ‘only fair'. Lionel and the Arlens hadn't argued much, the family skeleton had to be kept hidden. It was a conspirators' agreement.

 

Chatworth looked up from his desk, scowled, waved to a chair and then to cigarettes, and went on with the reports he was reading. Roger sat back, at ease, smoking, watching the shiny bald patch in the midst of Chatworth's grizzled forest of hair.

It was two hours since Latimer, or Arnold Aden, and Arthur Bennett had been confronted with each other.

Chatworth pushed the papers aside and leaned back.

“Well, what's your latest version?”

“The final one, I think,” said Roger. “Arthur and Latimer have both talked; they couldn't blame each other fast enough once we really started on them. Arthur cracked first, and after that Latimer knew the game was up.”

“How did it start?”

“Several years ago, when Latimer discovered who he was. It started in a queer way—he saw Raymond Arlen in a tube train, and the likeness was quite striking. So he wondered if he could get to know Raymond, and do himself a bit of good. When he went to see Raymond, it gave the man such a shock that Latimer knew there was a story behind it, and probed deep. He discovered the truth and suspected that he had been jockeyed out of a fortune, so he started to touch them all. He went round to each of the relatives in turn, and managed to get a little hush-money—they called it a gift. Latimer then knew he was on a good thing.

“In the course of it, he met Muriel Arlen. He says that he fell in love with her. I wouldn't know—she's certainly in love with him.”

“Then he was approached by Arthur Bennett—not poor Ernest, but Arthur. Arthur was keeping up a good front, but had run through a fortune, the business wasn't sound. He'd fixed the accounts, and he knew that the day of reckoning wasn't far off. And there was the glittering prize which would fall into the lap of the last surviving relation of Simon Arlen's generation.”

“Latimer approached him for more money.”

“Each says the other started the notion, and I wouldn't like to say who did. But the plot worked up nicely. Latimer knew he might be put away in Broadmoor, but thought an insanity plea would save him from being hanged. Margaret, desperately in love with him and quite amoral, came in on his side—Arthur knew nothing about that. If Latimer were caught, Margaret's job was just to kill the remaining relations, and so ‘prove' that Latimer wasn't the killer, because the killer was still abroad. It wasn't so good in practice as in theory, and she spoiled it by making a fatal mistake.”

Chatworth said: “Being caught?”

“Yes. She must have been crazy when she went to Birmingham, although whether it'll come within the legal meaning of insanity I don't know. I hope not. She knew where the gun was—in a room they rented near Pullinger Street. We found the stolen goods there. Latimer tucked them away to confuse us as much as he could; he was always planting evidence for his defence. They were too smart all along—as when Meg told us about Latimer's drug-trafficking, to give a plausible reason why he was on the run.”

“The works were nearly upset when Raymond became curious. Raymond had been going to see Arthur Bennett, and saw Latimer in the neighbourhood. He guessed that Arthur was on the rocks, and was curious. He watched Arthur very closely; that was what he was doing when he was supposed to be in North Wales. Arthur saw him, and they had a fine old row. Later Latimer and Raymond met by appointment, and Latimer had promised Arthur to do a deal with Raymond, who wasn't averse to cashing in. That's why Raymond lied about where he'd been and what time he got home—he was toying with taking a share, and was jittery. You know how it affects men who are taking a chance for the first time.”

“But Latimer believed he would have an easier job with Arthur, and killed Raymond.”

Roger stopped and stubbed out the cigarette. Chatworth pushed the box across the table.

“Satisfied?” Chatworth asked.

“Perfectly.”

“No more snags?”

“I don't think we'll find any.” Roger was as confident as he seemed. “It was cunningly conceived, but began to fall to pieces because Latimer wasn't clever enough. He saw the danger after killing Wilfred, and instead of brazening it out, went into hiding and began to confuse the trails. He started making a ‘defence'—having in mind that Meg would kill if he were caught, he knew he could rely on her. Latimer did the first two jobs and then went and robbed the homes of his victims, to make it look as if robbery were the motive. It started well, and put us off the scent. He didn't reckon on Muriel Arlen naming him so early—his big mistake was letting the affair with Muriel run on. There's probably something in his claim that he is in love with her—he didn't really hurt her when he attacked her at Merrick Street.”

