The Figure in the Dusk Page 12

  She stopped, and tears flooded her eyes.

  Roger didn’t prompt her.

  “Because someone had rung me up and said he was very like the photograph of this man Latimer. Oh, I know it was silly, it was disloyal; but once an idea like that gets into your head—it would have been different if he’d been at home, but he wasn’t. And then I heard about the attack on Lily, over the ten o’clock news. I was—frantic! And then—this. This!” She closed her eyes, and tears spilled on to her cheeks, her voice was husky, but she went on speaking. “Mr. West, please—please tell me, did he kill himself? Did he?”

  Roger said: “He was shot at close quarters, Mrs. Arlen, in exactly the same way as the others, except that he wasn’t in a car. He obviously met his murderer by appointment. And it must have been someone he knew. We’re anxious to find out who it might have been—and that means we want a list of his friends, and especially anyone he’s seen lately.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Has he been worried recently?”

  “No, I don’t think so. He was always cheerful. I shall miss him—so much. It’s hard to believe that he’s dead. Mr. West, you’re not lying to me, are you? He didn’t—kill the others and then—then shoot himself?”

  “He did not, Mrs. Arlen. Have you ever heard him mention the name Latimer?”

  “No.”

  “Has he been away lately, without any apparent reason?”

  “He travels about so much,” said Mrs. Arlen. “As a matter of fact, I—I’ve wondered. I couldn’t help it, but I’ve wondered if he were keeping something back from me. He knows I’m very jumpy when I’m like this, and I’ve known him keep back bad news. For the last few weeks he—he has seemed more thoughtful than usual. Withdrawn. But I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

  Roger learned nothing more from her.

  But when he went to the Newbury Police Station, there was a report from Scrymegour of the Yard. The bullets which had been fired at Mrs. Drew and had killed Raymond Arlen had come from the same gun; the gun that had killed the other three men.

  Georgina Sharp said: “But how can I help being worried? Don’t be so silly!”

  “Sorry,” said Peel.

  “She’s been missing for nearly twenty-four hours now,” said Georgina, who was sitting in her flat, knees and legs beneath her, arm resting on the arm of the settee. The pose was sheer beauty. “I can’t understand it, but it’s not any use saying it isn’t like her. She’s always been unpredictable. I think she’s gone to Latimer; he’s got a wicked hold over her. I sensed it before; that’s why I felt so wild. Can’t you find her?”

  Peel was standing in front of her.

  “We will,” he said.

  “You haven’t cut much ice yet,” Georgina said wearily. “Instead of searching this place, you ought to be looking for her.” She drew in her breath. “And if you say ‘orders are orders’, I’ll scream!”

  Peel turned away.

  Two detective-officers were in the bedroom, going through Meg Sharp’s papers. Peel went in to them, and found them sitting on the side of the bed, running through an old deed-box.

  “Found anything?” asked Peel.

  “As a matter of fact,” said one of the men, looking up, “I think I have—here.” He held up a long slip of paper. “It’s an old birth certificate—April, thirty-one years ago, and records the birth of a son, named Arnold, to Simon and Winifred Arlen. What are they doing with that!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Relations

  Georgina Sharp stood by the window, where her sister had been when Roger had last seen her. Roger, the certificate in his hand, was watching her closely. Peel stood by the door, his face set. The other men had gone, but everything they had found was on a table by Roger’s side; there were several other documents, equally significant.

  “I tell you I’ve never heard of that certificate, Arnold and Simon Arlen, or anything about it,” Georgina said tautly. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I’m trying to find out the truth.”

  “That was Meg’s box. She had the key. She had a right to her own private deed-box, hadn’t she? She was always careful about personal things. I’ve never seen her open the box; sometimes I’ve teased her about it. That’s all.”

  “Your sister has never talked about the past?”

  “No!”

  “How long have you been living here together?”

  “For eight years, on and off. I was in the WAAF for nearly three; Meg was here; she did a lot of Red Cross work.”

  “So you came to live with your sister when you were sixteen.”

  “Yes. I’d lived with Mother until then; when she died Meg made room for me. We’ve managed to get along smoothly most of the time.” Georgina’s eyes were bright with anxiety; perhaps with fear. “She’s older than I; she’s always had one man or another in tow; that’s the only thing we’ve ever quarrelled about. She made herself cheap, but—oh, what does that matter?”

  Roger said: “You are full sisters, aren’t you?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ve reason to doubt that,” said Roger formally, and picked up another paper. “This is another birth certificate, Miss Sharp—your sister’s. She was the child of Charles and Millicent Latimer. Here’s another.” He picked up the third, while Georgina stared at him, hands clenched at her sides, expression hostile and frightened. “This is yours—you were born to Alfred and Millicent Sharp. And there’s a marriage certificate; that of Alfred Sharp and Millicent Latimer, the widow of Charles Latimer. You and Meg are half-sisters. Do you mean to tell me that you didn’t know it?”

  “I did not!”

  “Can you think of any reason why your sister should keep the truth from you?”

  “No!” cried Georgina. “It isn’t true; it can’t be true!”

