The Figure in the Dusk (16 page)

 

Nothing else happened.

Georgina stayed at the window for several seconds, but did not look round again. Roger, keyed up, waited for the front door to open, and it remained closed. He could see the sidelights of Peel's car farther along the street; the engine hummed – a sign of expectancy – but still the door remained closed.

Roger strained his ears to catch any sound of a police whistle from the back of the houses; there was none. The men on duty there wouldn't be sleeping on their jobs. He began to walk towards Number 122, and peered across at it; there was no doubt that the door had been closed.

A clock struck nine, not far away.

Peel switched off the engine of his car, and Roger joined him; the window was down.

“She's been twenty minutes,” Peel said. “I thought she'd have come running out as soon as she got her hand on the cash.”

“She isn't going to try the same trick twice,” Roger said. “I think we may have under-estimated Meg. Get on the other side of the road, will you—facing this way?”

He pointed towards a corner, beyond which was the High Street.

Peel didn't ask questions, but obeyed.

Roger crossed to the other side of the street, and stood a few yards from the front door. Peel's car was now in its new position; only the rear light and the dark outline of the little car showed. Another car turned into the street, from behind both Roger and Peel, and came along swiftly. Roger was staring at the door, keyed up; as he had been from the moment he had spoken to Peel.

The car squealed to a standstill.

The door of Number 122 opened.

Roger caught a glimpse of a woman at the wheel of the car which had just stopped, and of Meg Sharp, rushing towards the car. He flattened against the side of a house, anxious not to be seen. If he showed himself now, they would never lead him to Latimer.

The door alongside the driver was open. The big woman squeezed herself inside, moving with surprising speed, and slamming the door as the car started off. It hadn't stopped for thirty seconds. As it moved, Roger sprinted. He could not hear Peel's car start up, the engine of the other was making too much noise. It reached the corner as Roger sat next to Peel, who sent his car roaring towards the corner.

The first car turned left – into the High Street.

As Peel reached it, a bus was swinging towards them. Peel trod on the accelerator, the car shot forward, and someone on the pavement screamed. The bus driver jammed on his brakes and the bus swerved. A motor-cyclist, coming in the other direction, swung towards the kerb as Peel turned, and mounted it.

Another woman screamed, a policeman appeared in the light of another car, waving wildly.

“Nice work,” Roger said.

Peel slid between two more cars, cutting in dangerously. The women's small car was close to them now; it was possible that the women knew they had been followed. Peel slackened pace. A car drew alongside, with a policeman standing on the running-board, and it started to cut in.

“C.I.D.,” called Roger.

The policeman stopped, the car swerved out of Peel's way, and he went on. The first car swung round to the left—as Georgina's had done before getting into her taxi. It went towards Notting Hill Gate.

Peel had switched on the radio.

Roger grabbed it.

“
Chief Inspector West, calling Scotland Yard. Can you hear me?
”

“
Yard answering. We can hear you.
”

“
Margaret Sharp is going up Church Street with another woman in black or dark blue Austin
12
saloon car registration number BX
241B.
Alert all patrol cars arid all duty forces. Report progress of car back to me. Message ends. Repeat please.
”

The repeat came back, letter perfect.

“All right,” Roger said to Peel. “Relax.”

The smaller car passed out of sight; several others were between them and the women now. After the first two minutes there was a call from the Yard. A patrol car had passed the women near the Bayswater Road. Another reported it in the Bayswater Road. There was a silence of several minutes, then came a report that it had turned into Leinster Gardens. Another pause, then several more reports. The car was obviously taking a roundabout route, the driver was trying to make sure that she wasn't followed.

Peel said: “They can't dodge this time.”

“Our Meg believes in miracles,” said Roger.

“Recognise the other woman?”

“No, but it wasn't Georgina.”

Peel grunted. “Think it might have been Mrs. Arlen?”

“I don't know.”

“It wouldn't surprise
me
”
said Peel.

