“Meteoric—or rather, a bit like the aurora borealis. She wants to see you.”
“Then perhaps she’d better wait.”
“I should come over,” advised Nixon. “I think she’s in a very chastened mood, as a matter of fact. She’s just had a visit from her lawyer, that Warrender girl.” Roger caught his breath at that piece of information. “I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t there myself, but the turnkey said that after about five minutes they had a flaming row. Rachel Warrender left her, and Maisie bellowed a few choice obscenities after her. Or do I mean blasphemies? I saw the Warrender girl out myself, and she looked like murder.”
Roger asked sharply, “When was this?”
Now, he was exclusively concerned only with work; the conflict with Janet had faded into the background; so had Scoop. He released the lad’s arm, pointed upstairs and then put a finger to his lips, wanting to tell Scoop not to let his mother know what he had overheard and then he concentrated absolutely on what Nixon said.
“Half an hour ago,” Nixon answered. “Maisie went on the rampage for a bit, threw everything she could lay her hands on about the cell, then she calmed down and asked to see me. So I went down, and she said she wanted to talk to the great West. I should certainly come if you possibly can, Handsome.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Roger promised, and rang off.
He did not even begin to guess what had happened between Maisie Dunster and Rachel Warrender, but he knew Nixon was right; it was of the utmost importance that he went to see Maisie while she was in her present mood. And it could be a good thing, too—forcing a break from Janet, who would almost certainly become contrite and remorseful in a little while. But he had to decide how to guide Martin.
Martin whispered, “All right, Dad. I won’t let mum know that I heard.” He gave his father’s arm a squeeze, in turn, and then went back upstairs, remarkably agile for such a heavy youth.
Roger went back into the kitchen.
There, Janet was sitting in the armchair, one hand at her forehead; obviously crying. She looked up as he approached, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, huskily.
“Forget it, Jan.” Roger put his arm about her shoulders again, and squeezed. “I know what a strain it is. Forget it.”
“I—I hate myself.”
“Well, I don’t hate you,” Roger said mildly. “I hope that counts for something. Love, I have to go out, but I don’t expect to be long. Both the boys are home tonight. Shall I see if one of them can come down?”
“Oh, not yet!” Janet was alarmed, and began to run her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want them to see me like this. I’ve some ironing to do, and some sewing. I’ll be all right for an hour. Provided there’s someone in I’m always all right,” she added, forcing a smile. “You go on, dear.”
Roger kissed her damp cheek, and went out.
As he walked into the cool of the evening, he felt numbed. It was a little after half past nine, quite early, but already it had been a long day. What time had he started? About six o’clock, or rather earlier. And he had been running into different situations ever since, all of them unexpected and each needing much more concentration than he had yet been able to give it. As he got out of the car, he thought that in a way this last had been the worst situation, for it had crashed upon him at home, where he should reasonably expect and where he most certainly needed relaxation. There was a cold spear of apprehension within him. If Janet were going to react like this after Martin had gone, what would life be like? He, Roger, couldn’t take too many such scenes, and they had been going on periodically, for a long time.
Gradually, that gloomy apprehension faded and he began to think of Maisie.
It was part of his tactics, born of experience, to go over everything he knew about a suspect before an interview. Thought of Janet faded again, Maisie took her place in his mind, and he went through a series of mental pictures from the first time he had set eyes on her in the witness box, to the time when he had seen her in the cell. There was no need to go and check the reports and his notes, he was quite sure that he recollected everything she had said and done.
At last, he reached the police station. Nixon was waiting for him, tall, lean man with a nearly bald head and large, rather prominent eyes—a sharp contrast to Coppell’s, which were small and deepset.
“Didn’t lose any time,” Nixon remarked as they shook hands. “Always on the ball, that’s my Handsome. Where are you going to interview her? Down in the cells? Or shall we bring her up here, and kid her along a bit? I daresay if she gets a glimpse of the outside world it will oil her tongue.”
“Upstairs is a good idea,” agreed Roger. “Lay on some coffee, will you, and cigarettes? I’ll go down and get her myself.”
“I’ll send a man with you,” offered Nixon. “With the caviar.”
Five minutes later, Roger saw Maisie, sitting with her legs up on the narrow bed, not putting on an act or posing. Her face was set more sombrely than he had seen it, obviously something had upset her very much. She nodded without speaking to Roger, looked surprised when she was taken upstairs, equally surprised to find coffee, cream and chocolate biscuits on a tray, and easy chairs to sit in comfort.
“Why the plush treatment?” she demanded. “Think this will make me talk more?”
“It should make you feel more like a human being,” Roger retorted.
“And less like a louse,” retorted Maisie wryly. “All right, Handsome—give me some of that coffee with a lot of milk and sugar, and I’ll tell you the solemn truth, even if you send me to jail because of it.”
She looked sombre enough to suggest that she really believed that she was about to risk imprisonment.
The man whom Nixon had sent down had a notebook and pencil in his hands.
SEDUCTION
