The Figure in the Dusk (5 page)

 

Peel had left a pile of books on the table in the living-room. There was an address-book, bank statements, other books which showed that Latimer was a contact man for several small firms in the West End – introducing business which varied from jewellery to cosmetics, furs to gowns and hats and a variety of other commodities. He lived on the commission, and apparently lived fairly well. The bank statements showed nothing of unusual interest; he had a few hundred pounds to his credit.

Roger sat at the table and ran through the address-book. There were many entries, both of men and women. Against some, always women, were little red dots. There were seventeen of these.

Roger stretched out for the photographs album.

There were fourteen photographs in it, and nine were signed with Christian names which coincided with the Christian names of the marked women. There was no one named Sharp, and Mrs. Arlen wasn't in the address-book.

He made copious notes, put back everything as he had found it, went through the clothes again and satisfied himself that nothing was bloodstained and nothing' had been washed or cleaned. He didn't think it would be worth having a more thorough examination of the clothes at this stage. He had been here over an hour and a quarter, and but for the intervention of Georgina Sharp, it would have been ordinary dull routine; the kind of routine which sometimes led to results, but was seldom spectacular.

He put the album under his coat, took the photograph of Latimer from the frame, and went out.

The caretaker-porter was sitting in a little cubbyhole in a corner of the hall, and the detectives were sunning themselves at the entrance.

They smartened up as Roger appeared.

“One of you stay here,” Roger said. “Don't speak to Latimer if he comes in, and telephone me at once.”

“Right, sir!”

“The other come with me.” Roger went to his car.

Nothing had come in at the Yard. Sloan was out. Roger studied Latimer's photograph, and wondered why women found him so attractive. He was a dark-haired man with a long jaw, good-looking in a heavy, languorous kind of way. He sent it to the Photographic Division, to have copies made, and went through the names and addresses of the seventeen young women. He sent a list of these to
Records
and fifteen minutes later was called on the telephone.

“Bray, here,” said the Inspector in charge of
Records.

“Anything?”

“Care to come over?”

“All right,” said Roger, hopefully.

Records
was a room of shelves and filing cabinets, a library of known criminals. Bray, big and plump and nearly bald, sat at a small desk with his back to a large window. He had a button of a nose and a loose mouth, and talked as if he were eating plums.

“Siddown, Handsome. Not much here, but one or two int'resting things. See.” He pointed to three photographs, smaller than those from the album, but obviously of three of the women. “There's Elizabeth Morris, up twice for taking drugs, had a six months' cure last year, haven't heard anything about her since. Spiteful nature, see that—clawed the skin off a man's nose once.”

Roger grinned.

“What's funny?” asked Bray, who was not renowned for his sense of humour. “Then there's Lilian Brown. Remember her? Of course you don't; no memory, some of you people. Lil got twelve months for helping old Corry the Con. Wonder what's happened to Corry; haven't heard anything of him since he came out. Never a big cheese; how anyone ever fell for his spiel I could never understand. Talk about a fool born every minute! Pretty as a picture, Lil was; nice kid gone wrong. Then there's Maude Pepper; got twelve months for running a disorderly house. At twenty-three, mind you! She was a hard case, Maude was. Haven't had any reports on her since she come out, either.”

“I'll have them all checked. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Nothing about the Sharp women?”

“Not at that address, and not those Christian names,” said Bray. “You can't tell; lies run off their tongues sometimes. You know that.”

“Latimer?” asked Roger.

“Nope.”

“All right, thanks. Let me have the report, and I'll get busy on them.”

He went to the office of Superintendent Abbot, his immediate superior, and spent five minutes with him – a satisfactory five minutes, because he was given full charge of the case.

Sloan was in the office when Roger got back, writing a report in his bold, schoolboyish hand; he still tucked his tongue into the corner of his mouth when he was concentrating on a report and at such times looked almost foolish; blond and brainless. There were few shrewder men at the Yard. He glanced up but didn't stop until he had finished a sentence and made a full stop with great deliberation.

