The Figure in the Dusk

The Figure In The Dusk

 

First published in 1951

© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1951-2014

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

 

The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

 

This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

 

Typeset by House of Stratus.

 

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

 

 

This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.

Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

 

www.houseofstratus.com

 

 

 

John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as
Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron
.

Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:

 

Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.

 

Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the
One Party Alliance
which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.

He also founded the
British Crime Writers' Association
, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing.
The Mystery Writers of America
bestowed upon him the
Edgar Award
for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate
Grand Master Award
. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.

 

 

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.