The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey Page B

way.
    â€œThere’s always a chance that he got out the back way, of course. We’ve had the back covered for the last twenty minutes, but he had plenty of time. There’s a service lane—all of these houses have back gardens.”
    â€œGo round to the back, Peel, will you?” asked Roger, and Peel hurried off.
    Number 8 was near New King’s Road, and across the main road they could see the traces of Parson’s Green, cars passing, a bus slowing down, yellow light glowing from its square windows. The house was between street lamps, and the front door was as dark as any in the street. No one but police appeared to be near. There were a few lighted windows, but no light shone at Number 8.
    Roger and Sloan approached the front door, and stood in a little square porch. Two Yard men were at the gate, a couple of yards behind them. Roger pressed the bell, but there was no response. He pressed again, and knocked; the knocking seemed to reverberate as if this were an empty house.
    â€œSearch warrant?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” said Sloan, tapping his pocket.
    â€œLet’s try a window.”
    â€œHalf a minute,” said Sloan.
    There was a movement inside the house, and a light came on. They stood on either side of the porch, Roger nearer the door. Someone fumbled with bolts and a chain, and then the door opened a few inches.
    â€œYes, who is it?” The woman’s voice was sharp.
    â€œGood evening,” said Roger, and placed his foot against the door. “We’re police officers. Are you Miss Rose Morton?”
    â€œ Police? ”The door opened wider. She showed dimly, a tall, fair-haired woman. “Did you say you were police?”
    â€œYou heard. Is Mr. Latimer here?”
    â€œRalph?”
    Roger said: “We’ll come in, Miss Morton.” He pushed the door wider, and she didn’t protest. There was a light behind her, on the first landing. Roger saw the dim outline of a light-switch on the wall, and pressed it down. Miss Morton, hennaed, tall, good-looking in a hard way, blinked at them. “Is he here, Miss Morton?”
    â€œNo, of course not!’
    â€œSure?”
    â€œYou’ve no right to—”
    â€œMind if we have a look round?” asked Roger. “We’ve a search warrant.”
    â€œYou ruddy coppers,” she said. Her voice had a common note. “Hounding the lives out of us; that’s what you’re always doing. No, he’s not here; he’s gone.”
    â€œSo he’s been here.”
    â€œAny reason why a man shouldn’t come to see a lady?”
    â€œWhen did he go?”
    â€œHalf an hour ago,” said Rose. “You’d better come upstairs.” She licked her lips, and turned to the staircase, which was opposite the front door. “My rooms are up here; you don’t have to look in the others, it’ll only cause trouble.”
    â€œTrouble with whom?”
    â€œMy landlady—she’s out,” said Rose Morton. “Gone to the pictures; they always go on Friday nights.”
    â€œAll right,” said Roger, but as she turned to lead the way up the stairs, he signalled to the plain-clothes men. They would go through the downstairs rooms, and make sure that Latimer had really left.
    The light from the landing actually came from a back room. It was comfortable, but not particularly attractive – a living-room with a divan in one corner, and oddments of furniture, none of which matched. Rose had a swaying, attractive walk, and now that they could see her better, she proved to have a good, full figure. She looked sullen.
    â€œNow what’s it all about?”
    â€œWhy did Latimer come to see you?”
    â€œHe’s a swine,” she said. “He wanted some money—he’s always after money. I’d told him I wouldn’t have anything more to do with him; my—my husband wouldn’t like it. I didn’t think he knew