  “Why did you lose your temper when you thought Detective Sergeant Peel was Latimer? Why attack him so viciously?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “You say your sister has always been brazen with her men friends, yet you weren’t resigned to it, were so furious that you completely lost your self-control. Why? What’s the truth?”

  “I’ve told you the truth. He had some influence over her, stronger than any of the others. She’d never let a man rob her before. He could do any thing he liked with her; she was hopelessly in love—”

  “Was she?” asked Roger, softly. “Although they were so closely related.”

  “It’s all very well for you to talk now you’ve discovered this,” Georgina stormed at him. “I knew he could twist her round his little finger; I thought she’d really fallen in love with him. Instead—”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? He had some other hold on her. It must have been—blackmail.”

  Roger said more easily: “You’ve always suspected that he was using a kind of blackmail, haven’t you? That’s what made you so angry, why you went to see him?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t know,” Georgina said defiantly. “I just couldn’t understand why she was behaving like that. I wanted to find out the truth. It was a funny business altogether. I—I haven’t told you everything,” she went on, and pressed her hand against her burning forehead. “It didn’t seem to matter, I don’t think it does matter. It wasn’t that Meg couldn’t hold her man—she turned them down, one after the other. I could never understand it, but that’s what happened. With Latimer it was different. It’s hard to say how, but he seemed to matter to her much more than the others. It just wasn’t the same kind of attraction. I sensed that, and wanted to find out what was behind it. Now—you mean that they were brother and sister.” Her voice was husky.

  “Relations, anyhow,” said Roger.

  “Could
n’t—couldn’t it be a coincidence in the names?”

  “Is that likely? Miss Sharp, you know why we’re so anxious to find Latimer. You know why we have to make sure that he can’t do any more harm. Sure that you know nothing more?”

  “Yes,” she said wearily. “I’m quite sure.”

  “You realise that your sister may be in danger, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “And if you’re holding anything back—”

  “I’m not,” she said, wearily. “I don’t know where she went, I don’t know whether they met again. I’ve told you everything now. If you let him kill Meg—”

  She caught her breath. “You mustn’t allow it.”

  “We’ll find him,” said Roger. “But until we do, we want to make sure that nothing can happen to you. I shall leave a man outside this house, back and front. One of them will follow you wherever you go. There’s nothing to stop you from evading him, but you’ll be asking for trouble if you do.”

  “Why should I?” she asked flatly.

  “If Latimer’s holding your sister by force, he may try to do a deal with you—her freedom for more of your money. Don’t try anything, don’t trust him an inch, for anyone’s sake. If you do, and get caught, you’ll have walked into it with your eyes wide open. Understand?”

  “Oh, I understand,” she said.

  Roger folded up the certificates and put them in his pocket, nodded, and went to the door. Peel opened it, and looked round at Georgina before he followed Roger out of the flat.

  They went downstairs in silence, and stood by Roger’s car, looking up and down the street. Detective Officer Smithson was on the other side, but Roger didn’t beckon him.

  “How bad is it, Jim?” he asked quietly.

  “Not so good,” said Peel.

  “Like to be shifted to another job?”

  “It’s up to you,” said Peel. “I don’t think I’ll let anything stand in the way of catching Latimer. I think I’d make a better job of following Gina than anyone else—I’ve two reasons for wanting to keep her out of danger.”

  Roger looked at him steadily.

  “You know what this means? She’s one of the family which adopted Simon Arlen’s son. She probably knew that, is probably lying. If you fall down on the job, you’ll probably get an ‘I–can–never–forgive–myself complex.”

  “I’ll risk it, if you will.”

  “All right,” said Roger. “Watch Georgina. The danger period will be after dark, so take turn and turn with Smithson over there.”

  Peel said: “Thanks, Roger.”

  Roger got into the car and drove off, as Peel went across the road to see Smithson. His knee was aching, but not painful; he’d probably used it too much on the drive from York. That didn’t slow him down. At the Yard he telephoned Chatworth’s office from the hall, and Chatworth was still in.

  Roger went straight to his room.

  “Now what?” asked Chatworth, gruffly. “Found Margaret Sharp’s body?”

  “Not yet,” said Roger, and dropped the certificates on the desk. “The indications are that she and Latimer had a few secrets between them. She was born Latimer; I think it’s pretty certain that Simon Arlen’s son was adopted by her family, the Larimers—and that Margaret, who took the name of Sharp, knew it. Her mother married again; Georgina Sharp is a child of the second marriage. It’s pretty plain that Margaret knew her foster-brother was a dangerous individual, but just how much she knew about his plans is anyone’s guess. It’s possible that she’s gone off to try to stop him from doing anything else.”

  “What makes you think she thinks she might have any influence over him?” asked Chatworth.

  Roger didn’t speak.

  “All right, follow your hunch if you think it will get you anywhere,” said Chatworth. “You didn’t lose anything by following the hunch which took you to York last night. Roger, we must get results. I’ve spent a lot of time with the Home Secretary today. You know the general situation—too much violence, lack of public confidence in the police. A case like this with a man running round killing as he likes is shaking everyone up. I don’t like quarrelling with the Home Secretary.”