“It would me.”

Peel started to ask why, and there was another message from a patrol car near Paddington Station. Roger sat tensely, half expecting to be told that they had gone to the station, trying to remember what trains left about this time; they might have made a wild dive to catch a certain train; there were local as well as long-distance lines from Paddington. Peel was in the street where the car had last been reported, still driving with reckless skill.

“
Austin BX 241B now in Edgware Road
”
came a message.

Roger relaxed. “Not the station, anyhow.”

“I've just had a nasty thought,” said Peel.

“What?”

“She might have stopped and let Meg get off; that would fool us.”

“Be cheerful,” said Roger.

But it could have happened.

“
Yard calling Chief Inspector West. Austin BX
241
B now in Oxford Street, heading towards the City.
”

“Soho?” suggested Peel. “He turned up there once, remember. May have a hide-out there.”

“Maybe.”

Peel said: “What makes you doubt if it's Mrs. Arlen?”

Roger laughed. “She has plenty of money; she wouldn't need to get a hundred pounds from the Sharps to help her Ralph along.”

“Sorry,” grunted Peel. “I'm not myself.”

“On the other hand, she might just have arranged to go and see her Ralph,” said Roger. “The women could be in the rescue attempt together; but if you can think of anything less likely, I'll resign.”

“Of course not.”

“
Yard calling Chief Inspector West. Austin BX
241
B now in Charing Cross Road, seen to turn right into
…”

“Soho!” exclaimed Peel.

They were no more than a hundred yards from Charing Cross Road. Peel cut into a side street, taking a chance, made several wide turns, and ran into Dean Street. Fifty yards along another car was pulling into the kerb; it looked about the size of the wanted Austin. A woman got out, and was just visible in the light from a café; she was a massive, dark lump who disappeared into a doorway. The car stopped only just long enough for her to get out.

“Now we've got 'em!” crowed Peel.

“
Hold it. Chief Inspector West calling. Passenger has left Austin BX
241
B in Dean Street. Send patrols to Dean Street, block each end and all side turnings. Detail one patrol car to follow Austin to destination. Can you hear me?
”

“
Message received.
”

Peel pulled into the side of the road about twenty yards from the doorway into which the woman had disappeared. Another police patrol car turned into the street. Peel jumped into the road, to stop it; Roger went along past the small shops, the cafés, the boarded-up debris of what had once been shops. All the doors were closed. He pushed each one. The café light was only a few doors away, and he had seen Meg Sharp against that; she certainly had gone past it. He pushed another door, and it creaked open.

He stopped.

Peel came up.

“Anything?”

“The door was open, she didn't have time to use a key,” Roger said. “But she may have slammed it and put me off. Anyhow, she's around here. Have you detailed the others?”

“They'll seal the place up.” Peel's voice was deep with satisfaction. “Hunt nearly over, Roger.”

Roger said: “Don't you be too sure. I wish I had a gun.”

Peel didn't speak.

They stepped inside the narrow passage which led from the open door. Darkness and silence met them. There was no certainty that this was the right place. They stood and listened, and all they could hear was footsteps approaching outside; there was no sound above, no murmur of voices.

They reached the first landing, and Roger shone his torch. Its light fell upon the only door. It had the name of a firm on it, and there were two Yale locks.

“Better stay here, Jim.”

Peel grunted.

Roger went up the next flight of wooden stairs. They creaked so loudly that it was almost certain that they would be heard above. He saw a glimmer of light above him, coming from the top or the sides of a door. At the next landing he saw the outline of the door against a slight filtering of light, and then the light went out.

Peel's whisper floated up.

“Anything?”

Roger didn't answer. There were fresh sounds, as if men had stepped stealthily into the passage downstairs. Creaking followed; they were coming up, Peel was probably in the lead. Roger tried the handle of the door, but it was locked; his torchlight showed a Yale, and he couldn't open that with a pick-lock. He could open it if he had the right materials; one of the patrol car men might have some cracksmen's implements.

