Alibi

night before last, whenever it was. And if I like to spend one night with one boy friend and the next with another and then have a free-for-all, it’s nothing to do with you or the Police Force, the Bishop of Canterbury or God, for that matter. I’m myself, you understand. I do what I like with myself, and I go with anyone I like.” Then, she broke off, frowning. “What do you want at Fogarty’s, anyhow?”

“He killed a man last night,” stated Roger.

She was so shocked that he thought he had a chance to throw himself forward and disarm her, and but for the pain in his ribs he might have tried. But even when he shifted forward, it shot up to his shoulder and down to his knee.

“You bloody liar !” she burst out. “Pat wouldn’t hurt—!”

“He ran the man down on a zebra crossing,” explained Roger. “He didn’t run away and there’s a possibility that he was drunk.” Her face began to clear as if she were prepared to accept that as a possibility, but he brought a frown back almost instantly by going on, “His victim was one of the two witnesses against Mario Rapelli. Isn’t that a remarkable coincidence?”

The effect of his words was so great that she leant back against the pillow, almost dropping the gun. He felt quite sure that it would be safe to get up and cross to her— but as he began, putting most of his weight on the left leg, which hadn’t been hurt, there was a sharp tap at the door.

Chapter Seven

DISASTER ?

 

The girl started, and slowly raised her gun again. Roger looked towards the door, and his heart began to thump. Who was the caller? It was bad enough already, but if someone else saw him in here there would be two witnesses. He put his left hand on the arm of the chair, to hoist himself up.

“Who’s there?” Maisie called out.

“It’s no one you know,” a man replied. “Is West still there?”

She hesitated, and then asked, “Who’s West?”

“Don’t play tricks, Maisie. Is he there?”

She pursed her lips but didn’t answer and it was almost possible to guess what she was thinking: which would be the greatest fun, to admit that he was still here, or to pretend that he had gone.

“Maisie,” the man said in a harsh voice, “you could get hurt—or you could be richer by a hundred pounds.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she said, “That’s money.”

“You’re right, it’s money. Cash money.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Is West still there?”

“What do I have to do?” she insisted.

There was a pause and a whisper of voices came from the other side of the door. So at least two men were out there. The whispering did not last long, and the first man spoke again, urgency in his voice.

“Maisie, listen. I want a few pictures of you and Handsome West in bed together. That’s all. You don’t have to do a thing except undress. You’ve got him covered, haven’t you? You’ve got a gun.”

“I’ve got a gun and I’m covering him with it,” Maisie answered.

“So there’s no problem,” the man called. “Make him undress and get into bed with you. Then I’ll come in and take a few pretty pictures. And you can have the hundred smackers now.” There was a short pause before he went on, “Here’s some proof, Maisie. Look under the door.”

Maisie’s gaze dropped to the door.

For a split second, Roger glanced towards the door, also. And immediately paper showed, as if it had been at floor level ready to slip beneath the bottom of the door. The first glimpse showed it for a five pound note, and after it was right inside the room, a second followed it.

Roger looked away from the money to Maisie, and he saw the expression on her face. There was tightness— avarice?—at her mouth and a mean look in her eyes. She actually licked her lips as she glanced at Roger. The rustling of the currency notes sounded quite clearly in a silence otherwise broken only by their breathing.

The man called, “That’s thirty quid, Maisie.”

“Show some more.” Maisie’s voice was tense.

“Thirty’s a good earnest.”

“I want to see sixty.”

“But—”

“If you haven’t got it, forget it. No one’s going to leave here until I’ve seen the colour of sixty quid. Mr. Superintendent Roger West or anyone. Show the money.”

There was only a short pause before more money came through the gap at the foot of the door. It was in one pound notes now, quite a sheaf of them at a time. Maisie looked at Roger, the gun steady in her hand, and pointing towards his stomach. He had a feeling that she had used a gun before and would unhesitatingly use one again.

“Okay, peeler,” she said to Roger. “Peel.”