Alibi

“No, I will not.”

“All right.” Roger stood up. “Would you rather stay here for the weekend or would you rather go home?”

He so startled her that she stood back a pace, staring at him, her eyes widening, and for a few moments there was absolute silence in the room. Then, in a taut voice, she asked, “Would you really let me go?”

“Yes. I made the charges and I should proceed with them, but if you undertake to appear in court on Monday morning, you can go home tonight.” When she didn’t answer, he went on, “You don’t have to. I’m giving you a choice.”

In a mumbling voice, she answered at last, “I’d like to go home.”

“Right,” said Roger briskly. “As I live in Chelsea I’ll run you there on my way.” He stood up. “We’d better have a word with the superintendent before we leave.”

Nixon, far too experienced a policeman to show any surprise, went through the formalities of release, and, at Roger’s suggestion, promised to send a patrol car after them.

“Don’t want any more wild charges, do you?” he asked dryly.

Soon, they were on the way, Maisie next to Roger in front of his car, the police car a hundred yards behind. Maisie’s thigh ran warmly against Roger’s on the bench seat of his Morris and he did not know whether it was deliberate or not. She was staring straight ahead, not smoking; she had a pleasant profile; if she were not quite so plump she would be very pretty, he thought.

“Do you know Hamish Campbell?” he asked.

“No.”

“He was the man outside your door this morning.”

“I know—I saw the evening papers by the courtesy of the police! His name and photograph were there. I knew he was at the club where Rapelli hit Verdi over the head.”

“Do you know Pearson, the man who was with him?”

“No.”

“Did you know Verdi, himself?”

“No.”

“Did you know that Rapelli went to this Doon Club?”

“I knew he went to a lot of music clubs and discotheques, he was a nut on pop beat music and erotic dancing. There are a lot of nuts. Let me tell you this, Handsome, before you drop me—first right at the end here, then first left and the third house along,” she interpolated. “Rapelli and I knew each other but we weren’t in each other’s pockets. I can tell you what he’s like as a lover, but I don’t know anything else about him—not that counts, anyhow.”

Roger made (he two turns, and pulled up outside the house in which Maisie lived, one of several in a short terrace. This part of Chelsea was a strange mixture of architecture; there were a few Tudor cottages, at least one early Georgian house standing in its own grounds, and some early Victorian houses, all mixed with small blocks of modern apartments built on the sites of houses which had been bombed out of existence during the war.

Roger stopped, and leaned across her to open the door. She waited until he touched the handle, then, seizing his arm in a surprisingly tight grip, held it to her bosom. Leaning sideways and imprisoned as he was, his face a little lower than hers, Roger was acutely aware of her breath against his cheek. Maisie leaned forward, her eyes bright and mischievous, her lips parted. Suddenly she bent her head and thrust her lips against his, moving so swiftly that he had no opportunity to turn away. It was several seconds before she drew back, pushed open the car door, and thrust one leg out to the pavement.

“Handsome,” she said. “I promised you the truth and now you know it all. I don’t hate the way I earn my money. I have a very big appetite. I eat men. I could eat you. Come and see me when you’re off duty. Just give me enough time to get nice and tarted up for you. Any time. And I don’t mean as a paying guest, either. I mean just as a guest.”

She got out and slammed the door.

He sat without moving for what must have seemed a long time to the men in the patrol car. He wondered whether they could have seen anything through the rear window of his car, but their headlights had not been on and there was no street lamp near. It didn’t much matter, anyhow. He flicked his lights and almost at once one of the men got out of the car and came hurrying towards him.

“Sir?” The man pushed his head close to the open window.

“I wasn’t able to ask Mr. Nixon before,” Roger said, “but I want you two to watch this house, particularly Miss Dunster, until some men come from the division to keep an eye on it and her. I’ll talk to Mr. Nixon by radio.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

The man’s “goodnight” followed Roger as he began to move off. He drove slowly, turning the corner before calling Nixon and putting through the request which was tantamount to an order. Nixon made a light remark. “Didn’t think you’d let her go for the sake of it, Handsome. I’ll fix it.” Roger grunted and rang off.

Now he had to make a quick decision.

He touched his lips, still slightly tender from the crushing pressure of Maisie’s. He had never known a kiss like it, nor such a body, so demanding and yet so yielding.

It was lucky he was a staid old married man, he thought, smiling to himself and dismissing Maisie from his mind. There were three things he could do.

First, go back to Janet. She would be glad to see him, he felt certain, and anxious to make amends.

Second, go and question Rapelli. It was late and Rapelli, even if not asleep, would be tired and therefore more likely to talk. And if Rapelli once cracked, then the case was over.

Third, go and see Rachel Warrender, and chance her mood.

He knew that he should go back to Janet, that to force himself to go on working was an example of the excessive attention to duty which so often exasperated her. But if he went back and found that her mood had hardened, it would probably lead to an argument, possibly a near- quarrel which could carry them far into the night.

And he had to be fresh and fit next morning.

Chapter Fourteen

VISITOR

Roger yawned and rubbed his eyes. The truth was that he was in no shape to interview and interrogate anyone, wasn’t alert enough and must not attempt it; there was no emergency, and he was nearer Bell Street than the Yard. So he would go home. As he drove slowly and with extreme care, he found his thoughts roaming at will over the past with Janet. In this part of Chelsea and along the embankment, across the river in Battersea Park and a little further afield, on Clapham Common, they had done most of their courting. He had been at the Chelsea division in those days and Janet had lived in the next borough: Fulham.

She had been so lively, pretty; damn it, beautiful!

As she was beautiful today. If only she would not get so upset!

Her time of life, of course, simply heightened moods which had always existed. In those courting days she had always been acutely disappointed and often angry when he had had to break a date. Several times he had nearly lost her. He gave a twisted smile at the recollection of that, and of jealousy. When a young man was in love as utterly as he had been there was a special kind of torment in being forced to leave one’s beloved with others: knowing another man was playing tennis with her, or taking her home, or to the theatre or pictures.

And—his smile broadened—he remembered the first time he had been compelled to arrest a young woman who had resisted, almost savagely, and then turned all her considerable seductive charm on him, with Janet looking on.

Her voice came out of the past.

“You needn’t have handled her like that . . . You actually seemed to enjoy it!” And for a while there had been tension, with his heart in his boots. It had been touch and go whether they had spent the rest of the evening together. But they had; that was the very evening when they had walked along Bell Street and, as a result, started their married life in the house where they still lived. There had been clashes, all of them—well, most—over the restrictions of his job. But all of these had passed, and if it were true that of recent years the conflicts had lasted for longer periods and tension sometimes dragged on, Janet would come out of the menopause and sooner or later he would retire.

The recollection that he could resign whenever he liked and take a job that would give Janet all she asked came out of the blue. He actually let the wheel wobble for a moment and forced a passing motorist to pull out. The driver glowered. Roger turned into Bell Street, and as he did so a man came out of one of the houses, turned towards King’s Road and hurried away. There was something furtive in his manner, and Roger knew why.

The woman at that house, Natalie Tryon, was miserably unhappy, with a husband with whom she stayed only for her children’s sake. This man was her lover, who visited her whenever her husband was away.

Roger pulled up outside his own house and turned towards the garage, then put on the brakes, appalled at a sudden, devastating thought.

Supposing Janet had a lover!

Supposing she had become so lonely and miserable that she had sought and found consolation.

Wouldn’t that explain her moodiness, her attitudes, her thinking?

Roger sat absolutely rigid, and had been there for three or four minutes, hardly able to think clearly, when a shaft of light appeared from the front door, and then Janet’s silhouette appeared against the porch light.

“Darling! Is that you?”

He made himself call out, “Yes, coming!” Opening the car door, he saw her hurrying towards him. The light from street lamps were soft on her face, and she looked at her best. She moved beautifully, too. Suddenly, she was close to him, and he closed the car door softly, habitually remembering not to wake a neighbour’s baby. As suddenly, he took her in his arms, held her almost too tight for a moment, and then kissed her.

A few moments later, breathless, they drew apart. Neither spoke as they linked arms and turned towards the house, until Janet said, “Will you leave the car out?”

“Yes, it doesn’t matter on these warm nights.”

“I’ll put it away if you like,” she offered.

“No. Leave it.” They reached the porch, still arm in arm. He knew that her mood had changed even more than his, that now she was calm in spirit. He did not know how to tell her what was passing through his mind, and she saved him the need to say anything.

“You lock up, I’ll make some tea, darling, and we’ll have it in the kitchen. The boys have both gone to bed. I’ll pop up and get into a dressing-gown.”

“Good idea,” he said. He locked and bolted the front door, checked the windows of the sitting and dining rooms, then hesitated. He would be more comfortable in a dressing-gown, too, and especially in slippers. Quickly he went upstairs, and into their room.

He stopped short.

Spread across the bed were open photograph albums, loose snapshots and seaside pictures, and a glance showed that these were all of the days of their courtship and early marriage. None showed the boys, even as babies. The pillows were rucked up and the bedspread had been pulled down. On one pillow was a screwed-up handkerchief. Roger picked it up and found that it was damp; she had obviously been crying. He looked more closely at the albums; there they were at a tennis party, at a dance, with a crowd of young people on the beach: always together, always looking happy.

Roger lost himself in retrospection, now and again thinking: Thank God I came straight back tonight. He lost count of time, until, disturbed by a footfall on the landing, he looked up and saw Janet.

She came in.

“I meant to clear all that up before you came in here.” she said.

“Why, darling?”

She stood a little distance from him, and answered, “It seemed like a kind of blackmail to leave them out!”

“Some blackmail! I’ve been think about those days, too. Remember that buxom blonde I arrested at the tennis club for raiding the dressing rooms?”

“Shall I ever forget her!”

“She wasn’t unlike Maisie Dunster,” he told her. “Only Maisie’s much more attractive.”

“And seductive?” Janet, quite free from tension now, went on, “Darling, I hate myself when I behave like I did tonight, I really do. No, don’t interrupt.” She put a hand over his lips, and went on with words she had obviously rehearsed over and over again. “I know you have the job to do, I know we’ve had this kind of upset before, I know there are times when I hate the job so much that I could climb on the roof and cry “down with Scotland Yard!”—” She paused, momentarily, a gleam of laughter in her eyes. “But deep down I also know that you love it more than I hate it, that you couldn’t really live without the Yard but I can live with the situation even if I do have to let off steam sometimes. You needn’t worry, you really needn’t. Just—” She broke off again and went on with only a slight change of tone, “Just keep me hopeful with promises of what we’ll do when you do retire. After all, it won’t be more than five years now, and we’ve had twenty-five already, so it isn’t really too long.”

“No,” he said, huskily. And then, “I’ll keep you hopeful.”

“Don’t promise you’ll have every other weekend off and ten days” leave every quarter,” she protested, half-laughing. “Just be with me as much as you can, darling. Please “ Slowly the laughter faded and there was a new earnestness, new intentness in her manner. “You’re all I’ve got, you know. The boys, bless them, aren’t mine any longer, not in the true sense—and on a night like this they’re on your side. I love you so much,” she went on quietly. “Do you know, since those tennis club days I’ve never looked at another man. And—darling! Let me finish. I do not want to know whether you have looked at another woman. I really don’t. I don’t mind what you do provided you’re happy, and I hate myself when I add to your problems.”

There were tears in her eyes.

And his eyes stung.

• • •

Later, when their bodies had intermingled with a passion which they had not known for a long time, they fell asleep.

When, just after half past seven, Martin brought in a tea tray, Roger was still holding her tightly.

“Whoops!” exclaimed Scoop. “See you later.”

He put down the tray and fled.