  “About what, in particular?” asked Roger.

  Chatworth growled: “You.”

  “So that’s it.” Roger forced a smile. He thought hard before he spoke with great deliberation. “I’ve had to take plenty of criticism in the past, and it’s always worked out all right; but if you’d like to shift me from the job, I shan’t argue.”

  “Want to throw your hand in?”

  “No.”

  Chatworth glowered.

  “I’ve told the Home Secretary that I’ve more confidence in you than in anyone else here, that I’m sure you’ll get quick results. Get them. If you don’t, we’ll all be in the cart.”

  “A general shake-up?” asked Roger, mildly.

  Chatworth growled: “I told them that while we’re understaffed these crimes of violence are going to get worse, and that if they’re not satisfied with what we’re doing, they can find someone else to hold down my job. Quick results in this might make them see sense. And don’t forget that this is in confidence, young Roger. Off with you!”

  Roger went out briskly, reached his office and was glad that Sloan wasn’t there. He sat back, lit a cigarette, and frowned at the window.

  It was now clear that Chatworth had been under heavy pressure from the Home Office for some time; equally clear that he, West, had come in for sharp criticism. It was characteristic of Chatworth to defend him vigorously with the great Panjandrums, and be ill-tempered and surly to his face. Chatworth was worried because the Yard was under fire; he could foresee an avalanche of criticism coming from the Press and public if this case weren’t quickly settled.

  Roger had no idea where to find Latimer; his only success had been the result of a leap in the dark.

  Or dusk …

  It was dusk now. The sun had gone, and the lights were shining over Westminster Bridge and on the Embankment. He stood up, and saw the car-lights and the bright windows of the trams clattering alongside the river. This was the hour at which Latimer had struck each night.

  Latimer?

  Was there any sense in doubting whether Latimer was the man he wanted?

  Smithson was smarting under his earlier failure, and was, prepared to work all hours to make up for it. He was a tall, big, dark-haired man, who had done well at the Yard, and now saw his prospects of promotion being dimmed. He watched Roger drive away, and had the satisfaction of seeing the great man nod to him, affably enough; you could rely on Handsome not to harbour a grievance.

  Peel joined him.

  “Come to tell me to go home and take a refresher course?” he asked glumly.

  “You know Handsome,” said Peel. “We’re both still on the job. You’re due for a spell off duty, but you don’t have to take it. We need transport, but not a Yard car—she’d guess what it was. Haven’t you a car?”

  “I’ve a two-seater Singer, but—”

  “Go and get it, will you?” asked Peel. “Georgina Sharp might try the same trick as her sister, and I don’t want to be fooled again. If she goes on foot I can follow and you can keep just behind us, and we’ll have transport if she takes a car or a bus. I doubt if she’ll move much before dark, if she moves at all. How long will it take you to get your car?”

  “Half an hour.” Smithson was eager. “I’ll make it in twenty minutes, if I can.”

  “If I’m not about when you get back, call the Yard,” said Peel.

  “Right!” Smithson hurried off.

  Peel strolled along the road, reached the corner and looked back at Number 122. A few people were walking along the street, doors kept opening and closing, but that of 122 kept closed. He smoked a cigarette, and tr
ied to get his own thoughts and emotions in proper order. He could no more explain why Georgina Sharp appealed to him so much than he could explain why he’d never before been particularly interested in women.

  It was getting dark; dusk would linger for a long time yet, and he didn’t like it. Those grim forebodings which had come at dusk, after the second murder, gathered darkly about him. He told himself that it was nonsense, that nothing would happen tonight; but he wasn’t sure.

  A car turned into the street, and passed him; it was Smithson in his green two-seater. Smithson pulled up a little farther along the street. More people passed up and down, and Peel kept the door of Number 122 in sight all the time; he was only twenty yards away, and could see the doorway in the poor light of a street lamp.

  Suddenly a woman appeared. Peel quickened his pace and approached.

  It was Georgina.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Meg

  Georgina Sharp did not look round, but she knew that Peel was following her. She turned the corner and hurried on towards Kensington High Street. Here the lighting was better. She glanced round from the High Street, and saw Peel only ten yards or so behind her, and she noticed a small car turn the corner, with only its sidelights on. She didn’t think anything about the car; it certainly wasn’t like a police car.

  She crossed the road, so that she was walking along the pavement in the same direction as the traffic. Buses lumbered past, a cyclist tried to pass one on the inside, and brushed close to her. Private cars and taxis made up the stream of traffic. She reached the street opposite the underground station, and hesitated as if she were about to cross again.

  Peel caught up with her.

  “Are you crazy?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer, but swung away and walked on, putting several yards between them. Peel followed doggedly, and Smithson in his two-seater kept coming along, in little bursts. At the corner of the High Street and Church Street Georgina hesitated again. Two buses and some taxis were lined up before a traffic light. She hurried round the corner and, as Peel reached it, he saw her put up her hand at a taxi. It swerved into the kerb. She peered through the gloom at Peel as she jumped inside, without giving herself time to speak to the driver.