“Latimer went out at half-past twelve last night, and didn't come back,” he announced.

“Sure?”

“Yes. There's no porter on duty after nine-thirty, but a man in the next door flat saw him go. He'd been out from five o'clock to about nine, that's certain—and that's all we know about him. He may have been out between half-past nine or so and midnight, and come back just for a wash and brush-up! He hasn't been in any of his usual places today. I've been taking it easy, and haven't given anything to the Press, but—”

“Don't yet,” said Roger. “But get some more men on the job. Any one of these women might know where he is.”

He gave Sloan the album.

Sloan glanced through it.

“Phe-ew!”

“He's an eye for a pretty face,” said Roger. “I couldn't find anything on his clothes; on the other hand, he wasn't around at the time that matters. We've a photograph of him now; better have it sent round to all stations and mark it not for public release.”

“Right.”

“Nothing in about the bullets in Aden's head?”

“Not yet,” said Sloan.

“I'm going up to
Ballistics,
”
Roger said.

Scrymegour, in charge of the Ballistics Department, was an unusual man for a London policeman; he was short and thin. He sat between rows of rifles, automatics and revolvers of all shapes and sizes, which lined the walls. A bench near the window was equipped with a microscope and several other instruments – mysterious to most people, simple to Scrymegour. He was writing in a swift, flowing hand, and on the desk were two bullets, each with a piece of thin string tied round them and with a small label attached.

“Arlen job?” asked Roger.

“Always in a hurry, that's your trouble,” said Scrymegour. “Yes. These are .32, probably a Smith & Wesson; but you can say I'm guessing and you'll be right. The bullets were fired at close quarters—you've seen these, haven't you?”

‘These' were photographs of Arlen, after death.

Scrymegour pointed with a pencil.

“Singe-marks on the temple and cheek, big blast opening inside the head; I'd say that they were fired within a couple of inches. Each would have been fatal; but you've had the medical report on that, I expect. Usual marks on the bullets; but we've never had any with the same marks before—unknown gun. Find us the gun, and we'll prove these were fired from it, though.”

“I know you will,” said Roger. “Well, if that's the best you can do, I'll be off.”

He nodded and disappeared, before Scrymegour could make a comeback. But he wasn't feeling particularly bright.

He went to the Assistant Commissioner's office. Chatworth was out, and that made him feel brighter.

It was nearly five o'clock.

He checked that the only prints found at 7 Merrick Street were those of Arlen, his wife, Peter and the servants; the thief hadn't left any, and that made the thief pretty smart. Was Latimer smart? True, any little crook knew the danger of leaving prints and could protect himself against doing so, but usually there were some traces. The attack at Merrick Street and the assault in the car suggested a man of strong personality who knew exactly what he was doing – that was if they could take Mrs. Arlen's story at its face value.

He'd call in and see her again on his way home.

He drove to Middleton Street from the Yard. Kensington High Street was crammed with people and with traffic, crowds were disappearing into the station in droves. He turned left and then right and came upon Middleton Street. A few people were walking along, but there was no sign of Peel.

This was a street of tall, narrow houses, built in terraces; not the best type of Kensington property. Many of the houses had
Apartment
notice-boards up, and 122 was one of these.

Peel wasn't in sight.

Roger parked his car near 122, and entered the house. The front door was open, as was often the case in apartment houses. There was a notice-board, with cards pinned on to it, and at the top was a card reading:
Miss Margaret Sharp, Miss Georgina Sharp.
The card was curling at the edges and yellowing with age; they'd been there for some time. He went up narrow, carpeted stairs, to a gloomy landing. The three doors were each fitted with Yale locks. Someone came into the house behind him, but stopped on the ground floor. He reached the third and top floor, where there was only one door – also fitted with a Yale.

He rang the bell, and there was an immediate answer.