• • •

On the Monday morning, Roger and Janet after waking early, were talking about the case. Relaxed in a chair by the bedside with Janet sitting against pillows, a bed- jacket draped over her shoulders, Roger could see the whole series of incidents more clearly. Now and again Janet asked a question, for clarification, but for the most part it was a monologue. The tea was cold in the pot and the room warm from hot sunshine when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the extension by the side of the bed, and glanced at the clock. It was a little after nine.

“Roger West,” he announced, expecting someone from the Yard.

“Mr. West,” a woman said, and he knew at once that this was Rachel Warrender, “I will be grateful if you can spare me an hour this morning.”

“I may not be able to fit in an hour,” Roger had to reply. “Will half an hour do?”

“You’re very kind. Shall I come to your office?”

“If you do, it will have to be official,”Roger said.

She hesitated for a moment, then said huskily, “You’re quite right, thank you. Where do you suggest?” Roger was looking at Janet and framing the name “Rachel W” with his lips. Janet’s eyes widened and she stretched out a hand, whispering, “Roger!”

“Just a moment,” Roger covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Had a brainwave?”

“Why not ask her here?” Janet suggested. “I could bring in some coffee or a drink, and I’d love to see her.”

It was a sensible idea, it would help to seal their new understanding, the new mood, and Roger turned back to the telephone.

“If you could be at my home in half an hour or so, we could talk here.”

“Oh, that would be splendid!” He had not heard Rachel Warrender speak with such spirit before. “I may be a little more than half an hour, I’m at my office in Lincoln’s Inn, but I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

She rang off.

As Roger replaced the receiver, Janet was getting out of bed. She edged towards the window, so that she couldn’t be seen from the street. Stretching up to draw the curtains, her skin was so white, her figure so lovely, her hair so dark where it fell about her shoulders, that he caught his breath.

“If she’ll be here in half an hour I’ve got to get a move on.” Out of the tail of her eye she saw him get up from the chair. “Darling, you get shaved quickly. I’ll have to make some toast—darling, you’ll have to. I—Roger!” she almost screamed. “Roger, there isn’t time!”

“I know,” he said, enveloping her. “And I’m nearly an old man.” He held her very tightly, then kissed her on the forehead and let her go. “I’ll get my own breakfast.”

He bathed, shaved, made toast, piled on butter and marmalade, made instant coffee, telephoned the Yard to say he would not be in the office until eleven thirty or so, checked that nothing new had developed over the Rapelli case and that Fogarty, Campbell and Rapelli, the only remaining three on any kind of charge, all appeared to have spent good nights. So far, so good.

“And Tom,” he said to Danizon, “I must be in court when the charges against Campbell are made. Will you see that he’s not heard until midday—noon—at the earliest?”

“Yes, sir,” Danizon said. “What about Fogarty?”

“If he’s released, make sure he’s effectively trailed,” Roger said.

“I’ll see to it, sir,” said Danizon. “I can tell you that Mr. Coppell will be out most of the day, he’s going to that conference of European Police. And the commissioner will be out too—he’s going to the luncheon reception.”

Roger laughed.

“Almost a free day, in fact!”

“If I were you, sir,” said Danizon, “I’d take at least part of the day off. Just go to court and—but I’m sorry, sir. I’m talking out of turn.”

Roger could almost see him go pink with confusion as he rang off.

A moment later, Janet came out of the sitting-room, a housecap sloping over one eye, a small apron over her nightdress. She carried a mop and a duster and a can of furniture-polish spray. Her nose and cheeks were shiny and her lips pale.

“I’ll have my bath now and get dressed—you open the door when she comes. I’ll bring coffee at a quarter past ten, is that right?”

“Ten o’clock,” urged Roger. “I’m not sure how this interview will go, and I could make heavy weather of it.”

“Why?” asked Janet. “Isn’t she buxom enough for you?”

Five minutes later he was outside, snipping the fading heads off some scarlet parrot tulips and noticing the trimness of lawn and hedge which he had hardly seen during the pressures of the past few weeks. Did either of the boys help Janet much? he wondered. Or was this mostly her work? Practically nothing needed doing, he must remember to compliment her.

He was pulling a few weeds, mostly seedlings, when a car drew up. He looked through the thick privet hedge, able to see that it was a white M.G.: just the car he could imagine Rachel Warrender having. And it was her. She climbed out, and he was slightly startled by her appearance, for she wore a white linen trouser-suit, accentuating her youth and slimness of figure, and a small, round, sailor hat. Not at all the average person’s con-ception of a woman solicitor, Roger thought amusedly. He felt sure that Janet, watching out of the window, would have eyes rounded in surprise.

“Good morning, Miss Warrender,” he called across the hedge. “You found the house all right, then.”

She started, and turned to look at him. And now he was even more startled: in fact appalled. For she looked in terrible distress. Her beautiful eyes were shadowed, and so glassy that he doubted if she had slept all night. She nodded, and formed the words “good morning”, but did not utter a sound. He met her at the gate, and saw that there were tears in her eyes as well as lines at her forehead and mouth. He didn’t shake hands but led the way to the front door, said, “The door on the right,” and followed her into the sittingroom.

Roger doubted whether she would have noticed if this had been a pigsty, she was so preoccupied with her own problems. She sat down in a chair, looking so ill and troubled that he even found himself wondering whether she took drugs and was in urgent need of a shot.

Then, she looked at him very straightly, and said, “Mr. West, I think you are the only man who can help me, and I’m not even sure that you will. May I tell you what is troubling me? And may I beg you to give me your advice?”

Chapter Fifteen

RACHEL

“If I can help, I certainly will,” Roger answered, gently. “And if it’s something which, as a policeman, I can’t discuss, I’ll tell you. Are you comfortable there?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

“Will you have a cup of coffee, or—?”

“Nothing, thank you.” She sat upright, and placed her hands on the arms of her chair. “In the beginning it was very simple, but I now believe that you were right and I was wrong. I am afraid that Mario Rapelli did attack Verdi. When I appeared in court I felt sure that he was a victim of conspiracy, and that the police wanted a conviction whether he was guilty or not guilty. I don’t think that is true now.”

“I’m very glad,” Roger said; he wanted to hear all she had to say before asking questions.

“Even last night, when we talked, I hoped I was right first time. But I now have proof that Maisie lied in the witness box and that the other witnesses also lied to me. And I’ve made another discovery, Mr. West, in its way just as bad.” She leaned forward, her eyes seeming to grow bigger and bigger. “I’ve had a private investigator checking. I know that the two men who saw the attack on Verdi, your two witnesses I believe, were approached and offered a substantial sum of money to renege. Smith- son refused, but Campbell agreed.” Now, her face seemed nothing but eyes. “Smithson is dead, and Campbell switched right round and tried to compromise you.”

When she stopped, Roger said evenly, “Do you know who killed Smithson?”

“Fogarty, of course.” Rachel paused, as if to find the right word, then went on, “I believe Fogarty was paid to run Smithson down. I know he claims to have been drunk but—did you know that he was practically a non- drinker?”

“The medical reports say that he had little or no alcohol in his blood that night,” said Roger.

“I should have known you would have discovered that,” remarked Rachel. “My father—” She caught her breath. “My father begged me not to take this case. Why was he so anxious I shouldn’t take it? Why — ?” She caught her breath again, and added, “If the worst thing that happened as a result of this were a blow to my pride, it wouldn’t matter a fig. But—”

Roger believed that she was coming to the crux of the visit. But there was a reservation in his mind, one he had to consider although emotionally he found the suspicion difficult to justify.

She could be fooling him.

These huge; brown eyes which looked so weary could be affected by eye drops or by drugs. Her story could be partly false; she could be presenting the case in such a way as to disarm him, to convince him (and so the police) that if she had committed any crime it was unwittingly: that she was the victim of criminals who had used her as a front. Roger knew that any solicitor who knowingly represented an accused man who was bribing witnesses, would be struck off without mercy, and she must know this too. She could be fighting for her whole future in her profession.

He wanted to believe what she said, but so much would depend on what she was going to say now.

Through tightly set lips, she went on, “I don’t think you know this, Mr. West, but Mario and I used—used to see a great deal of each other.” The words came as if she had to force each one out with a conscious effort. “I—I loved him, Mr. West—but when I discovered he was meeting Maisie Dunster and going to all these odd parties, I stopped seeing him. Then, the other day, he telephoned me and said he was in trouble. It was such a shock, both what he told me and hearing from him again—I was just beginning to forget him—” Rachel bit her lip “—I told him I couldn’t possibly take the case. Then, almost at the last minute, I changed my mind. That was why he looked so startled when I appeared in court. I believed what he’d told me, Mr. West—after all, it was because of Maisie and those—those parties, that I gave him up.” She laughed bitterly. “But it now appears that he paid —bribed—all these people to lie for him. And bribed them before he attacked Verdi. If he’d struck Verdi in a fit of rage, I wouldn’t have been so troubled. If he’d told me exactly what had happened, I’d have done everything humanly possible, I would have paid for the best possible counsel. But he deliberately lied to me. Deceived me. Found the money to pay these false witnesses. Yet he earns scarcely enough to keep himself; he has often borrowed from me.”

She paused, as if for breath, and now Roger no longer doubted her sincerity.

“Where is he getting the money?” Rachel asked chokingly. “Who is financing him, and why? Did he attack Verdi for personal reasons, or was there some other reason? Why was my father so desperately anxious I shouldn’t take this case? Can you find out, Mr. West? Before next Thursday when Mario comes up for the second hearing? I need to know before—before I decide whether to defend him or not. Can you, please?”

And now Roger thought he knew what she was asking.

She realised he would find out all he could about Rapelli and the murder, that he would go ail out to get at the truth; and she wanted him to tell her, the defending solicitor, in advance. But he simply could not tell her except through the normal channels—and that would have to be at the trial. To help her before the police court hearing he would have to betray not only the general police code but his own standards.

Yet how could he say no?

• • •

Roger heard Janet come down the stairs, and guessed she would soon be in with the coffee. He wasn’t at all sure that her presence would help this situation, but knew, after what had happened, that he could not keep her away. But he could prepare Rachel for her arrival and at the same time give himself the chance to think.

“Rachel,” he said, suddenly, “my wife will bring some coffee in a few minutes. I would like to ponder this until she’s gone.”

Rachel made no protest of any kind, and showed little reaction.

“You will consider it?” She sounded pleading.

“I will.”

“You—you’re very good,” she said huskily.

Five minutes later Janet came in, looking fresh and elegant in a dark brown dress, her hair attractive, her make-up perfect. She was at her beautiful best, and carried off a situation like this as few others could. She was obviously curious but didn’t ask questions; was pleasant and friendly but overdid nothing.

Suddenly, she stood up.

“Roger dear, do pour Miss Warrender some more coffee, when she’s ready. I have to go out. Miss Warrender, I don’t know whether to hope you win, or Roger, but I do hope you both come out of this case with credit.”

“Especially your husband,” Rachel said drily.

“If it has to be one or the other—yes!” Janet laughed, shook hands, and left. Rachel watched her go out of the room and then looked at Roger wonderingly.

“What a lovely woman!”

“We certainly agree about that,” Roger said, laughing. “And I agree”—he sobered immediately—” that we have a difficult problem. I would like to help, but helping at this stage, if it were known, could create an intolerable situation for me. You have no idea what happens when a police officer stretches the law.”

“I can imagine,” Rachel said. She looked better, brighter, but there was tension in her voice again. “Are you telling me nicely that you won’t help?”

“No,” Roger said. “I am simply saying that I need to study all the angles before I make you any promise. When must you know?”

“I don’t need to know until Wednesday morning, I suppose,” she replied. “An hour would give me time to find someone else to represent Mario. Will you let me have word one way or the other by Wednesday at nine o’clock?”

“Yes,” promised Roger.

She rose to her feet, her expression even brighter, and clasped his hand with both of hers.

“You’re very kind and understanding,” she said. “Thank you very much. And now I must go. I’ve taken up far too much of your time already.”

