Chapter One
Murder on the Road
It was dusk, and the man moved from the side of the road, making Arlen start. His foot came off the accelerator and went on to the brake. The man stepped straight in front of him, dark, lean, long haired. He didn’t raise his hands or make any signal – just stopped and looked. Arlen’s foot jammed down hard, and he pulled on the handbrake, but didn’t think he could stop in time. The car stopped, jolting Arlen forward, and the man was still there, upright, unhurt.
“You damned fool!” Arlen’s voice was squeaky, it had scared him so much.
The man smiled, raised his right hand in token acknowledgment, and strolled round to the door. He opened it without a word, and climbed in next to Arlen.
“You’re going my way,” he said.
“You—you must be crazy!”
“I can jump fast,” the man said. “Which way are you going?”
Arlen wiped his forehead, and wished he didn’t feel so cold. It was partly because of the alarm, partly because of the man’s cold, aggressive manner. Arlen was angry, and couldn’t find the right words.
“There’s no one in the way now,” said the man. “You can drive on.”
Slowly and deliberately, Arlen switched off the engine.
“That’s right,” he said. “I can drive on, when I’m alone. Out you get.”
“You misunderstand me, stranger; I’m coming for a ride.”
Because it was dusk, the man’s features were shadowy.
“Not with me, you’re not,” said Arlen.
He didn’t know whether he could keep the defiance up, but having started, he couldn’t very well give way. He took out his cigarette-case, and as he opened it, a thin hand stretched out and plucked a cigarette.
“Thanks.”
Arlen knocked the cigarette out of long fingers.
“Now, take it easy, stranger,” said the man. “You’ll make me angry if you go on that way, and I don’t want to hurt you. Give me a cigarette.”
“I’ll be damned if—”
The stranger put his hand to his pocket, with such deliberation that Arlen broke off.
A gun appeared.
“Mind if I have that cigarette?” asked the stranger.
Arlen’s hands were unsteady, but he was still stubborn; he had always been a stubborn man. He closed the case and slid it back into his pocket, and was proud of the steadiness of his voice.
“If you think you can frighten me, you’re all wrong. Get out and stay out.”
“Listen,” said the stranger. “And look.”
It was a quiet country road, twenty miles from London. There were fields on either side, and against the darkening sky the branches of oaks and beech, just coming into leaf, looked dark and sombre. It was very quiet – until the shot rang out. The bullet passed a few inches in front of Aden’s eyes, and he imagined he could feel the heat of the shot. He flinched at the report and the flash, and felt a wild spasm of fear.
“Now I’ll have that cigarette,” said the stranger.
Arlen gave him one.
“Light.”
Arlen thumbed his lighter.
“Thanks.” The stranger leaned forward, and his eyes shone in the little light. “Now, where are you going?”
“I’m—I’m going home. I—”
“I guessed that, but where is home?”
“Chelsea, I—”
“I don’t know what’s come over you,” said the lean, dark stranger with the brown eyes, “but you forgot to light your own cigarette. We’re going the same way. You can drop me at Wimbledon Common—the Putney side. Then you can go home to your wife and family all alone and in one piece.”
Arlen burst out: “You’ve got a nerve!”
“And you’ve some sense,” said the stranger. The gun was in the pocket farthest away from Arlen, and the man himself edged against the door, as if he suspected that Arlen might try to strike him. “Let’s get going.”
Arlen started the engine and let in the clutch. As the car moved off, he frowned – partly because he realised that he had seen this man’s face before. It wasn’t familiar, but he’d seen it somewhere. The pendulous lower lip and the short upper lip made him feel certain. He stared straight ahead, thinking of that face and the way the man had looked, cold and unfeelingly, when he had fired the shot.
This road was little used, and went on for several miles before it ran into the outskirts of Kingston; after that it was a swift run along the dual carriage-way bypass, to Roehampton and Wimbledon Common. The by-pass would be busy.
As he drove steadily along this winding road, Arlen decided what he would do. Certainly he couldn’t let an armed man stay loose – the quicker the police dealt with him the better. He would go half-way along the by-pass as if he were going to obey, then jam on his brakes. As he would be prepared and the other wouldn’t, there shouldn’t be much trouble. He’d knock the man out, and then stop a passing motorist, and the police would soon be on the scene.
He didn’t feel like smiling at his smartness, he was too nervous. The other was looking at him as if he could read his thoughts.
Arlen switched on the headlamps, for safety and for comfort; it wasn’t good to be in the half-light with this creature; that word sprang to mind, not man.
