The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey Page A

herself.
    It had hardly closed before Roger said:
    â€œAfter her.”
    â€œRight!” said Peel, who was already on the move. “Mind you, I shall keep my distance.”
    He grinned, and went out cautiously, then closed the door.
    Â 

Chapter Seven
Search for Latimer
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    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.
    â€œOne of you stay here,” Roger said. “Don’t speak to Latimer if he comes in, and telephone me at once.”
    â€œRight, sir!”
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œBray, here,” said the Inspector in charge of Records.
    â€œAnything?”
    â€œCare to come over?”
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œSiddown, 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.
    â€œWhat’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