He showed her to the door and she stepped along the path too quickly for him to reach and open the gate for her. He did not want to attract much attention from his neighbours, so he turned back into the house. It was too early to reach any kind of conclusion, but he had become very predisposed towards helping the girl.

But supposing he did, and it were found out? What would Trevillion do or say? What would be his chances of staying in the Force, and what would be the result if he didn’t? If he were dismissed ignominiously, would he still be eligible for the Allsafe job?

Supposing he checked that with Artemeus before he made a decision?

He thrust the thought aside. He hadn’t even decided whether to tell Janet about the offer, hadn’t decided whether he wanted the job, good though it was. He had to decide on the strength of his feeling for or against the Yard, not on one issue which was a long way from being typical. There were short term things he had to do; among them, see Rapelli.

But first, the Yard.

He heard Janet hurrying down the stairs, went to the foot of them and called, “Can I give you a lift?”

“Oh, darling, if you would.” Janet’s eyes lit up. “I’m going to a committee meeting at the Town Hall, if you could just drop me off there.”

Ten minutes later he leaned across and opened the door for her, vividly reminded of doing exactly that for Maisie Dunster only a few hours ago, only a few hundred yards away from here. He did not dwell on that, but drove quickly to the Yard through thick traffic. The day was warm, the exhaust fumes were strong, it was the kind of day when anyone who had to work indoors was likely to be bad-tempered.

There was a kind of lethargy about the Yard, and a noticeable slackness among both senior and junior officials who were in the passages. With Coppell on the spot no one slouched, few groups gathered in the passages, but with Coppell away . . .

Roger wondered whether he himself would behave any differently in such circumstances, and decided that Coppell or no Coppell, he would behave in exactly the same way. Wasn’t that what most of this trouble was about?

Danizon, jacket off, was in his, Roger’s, office.

“Good morning, sir,” he welcomed. “Still all clear. Very little of any kind has come in during the night.” He pushed a thin file closer to Roger as he sat down. “Like some coffee, sir?”

“No, thanks,” Roger said, and opened the report folder.

Maisie Dunster hadn’t stirred from her flat according to two divisional men detailed to watch her. They had been relieved at eight o’clock and their place taken by others.

Pearson had gone home and had a tremendous quarrel with his wife; but neither of them had left the house since.

The post mortem on Ricardo Verdi showed that death had come from cerebral haemorrhage following a blow with a blunt instrument, compatible with an electric guitar.

The post mortem on Wilfred Smithson showed that death had followed multiple injuries to the head, chest and stomach, likely to be caused by being struck by a moving car.

There was as yet nothing to suggest that Verdi and Rapelli were old friends or associates, or even that they had known each other. There was plenty of evidence that Maisie Dunster had known both, however; some that Verdi as well as Rapelli had received her favours. As far as the police could find out, only two persons had known practically all the people involved. One was Patrick Fogarty and the other was Maisie. Yet there were no new revelations about either. The main inexplicable factor, however, was that Hamish Campbell had switched sides with such alacrity. Had Rachel Warrender been right? Had he been bribed? If so, how had Rachel—or her enquiry agent—discovered what the police, so far, had failed to discover? There was another question which, deliberately, he had not asked for. Did she know that Rapelli had planned to attack Verdi, even arranging his “alibi” in advance?

Roger pondered these questions, soaked up all that was new in the reports, then put his head round the door of Danizon’s office, and said, “I’m going over to Brixton to see Rapelli.” He closed the door on Danizon’s “Right, sir.” Danizon would warn the authorities at the prison that he was on the way and Rapelli would probably be out of his cell and in one of the interviewing rooms at the front of the building.

He was at Brixton at a little before one o’clock.

Keys clanked, steel-capped boots clattered on cobbles, even in the sunlight the walls looked grim and grey. The big open courtyard was comparatively cool and the first big hall into which Roger was taken was almost chilly.

So was Rapelli’s manner.

He looked fit and rested, and there was a haughtiness about him which Roger hadn’t noticed before. He denied bribing Maisie or anyone else. He denied being at the Doon Club. He denied striking Verdi over the head. He denied everything.

“Whoever has told you these things is a liar,” he said flatly.

“But we can prove beyond doubt that you were at the Doon Club,” Roger insisted.

“No one. not even the great Superintendent West, can prove what isn’t true,” said Rapelli. “Whoever was there, it was not I.”

“Where are you getting the money from?” demanded Roger.

“I have no money. Miss Warrender made no charge for her help, and the other people are liars.” Rapelli’s voice was pleasant-sounding but just now tinged with bitterness. “The biggest liar is the woman, Dunster. I was with her before the others came in. First she admitted that, then she told a lie. Why don’t you go and worry her with your questions? You might get the truth out of her if you try.”

Roger left the prison at ten minutes to two, wholly dissatisfied. Now the weather was not only hot but sultry and he thought he heard thunder in the distance, while the sky was a metallic blue. He drove towards Westminster Bridge in thick traffic, and was at the far side, waiting at the traffic lights which protected the approach to Parliament Square when he heard his name on the crackling radio. A dozen other names had been almost inaudible, but he recognised his own in a flash, and switched to Information.

“This is Superintendent West,” he said. “I am at Parliament Square heading for the Yard. Will the message keep?”

“I doubt if you’ll think so, sir,” Information said. “A flash has just come in from division that Maisie Dunster has been found in her apartment, badly injured. A pretty messy business, they say.”

Roger felt himself going cold, and it was some time before he answered, roughly, “I’ll go to her flat right away.”

Chapter Sixteen

DYING STATEMENT

As Roger turned into the terrace where Maisie lived, an ambulance appeared from the other direction, white and shining. There were four police cars, three of them double-parked. Roger pulled up behind the third and jumped out, becoming one of a crowd of thirty or forty people being pushed back by two policemen. Men and women were at windows and doorways and gates; there was even a youth on a roof.

“Back a few yards, please,” one policeman was intoning.

“Make room for the ambulance, please.”

“Make room . . . Back a few yards . . . Make room . . .”

Roger pushed his way through the crowd which was showing neither resentment nor eagerness at being pushed back. He found himself confronted by a massive policeman whose huge hand was spread out, palm outwards; he touched but did not push Roger.

“Please go back, sir.”

“All right, constable, let me through,” Roger ordered.

“If you’re a relative—” The man turned a big, weather- browned face towards him. Recognising Roger, his eyebrows rose comically. “Oh, Superintendent! Please pass through, sir.”

Two ambulance men were on their way across the small garden with its table-smooth lawn; there were no flower beds. A policeman stood at the front door. Suddenly, pushed out ahead of the ambulance men, was a big, lean, hungry-looking man with high and shiny cheekbones and big and shiny nose. This was the Divisional Superinten-dent, Abe Court. He had big eyes with stubby eyelashes so black that it almost looked as if he wore eye shadow.

He espied Roger.

“Hallo, Superintendent.” He shook hands.

“Hallo,” said Roger. “How is she?”

“Not a chance,” Court answered grimly. “The doc’s with her now, and she’s asking for you.” As they went upstairs in the wake of the ambulance men Court went on, “Doc wants to give her a sedative, but I persuaded him to wait until you got here.”

Roger nodded. While the ambulance men were manoeuvring their stretcher up the narrow stairs, he slipped past them, and into Maisie’s room. A woman stood on one side of the bed, a man was bending over the other.

As Roger neared them, he saw Maisie’s head and face.

From the eyes downwards she appeared uninjured, but her forehead and her fair hair were a bloodied, broken, tangled mess. Roger gulped as he reached the doctor’s side. The girl’s eves, so brilliant and seductive last night, were swollen and bloodshot. Yet obviously she recognised him, and she turned her head.

“Two minutes,” the police surgeon said. He held a hypodermic syringe, already loaded.

Roger nodded, went down on one knee, and took Maisie’s limp hand.

“Who was it?” Roger asked, in a whisper.

She moistened her lips, and the woman moved from the other side of the bed and moistened them with a sponge.

“Just give me his name,” Roger urged.

“You—won’t believe me,” she muttered.

“Never mind whether I’ll Relieve you,” Roger said. “Maisie, I’m terribly sorry. An® the quicker I know the quicker we can get you to hospital and—”

He actually saw a movement at her lips.

“Waste of time,” she said. “I’m done for. It was— Mario.”

“Mario Rapelli?” he echoed, incredulously.

“There you are,” she said. “You don’t believe me.” She closed her eyes. “I didn’t know there were such things as —good cops. Give me a kiss—Handsome.”

The doctor had gone to the other side of the bed, the woman rolled up the girl’s sleeve, and Roger stood up and bent over her and kissed her lightly. Quite deliberately she opened her mouth, and he rested his lips on hers for a long moment. There were movements which he saw out of the corner of his eyes, and suddenly her lips, her face, her whole body went limp.

He stood up.

The doctor was putting the needle into its box, the woman and one ambulance driver were wrapping sheeting round Maisie’s head. Her eyes were closed, and he felt as sure as a man could be that she would never open them again.

• • •

Half an hour later, Roger was back at the Yard. For once, he wished Coppell were in his office; he wanted to discuss the situation with the commander. He went straight to his own office, and told Danizon, whose look of astonishment was almost boyish.

“But Rapelli was at Brixton all night!”

“Yes,” Roger said. “One place he couldn’t have got away from. There are three possibilities,” he went on in a clipped voice. “First, that Rapelli has a twin or a double. Second, that Maisie lied on her deathbed. Third, that she genuinely mistook her assailant for Rapelli. I don’t favour one idea against the other yet.” He dropped into the chair behind his desk. “Superintendent Court is handling the routine from division. There’s no trace of a break-in, and it looks as if the killer got in over the roof. Abe Court is checking the two divisional men supposed to be watching her. Whoever attacked her had a key to her room, possibly the house. The weapon was a hammer, taken from a cupboard in the room: it was under her bed and there were no fingerprints on the handle. Time of attack hasn’t been determined but it seems likely that it was around four o’clock, according to the thickness of the coagulation of the blood. She was found by one of her friends—Cleo, one of the would-be witnesses for Mario Rapelli—who couldn’t understand why she wasn’t up. They had a hairdressing appointment together. There’s a caretaker and general factotum in the house and he let this Cleo in with a master key.” Roger saw the glint in Danizon’s eyes, and shook his head. “The key was on a bunch which weighs about half a pound and hangs on the head of the caretaker’s bed. Not a chance that was the key that was used.” He paused, as Danizon finished writing, and went on, “Can you make a brief report from that, and start the file?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks. Any messages?”

“They’re on your desk,” answered Danizon. “Your wife called just before you came in but she said it wasn’t urgent.”

Janet seldom called during the day; Roger wondered what it was about, but put it out of his mind.

Opening the top file, he saw several telephone messages. Not only Janet but Benjamin Artemeus had called, and a Harold Phillipson, of the Globe. Phillipson. He was the managing editor of the paper, and had certainly approved even if he hadn’t written the article so critical of him, Roger, and the Yard. The message ran, Can Superintendent West please call before one-thirty?

It was now nearly a quarter to two.

Roger put a call in to the newspaper, running over the details of the article, wondering again why Janet had called and what Artemeus wanted. And he was sharply reminded of the fact that he had not told Janet of the offer from Allsafe. The next moment his telephone rang and the operator said, “Mr. Phillipson, sir.”

“Thanks. Mr. Phillipson?”

“Good afternoon, Superintendent.” The editor had a deep, pleasing voice with a strangely sardonic intonation, with the emphasis on the “good” and the “super”. “I’m very glad you’ve called.”

“I’ve just got in from Chelsea,” Roger said. “I saw Maisie Dunster.”

“The young woman who really began all this,” Phillipson observed. “She died on the way to hospital. Did you know?”