The rights shone on the windows of a cottage, a pale yellow sheen which disappeared, and the cottage showed for a moment against the skyline. A light was on, in one room.
Where had he seen this man before? Had he actually seen him in the flesh, or a picture?
“You’ve a nice car,” the stranger said suddenly.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s a fine car. These Austin Sheerlines take some beating. What’s the price today?”
“About—about fourteen hundred,” Arlen said.
“I wish I could afford to run round in a fourteen-hundred-pound car. You must be worth a pile of money.”
“I—I get along.”
Arlen shot a glance at him, becoming more afraid.
If the other thought he had a lot of money in his pocket, anything might happen. Arlen had twenty-nine pounds and some loose silver. His mind played tricks, and he thought of the other things he had of value. The gold cigarette-case, gold lighter, gold watch – all Muriel’s presents to him. ‘I know I shouldn’t, darling, but I like you to have nice things.’ That was all.
“Mustn’t you?” insisted the stranger, softly.
“Eh?”
“You’re not very polite. I remarked that you must be worth a pile of money.”
“Me! No, not at all, I—I have heavy expenses to meet. I have, really.” Now his tongue ran away with him. He had always known that he wasn’t a brave man, now he had proof. “Home, my wife, three children; two of them are away at school; it costs a fortune these days, and what with income tax—”
The man opened his mouth and laughed, softly.
“You have a hard time, don’t you? A beautiful wife—I bet she’s beautiful—a big house, a fat income. I don’t know why some men have all the luck and others don’t get any. I’ve never had any luck.”
Arlen didn’t answer.
“We’re getting near Kingston,” said the stranger. “Don’t do anything silly, will you?”
Arlen exploded: “All I want is to get rid of you!”
“You will, if you’re careful,” said the stranger. “Tell me about your wife. Is she beautiful?”
“She—”
“Got a photograph?”
“No, I—”
“Come on, I’ll bet you have one close to your heart,” said the stranger, and gave the soft laugh again.
He stretched out his hand and felt inside Arlen’s pocket, pulling out his wallet as if by sleight of hand. He let it fall open. There was just sufficient light for him to see the money. That was why he had taken the wallet, of course.
Arlen felt near to panic.
Long, bony fingers fiddled inside the wallet and drew out two photographs. It was too dark to see them, but the man put them close to his face, in pretence. Arlen felt a spasm of dread; the man was toying with him, cat and mouse; there was evil in him, this was a form of sadism. He gritted his teeth and his foot went harder on the accelerator.
“Steady,” said the stranger. “You don’t want to break our necks, do you? Turn left at the next corner.”
“Left? It’s straight on, to—”
“You heard me.”
Arlen thought: ‘I won’t do it.’ He pressed down his foot harder than ever. The stranger could do nothing while he was travelling at speed, dared not shoot while he was in control of the car. Go faster, faster! He swung round corners and passed a cyclist coming towards him; he saw the girl bump on to the grass verge, and thought she fell off her machine. Faster, faster! He caught a glimpse of a sign-post at the extreme range of his headlamps, and it pointed left.
Then, swift as a picture nickering across the screen, he remembered why he thought he had seen this man before.
He reared back, in horror – and the stranger clipped him on the side of the jaw. He felt the man take the wheel, leaning over him, felt the wings scrape the hedge, then felt the car swing round to the left. It wobbled wildly, but the stranger steadied it. Hedge, narrow road, a heap of gravel and two tar-barrels showed up in the glare – and then the man switched off the engine and they slowed down, astoundingly in the middle of the road.
Arlen grabbed at the door-handle.
The man hit him again, savagely, and he gasped and relaxed his grip.
“You recognised me, didn’t you?” said the stranger in a gentle voice. “That’s just too bad.”
Suddenly, he switched off the headlights, and it was now practically dark; to Arlen, it seemed pitch dark. He shifted his position and struck out wildly, hit the man somewhere, but did no harm. He struck again and hit the far window, painfully.
He saw a flash, heard a roar.
The tall, dark man with brown eyes took the money out of Arlen’s pockets, then the watch, lighter and cigarette-case, pulled a signet ring off his finger and, still not satisfied, searched in the other pockets until he found a case of keys.
Next, he opened his door, leaving Arlen slumping backwards, blood from his head dripping to the back of the car. He rounded the car, opened the other door and dragged the dead man out. A few yards farther on was a gate leading into a field. He dragged the body to the gate and through; there was now no risk of it being seen by night.