A woman, tall, big-breasted, wearing a navy-blue dress, looked at him inquiringly. He couldn't see any likeness to Georgina, who was a race-horse to this cart-horse. But that wasn't quite fair. The woman was magnificently proportioned, her dark hair was braided, and she had bold, handsome looks. Her eyes were dark.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening,” said Roger. “Are you Miss Margaret Sharp?”

“Yes, who—”

“I wonder if you can spare me a minute,” said Roger, and slipped past her. She was too surprised to try to stop him. He beamed at her and closed the door, then led the way into a room beyond this small hallway.

It was much larger than he had expected, long and narrow, with tall windows. It had the charm of homemade furnishings, with a restful colour-scheme of blues and greys. A baby grand piano stood in one corner, there was a divan and several easy-chairs; the boards were polished and rugs were dotted about. Daffodils stood in tall vases on the piano, the window-ledges and the mantelpiece; an electric fire was on.

“Really!” exclaimed Meg Sharp. “You've no right—”

“I'm a police officer.”

Roger still beamed, and showed his card.

She gasped: “Police!”

“Yes. I believe you're a friend of Mr. Ralph Latimer.”

“
Ralph,
”
she sighed.

“Yes—Ralph Latimer. Has he been here today?”

“He—no. No! You—you
want
him?”

“I'd like to have a word with him,” said Roger. “Nothing that need worry you, Miss Sharp, but I think he can help us.”

“He—he's not in trouble?”

She stood facing the window, and he could see the lines at the corners of her eyes and her lips; she was not far short of forty.

“Why should he be in trouble?”

“You—you're
a policeman.
”

“We have to talk to a lot of people who aren't in trouble,” said Roger. “How long have you known Mr. Latimer?”

“About—about a year,” said Meg Sharp slowly. “Oh, this is so worrying. He was to have come to see me last night, and didn't arrive. I was sure that something was the matter; he
wouldn't
let me down. Not
Ralph
! I—oh, no! No, no, no! He hasn't been—
hurt.
”

She stretched out a hand, almost touching Roger's, and her eyes glowed with alarm. He could understand what her sister had meant about Margaret Sharp.

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Roger. “When did you see him last?”

“Friday,” said the woman promptly; it had obviously been on her mind. “Friday; we went out to dinner. I thought he was worried; he—he wasn't having any luck, you know; he's the most unlucky man I've ever come across. Oh, I do wish you'd tell me what's the matter.”

“I just want to talk to him,” said Roger easily. “I'm sorry to hear about his bad luck. Betting, you mean?”

“Oh,
no.
Ralph isn't a betting man; it's just that his business deals won't go through; someone always stopped him. I tried to help him as much as I could.

Oh, poor Ralph! I—” She broke off, only to breathe: “No!”

Her sister must find her trying on occasions.

“No!” she repeated. “Gina wouldn't—Gina! She—that's my sister—she's just left; she's been asking questions about Ralph's friends; she—
have you seen my sister?
”

“I had a few words with her.”

“No!” cried Margaret Sharp. “It's too wicked. Too, too
wicked.
Gina—Gina hasn't told you anything?”

“About what?”

“I can't believe she would let me
down
”
gasped Margaret. “Anyhow, she's wrong! I lent him the money; it isn't true that Ralph stole it. I tell you it isn't true; I lent it to him. If anyone did anything wrong it was me. I didn't tell Gina that I was taking so much out of the account, but it was a joint account; it wasn't a crime. And I'd do anything for Ralph, anything. He's—wonderful! I'll never forgive Gina, never; she—”

“We wanted to have a word with Mr. Latimer before we saw your sister,” said Roger soothingly. “I shouldn't blame her—-but if Mr. Latimer comes here, you'll ask him to let me know, won't you? Here's my card.” He put it on the table, but she didn't look at it, stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped in front of her massive bosom, like a
prima donna
about to break into song. “Good evening, Miss Sharp.”