Roger didn’t answer at once. He had been sure it was inevitable but still had a sense of shock. He was disturbed, too, because Phillipson had known before him.

There was a perfunctory tap on the door, and Danizon put his head into the room.

“I thought you should know that Maisie Dunster is dead, sir. She died on the way to hospital.”

“Yes,” Roger said. “Thanks.” As the door closed on Danizon he turned back to Phillipson. “I’m sorry, someone came into the office. Yes, I know about Maisie. I hope you know that I won’t rest until we’ve found her murderer.”

There was a long pause, before Phillipson answered.

“A good case could be made out for blaming the Yard for allowing her to be murdered, you know—particularly since she was a key witness in Rapelli’s defence.”

“Mr. Phillipson,” Roger said evenly, “no one is more keenly aware than I that we fell down on the job of watching her, but we are not legally responsible. Do you really want to make our investigation more difficult by throwing mud at us in your columns? Whether we’re wrong or right, some of it always sticks.”

“Sometimes it should,” Phillipson retorted. He still spoke with that sardonic intonation as if he were laughing at himself, at Roger or the situation. “However, I don’t propose to throw any more, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk about. I’m not sure we should talk over the tele-phone. Could you come and see me this afternoon?”

Roger hesitated. The editor of a national newspaper would not ask him to give up his time unless it were worthwhile. He wanted to interview the men who had been watching Maisie, and he wanted to concentrate on Rapelli, but neither was of urgent importance.

“Yes,” he answered. “About two-thirty.”

“I’ll be glad to see you,” said Phillipson. “Thank you.”

Roger rang off, and immediately put a call in to Janet, but there was no answer; she must have gone shopping or to one of her afternoon committee meetings. He called Artemeus, at Allsafe, half-expecting to find the man out at lunch. But no; he answered the company operator’s ring.

“Ah, Mr. West. Thank you very much for calling,” he said. “I’m particularly anxious to see you about a most unexpected development. Could you possibly spare half an hour this afternoon?”

It never rained but it poured. However, he should be away from the Globe’s office at about three or three- fifteen, however, and would be fairly near the Allsafe offices in the Strand. There was no reason why he shouldn’t look in, although every reason why Artemeus should not think him at the security company’s beck and call. But making a prestige issue was pointless now.

“I could look in briefly about three-thirty,” he said. “Perhaps a little earlier.”

“How very kind I I’ll be in my office and free from three o’clock onwards, and I won’t make any appointments until you’ve been. I do appreciate it.” Artemeus was almost effusive.

Roger rang off, and called Danizon.

“I want a car right away, for Fleet Street and the Strand,” he said. “I’ll be out for about two hours altogether.”

“Right, sir! I’ll fix it.”

Roger rang off again, and opened the Rapelli file, glanced through it, then put it in his black portfolio. Next he called Abe Court, who was a very brusque man on the telephone, one who always gave the impression that he couldn’t wait to ring off.

“Handsome? . . . I’ve a little more information but not much. Those two men we had on Maisie were diverted —there was an emergency call to Martin’s Bank in the High Street, and they were almost on the spot, so they took a chance. They arrested the bank raiders too—a couple who would have escaped if they hadn’t arrived when they did. Hardly the point, I suppose, two thieves in custody and one life lost, but that killing could have been an inside job. No certainty my chaps were to blame . . . They’re very cut up about it. Want to see them here or at the Yard? I’ve got “em here for you.”

“The Yard,” Roger said. “Four-thirty.”

“Right, Handsome. They’re both good men, don’t forget.”

Roger thought bleakly as he rang off: and Maisie is dead. Nevertheless, he was glad that Abe Court fought for his men, and God knew he was the last man to condemn an officer for using his own judgment in an emergency. He picked up the Fogarty file, which was very thin, and the file on Hamish Campbell, which was not much thicker. He put these in the portfolio, also.

A new Rover was outside the main entrance with a youthful, very blond, young detective officer standing by the door. His colouring reminded Roger vividly of Maisie’s fair hair, so spattered and soaked in blood.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The man opened the door.

“Hallo. Ashe.” Roger got inside, and waited for the other to get at the wheel before adding, “The Globe offices, park the car as near as you can and stand where you can keep me in sight. I might be out in twenty minutes.”

“Right, sir.”

The Globe’s offices were nearly brand new, very modern, and in an off-white which nevertheless reflected the glare off the sun. Fleet Street’s narrow roadway was jammed with cars, cabs and huge red buses; one was so used to them. Roger thought, it was difficult to see them as a major cause of London’s traffic problems. The pavements on either side were thronged, too; why did girls look so much prettier and more provocative in sleeveless cotton dresses? There was a space outside the newspaper’s offices, and a doorman in a puce-coloured uniform came forward smartly.

“Superintendent West, sir?”

“Yes.”

“The young lady on the right as you go in will take you up to Mr. Phillipson, sir.”

The “young lady” was in a puce-coloured dress with a very short skirt, and she had long and shapely legs. Her face was more pert than pretty. She led Roger to a small lift, obviously reserved for V.I.P.s, and within two minutes he was in the long, narrow office of the editor. The walls were of marble or mock-marble, the floor was covered from wall to wall in tufted black carpet. A few plaques of past editors were on the walls. At one end of the room was a horseshoe-shaped conference table with ten or twelve places, at the other an enormous desk with

Phillipson behind it, his back to the window, and several comfortable-looking armchairs in front. There were some very modern upright chairs, too.

Phillipson stood up. He was tall, distinguished-looking, and silver-haired, a very lean man in a beautifully cut suit. He did not round the desk but extended his arm across it; after they had shaken hands he motioned to one of the easy chairs.

“Do sit down, Superintendent.”

“May I have one of these?” Roger took an upright chair which was at the side of the desk, and this way he could see Phillipson without having the sun in his eyes; and Phillipson did not have him in such a searching light and at the slight disadvantage of being in a semi-recumbent position.

Phillipson smiled but did not comment.

“I asked you to come because I have a report—a well- authenticated report from a highly reliable source, I may say—which directly concerns you,” he said. “In some cases I would print the story as fair comment, but this one is so personal that, as you said over the telephone, some of the—ah—mud would stick even if we printed a denial the next day. I thought that in view of our somewhat strained relations this week, it might be wise to discuss the report with you first.”

He waited long enough for Roger to comment, but Roger stayed silent. A door near Phillipson opened and a fluffy-haired, middle-aged woman in a dark dress came in with a trolley on which were coffee, brandy, liqueurs and cigars. The soft treatment, Roger reflected drily.

“White or black coffee, sir?”

“Khaki, please.”

“Thank you.” She poured out, offered him sugar, poured out for Phillipson, and left them.

“Brandy?” Phillipson asked.

No thanks,” said Roger. “I haven’t much time and I would like to know the details of this report, please.”

“Very well.” Phillipson picked up a thin sheaf of papers, without glancing at them. “This is prepared by my chief correspondent, who has concentrated on it with three reporters, for two days. I have a copy here for you. It states, very simply, that you are likely to be placed under suspension before the week is out; that, if suspended, you will resign; that some of your somewhat arrogant behaviour in the past few days is due to the fact that you have a most attractive offer of a post in a private security company, at four times your salary in the Metropolitan Police. The implication is that you have deliberately ridden rough-shod over police rules and regulations so as to precipitate a crisis in which you would be dismissed or could resign without any loss of—ah—dignity and respect. If you simply resigned to take a more paying job you would lose the respect not only of your colleagues but of a great many of the general public. If, however, you resigned as a protest against the autocratic methods being adopted at the Yard, largely by the new commissioner, you would retain the goodwill both of police and public.”

Phillipson stopped; and the room seemed hushed. There was not even a rustling of paper, no sound from outside. Then Phillipson stood up, making himself a silhouette against the big window behind him, looked out over Fleet Street and towards Ludgate Circus and St. Paul’s, and went on very quietly, “I hope you agree that you should have an opportunity to refute any of these statements, Superintendent. As this is prepared as a major feature for tomorrow’s issue, it has to be set and carefully proof-read, as well as checked by our legal departments to make sure that any libel read into it can be defended on the grounds of fair comment. That is why I asked you to come this afternoon. What is your comment, Superintendent?”

Chapter Seventeen

ULTIMATUM?

Roger leaned forward and took the document from Phillipson’s hand. He glanced through it, more to give himself time to think than because he needed to know more than Phillipson had told him. There were about eight, sparsely typewritten pages, and several photographs : one of him, one of Vice-Admiral Trevillion, one of New Scotland Yard, one of an Allsafe Security van standing outside a factory, and finally one of him with Janet and the boys, a happy picture taken about ten years ago.

He looked up.

“You know,” he said, “this seems remarkably like an ultimatum: refute every statement here or we print.”

“You could regard it in that light,” agreed Phillipson, urbanely.

“What exactly would you like—or hope for—me to do?”

“I have no preferences,” answered Phillipson. “If you are able to give a categorical denial of the story then I would not print it. If however you are prepared to confirm it in part or whole, I would print it in its entirety. Can you deny the report, Superintendent?”

Roger looked at him levelly, hoping that nothing in his expression gave away the tension which he felt. He was so angry that it was difficult to be calm, but calm he had to be. He folded the report around the photographs, and the packet was just small enough to fit into the side pocket of his jacket.

“Quite apart from my personal involvement, there is a major issue here,” he stated carefully.

“I would be glad to hear it.”

“Someone at the Yard has been giving you—or your correspondent—confidential information.” Roger drank his coffee, put the cup down, and then shifted from the hardback chair to one of the armchairs. The soft cushions seemed to enfold him and when he stretched his legs and leaned his head back, he both felt like and was a picture of extreme comfort. “The someone must hold a position of great trust, obviously.”

“Ah,” said Phillipson. “Such as you.”

“None of that story has come from me,” asserted Roger.

“As a policeman, would you find that easy to prove?” asked Phillipson.

“I would find it easy to sue for libel, and leave you to prove justification,” Roger retorted.

All of his doubts faded as he spoke. This man was out to get him, and had been from the start. Phillipson had enormous self-confidence and the great prestige and money of a powerful newspaper behind him, and obviously he would not carry out such a vendetta without his board knowing, and approving. This wasn’t simply an editor getting on his high horse over what he considered to be a public scandal; it was a deliberate attempt to discredit him, Superintendent Roger West.

What possible motive could there be?

“As a policeman,” Roger went on, “I would keep my evidence and my methods of investigation to myself, until the time came to defend.” He looked up at the other, whom he could hardly see because of the bright window light, and did not move for a long time. Phillipson was obviously determined to wait until he spoke again before commenting.

Roger put his hands on the arms of the chair, loosely at first, but suddenly gripping with both hands and using all the strength of his arms, so that he positively leapt to his feet. He startled Phillipson, who backed away sharply.

“Well, we’ll soon see,” Roger finished. “I really mustn’t stay.”

“But surely—” began Phillipson.

“Good afternoon,” Roger said, smiling brightly. “Will the young lady who brought me up here see me back to the foyer? Or shall I find my own way down?”

He matched Phillipson’s wide-eyed astonishment with a smile, and turned towards the door. For a few seconds he thought that the man would let him go, but suddenly Phillipson moved and came hurrying after him.

“Superintendent! Unless you can satisfy me that these assertions are untrue I shall publish, and your reputation will be at stake.”

As suddenly, Roger stopped; then, very slowly, he turned round. Phillipson was close to him, astonishment and perhaps alarm written all over his face. Obviously he was completely flummoxed by Roger’s reaction.

“Mr. Phillipson,” Roger said. “You are the editor of this newspaper and in law you and you alone are responsible for any statement it publishes. You cannot shift that responsibility on to others, most certainly not on to me. Whether you publish that story is entirely a matter for you. As a police officer I can only tell you that in my view the story proves that there is a serious leakage of information at Scotland Yard, and if I were asked by my supervisors what course to take I would advise them to begin a thorough investigation into the leakage. I would also recommend that if any evidence of bribery or corruption were produced—that is, if it could be established that the information was bought from an officer or servant of the Metropolitan Police, action should be taken both against the supplier of the information and against the person who gave the bribe or who encouraged and / or authorised it.”