Chatworth grunted.

“No. Seen Margaret Sharp again?”

“I spent ten minutes with her, and she won't say a word, but I don't think we'll need her just yet. We've enough from the statements of Latimer and Arthur Bennett to piece everything together. Arthur started by trying to blame his brother, but that didn't last long. Anything else you'd like explained, sir?”

Chatworth said: “Yes. Why did you start probing into Simon Arlen's fortune and into the financial state of Bennett Brothers?”

“I was looking for a motive which wasn't a simple matter of a man going off his head. Latimer's behaviour wasn't even—I wondered if he were putting on an act. Margaret Sharp wasn't normal, and she showed clear signs of disliking her sister because her sister was doing better. Meg had gone through her own money. Envy, and touched by greed—money's usually a pretty sound motive. The red herrings of their dual personalities and the mystery man who never existed pointed away from insanity. They invented the mystery man at Pullinger Street, of course—as we got closer, they started wild attempts to fool us—going from one to another. Meg always defended Latimer to Georgina, of course—even told her he was going to pay back some of his debt.”

“When it proved that there was a reasonable chance that Simon had never really been insane, but just put away so that the others could cash in, things began to make sense. The terms of the wills suggested that one of Simon's generation was involved. After that, it was a simple matter of sifting through them all until one turned up who fitted.”

“I see,” grunted Chatworth. “And I suppose you're feeling pretty pleased with yourself.”

“Too much went wrong,” Roger said. “On the other hand, I don't think any of the victims was a big enough loss to keep me awake at night.”

“You're a policeman,” said Chatworth; “leave moralising to those who know more about it.”

 

The trial was over, and Latimer and Margaret had both been sentenced to death, Arthur to fifteen years' imprisonment. Llewellyn had defended them all brilliantly, but had fought a losing battle from the beginning.

Roger drove home from the Yard on the evening of the last day of the trial, but didn't go straight to Bell Street. There was no one outside the Arlen house in Merrick Street. He hadn't seen Mrs. Wilfred Arlen in court, and wondered if she had gone out of town.

The manservant answered his ring.

Mrs. Arlen was at home …

She looked younger and much less careworn than when he had seen her before; and happier. She looked surprised to see him, but didn't ask him why he'd come. She offered cigarettes, let him light hers, and sat down and waited.

“How is Peter?” asked Roger.

“He's surprisingly well,” said Mrs. Arlen. “I was afraid it would make him worse, but there's a good chance that he'll get over his trouble if he's well looked after in the next few years. Don't tell me that's why you came.”

“Chiefly. How are you?”

She said: “You're a strange man for a policeman, aren't you? Do you care how I am?”

“I'd hate to see anyone pining because of Ralph Latimer.”

“I'm over that,” she said quietly. “You'll probably think it's a hateful thing to say, but—I'm completely free now. Wilfred's just a memory, not pleasant, not really unpleasant. It's more like a dream than a memory.”

“Let it stay that way,” said Roger.

As he drove off, he was smiling, glad that he'd taken the trouble to call.

He was home in time to give the boys half an hour's ride before bed-time.

Two months later Georgina Sharp opened the door of the flat, said: “Hallo, Jim,” and stepped aside. Peel passed her. He had seen little of her since the final arrests and the executions. She had been a witness, of course, and had stood that ordeal well. She looked tired and pale, but her easy grace of movement hadn't deserted her. She offered him cigarettes and took a light from him, so that they stood very close together.

“I hoped you'd come,” she said.

“I waited as long as I could. I don't have to watch myself now.”

“Did you ever?”

“Yes, up to a point,” said Peel. “I didn't ask you to marry me, did I?” He was smiling slightly, but couldn't hide his tension.

She smiled, too. “Ought you to, now? I'm the sister of a woman who was hanged.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“You
are
a policeman.”

“Meaning that I'll spend part of my life chasing murderers and getting them hanged?”

“Meaning that all the time you'd risk remembering that my sister was—”

“Listen,” said Peel vigorously; “you're talking out of the back of your neck.”

He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace, and slid his arm round her waist, drew her close and found her lips.