Alibi

banks to factories and offices, investigating industrial sabotage of all kinds. You would find it a cake-walk, West.”

“Possibly,” Roger said drily. “What staff would I have?”

“You would need at least two secretaries, probably two receptionists and some other clerical help.”

“About three times what I get now,” Roger said ruefully.

“Precisely. You could do your job of organising a nationwide security service, instead of spending half your time making out reports, talking to subordinates and kow-towing to the com—” Artemeus broke off, looking slyly at Roger. “I’m sorry,” he added mockingly, “I quite forgot. You aren’t exactly the type to kow-tow to anyone, are you?”

Roger said evasively, “I have my superiors.”

“Yes, indeed. Well!” Artemeus beckoned the waiter and pointed to the saddle of lamb, now beneath the huge lid. “Another two cuts, I think,” he said, “and the rest for Mr. West.” After the carving and the fussing was over and the table wheeled away, he went on, “Any more questions?”

“No pressing ones,” Roger answered.

“Good! So far you’ve come up with nothing I wasn’t prepared for.” Artemeus went on eating, and then said a- propos of nothing, “Your no doubt revered chief used to come in here quite a lot, before he became your chief. Is he doing the job he was supposed to do?”

Roger asked guardedly, “Which particular chief?”

“Oh, the comissioner: Sir Jacob Trevillion.”

“I didn’t know he’d been appointed to do any particular job,” Roger replied. “I don’t move in such exalted circles.”

“Oh.” Artemeus seemed surprised, but Roger doubted whether he really was. “Well, rumour has it that discipline at the Yard was getting slack and needed tightening. Trevillion was a martinet—stickler for discipline—in the Navy. He—”

“You know, I’m not sure that I want to discuss him,” Roger interrupted.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend—” Artemeus broke off, as if in confusion, but after a few minutes he turned to another subject, broaching it with a self-deprecatory smile. “I don’t suppose you’re able to discuss a case you’re working on, either. It is an unusual one you’ve got now, isn’t it?”

“You mean, the death of the man Verdi.”

“Yes. And the bosomy blonde whom you so nicely dealt with in court,” added Artemeus. “I’m less interested in the victim and his assailant and the witnesses, though, than

“I am in Rachel Warrender. You know, the girl solicitor who appeared for Rapelli at the last moment.” He looked hard at Roger, who nodded, and then went on, “She’s a remarkable young woman from a remarkable family. Do you know much about Warrender, Clansel and War—” render?”

“Not much,” said Roger, still guardedly; but now his interest was increasing swiftly. A question was banging against his mind like a trip-hammer. Could this be what Artemeus had really wanted to see him about, or was the mention of the girl simply fortuitous? He had wondered at the timing of the offer, and the ingenuous way in which Artemeus had brought the commissioner into the conversation had been worth noting. Now here was “coincidence” number two.

“They’re mostly insurance and banking lawyers,” said the other man. “It’s fourth generation in each family. Sir Ian Warrender, the senior partner, probably knows more about international insurance and banking laws than anyone alive. He received his knighthood for services in connection with the Bank of England’s overseas activities. Jonathan Clansel was a channel swimmer—did it both ways—and is a great supporter of Boysland.” Boysland, West recollected, was a very big youth club, or group of clubs, which operated mostly in the East End of London. “Sir Roland Warrender, bother of Sir Ian, who also got his knighthood for banking activities—” Artemeus broke off with a smile, then asked, “Ring a bell?”

“Sir Roland Warrender, the Member of Parliament who’s so right-wing the Conservative Party disowned him last year?” asked Roger.

“Yes. He’s Rachel’s father.”

“So I understand.”

“She’s a junior partner. Older than she looks.” went on Artemeus. “In her late twenties. I was surprised at first that they’d allowed her to intervene for Rapelli, but the more I think of it, the more reasonable it seems. She doesn’t fit in with the family party line. She’s extremely left-wing, a great campaigner for anti-Vietnam, anti- colonialism of any kind, anti-nuclear weapons, anti—” He broke off with a smile. “She’s like the rest of the family in do-gooding and looking out for the underdog—but she sometimes gets a bit confused as to who the underdog is,” he added drily. “How did she show up in court?”

“Very well, I would say.”

“Clever—I mean clever—girl,” opined Artemeus. “I can see her as a Member of Parliament one of these days, campaigning for votes for babies at the breast!” He beckoned the waiter. “How about a dessert, Mr. West? They do a very good chocolate gateau here, or their trifles are excellent.”

“I think cheese—”

“I’m for the gateau,” Artemeus declared. “And coffee? How about brandy or a liqueur?”

“I have to work this afternoon,” Roger protested, half- laughing.

“Wait until you work for us,” Artemeus said slyly. “Then you can take three hours for a big business lunch, and have an hour’s nap before you have to wake up to go home!”

•     •     •

Where was the catch? wondered Roger. There must be one. He couldn’t possibly consider the offer on its face value.