He paused, drawing a deep breath, looking much angrier even than he felt.

“As a private individual,” he went on, “I would wait for the result of official action before suing for damages. I hope you’re very clear on how I regard this form of blackmail.”

He turned on his heel, speaking again as he reached the door.

“As for the report, I’m going to take it forthwith to the commander of the C.I.D. and I shall ask him to show it to the commissioner immediately. I am sure that both will be fascinated by the half-truths as well as by the outright lies.”

He went out, letting the door swing to behind him.

• • •

He would do exactly as he had said, he knew, as he went down in the main lift, but letting fly as he had didn’t actually help. He needed to find out what this was all about, why this vendetta had been started. His position would be enormously strengthened if he could take some evidence to Coppell. but there wasn’t much likelihood of being able to do that. There was a very grave danger that he would be so preoccupied by this that he would not be able to concentrate on the investigation into Maisie’s murder. As a man he hated the report; as a policeman and as a man, he had to find that killer.

He had a sudden mental image of Maisie, lying so near to death.

“You won’t believe me.” And a moment later, “It was Mario.” And then, “There you are. You don’t believe me.” And soon, “Give me a kiss, Handsome.”

He could imagine the feel of the moist warmth of her lips.

Detective Officer Ashe came up, smartly.

“I’m just along here, sir. I—” He broke off, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

Roger looked at him vaguely as they walked on.

“Er, yes, I’m fine.” He got into the car and the puce- uniformed doorman hovered. Should he go to see Artemeus in such a mood as this? he wondered. It was on the way to the Yard, he needn’t stay long, and if he didn’t go he would fidget on and off for hours wondering what the Allsafe man wanted. As they were edging out into a stream of traffic, a bus roared by within inches of the Rover, making two or three pedestrians leap out of the way. “Get his number,” Roger snapped, and Ashe, quick off the mark, called out the number of the bus over the radio-telephone.

“Could have crashed into us and killed a couple of people,” Ashe complained.

“Not often you get a bad bus driver,” remarked Roger. “Do you know the Allsafe offices in the Strand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take me there, please.”

Something, he couldn’t quite place what it was. told him that Ashe was startled by the order. There was rivalry as well as co-operation between Allsafe and the Metropolitan Police, he remembered—then pushed the thought to the back of his mind. The near accident and the flashback to Maisie had helped him recover from his anger at the newspaper editor’s near-threat. But why the hell should they set out to discredit him? Who had he offended? Was it concerned with a case he had investigated—or was investigating? This one, perhaps? But speculation was useless, except that it sometimes set the subconscious mind working. Roger gave a mental shrug to his shoulders and tried to relax for a few moments as they passed first Aldwych, then Waterloo Bridge Road, and, a few moments later, turned right.

A doorman was waiting; a young lad took him up to Artemeus’s office. Artemeus was in a long, panelled room, with an oval conference table and an oak, leather- topped desk, very like that at the Globe. As he stood up to greet Roger, a door opened behind the desk, there was a clink of china, and a woman came in wheeling a tea- trolley laden with teapot, cups and saucers, a plate of thinly cut sandwiches and another of eclairs. Artemeus was smiling, pleased, possibly even smug.

“Very good of you to come, Mr. West . . . I didn’t want to trouble you but a stipulation has arisen which I didn’t anticipate . . . Milk? . . . Just a little milk for Mr. West, Nora . . . And what I had imagined would be a very relaxed period of contemplation has, I fear, become a matter of urgency . . . That’s all, Nora, thank you.”

He stopped speaking and looked straight at Roger, and now his amiability seemed to melt away; here was someone who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. Those grey eyes were piercing, and there was a hardness in them which betrayed the true nature of the man.

Roger waited.

“One of our competitor firms has made a bid for our shares,” Artemeus announced. “It is a substantial bid, and our shareholders are likely to accept unless we can offer them something better. There are two other firms, as you know, who are of some importance in this field. If we took them over, we would be in a position not only to remain independent but also to buy out the main competitor in the field, the one who wants to buy us. Need I tell you how important the issues are?”

“You want a monopoly in the private security organisations,” Roger remarked dryly.

“Exactly.” Artemeus let a kind of shield fall over his eyes, hiding their hardness, and stretched a languid hand for an eclair. “In normal circumstances I would not have been so frank, Mr. West, but the situation is so urgent that I really have no choice. You will no doubt guess that the take-over offer came unexpectedly. It will be announced in the evening newspapers tonight, and you would have seen at once why we are so anxious to have your services.”

Roger said heavily, “Spell it out for me, please.”

“Very well.” Artemeus took a sip of tea, and leaned forward earnestly. “If you are with us, Mr. West, we can merge with the smaller companies. They are equally impressed with your importance, your account-pulling power. If you are not with us, then—” he shrugged his shoulders “—then we shall be taken over. This is really very simple; the ways of big business are usually simple.” When Roger did not answer at once, Artemeus went on, “There is another point of view which you would be well to consider. Your position. You are at this moment in a position to dictate terms. If you wanted double the money I offered, I think my board would be prepared to pay.”

His words seemed to fall on to deaf ears. Roger stared at him but did not speak. He believed that he could understand a great many things which had been obscured until he had come here: certainly he saw a glimmering of new and vivid light. But he wanted time to think, to check some facts—and he needed to keep this man in a good humour as he checked them. For as long as he thought that he might join Allsafe, Artemeus would be blandly pleasant and helpful.

Then, as if aware of uncertainty and tension, Artemeus went on, “If you have doubts, Mr. West, why don’t you talk it over with your wife? She sounded very charming when I spoke to her on the telephone this morning.”

Every muscle in Roger’s body went stiff, and for a moment Artemeus looked alarmed.

“You mean you told my wife about this offer?”

“I—well—I—yes,” said Artemeus, his voice suddenly unsteady. “I—er—I called the Yard this morning and—I —they said you were at home. So I called — West. What is the matter? What are you—”

Roger was on his feet and leaning across the desk. One part of his mind was aware of the cold rage in him and the need for self-control, the other was aware of the fear —the near-terror—on this man’s face. Roger forced himself to stand upright as Artemeus craned back in his chair, hands raised as if he expected physical violence.

“What did you tell her?” Roger grated.

“I—er—I simply said that circumstances enabled me to—er—improve substantially on my previous offer. Good God, West, don’t tell me you hadn’t told her! I took that for granted.” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I really had no idea—”

“You cold-blooded liar,” growled Roger. “You found out she didn’t know and you told her so as to put more pressure on me. You’re so anxious to make your miserable profit you’ll try any trick.”

He moved swiftly, rounding the desk in three strides. Artemeus rose in his chair, then dropped down again, for there was no room to pass. Roger gripped him by the shoulders and shook him to and fro, slowly, deliberately, menacingly. His fingers bit into the man’s fleshy shoulders, and Artemeus winced with pain.

“Are you behind the Globe’s campaign? Are you trying to get me thrown out of the Yard or forced to resign so that I have to come to you and take your filthy money? Is that it?” He shook the man to each of the words and Artemeus’s head bobbed to and fro. “Tell me the truth or I’ll shake your head off your shoulders.”

That was when the door near the desk opened, and Phillipson of the Globe came in. He closed the door quietly, and stepped towards Roger, who did not release his hold on Artemeus, just turned his head and glared.

“If you do that, West, you’ll have earned another big headline,” Phillipson said. “Let Artemeus go.”

Chapter Eighteen

THREAT

For a long time, it seemed, Roger stood unmoving, while Phillipson’s words echoed and re-echoed in his mind. Then he relinquished his hold on Artemeus, and the man fell back into his chair, gasping for breath. Phillipson, his calm and assured self for a few moments, gave him a sideways glance and seemed to become momentarily alarmed. Artemeus’s breath was coming in short gasps, and he was heaving, as if breathing were painful and shallow. Phillipson went closer to the desk, on the other side from Roger, and pressed a bell. Immediately, a woman said, “Yes, sir?”

“Miss Noble, doesn’t Mr. Artemeus have some tablets for his heart condition?” Phillipson asked.

“Yes, sir,” answered Miss Noble. “He keeps them in a snuff-box in his left-hand pocket. Shall I bring in some water?”

“There’s milk here,” observed Phillipson. “The next time I ring, I want you to play back that tape.”

Roger put his hand into Artemeus’s left-hand pocket and took out a small, flat box, silver-coloured. He opened this as Phillipson poured out some milk into Artemeus’s cup. Roger went behind the gasping man and gently eased his head backwards, while Phillipson put a small tablet to the parted lips, and ordered firmly, “Take this tablet, Ben.”

Artemeus opened his mouth and swallowed hard; the tablet disappeared.

“Now drink some milk.”

Artemeus drank; gulp, gulp, gulp. Phillipson drew back, putting the cup down, while Roger slid the small box back into the sick man’s pocket. The harsh breathing seemed to ease at once, but a bluish tinge at his lips grew rather worse. After a few moments, Phillipson leaned forward and rang again. Almost at once, voices sounded, and suddenly Roger recognised his own.

“Tell me the truth or I’ll shake your head off your shoulders.” The restrained fury could not be disguised.

“Go back a little further,” Phillipson ordered into the speaker.

Roger walked swiftly to the desk. Since Artemeus’s mention of Janet he had hardly thought, just reacted—first to his own anger, then to Phillipson’s calmness and control. But now he knew exactly what to do. Ignoring Phillipson’s astonished stare, ignoring the metallic twang of his and Artemeus’s recorded voices, he picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

“Scotland Yard,” an operator answered.

“Detective Sergeant Danizon,” Roger said. He saw Phillipson’s eyes widen, saw the man’s assurance wilting. “Hallo, Tom. I want you to send four men to the offices of the Allsafe Security Company in the Strand. They are to come straight up to the office of Mr. Artemeus— Benjamin Artemeus. I will be here to give them instruc-tions . . . No, don’t ring off yet! I want an immediate check on the directors of all the major private security corporations; you’d better make that senior directors as well as directors . . . Yes . . . I want to find out if there is any association between any of them and Mario Rapelli, Maisie Dunster, or Hamish Campbell, in fact with any of the people concerned in the Verdi affair. It’s very urgent,” he went on. “Get it started, and I’ll come back as soon as I can and talk to the commander to see that we get it done tonight . . . Get those four men over here from the nearest patrols.”

He rang off. Artemeus was sitting back in his chair, his breathing very much easier. Phillipson was still staring, open-mouthed. Roger poured himself out some more tea and helped himself to an eclair.

“What good do you think this will do you?” demanded Phillipson, his voice suddenly shrill. “When I tell your superiors that you used violence on Artemeus, you will be through at the Yard.”

“Possibly,” Roger said coldly. “Has it ever occurred to you to put the public good above your own?”

“Don’t be a smug hypocrite!”

“Oh, no,” Roger said. “I’m not a hypocrite. I’m hotheaded at times and at others I cut corners and get myself into trouble, but I always work for the public good. That’s my job. You’re the hypocrite here. You run a newspaper supposedly in the public interest, yet use it to try to influence the activity of the police force and to smear the character of police officers.”

Phillipson said, “You must be bluffing.”

“He—he is,” said Artemeus in a choky voice. “He—he— he’ll play if you offer him enough.” His voice was thin and wheezy, but his colour was better and he sat up in his chair. “A—a hundred thousand pounds, West—tax free. Just forget this clash of ideas, and—and join us.”

“This, as you call it, is now part of the official record,” said Roger coolly. I don’t yet know exactly what’s going on but I do know it will soon stop.” He now felt in complete control of the situation. “You would both be well advised to make a full and truthful statement.”