He went back to the car, took the wheel, started the engine and, quite suddenly, laughed; the same soft laugh which had frightened Arlen. He drove a little way, reversed, and soon reached the Kingston by-pass. He swung on to it, and joined the stream of traffic racing towards London. The car behaved beautifully, and he was a good driver.
He reached Putney Hill …
He reached Chelsea Town Hall and turned right, towards the river, until he found himself in one of the wide streets with graceful houses, near the river. He pulled up, switched on the roof-light and glanced at a letter he had taken from Arlen’s pocket. It was addressed: W. Arlen, Esq., 7 Merrick Street, Chelsea, S.W.3, but the driver already knew that.
A couple walked along the street towards him. He opened his window, but did not look out. When they’d passed, he drove on, turned into Merrick Street; this was a high-class residential neighbourhood. He went slowly along, until he passed a house with a hall light on, and the number 7 on the glass fanlight. He touched his forehead.
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” he said.
Chapter Two
Burglary
“Of course there’s no need to worry, Peter,” said Muriel Arlen. “Daddy’s often as late as this. You go to sleep.”
She stood by the open door of her son’s room, smiling at a pair of rounded and anxious eyes, grey like his father’s. At ten, Peter was remarkably like his father. He had promise of the same curly fair hair, the same broad forehead and – although few knew this – the same stubborn temperament and earnest manner.
“He isn’t often later than eight o’clock,” said Peter.
“He has been several times.”
“But it’s nearly half-past nine now; I haven’t been able to get to sleep, through worrying.”
“Nonsense! Off you go!”
She waved and laughed, and went out of the room, closing the door firmly.
Her expression changed as she walked away from the room towards the spacious landing. It was a Georgian house, roomy, comfortable and, under her guiding hand, charming and attractive; the house of wealthy people.
She hurried downstairs. The hall light was on. She stood looking at the front door, made a sudden decision and opened the door and looked up and down, but saw no sign and heard nothing of a car. She closed the door and went into a small room on the left of the hall; this was the morning-room, where she spent most of her time. It was restful and pleasing. A bright fire warmed the April night, firelight flickered on the pale green of the walls and was caught by the glass in the frames of the water-colours, lending richness to the glasses and bottles which stood on a round table, ready for her husband’s return. He was a creature of habit, and few things pleased him more than the drink they always had as soon as he was home.
The Times and Telegraph were folded on the arm of his chair. He liked his creature comforts, and she indulged them. He was satisfied with the trappings of contentment; she believed he was contented.
On the top of the bookshelves in a corner recess were photographs of the family. She didn’t look at them, but stood by the telephone, which was near his chair. Abruptly, she snatched up the receiver and dialled.
She stared into the fire, which glistened on her eyes, her lips were parted as if in excitement. After a long pause, a man answered.
“Hallo.”
“Ralph,” said Mrs. Arlen, “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“My sweet!” The man’s voice was deep, and pleasant and low pitched. “Just a moment; I’ve dropped my cigarette.” There was another pause, and through it faint sounds, which might have been voices. “Here we are, then! I’m dreadfully sorry I couldn’t come this afternoon. I—Here! Don’t say he’s not coming home tonight, and we—”
“Ralph, he’s not home, and I’m worried. There’s been no message.”
“I don’t see why that should worry you,” said the man. “If we’d known, I’d have come round again for a couple of hours. That husband of yours is just about the most inconsiderate devil I know. When are you going to—”
“Ralph, please. It’s so unlike him.”
“He’s probably had a breakdown, and hasn’t had a chance to telephone,” said the man. “Don’t worry, my darling.”
She didn’t answer.
“Muriel, there’s no need to worry,” the man said more emphatically. “No need on two counts—first because he’ll turn up like a bad penny—nothing ever happens to men who’re in the way—and second, because I don’t like you worrying about him. The trouble with Wilfred is that he’s a bad habit that’s grown on you. You can’t shake him off.”
“I see,” said Muriel Arlen.
“Darling! I don’t mean to upset you, but there isn’t any need to worry. You know I always get savage when I think about him. You and I could—”
“Don’t let’s talk about that now, I can’t help being worried. Peter can’t get to sleep because of it, and I—well, I always fly to you when I’m in trouble.”
“Then keep on doing it,” said Ralph. “Like me to come round?”
“You’d better not,” she said; “he might be back at any time.”
“That proves you really needn’t worry, and you know it yourself.”
“I wondered if—”
“Wondered what?”
“I wondered if I ought to call the police.”
“My darling, why on earth raise a scare because he’s a couple of hours late? Hasn’t he ever been late before?”
“Never, without sending me a message.”
