Free The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey Page A

violently, the car swerved and scraped along the hedge.
    The stranger moved the wheel, to steady it.
    â€œSo you’ve recognised me, Mister Bennett! I thought you would. Slow down and then stop—gently, or my gun might go off.”
    Bennett obeyed, but his hands were shaking. The car stopped.
    â€œListen! I—I’ll give you everything I have; take my watch, my cigarette-case, my wallet, take anything!”
    â€œBut I don’t think it’s enough.”
    â€œLet’s go home; I’ve some money in the safe, some jewels, too; you can have those. There are several thousand pounds’ worth; I—”
    â€œIf I let you take me home, you’ll find a way to call the police,” said the stranger, “and I should hate that. Look at me, Bennett.”
    Bennett looked at him.
    He didn’t see the gun move; only the flash followed by the deafening report.
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    â€œBut it’s so unlike him,” said Mrs. Bennett to Sir Henry Cuff, who was a self-important and most influential man. “I’ve never known it happen before. Sometimes he’s late at the club-house, but when we have guests he’s most punctilious.”
    â€œAn accident, no doubt, an accident.” Cuff drew on his cigarette. “Don’t worry, my dear Mrs. Bennett. It will be a trifling affair, trifling. What a charming place you have here—so charming!”
    â€œI’m glad you like it,” said Mrs. Bennett eagerly. “It’s always nice to hear what others think. Lionel’s so fond of it.”
    â€œLionel is a very lucky man,” said Cuff, and patted her arm.
    He was plump and red-faced, and had little hair; there was a faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip, for the room was warm. A bright fire roared, the central heating had been turned on at full blast. They were in the drawing-room, overlooking the garden, which was now hidden by the night. A Knole suite of pale blue and gold, smaller chairs to match, draped velvet curtains – everything here was expensive and in excellent taste.
    Mrs. Bennett was short and fluffy, pink and white; her hair was hennaed to gingery blonde, like a young girl’s. She had on a little too much make-up, especially rouge. Her excellent teeth showed a great deal as she smiled. She couldn’t keep still, and kept shifting her chair,. looking round towards the door, behind her, and obviously listening for the sound she longed to hear.
    â€œI just can’t understand it,” she said. “I’ll telephone the club-house again; do forgive me.”
    The telephone was in a corner of the room. She stood by it, dress billowing, well corseted, a comfortable bundle of a woman who paid the proper attention to foundations. Cuff sat back on the couch and watched her in the concealed wall lighting, admiring her movements.
    â€œHallo!—is that Mr. Stanway? Oh, Mr. Stanway, are you sure my husband has left? He’s not home yet; it’s Mrs. Bennett here … Could there have been a mistake?”
    She listened.
    â€œOh, dear,” she said plaintively. “Well, thank you very much.”
    â€œHe left at seven; he should have been home at half-past; that would have given him good time. I can’t understand it. Do you think I ought to telephone the police?”
    â€œMy dear lady, if it will ease your mind, of course, of course. Allow me to speak to them,” said Cuff, in manly fashion, and stood up. When he reached her, he patted her shoulder. “It will prove to be a trifling delay, trifling, and I am in no hurry.”
    â€œYou’re very good. Thank you so much. And there’s dinner, it’ll spoil. I—I’ll go and see cook.”
    She hurried out.
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    â€œNo, sir, there’s been no report of any accident,” said a man at the St. Albans Police Station. “No, nothing at all tonight … a Rolls Royce, driven by Mr. Lionel Bennett … Mr. Lionel Bennett!