“A—a hundred and fifty thousand,” Artemeus gasped. “Tax free.”

“Maisie Dunster was murdered this morning,” Roger said coldly. “Ricardo Verdi was murdered last Wednesday. If you can tell me why, here’s your chance to justify your attitude. If you can’t or won’t I shall take you both to Scotland Yard for questioning and possible charge.”

“You’ve nothing to charge us with,” Phillipson protested thinly.

“Attempting to bribe a policeman in the course of his duty—”

“No one would ever believe it!”

Roger moved with devastating speed, reached the door, opened it and barked, “Miss Noble. Was the tape still recording when Mr. Artemeus came round?”

The woman was sitting at a desk with several telephones, a small push-button telephone control board, and several tape-recorders, all of these in slots at the side of her desk, all of them playing. She moved her hand as if to stop one but Roger rasped, “Don’t touch that.”

He strode forward.

“Which is the recorder for the other room?” She pointed a quivering finger towards it. “Don’t touch it,” Roger ordered. “I know you work for Mr. Artemeus, but if you obstruct me in any way you will be an accomplice to him and an accessory to everything these men have done.”

She dropped back into her chair.

Roger looked at the tape-recorder, which was marked “Mr Artemeusso the woman had told the truth, he thought. Glancing back into the room through the wide open door, he saw the two men staring after him; they looked appalled. He took another step forward, thinking that the four Yard men should be here soon, that he hadn’t much further to go. He wasn’t sure of the strength of his case, wasn’t at all sure of the details, but he did know that he had become involved through none of his own causing in a struggle for the monopoly of private security forces in the country. Warned by a sixth sense, he looked back yet again, and this time saw Phillipson spring towards the open doorway, a gun in his hand. Roger did not move, except to throw a glance over his shoulder at Miss Noble, who might already be so involved that she was virtually compelled to help both Phillipson and Artemeus. Phillipson drew a pace nearer but was still further away from Roger than Artemeus, who was sitting motionless at his desk, but must be aware of the gun in his associate’s hand.

“Phillipson,” Roger said, “put that gun down.”

Phillipson advanced a step closer. He looked very pale and his eyes glittered.

“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds for your co-operation,” he said in a low rasping voice, “or I shall kill you.”

• • •

Roger did not doubt that the man meant it. In the tone of his voice, in his manner, there was all the indication needed. For the second time in a few days he was at the business end of a gun. Again, his thoughts flashed to Maisie, but they did not linger. He was face to face with disaster at a time when the whole world seemed to be tumbling about him. Two appointments, fairly straightforward appointments with two highly reputable men, and he was confronting the leaders of the campaign against him.

He still did not understand why, but felt quite sure he was right. The menace of the gun was all too convincing.

“You heard me,” Phillipson grated.

“Yes,” Roger agreed. “I heard you. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds to sell my soul, or else death by shooting.” How long would it be before the patrols got here, he wondered anxiously. He must play for time, and hope it wouldn’t run out before they arrived. “I always wanted to be rich,” he went on. “Always. And I always wanted to be the boss. Would I be the boss of Allsafe?”

“Yes!” cried Artemeus. “Yes, there would be no one else. You would be the administrative and executive chief, the commissioner and the commander C.I.D. rolled into one I And you’d get those holidays. You would have normal hours. When I told her this your wife was delighted.”

“I’m sure she was,” Roger said. Once again he felt that seething rage rise within him, but fought it down. “What do I have to do to qualify for this high position and considerable fortune?”

“Withdraw those men you sent for,” ordered Phillipson. “And then resign from the Yard at a Press Conference tonight.”

“Why tonight?” asked Roger.

“For God’s sake use your head!” cried Artemeus. “If you join us and all the newspapers have the story tomorrow none of our shareholders would accept the competitor’s offer. That’s all you have to do. Appear at a televised Press Conference and resign. We’ll give you six months’ advance on your salary, and you can have a month’s holiday—two months’ holiday.”

“It’s too easy,” Roger said, half-laughing. “It’s far too good to be true.” Even to his ears his laughter sounded completely genuine. I should have been on the stage, he thought wryly. Then he thought: When the devil are those four men coming? They couldn’t be long, now, it must be twenty minutes since he had telephoned Danizon, who would waste no time.

He sauntered back to Artemeus’s office, aware of Miss Noble’s heavy breathing, the whirring of the tape-recorder as every word they uttered was recorded. Phillipson still kept him covered with his gun, but did not seem so distressed, and Roger saw that Artemeus had a document of some kind on the desk in front of him. Artemeus had recovered remarkably well from that attack, he thought.

“You just have to sign this contract,” Artemeus said” now. “That’s all.”

“And this confession,” added Phillipson.

“Ah—a confession sounds interesting,” said Roger casually. “What have I done?”

“Killed Maisie Dunster,” Phillipson stated. So Phillipson and Artemeus were involved in the Verdi case, thought Roger grimly. This whole affair was obviously far, far deeper than he had realised. Exerting all his self- control to appear casual and unconcerned, he picked up the first document, and found it exactly what Phillipson had said: a short confession that he had attacked Maisie because she knew that he had been taking bribes and covering up the activities of notorious criminals. It was beautifully typed on paper from New Scotland Yard. How had they come by that?

“Sign that or I shall shoot you,” Phillipson’s voice was steady.

Roger put his hand to his pocket, and there was a silent cry within him. When are those four coming? Phillipson lowered his arm and Artemeus handed him a pen with which to sign. Roger took this, poised it over the confession—and then, in a lightning movement, jerked it backwards and towards Phillipson’s face. At the same time he leapt past Artemeus, twisting round as he did so. Phillipson was staggering back, the gun waving, but he would recover his balance before Roger could get at him, and there was only one thing left to do. Grabbing Artemeus’s jacket with one hand so that the man was unable to move, he swivelled his chair round with the other, and crouched behind it. Phillipson steadied, the gun pointed, and suddenly a bullet spat; there was a zutt of sound and a stab of flame and a bullet buried itself in the big oak desk.

“Mind me!” screeched Artemeus.

Phillipson levelled the gun again, and moved to one side. Roger swivelled the chair slowly, tightening his grip on Artemeus, keeping his prisoner always between himself and the gun.

Phillipson fired again, and missed.

As he aimed a third time, the passage door burst open and two Yard men flung themselves into the room. They saw the gun and did not need Roger’s shout of warning. Fast upon that, one of them yelled on a note of alarm that cut through Roger like a knife, “Watch him, sir!”

Watch who?

Watch Phillipson!

Suddenly Roger saw the newspaper editor fling himself towards the window, firing at the two Yard men as he did so. Reaching the window, he kicked the glass through with one foot, then hurled himself out to the pavement ten storeys below.

• • •

Benjamin Artemeus sat shivering in his chair, while Roger looked down at the sprawled figure on the pavement. In her office, Miss Noble sat at the desk, hands on her broad lap, hopelessness in her expression.

• • •

“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” said Danizon, “that was a wonderful job. I’ve talked to the secretary, Miss Noble, she says you were magnificent. Her very words, sir. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you look all in.

And you’ll have to see the commander and probably the commissioner very soon. Would it be a good idea if you rested for half an hour? There’s a bathroom next door, and a room next to that where you could put your feet up.”

They were going through papers in Artemeus’s desk.

They had already done a great deal since the shooting and the tragedy. Ambulances and police had arrived and Phillipson’s body had been taken away. An area of the Strand had been roped off and the police were busy there. Other police had been sent to Phillipson’s office, which had been sealed off, and members of the Board of the Globe as well as of Allsafe and other interested com-panies were being interviewed. Artemeus was now at the Yard. He had not spoken since Roger had arrested him, and was so blue in the face that he seemed likely to have a fatal attack at any moment. A police surgeon was standing by. Coppell had been interrupted at the European Police Conference, and he was believed to have told the commissioner about the situation.

There were at least two things Roger didn’t know.

First, who had killed Maisie? Second, what part had Rapelli really played in the murder of Verdi, and why had Verdi been killed?

The answers were somewhere in this mass of papers; they could even be in the evidence he had already discovered, but which he could not interpret properly.

These things went through his mind as he said, “Good idea, Tom. By the way, what brought you in person?”

“I took a chance after I’d ordered patrol cars to come here,” said Danizon, with refreshing honesty. “Just for once I wanted to be out on a job. I—oh, L forgot. Your wife telephoned twice this afternoon, and I thought she sounded anxious. When you’ve had a shower you might like to call her.”

“Yes,” Roger said, heavily. “I will.”

He went along to the bathroom, through a small and pleasantly furnished room where there were drinks, cocktail biscuits, glasses and some magazines—and a telephone. He thought he could guess what Janet had to say and he was in no mood, yet, to hear it. There was a lot to do, and soon he would have to report to Coppell—and quite possibly the commissioner as well.

Chapter Nineteen

INTERRUPTION

Roger soaked for a few minutes in the bath. The water was warm, too warm, but soothing to his over-tired body. Danizon was right, he thought. He must relax completely for ten minutes or so, must clear his mind of everything and forget the case entirely. He lay back and closed his eyes, but immediately he did so thoughts came crowding into his head—thoughts of Maisie, of Rachel Warrender, of Mario Rapelli, of Hamish Campbell, of everyone in-volved—each one forming a clear and living picture on the retina of his mind. Somewhere, in this maze of tangled evidence, were the clues he needed. Both Artemeus and Phillipson had obviously been involved in the campaign to discredit him in the Police Force and thus compel him to join Allsafe. But could that be simply to boost Allsafe against its competitors? Such a thought was inconceivable. And what in heaven’s name, Roger wondered, was the connection with the Verdi affair?

If he had to point a finger at the most astonishing development in this whole case it would be Rachel War- render’s visit, and her pleading for him to find out the truth. She had been in a desperate mood, had not slept all night; it was strange that she had felt so deeply at such a simple deception.

“My God!” Roger suddenly exclaimed aloud.

He looked round, and saw a telephone. He grabbed it, water dripping, instrument slipping from his fingers. An operator answered.

“Detective Sergeant Danizon, please. He’s in Mr. Art—”

“I know where he is, sir.”

There was only a moment’s pause before Danizon answered, but in this pause Roger’s thoughts were racing, and he spoke as Danizon came on the line.

“Have you come across any documents or files showing who represents Allsafe legally?”

“Well, yes, sir,” Danizon said. “I was struck by the coincidence. It’s Warrender, Clansel and Warrender, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

“So it is,” said Roger tautly. “Telephone Rachel War- render and ask her to meet me at the Yard in an hour. You’d better be there, too. I’ll be out of here in five minutes, and I’m going over to the Festival Hall, to see the commander.”

“But if you interrupt him at the conference, sir—” Alarm thickened Danizon’s voice.

“I’ll either be out on my neck or the next deputy commander,” Roger said drily. “I know.”

In ten minutes he was outside in the Strand, facing a battery of reporters and photographers. A large crowd had gathered, hundreds of people watching the police taking photographs and measurements of the spot where Phillipson had fallen. As West appeared, the crowd surged towards him.

“Just a moment, Super.”

“Hold it.”

“Is it true that you were in the room when Phillipson jumped out of the window?”

“What’s it all about, Handsome?”

One man said in a very deep voice, “Can you give us a statement, sir?”

All this time Roger was pushing his way through the surging mass of onlookers, two constables trying to clear a path for him. Cameras were being held high, photographers were on the roofs of cars, on window ledges, even on one another’s shoulders.

“Was it suicide?” one man called.

“Or was he pushed?”

“Just a brief statement, sir,” pleaded the man who had asked before.