“There’s one thing,” said Ralph, in a bitter voice, “you can always depend on him, and set your watch by his coming and going. How I detest that man! I—sorry, my sweet. Feelings got the better of me. Look here, I’ll call you in half an hour. If he hasn’t turned up, we’ll think about it again.”
“No, I’ll call you,” said Muriel.
He laughed.
“Because you know he’ll probably be back by then, and wonder who’s calling! You’re not really worried, darling; you just wanted to talk to me.”
“I always want to talk to you,” said Muriel. “Goodbye, my darling.”
“Give yourself a good strong gin,” said Ralph. “’Bye, precious.”
She put down the receiver, but didn’t move from the table. Fancied faces appeared in the fire: Wilfred’s and Ralph’s. She glanced up to the photographs, seeking Peter’s. The girls were older: twins of seventeen. They were old enough to understand, and from little things they had said she knew that they were sometimes puzzled by their father, and easily became impatient with him. Peter was different; and Peter’s heart wasn’t sound. But for Peter, she would have left Wilfred years ago. The irony of it was that she’d conceived Peter, hoping desperately that it would give Wilfred what he most wanted and turn him into a human being instead of a kind of automaton.
She was as much a creature of habit as he; she normally wouldn’t drink until he was home, but she now went across and poured herself out a drink; it didn’t help. It was getting on for ten.
Ralph was quite right, the police would probably laugh at her. ‘Really, madam? Two hours late? An hour and three-quarters? Well, it isn’t really serious, is it? If you will keep us informed.’
She lit a cigarette.
In the mornings she was never really happy until Wilfred had left and she had a day of freedom ahead. She began to withdraw within herself when he was due home, and from the moment his car sounded outside she became frozen – a shell, talking, smiling, pretending, doing everything mechanically – and satisfying him, because that was all he needed to make him satisfied. Yet she could worry like this because some trifling accident or hold-up had delayed him.
“Ralph, it’s nearly eleven, and he’s not back yet.”
“Good Lord! As you didn’t ring before, I thought he’d shown up.”
“Something must have happened.”
“Not necessarily serious. You know, sweet, you’ve always regarded Wilfred as a paragon, but he might have a little blonde tucked away somewhere, and—”
“If he had, he’d leave her in time to be home, or send a message,” Muriel said. “Don’t be flippant about it.”
“Sorry, darling. Shall I come round?”
“It wouldn’t be wise, but I wish you could.”
“Come and see me, then.”
“You know I can’t, tonight. It’s Wednesday, the servants are still out. Ralph, ought I to telephone the police?”
“Well—I shouldn’t think so yet, but if it will ease your mind, have a word with them. I wish—”
“Yes?”
“Never mind,” said Ralph gruffly.
“But I do mind.”
“Then I wish you were jumping for joy because he was late, and you were having an evening on your own.”
“It’s—Peter.”
“Isn’t he asleep yet?”
“Yes, but—”
“You know, darling, the trouble is that it’s too much of a strain. I’ve noticed it lately. You’re jumpy and edgy most of the time, living with him is getting on your nerves. That, and not living with me. Don’t go on too long, sweet. I know you think he’d never divorce you, but you can’t be sure with the righteous. He’ll probably call you a scarlet woman, and—oh, I’m sorry. But you know how I feel.”
“Yes, darling,” said Muriel. “I think I’ll wait until midnight, and if he isn’t back then, call the police.”
“Do that,” said Ralph.
She went upstairs to Peter’s room. He was sleeping on his back, had a lovely colour, and looked fit and strong. His curly hair was rumpled; both the girls had straight hair. Peter had the good looks, too, although none of the children were really plain. She stood looking at him for several minutes, then went downstairs. She had never known such a long evening. She poured herself out another gin and orange, and tried to read, but couldn’t settle. Time passed so slowly. She was torn between the two attractions: home and Peter, and Ralph. It was easy to understand why Ralph was so impatient; an intolerable situation had been going on for three years. Few men would have been as patient as Ralph; he’d given devotion and in return received – nothing. Practically nothing, anyhow. He was right, too, it was a great strain.
She jumped up and looked in the mirror.
When he’d said that she was jumpy and edgy, it had hurt; it hurt now. She studied her face, the face of an attractive woman of thirty-eight. Of course, she didn’t look like a girl, there were a few lines on her forehead and in the corners of her eyes, but – she didn’t look old. Did she? There were two streaks of grey in her dark hair, and she wouldn’t have her hair dyed. Was she foolish? Had Ralph really meant that she was losing her looks?
