The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey Page B

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.”
    â€œI’ll have them all checked. Anything else?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNothing about the Sharp women?”
    â€œNot at that address, and not those Christian names,” said Bray. “You can’t tell; lies run off their tongues sometimes. You know that.”
    â€œLatimer?” asked Roger.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œLatimer went out at half-past twelve last night, and didn’t come back,” he announced.
    â€œSure?”
    â€œYes. 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—”
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œPhe-ew!”
    â€œHe’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.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œNothing in about the bullets in Aden’s head?”
    â€œNot yet,” said Sloan.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œArlen job?” asked Roger.
    â€œAlways 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?”
    â€˜These’ were photographs of Arlen, after death.
    Scrymegour pointed with a pencil.
    â€œSinge-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.”
    â€œI know you will,” said Roger. “Well, if that’s the