Through the crowd Roger could just see the head and shoulders of Detective Constable Ashe. He must be near the car, thought Roger, struggling towards him in the wake of the two constables. At last he reached it, the two policemen as well as Ashe protecting him as he started to get in. Then, standing on the side of the car and supporting himself by the door and a policeman’s shoulder, he faced the crowd.

“I’ll have a statement of some kind ready at the Yard by seven-thirty,” he called in a clear voice. “That’s a promise.”

There must have been fifty cameras snapping him as he stood there. All questions stopped, he got into the car unhindered, and the crowd drew back, allowing Ashe to drive him away.

Fifteen minutes later he was entering the Royal Festival Hall. This hall, London’s musical pride since the 1951 Exhibition, was often used during the day for conferences. On this particular day it was almost filled with policemen from over thirty countries of Europe, including each of the Iron Curtain countries. Roger went to a table marked Organisation and spoke to a grey-haired woman whom he vaguely recognised as from the Yard; the Metro-politan Police were responsible for all the arrangements here.

“Good afternoon, Mr. West.”

“Good afternoon. I must speak to Mr. Coppell,” Roger said.

“Oh, no !” she exclaimed. “The president of the conference is making his closing speech. You can’t hear a pin drop in the hall, sir.”

Roger hesitated only for a moment before saying positively, “Five minutes is the absolute limit I can wait.”

“Oh, but it will be an hour at least! I daren’t disturb him.”

“Do you know where Mr. Coppell is?” asked Roger.

“He’s about halfway down on the left-hand side of the centre aisle, but the commissioner’s with him.”

Roger said, “Thank you,” and opened a door into the huge auditorium. A man was standing on the huge stage, small, dark-haired, pale-faced, vivid in a single spotlight. He was Karl Schmidt of West Germany, one of the world’s great policemen and an orator in German, French and English. The woman was quite right; there was utter stillness and there was magnetism in that clear, only faintly guttural voice.

Roger felt acutely self-conscious, and very glad of the carpeted floor. He passed rows and rows of men, with only here and there a woman, but no one appeared to take the slightest notice of him. He was scanning the heads for Coppell’s, which he would recognise—ah! There he was, only one seat off the aisle. Roger drew nearer, and gulped, for the commissioner was in the aisle seat and he could see how intent Trevillion was on the speaker.

. . . “. . . and if we are to bring this dreadful wave of crime to an end . . .”

Roger summoned up all his courage and bent forward. “Excuse me, sir,” he whispered, touching Trevillion’s arm, “I must see the commander.”

“What —!” Trevillion ejaculated.

“Shhh!” someone hissed.

“What?” muttered Trevillion.

Now Coppell had been disturbed, and he turned too. There was just enough light to show Roger’s face, as he breathed, “It’s vitally urgent, sir.”

“I’ll come,” whispered Coppell.

Roger turned and made his way back, noticed this time by people near the scene of the interruption, aware of many eyes turned towards him. But even so, most eyes were still riveted on the figure on the stage.

“. . . we have, as we well know, many political problems and social problems but none of us, whatever our ideology, our faith, wants crime on the scale that we now have it. We must find a set of rules to which we can all subscribe; must have co-operation at its closest in the investigation of certain crimes, such as murder for gain . . .”

Roger went into the foyer, and held the door open. The woman at the table was staring intently; her eyes widened when first Coppell and then the commissioner came out. Roger closed the door quietly, and Coppell said in a growl, “Your reason had better be good.”

Trevillion was staring at Roger in a puzzled way, not at all censorious or angry; just puzzled. Roger led the way towards a place at the foot of a staircase where no one could come upon them unawares, and overhear what was said.

“Well?” Coppell growled again; whether out of anger or to impress the commissioner, Roger couldn’t guess.

“Phillipson of the Globe has just committed suicide by throwing himself out of the window of the Allsafe managing director’s office,” Roger stated. “Benjamin Artemeus, of Allsafe, is under arrest on a charge of assisting Phillipson in an attempt to commit grievous bodily harm. Phillipson and Artemeus were conspiring to get control of all the security companies of consequence in the country.

They used me as a pawn to win shareholders’ votes. All of these facts can be established from a tape-recording made while I was in Artemeus’s office. I have ordered police control of the Allsafe administrative offices and our men are in possession.”

Roger paused, as much for breath as anything else. Neither of the others spoke or moved, and at last he went on, “I believe the editorial and administrative offices of the Globe should be searched forthwith, although it is conceivable that some papers have already been destroyed. I also believe that all the directors and executives of the security companies concerned should be interrogated and their homes searched for incriminating docu-ments. Further, I believe that the law firm of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender is involved, and I think its offices and the homes of its partners should be searched, at once.”

He paused again, and this time Coppell gasped, “Good God!”

“I did not feel that I could give orders for these raids on my own account,” Roger said. “We need all available men from the C.I.D.: all officers off duty should, in my opinion, be called in so that a clean sweep can be made tonight. I doubt if any of the suspects will expect such immediate action, but if we wait until tomorrow then any incriminating documents could be burned or otherwise destroyed, while any individuals engaged in the conspiracy could get together to offer false explanations and in some cases might flee the country during the night.” He moistened his lips, but paused only for a moment. “I hope you will authorise the raids, gentlemen. I believe them to be essential.”

“And Phillipson is dead!” said the commissioner, in-credulously. “I know—I knew him well.”

Was he going to be as slow as that in catching up with the situation? Roger wondered desperately.

“We’d better hear that tape-recorder,” Coppell said. “Is your car outside, Handsome?”

“At the door.”

“Shall we go in that?” Coppell suggested to the commissioner. It was almost a direction and they moved towards the door. “We can hear the rest of West’s story on the way.”

Ashe, talking to a doorman, was suddenly at attention as the three men appeared, and at the car door in giant strides. There was no room for three big men in the back seat, so Roger got into the seat next to Ashe, switched off the two-way radio, and twisted round so that he could face his two seniors. His head was bent because of the low roof, and his side hurt where he had been kicked, but his heart was light because he now knew that he was being taken with utter seriousness. But he still hadn’t reached the crux of his belief—his fear.

“Now, proceed,” said the commissioner.

“The tape will establish what I’ve already said”—Roger went on as if there had been no interruption—” and at least three of our men saw Phillipson throw himself out of the window. I was nearer him than anyone else, but still six or seven feet away. The rest is based largely on conjecture.”

“You mean, the justification for these wholesale raids you want?” asked Coppell.

“On some of the most distinguished men in the country,” Trevillion put in sonorously.

“Yes,” answered Roger, crisply. “It really turns on the fact that Rachel Warrender came to see me and pleaded with me to find out the truth. She told me that she had been in love with Rapelli, that she had believed in him, but that she now found he had bribed his witnesses. She also told me that her father—Sir Roland Warrender— had begged her not to take the case, and she seemed extremely worried about this—almost as if she suspected his motives. She was in very great distress, both for Rapelli’s sake and for reasons which might well concern her father.”

He paused, moistening his lips again; his mouth was very dry.

“Warrender,” murmured Coppell, “Phillipson . . .”

Roger’s heart and hopes leapt in unison.

“But what has the error of judgment of a young woman solicitor to do with this?” demanded Trevillion.

“I think she feared her father was involved but couldn’t bring herself to spy on him or even give direct information,” Roger said slowly. “I believe she came to give me the vital clue: that her father, one of the most extreme right-wing politicians in Britain, could be involved.”

“With the most extreme right-wing newspaper,” breathed Coppell.

“That’s right,” said Roger. Thank God Coppell was police-trained, he thought, and saw the significance of all this way ahead of Trevillion. “It all began to fit. I was the pawn, as I’ve said—I had to be the figurehead behind whom the shareholders of Allsafe would rally. And once I had joined them, I was to be built-up by the Globe as a victim of the intolerable rigidity of the Yard’s policy. I was to be a victim of your tyrannical attitude, sir. I was to be the golden boy who could no longer work at the Yard, being blocked at every turn by red tape, officialdom and—no doubt—by governmental control through the Home Office.” He was looking at Trevillion, who frowned slightly at the accusations but made no comment. “And once I was trapped, once I was the figurehead, once the reputation of the Yard had been effectively smeared and the reputation of the police trampled in the dust, once all the major security forces were merged under one control—”

“They would be in competition with us !” cried Coppell.

In the silence which followed, Ashe took his eyes off the road for a moment and gaped at Roger. A car horn hooted, and he swung the wheel in a moment of alarm, but none of the passengers noticed.

“They might even be in a position to take over now,” Roger said, grimly. “Most of their staff are ex-Yard and ex-policemen, many of them in their early fifties, even in their late forties. They would have all the makings of an alternative police force.”

“West,” said Trevillion, in a curiously flat voice, “do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Roger, quietly. “I couldn’t understand why they should go to such lengths to discredit me at the Yard and at the same time discredit the Yard itself. But I can see a very likely reason now. And I can also see beyond this to a political crisis, sir. We are in a constant succession of political emergencies. The Globe has been campaigning for a businessman’s government for years; has even advocated benevolent dictatorship as the way out of our political and economic troubles. Artemeus is right-wing. Sir Roland Warrender has been the rallying point at Westminster for discontent with the present form of government, and there have been some indications that he either sees himself as a leader, or others see him as one—”

“You think there could be an attempt to take over the country,” interrupted Trevillion. He did not raise his voice but spoke as if it were hurtful for him to say such things. “And you want these raids made to ensure that if there is any plot, then it is smashed now, before the ringleaders can escape to plot again. Is that it?”

Roger said simply, “That is it exactly, sir.”

The commissioner, sitting bolt upright, looked like an image of Buddha. He stared intently into Roger’s eyes, and then turned to Coppell. It was a long time before he spoke.

“If I were in absolute control,” he said at last, “I would call out the armed forces to make these raids. But the point you have made very successfully in the past few weeks is that my methods are not police methods. What do you advise, Commander?”

So now everything was in the hands of the commander, C.I.D. It was up to Coppell, thought Roger grimly, to prove his capacity for dealing with such a desperate situation.

Chapter Twenty

POLICEMAN

Coppell was looking at Roger, not at Trevillion. The car was now in Parliament Square, but none of them glanced up and none appeared to realise the appositeness of this place at this moment—unless Ashe did. He was tense-faced and his hands, usually relaxed, were tight on the wheel.

“I would assign every man we’ve got, off duty or on, to these raids.” Coppell spoke slowly, weightily. “I would brief all the divisions, call for help from the City Police, be completely ready to make the raids, while you were placing the known facts before the Home Secretary. And I would be ready to move the moment he approved.”

Roger thought almost desperately: But supposing he wouldn’t give the word?

Trevillion frowned.

“I see. Yes. However, supposing the Home Office became entangled in all that red tape which West feels can be such a disadvantage? Supposing I told the Prime Minister —who will be at the Euro-Police Conference tonight—and the Prime Minister called a cabinet meeting and the cabinet ministers dithered?” Trevillion looked at Roger with a wry smile, then turned back to Coppell. “I’m a naval man, Commander. Often have to take decisions and justify them afterwards. If it’s a wrong decision one is in serious trouble, but there isn’t time for reference back to

Whitehall when one is under direct enemy attack.” He paused, looked from Coppell to Roger, then back again to Coppell. “Set the Yard at Action Station, Commander,” he said harshly, “and move into action the moment you’re ready. And don’t lose a second. Understand?”

Coppell was already leaning forward to switch on the radio. By the time they reached the Yard, men were coming in for instructions and every division had been alerted for a raid or raids which might take all night. The Press was clamouring outside the Yard and cameras clicked again and again.

They went inside.

“What do you have to do now?” Coppell asked Roger.

“I promised the Press a statement at the Back Room at seven-thirty,” Roger said. “But I’m anxious to interview Rachel Warrender at once.”

“I’ll fix the statement. You see the Warrender girl and let me know when you’re through,” said Coppell.