No, he’d just meant what he had said, she was edgy under the strain of it. She couldn’t go on. He wanted her to tell Wilfred, had been begging her to, for nearly two years. Only Peter had stopped her. Ralph hadn’t much money, otherwise he would probably have been more insistent. Money!
Peter would probably begin to notice that things were wrong. He was old for his years; too old.
She turned away from the mirror and went to the front door, but there was no sign of the car.
Probably it was a good thing that this had happened when George and Mary, the servants, were out. They would be out all night, they’d taken the job on condition that they could leave after lunch on Wednesday and not return until after breakfast on Thursday; they were such excellent workers that it would have been folly to complain. Usually she enjoyed the greater freedom; and Wednesday afternoons were often the afternoons of the week.
Ralph—
She shivered, because it was cold, and went back to the fire.
It was twenty minutes to twelve.
The fire was low, and she put several logs on and watched them blaze and heard them crackle. Usually they would have been on much earlier, Wilfred would rub his hands in front of them and say ‘There’s nothing like a log fire, Mew,’ at least three times. In some moods, she would be at screaming point. She felt calmer than she had before, perhaps because it was nearly time to call the police. She would wait until midnight,.now. She relaxed and lay back in her chair, her eyes half closed and the firelight softening – and then she heard a sound in the hall.
She jumped up.
“Wilfred!”
There was no answer. She went to the door and opened it, hurrying into the dark passage.
“Wilf—” she began, and her voice trailed off.
The light from her room showed a man standing by the foot of the stairs, with the front door closed behind him. He had a gun in his gloved hand, a scarf over his face, a trilby hat pulled low over his eyes.
“Good evening, Mrs. Arlen,” he said in a hard voice.
She didn’t speak. The gun and the scarf made him a sinister figure. The gun, pointing at her breast, didn’t move. She found herself breathing hard.
“What—what do you want?”
“You needn’t worry,” said the man. “I won’t hurt you if you do as you’re told. Where does Mr. Arlen keep his safe?”
He spoke in a low-pitched voice, harsh and menacing; not natural. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly. He didn’t move.
“Well, where does he?”
“Why—” she hesitated. “Why should I tell you?”
“Because I’m at the business end of the gun,” said the stranger. “And I’m in a hurry, Mrs. Arlen. I wouldn’t have worried you, but you’ve got good ears. Almost as if you were listening for someone!” That sounded like a sneer. “What about that safe?”
“It—it’s upstairs.”
If she had the nerve, she could turn and rush into the morning-room and slam the door on him, then call the police. The man would have to run; certainly he couldn’t do her any harm. But she had come too far, she wouldn’t have time to get back before he could shoot, and – she believed he would shoot. She just stood there, praying that he would turn towards the stairs.
“Just show me where,” he said.
“I—”
“You argue too much, Mrs. Arlen. I wouldn’t object to shooting you. Then your children would be motherless, wouldn’t they? Poor kids!” He backed a few feet, so that there was room for her to pass between him and the stairs. “Lead the way, lady.”
She found it hard to put one foot before the other, and it took an age to reach the stairs. She stared at him, but could see only a little of his cheeks and forehead. As she held on to the corner post and turned to mount the stairs he moved forward and pushed her shoulder.
“Don’t waste time!”
She made herself hurry up the stairs, and heard him following, although he moved softly. The gun would be pointing at her back. There was nowhere to give security on the gloomy, spacious landing. She was frightened now, almost at screaming point. She knew that if she screamed, he might shoot, and she must keep command of herself.
And – a scream would wake Peter.
Could she – fool him?
“If you give me any trouble,” the man said, “I’ll shoot you in the back.”
She closed her eyes for a second, then led the way to the door of Wilfred’s study. She thrust it open and stepped forward into pitch darkness.
“Stop!”
She stopped dead.
“Put on the light,” the man ordered.
She put on the light.
“Now go into the middle of the room, and don’t turn round until I say so.”
She took a long time to reach the middle of the small room, a study-cum-library – Wilfred’s ‘little den’. Books lined the wall, a big desk was in the window, there were two armchairs, light oak panelling.
“Go to the safe,” the man ordered.
It was in a corner, encased in an oak cabinet. She drew within a yard of it.
“It’s—locked,” she said.
“Open it,” he ordered, and something dropped on the floor just in front of her; Wilfred’s key case. She raised her hands, and half turned, in sudden realisation.
“You’ve got his—”
The man stepped forward and struck her on the side of the head with his gun. Her head whirled, she staggered back, and he struck her again.