Peel breathed almost into his ear.

“This it?”

“Are the other places well watched?”

“We've six cars outside, they say.”

“Good.” Roger hesitated, then thumped on the door with the side of his clenched fist. The noise sounded very loud. He heard nothing else, and kicked the door, and then called clearly: “
Open hi the name of the law!
”

There were moments when the stock phrase was impressive. There had been someone in here; they could certainly hear what he said. If he were wrong in his guess, then the door would be opened.

There was silence.

Roger said: “I think we're home. One of you go down, check the back of this place, and have it surrounded. Make sure all exits from the street are blocked, too, and remind everyone that he's probably armed.”

A man went off.

“Come on,” said Roger. “Let's see how strong you are.”

They put their combined weight against the door, and it groaned and sagged. They heaved again, grunting; there was an explosive crack, and the door swung inwards. Roger pitched forward, Peel flung himself to one side, each expecting a shot; there was none. Light came from another door across the room they'd entered—from a wide gap at one side.

This was a sitting-room; with old armchairs, couches, low tables, cheap wall-paper, a general air of dilapidation and cheapness. Peel switched on the fight, which showed the room in all its tawdry gloom. But they didn't worry about the tawdriness. Two more men joined them as they reached the other door.

Roger spoke over his shoulder.

“Sure everything's watched at the back?”

“Yes, sir,” said one of the men. “They can't get away. Better have this, sir.”

The man held an axe.

Roger took it. “Thanks.” He was breathing normally again, and raised his voice. “Latimer, it's no use—open the door.”

No one replied.

Roger said: “Open in the name of the law,” and went forward again; this time the phrase seemed like a cliché, an empty mockery. Why? He'd called to Latimer, and couldn't be sure that Latimer was inside; couldn't be absolutely sure that Meg Sharp was. That swiftly moving figure, visible only for a moment, might have been someone else; he might find himself fooled again.

He smashed at a panel of the door, near the handle, and stood aside. His men stood by the wall, Peel nearest; all of them were thinking of the close-quarters shooting which had started this affair. There was a sound now, as if someone were panting.

Roger struck again, and levered the axe, wood splintered, and there was room to put his hand through. He didn't fancy it, but moved quickly. He had to grope for the key, expected a bullet or a weapon smashing against his fingers; it didn't come. He turned the key and moved aside as the door swung open a few inches.

“Now don't play the fool,” he said, and kicked the door wide open.

He saw Margaret Sharp, and relief surged through him. She was standing a few feet out from a corner, hands raised in front of her breast, braided hair loose, mouth open.

“Keep away!” she gasped. “Keep away!”

“Now don't be silly,” said Roger.

Was Latimer hiding behind her? She was big enough to conceal him. The man wasn't in sight. Roger edged in, making sure that the room was empty except for that corner. Peel followed him, and went slowly towards a window, and the woman backed, as if to hide whoever was behind her. Roger darted to one side; she moved to block his path, and he swung round again.

There was no one in the corner.

Peel flung up the window, and called down.

“Any one seen him?”

The answer came promptly: “No.”

There was one other door, which was closed. It was opposite the window. Roger knew the type of building well enough to be sure it was a tiny kitchen, with little room; probably there would be a window in it. He walked across as Meg Sharp flung herself at him. The waiting C.I.D. men grabbed her arms; she struggled and cried, but couldn't free herself. Roger didn't glance round, but there was a picture of her face in his mind's eye; the open mouth and terrified eyes, as if she were looking at the end of the world. Now she was sobbing, wildly and unnaturally.

He called: “Latimer, come out.”

There was no answer; he wondered again if they were fooling him, if he would find Latimer beyond this door. He kicked it; it was more solid than the others. He smashed at it with the axe, wrenching the blade out after each heavy blow, and at last the door swung open. He stepped to one side. He was making almost a habit of this, and this time he was slower; he didn't expect a bullet.