“West,” said Trevillion, rubbing his jaw, “I want you to understand one thing. Whether you’re right or whether you’re wrong, you’ve done a remarkable job in a remarkable way. I’m sorry I made it difficult for you.”

He nodded, and moved off.

Coppell cleared his throat.

“Couldn’t agree with him more, Handsome. I made it bloody difficult, too. I’m no public relations man. Can never say what I mean to say, if there’s a back, I put it up. Early on, I wanted to tell you something but couldn’t get it out, you can put my back up, too.” His face was thunderous as he said all this and the shadows seemed to grow darker as he went on, “I’m going to retire. Only got three months to go. I had to recommend someone to take my place. You. But Trevillion had doubts, thought you were a show-off—and in a way I agree with him. You had me over a barrel. But there was a thing I didn’t know.

You shot up high in his opinion when you fought him and me. He likes a lone wolf, a man with the guts to make his own decisions. Thought you ought to know.”

He turned and strode off, leaving Roger staring after him in blank astonishment. Roger didn’t know how long he had been standing there before he could relax, and then, feeling strangely touched, he went along to his own office. On his desk was a single note, which read:

Miss W. is in my office—been here since 6.49 p.m.

Roger read this two or three times, lit a cigarette, then took out whisky and soda, poured himself a tot, left the bottles out with an empty glass and went to the communicating door.

Rachel was facing him as he opened it. For a moment they stared at each other, while Danizon jumped up from his desk and said in some confusion, “This is Miss War- render, sir.”

Slowly she got to her feet and moved like an automaton past Roger and into his office, her face a mask of tragedy and defeat. Roger went to his desk and sat on a corner, gave her a chance to speak, and when she didn’t take it, asked, “Have you heard about Phillipson?”

“Yes.” Her whisper was hardly audible.

“Are you afraid your father might commit suicide, too?”

“No,” she said, a little more strongly. “He would stand and fight. He will fight.”

“Did you know that there was a plot to set up a rival organisation to the established police forces, one which could take over if there were a coup?”

“No,” she whispered, “I didn’t know—but I feared it. I — I couldn’t bear to investigate. So—I came to you. I believed if anyone could find out, you could.”

It would be easy to say that she should have told him, that earlier knowledge might have saved not only trouble but lives, certainly Phillipson’s life. But what good purpose could be served? Wouldn’t her conscience torment her enough as the days passed?

“I doubt if I would have seen the truth so quickly if it hadn’t been for you,” he said. “But even with your help, if the other security companies hadn’t started to gang up on Allsafe, thus making Phillipson and Artemeus pressure me too hard, I might not have realised what was going on.”

“And you don’t like being pressured,” she remarked. The faint smile at her lips was a good sign.

“Not in court or out of it! Rachel, do you know what actually happened between Rapelli and Verdi?”

“I didn’t,” she answered, “but I do now. I told you I had an enquiry agent at work, but in fact this was a member of the firm’s staff. He knew that Mario was a very right- wing politician who worked for my—my father, whose activities were nearly treasonable, even to the point of conspiring with Phillipson and Artemeus to overthrow the government and establish a new government by thinly disguised dictatorship.

“This member of the staff knew that Verdi suspected Mario Rapelli’s part in the conspiracy. He and Verdi used to work together at rallies and demonstrations, but Verdi discovered they were planning a coup, and he threatened to tell the police. Mario killed him to keep him quiet. Maisie had no idea what was going on, but Fogarty had. And when Hamish Campbell found out, he switched sides because of his right-wing sympathies. They all panicked,” she added helplessly. “When you went to Fogarty’s room they thought you would find some documents and literature there that would give the game away, and Campbell tried—Well, you know what followed.”

“It was quite an extravaganza,” Roger said. “But I am beginning to understand it. They were so desperate that they took wild chances.” He frowned. “Do you know who killed Maisie, and why?”

“I think I know,” Rachel said. “After Maisie learnt that Fogarty had killed Smithson she wouldn’t have anything more to do with him. I think she was beginning to put two and two together, and they thought she knew more than she actually did. The only person she’d speak to was Rapelli, and I think someone went to her flat pretending to be Rapelli, and attacked her before she had time to find out who he really was.”

“One thing you should know, sir,” Danzion said later. “They found a section of a thumbprint on the hammer handle, the hammer used to kill Maisie. We shall get him.”

“Check it with Fogarty’s,” Roger ordered.

They learned, soon, that it was Fogarty’s print.

• • •

“So I killed Smithson,” Fogarty said hoarsely. “And I’d kill you, Rachel Warrender and the whole gang of hypocrites who support the bloody system we live under. We’ve got to have a change, don’t you understand? And we can only get it by revolution.”

“There are some things that make me feel murderous, too,” Roger said, tautly. “Such as Maisie’s death.”

“But I didn’t want to kill Maisie,” Fogarty cried. “She was the mother of my son—sure, she had a son, that’s what she always wanted money for, she paid a foster mother to look after the kid. I didn’t want to kill her!” he cried again. “But she learned too much, she could have brought disaster on everything and everyone I believe in!”

Roger left him and went to the Yard, where he studied the latest reports on Rapelli. Only this afternoon, since he had looked at the film, was there any reference to Rapelli’s political activities. “He is a member of an extreme right-wing underground group which used the Doon Club as cover.”

“We should have discovered that earlier,” Roger reproached himself. And it was no consolation to know that he would have come round to it sooner or later.

He went straight from the Yard to Brixton Prison. Soon, Rapelli was brought to see him, and obviously the man had heard something of what had happened. He was edgy, his lips twitched occasionally, he clenched and unclenched his hands.

“I’ve just come from Fogarty,” Roger said coldly. “And I know why you attacked Verdi.”

Rapelli said in a hoarse voice, “Is it true that Phillipson of the Globe killed himself?”

“Yes, and it is true that after a study of papers found in his office and in Artemeus’s office we know both men were involved in a plot to overthrow the government and impose one on the country. We also know you were involved, that Verdi found out and refused to go along, and—”

“You can guess what you like,” Rapelli interrupted. “I admit nothing, do you understand? Nothing.”

• • •

Roger telephoned Rachel Warrender at her Hampstead flat, and told her what he had said to Rapelli. Very slowly she answered, “It’s one thing to be a Fascist, another to be a cold-blooded murderer. But I’ll go and see him in the morning, Mr. West.”

“I hoped you would,” said Roger.

“I’m sure you did,” said Rachel in a very emphatic way. “You’ re one of the rare human beings who would help his own worst enemy, aren’t you? We’ll meet again, Mr. West, but just now I would like to thank you for being exactly what you are.”

When he rang off, he sat very still and silent. But he could not sit idle for long. He wanted to be at the hub of the Yard, helping to organise the raids, to be the first to hear the results.

There was an air of hustle and bustle and excitement as the different teams went out, first to the divisions, then to the offices and the houses of the people involved. Soon, more evidence came in of the plot. Documents found in Sir Roland Warrender’s safe proved what he had been planning, and Sir Roland admitted everything to a Yard superintendent.

His firm’s partners were involved, too, except for Rachel.

So were some of the directors and major shareholders of the Globe.

The raid on the Globe was a masterly achievement; everyone who knew what Phillipson had planned was charged, but most of the reporting, administrative and machine-room staff were quite unaware that the Globe was to have been the voice of rebellion, and they produced the next edition with banner headlines about the story.

By midnight, the raids were nearly all over, key houses and offices were taken over by the police. First the Home Secretary and then the Prime Minister were told, and faced with a fait accompli, gave their approval. Two cabinet ministers were on the fringe of the organisation as a political machine, a few members of Parliament had been aware of what Warrender was planning, but none had known of the Allsafe plot. Just after midnight, Roger was still at his desk when Coppell and Trevillion came in.

“All that matters is done for the night,” Coppell said, “I’ll stay and see it through. You go home, Handsome. You need some rest.”

“That’s an order,” the commissioner insisted, with a glint in his eyes.

Yes, it was time to go home; time to see Janet.

He had telephoned home and talked to Martin, telling him he would be late, asking him to tell Janet not to sit up, but Janet might have ignored that, and be waiting. What was she thinking? As far as she knew he had been offered an ideal job and not told her and not accepted it. He drove to Bell Street, slowly, and went right into the garage. The living room lights were on, so Janet hadn’t gone to bed. Oh, well. As he opened the kitchen door he heard the television, and was startled. Only rarely, and usually for political occasions, was there television after midnight. He reached the door and looked in. Both the boys and Janet sat round the screen, and there was no commentary, just some street scenes—Strand scenes. There was a picture of a man on the pavement —Phillipson! So a camera had been there that early. There were shots of the ambulance, of Phillipson being lifted in, of more police cars arriving, then, suddenly, pictures of a seething crowd of people.

“There he is!” cried Janet.

“Good old Pop!” chortled Richard.

“Hush!” breathed Scoop.

The camera followed him, Roger, as he pushed and the police pushed and at last he was at the car. Slowly he turned to face the crowd, and a remarkable silence fell upon the people. He looked round, and, watching, he was satisfied with his poise. His voice came from the television, as Janet said with a choky kind of emotion, “Oh, he’s wonderful!”

“I’ll have a statement of some kind ready at the Yard by seven-thirty. That’s a promise.”

“Do you know,” Scoop said, “I’ve never yet known Dad break a promise?”

“Hush!” breathed Richard.

There was a swift change of scene to the news room at Scotland Yard, in fact a conference room which was jammed tight with people. The commentator used as few words as he could as first Coppell and then the commissioner spoke.

“We can’t and won’t answer any questions,” Trevillion said, “but Commander Coppell has a statement which we have both signed. Copies will be available as you leave the room. Harrumph! Commander.”

The camera switched to Coppell’s face, his deepset eyes, his heavy jaw. He read the statement slowly, almost at dictation speed.

“A series of raids on professional, commercial and (one) newspaper building have been and are being made by officers of the Metropolitan Police Force in conjunction with the City of London Police Force this evening. Raids have been and are being carried out also on private homes. A number of arrests have already been made and others are pending. The charge in each case is that of conspiring against the State.

“This is only a preliminary statement. No others will be issued tonight and no questions will be answered. It can be stated, however, that these raids followed the death by suicide of the editor of the Globe, and that among those arrested are Sir Roland Warrender, M.P., Benjamin Artemeus of the Allsafe Security Company, and members of the boards of both of these as well as other companies and partnerships.

“We are of the opinion that it should be stated that these raids, and the arrests of individuals inimical to the state, were made at the instigation of Chief Superintendent Roger West. Further, it should be stated that among those charged is Miss Gwendoline Ferrow, secretary to the undersigned, Commander Coppell.”

The picture faded.

Coppell’s bitchy secretary! Roger gasped inwardly. So that was how so much information had been leaked.

Martin got up slowly and moved to the screen and switched off. Then he saw Roger. Showing no sign that he had done so, he went across to Janet, by whom Richard was already sitting. With a gleam in his eyes, he asked,

“Good thing he didn’t take that job, isn’t it, Mum?”

“Yes,” Janet said huskily. “Yes, it is. Not that anything would ever make him resign from the Force until he’s compelled to by old age. It’s his life. I do know, boys. Try —try to make him understand. I do. I tried to get him this afternoon, I wanted to tell him that this man Artemeus was obviously trying to make me persuade him! But nothing would have made me. I wanted to try to make him understand that I know he would hate to work for Allsafe, that he mustn’t do it for me.” She paused, looked from one son to the other, and then asked in a pleading voice, “Do you think, after all I’ve said in the past, that he will believe me?”

Martin looked down on her solemnly, then glanced over her head at Roger, and said, “Why don’t you ask him?”

Janet sprang up and spun round. Roger moved towards her. He could never know the brilliance in his eyes, the glow, the satisfaction which shone in his face.

“Come on, Fish,” said Martin-called-Scoopy. “This is no place for little boys.”

THE END