Alibi

we’re with you?”

“Yes,” Roger said, very quietly. And he felt as touched and as humble as he sounded.

Danizon turned and fled.

Chapter Eleven

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Roger drove along the Embankment towards Chelsea much more slowly than usual. It was already seven o’clock, and the West family ate at seven-thirty, whether he was home or not. It was a sunny evening with a light breeze, and the slanting sun made golden ripples of the muddy Thames. The south bank of the river seemed to sprout another big building every day, the skyline was forever changing. There was a wide stretch of road near the Albert Bridge, near his turn-off for Bell Street, and for the second night in succession he pulled into the kerb here.

It had really been a day.

The two most important things, in their way, had a delayed action effect. First, the offer from Artemeus, second the bombshell of Danizon’s outburst. He had only been with Roger for a few months and although he had proved sound and reliable, Roger had never suspected him capable of such deep feeling. Not only was this surprising; there was also the astounding fact that what had happened in the commissioner’s office had gone round the Yard so swiftly; who on earth had “leaked” that information?

Coppell? he wondered hazily, then rejected the possibility. Coppell wouldn’t stick his neck out so far. Then who? Roger couldn’t even begin to imagine. He stopped trying, and passed to the other block buster: the

Yard’s support for him, whether he was right or wrong. He hadn’t even know that the story had spread, much less that the rest of the department had been lining up behind him.

Strike action!

“Oh, no!” he said aloud in a strangled voice.

A small foreign car pulled up behind him, and a moment later the door opened and a tall, dark-haired and— although Roger said it himself—good-looking young man uncoiled himself and came striding towards him. Roger opened the nearside door as Richard put his head in the doorway.

“Hi, Dad!” He had not only the deep, pleasing voice and broad, eager smile, but some elusive quality of like- ability, and Roger’s heart rose.

“Hi, Fish!”

“Daydreaming?” asked Richard. “Or working out all your problems? Hey, it’s lovely out here. Give yourself a breather for five minutes.”

“Good idea,” said Roger, and he climbed out.”

He was a little taller and much broader than his son. They made a striking couple as they stood on the parapet, looking at gaily beflagged pleasure craft and a string of five barges, the first one pulling the others. Even the breeze was warm. Richard looked upstream, so that he could see Roger, who asked lightly, “How have things been at the studio today?”

“Pretty lousy,” declared Richard. “Not enough to do, that’s my problem. Got a bit of luck, though. I’m going to Southern Ireland—Eire, you know—to make a film on Cromwell relics. Two other chaps are coming over and we’ll be on a strict budget, but that’s television all over. Pay a fortune for productions that aren’t worth putting out, and mean as muck over films really worth making. I say, Dad.”

Richard broke off, eyeing his father intently, eagerly, a look which Roger had known since the boy had been six or seven. Roger knew perfectly well that some almost preposterous question was about to come forth with an earnestness to make it quite obvious that Richard was wholly serious.

“Yes?” asked Roger invitingly.

“Do you think there are such things as little people?”

Roger looked baffled, pondered—and then suddenly realised what his son meant: the elves and fairies which peopled the lore of most of Ireland and persisted in the minds of men.

“One of our technicians, a man named O’Hara, Paddy O’Hara, says that he’s actually seen them,” Richard went on.

“Presumably at the bottom of his garden,” Roger said drily.

“Well, no, at the bottom of a well, actually, in his girl friend’s garden.”

Roger gave a gust of laughter, while Richard surveyed him, his head on one side, completely detached from his father’s mood and neither perturbed nor amused by the reaction.

“Fish,” Roger said. “I don’t believe there are such things as “little people”.”

“Well, you could be right,” conceded Richard. “And I suppose you could be wrong, too. It would be wonderful to be the first film unit to photograph them, wouldn’t it! What a scoop! Er—” Richard’s face changed its expression of gravity to one of tolerant concern. A year younger than his brother, he often behaved as if he were as old as his father. “Talking about Scoop, what about Scoop? Had you expected anything of the kind? Like emigrating to Australia, I mean. It’s a bit of a shock for poor old mum,” went on Richard, with glorious unconcern at the fact that he had asked a question and given Roger no chance to answer. “She was pretty upset last night, wasn’t she?”

“She could have been much worse,” Roger answered evasively.

“Poor old Pop! Never commit yourself to any side of family trouble.” Richard looked affectionately at his father for a moment, then went on, “We’d better get a move on or she’ll be after our blood for being late for dinner.” He looked at his watch and gave a whistle. “Phew! Only five minutes. We must—” He hesitated, took a step towards his car, then turned to face Roger squarely, drew a deep breath, and asked, “Is it true you were nearly suspended today.