Alibi

lunch tomorrow? I hope you are. I can make an offer which may be of great interest to you. And do let me repeat that it is wholly legal and for the time being, strictly confidential.”

“I’m not free for lunch on any such flimsy basis,” Roger said bluntly. “What is this all about?”

There was a long pause, before the other man answered in an equally direct way, “A position for you whenever you retire from the Metropolitan Police, Mr. West. I cannot discuss it over the telephone but it would be most advantageous to you. I feel sure you would be ill-advised not to discuss it.”

“What gives you the idea that I might retire?” asked Roger sharply.

“Oh, come. You’re bound to retire sooner or later. The offer I can make may persuade you to do so early rather than late, but there will be no attempt to bring any pressure to bear on you. I—ah—would know better than to attempt such a manoeuvre with such a man.”

Roger was turning the whole thing over in his mind, very quickly.

He was free tomorrow, as far as he knew, and one day he would begin to think about retirement. Not yet, but one day, and many more conflicts with Coppell might make it sooner. Every senior policeman began to think, after a while, about his future; a pension would give a sufficiency but no luxury.

“I am free tomorrow, at the moment,” he said at last. “But an urgent job might crop up and prevent me from keeping an appointment.”

“That is quite understood,” said Artemeus. “Tomorrow at twelve-thirty, shall we say. At the Savoy Grill? . . .  Excellent . . .  I shall know you on sight, Mr. West, so I needn’t give you any description of me. Good-night.”

He rang off, almost as if he wanted to avoid giving Roger time to change his mind. Roger rang off more slowly, repeating to himself several times, “Twelve-thirty, Savoy Grill.” He sauntered back to the kitchen. Martin, finishing the chips, got up and took a big deep-dish apple- pie from the oven and placed it in front of Roger.

“Cream coming up . . .  Mum made this, it’s gorgeous. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Martin made instant coffee with water so hot that the powder fizzed and bubbled. Then he sat down again and grinned as broadly.

“Someone trying to bribe you, Pop?”

“Let them try,” said Roger, offhandedly. “Now, where were we?” He poured thick cream over the pie, and out of the blue was reminded of Hamish Campbell. Pushing the thought aside, he went on, “So you’re really set on going to Australia?”

“I—I’m afraid I am,” Martin confirmed, with apologetic stubbornness.

“Can you tell me why?”

The boy hesitated, as he so often did, then answered very quietly, “I haven’t made much of a fist here at home, Dad. I don’t blame conditions or—or taxes, or the way the country’s run, I just—well, I just don’t seem to fit in. There are a hundred reasons, really, but most of all I — er—well I—er—I would like to make a fresh start in a new country with new ideas. I just” —he was speaking with great deliberation and yet almost stammered—” I just can’t sit around here in England, with nothing really to look forward to, and—let’s face it, Dad—not much hope of getting anywhere with my painting. I love England but it is tradition-bound, isn’t it?”

“Are you sure Australia won’t be?” asked Roger.

“Obviously I can’t be sure but I don’t think it will be in the same way,” Martin said. “And it is British. I mean, it’s in the Commonwealth, it’s not like going to an entirely foreign country, is it?”

“You mean, it doesn’t make you feel you’re deserting England?” Roger put his spoon down and looked very straightly into his son’s eyes. Martin seemed more than a little uncomfortable.

“I suppose that’s what I do mean,” he admitted at last. Then with a burst of honesty which was characteristic of him, he went on, “It’s the only thing that’s held me back, Dad. That you’d feel I was deserting Britain.” Then he went on with a kind of reluctant stubbornness, “I don’t honestly think I can do much to help England, but I’d hate to feel I was letting you down—or I’d hate to feel you thought so.”

Obviously he was crying out for reassurance: but knowing him, Roger was sure that he would not want any comment which sounded remotely glib. In any case, Roger wanted to learn more of what was in his mind.

“What about your mother?” he asked quietly.

“She’s different,” Martin replied.

“How different?”

“I know it’s bound to hurt her,” replied Martin, “but no more than it would hurt any mother when her son finally leaves home. In a funny way it might hurt her less than if I were to get married. She—” He broke off, floundering, then went on almost grimly: “Her reaction will be personal and emotional. Yours—well, yours will be emotional too, of course, but not in the same way. You’re such a passionate Englishman, Dad.”

“I am!” gasped Roger.

“Gosh, yes! English standards of behaviour, English democracy, integrity, honesty—you believe in all these things so much. You’re always saying that we have to stand and fight back, that we’ve lost so many of these standards but ought to try to regain them. Surely you know that?”

Roger drew in a deep breath.

He did know it, of course; he knew how bitterly disappointed he often was with the state of England, the standard of behaviour, the way the numbers of crimes committed had shot up, more than doubling themselves since he had joined the Force. But he hadn’t realised that he had talked forcefully of these things so often that they had registered so much on his son. Watching the boy, whose face was set in unmistakable determination, he reminded himself sharply that this was Martin’s problem, not his; that he had only one consideration: to help, reassure and even strengthen the lad’s certainty.