Alibi

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As he walked out of the hotel into the bright sunshine of one of the warmest days of summer, Roger saw a nearly empty number 11 bus which would drop him within a minute’s walk of Broadway and the Yard’s new home. He needed a little time for reflection and to recover from the enormous meal. Hastily buying a copy of the latest Globe, he boarded the bus, hurried up the stairs, and stumbled towards a vacant bench at the front, head bent low to avoid the roof. For a few minutes he sat looking through the window as the panorama first of the Strand, then of Trafalgar Square, opened out in front of him, followed by the tall and graceful buildings of Whitehall.

At last, he opened the newspaper.

Death of Trial Witness screamed the first headline. Arrest of Another ran the second.

There was a fairly accurate account of the death of Wilfred Smithson and another of the arrest of Maisie Dunster, some reference to West but no sneers or innuendo, only a slightly critical tone about the Yard’s “carelessness” in allowing a witness to be run down. Roger folded the paper and put it under his arm, almost as the bus passed the narrow end of the street which led down to the old building of Scotland Yard. He had a great nostalgia for the red-brick edifice in which he had spent most of his working life, but when he reached the new headquarters, he could not fail to compare its lightness and airiness favourably.

He went in, at exactly half past three.

He had a strange feeling as he walked along the plain, almost hospital-like passage to his office—a feeling which was almost a dread of trouble, of complaint and accusation. But everything was normal, including a note on his desk from Danizon.

“I’m in Records—back by 3.45 p.m.”

He would be, too.

Roger sat at his desk and looked at the files in front of him, each with a copy of his own report, each with contributions from divisional officers, detective sergeants, uniform, policewomen, the Flying Squad, Fingerprints, Records, Photography, Information, pathologists, doctors, coroners, and police courts. There they were, making the whole routine of an investigation. In one of these was the investigation into the death of Ricardo Verdi. Before this case was closed that particular file would be inches thick, hundreds upon hundreds of pages, two, three, four volumes.

The one on Maisie Dunster would be pretty fat, too.

So would that on Rapelli himself, as well as the one on Fogarly, Smithson and Campbell.

In a way every word was necessary, but at times even thought and sight of them flooded West with irritation.

Quite suddenly, the full significance of Artemeus’s offer swept over him. He could be free from all this ponderous, inescapable routine; he could have four times the money to spend, regular hours, guaranteed holidays. He could begin a whole new life, live in a whole new world. For a few moments he sat back, basking in the promised sun. Then, sharply, he sat up. Maisie and Fogarty had had time to think, it was past time he went to question them again.

Neither had yet made any statement of any kind.

He read the list of the contents in their pockets and in Maisie’s handbag, briefed himself completely and then telephoned the Fulham Police Station.

“I’m coming over right away,” he told the inspector-in- charge.

“It can’t be too soon, sir,” the man said. “That Dunster woman is a proper harridan. Talk about language, the whole station’s Billingsgate blue!”

Roger forced a laugh, but he was very thoughtful on the way to see Maisie.

Chapter Ten

CELL

 

The strange thing was that the woman looked more attractive against the pale grey of the cell walls. As the policeman in charge of cells opened the barred door, she stood up from the narrow bed where she had been sitting reading, and tossed the book aside. She wore a loose-fitting linen shirt-blouse, she hadn’t made-up so much, her hair seemed dressed closer to her head. Roger stepped inside and a detective sergeant stood just outside when the door was locked again.

“Well, Maisie,” Roger said. “I hope you feel more like talking.”

She spoke in a controlled voice which made the words sound even more vicious than they were.

“You crummy bastard, what makes you think I’ll ever talk to a cop?”

Roger studied her closely, but didn’t speak immediately.

“Lost your tongue?” she sneered. She raised both hands, the nails overlong and clawlike, and made a gesture of dragging them down his cheeks. “That shows how gutless you are. You bloody nearly jumped out of your skin. Come on, tell me! What makes you think I’ll ever talk to a cop?”

Roger answered evenly, “Two things, Maisie.”

“Who gave you the right to call me Maisie,” she demanded.

“Two things,” repeated Roger equably, ignoring her last question. “First if you tell the truth now, then we won’t have to hold you on a charge of perjury; as things are you could have that hanging over your head for months. Second, if you tell the truth now, we could do something about the charge of wilfully obstructing a policeman in the course of his duty.”