Free The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey Page B

… We’ll keep a look-out, sir, and let you know if there’s any report … Yes, sir, I’ll let Mrs. Bennett know.”
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    For Mrs. Bennett it had been a miserable dinner. She hardly noticed that her companion did full justice to Dover sole and roast lamb and extremely good justice to a sherry trifle; although she could have told that he had a sweet tooth.
    They were back in the drawing-room.
    â€œMy dear lady, I can’t leave you in such distress, I really can’t.” Cuff fingered his watch; it was nearly ten o’clock. “I really can’t.”
    He was a widower.
    â€œOh, but you’ll be so late, and you didn’t come to see me; you came to see Lionel.”
    â€œI have been delighted to spend the time with you, Mrs. Bennett. The problem is, what to do? What to do? The police would surely have informed us had there been any accident, have no doubt of that. He must have been—ah—he must have been—ah—”
    â€œIt’s so unlike him. He wouldn’t go off like this, if he could help it. I—I must speak to the police again.”
    â€œAllow me,” said Cuff.
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    â€œNo, sir, there’s been no word. I think we’d better put a call out and have the movements of the car traced … Yes, sir, I’ll call you the moment we have any news.”
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    It was an unusual situation. Of course, there was the staff, three in all; but they were at the back of the house. Cuff sat in an easy-chair in one of the spare bedrooms, the best spare room at Hillbrae, with a whisky-and-soda by his side. He was undoubtedly doing the right thing; no one worthy of the name man could leave the little woman alone. The problem was whether he was doing everything he could and should to ease her mind.
    It was a remarkable situation.
    He knew Lionel Bennett well. Was it possible that he was a dark horse, and – no! No, that was absurd. True, he might be a dark horse where the ladies were concerned, and no one would blame him for that, but he wouldn’t select tonight as an occasion for a peccadillo. Bennett had a proper respect for others, had always admired success, and certainly there were few more successful men in England than Sir Henry Cuff. Was it, perhaps, amnesia? That could happen – it was worrying, especially worrying for Mrs. Bennett. Sweet and charming little woman; it was a thousand pities that he hadn’t been able to see her at her best. Had Bennett telephoned to say that he would be late, for instance, she would have resigned herself to an evening in his company, and they would have enjoyed it; undoubtedly, enjoyed it.
    He glanced at his watch; it was five minutes to twelve.
    He had loosened his collar and shoes, but was fully dressed. The room was pleasant and warm – not so warm as it had been downstairs, but happily anxiety had prevented Mrs. Bennett from thinking of the fire, which had died low later in the evening. She must be – distracted. She must be. Would it – would it be discreet to go and see her? She would be in bed by now, probably; or perhaps she was restless and hadn’t yet undressed. There was surely no harm in going to her door and finding out what was happening.
    He stood up, fastened his collar, smoothed down his hair, cleared the corners of his eyes, and turned to the door. Then he realised that his shoes were undone, and glanced down at them; it would be better to do them up properly. He bent down with an effort, and the blood went to his head; as he straightened up, he was quite giddy. That soon passed, and he went towards the door, remembering the room into which Mrs. Bennett had gone; the one on the right. Next to it was her husband’s study, where, had things gone according to plan, he and Bennett would have talked over port and cigars.
    He opened the door.
    A man, wearing a trilby hat and with a scarf over his face, was coming out of the study.
    Cuff opened his mouth in an O