Maisie took a cigarette and thrust her face forward to get a light. Roger gave her time to drink half a cup of coffee, then squared himself in his chair.
“You know that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence, don’t you?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Even with that, it’s better to let us have the truth,” he went on. “Did you lie about Rapelli being with you on Thursday night?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Were you paid to lie?”
“Yes.”
“How much did you get?”
“A hundred pounds,” she answered.
“Did you realise what a serious crime it was?”
She shrugged.
“One kind of lie is very much like another to me. What kind of sentence will I get?”
“If you go into the box next week and change your evidence, I doubt if you’ll be charged. I’m not sure in the circumstances that what you said was permissible as evidence, anyhow.”
She looked astounded more than delighted, then, gradually, excitement sparked in her eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette and finished her coffee; Roger poured her another cup.
“But that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Wonderful!” Then a shadow passed over her face and she went on, “The trouble is, I may not have the hundred pounds to pay back for—for saying what I did.”
“Whom will you have to repay?” asked Roger.
For the first time, she hesitated, and he wondered whether she was in fact telling the truth, or whether this could be a deliberate attempt at deceiving him. There was absolutely no way of telling, and if she withdrew her statement she would certainly be showing earnest of her new-found honesty.
Then she said, “Mario Rapelli.”
“He was driven to exclaim,
“Yes.”
“Did he also bribe the others?”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “He paid us in advance, he said there might be trouble.”
“Did he then!” exclaimed Roger. “Then he knew in advance—”
He broke off, biting his tongue, needing to think. If Rapelli had gone to the club to kill Verdi, then the whole situation changed, took on an even greater significance.
“How—ah—how long have you known him?” he asked. He pictured the sallow, handsome face of the youth who had been in the dock and remembered how impressed he had been, how sorry he had felt for the boy.
“A few weeks,” said Maisie.
“How much did he pay in all?”
“A hundred for me and a hundred each for the others,” Maisie answered.
“Did you know what the charge would be?”
“We knew we were to say he had been with us that evening during those hours. Later when we heard what he’d done, we thought it was a great joke at first. Mario loves the guitar, and can’t bear to get even a scratch on it—” She gave a hollow laugh. “We didn’t know it was going to be so serious,” she went on. “Even I wouldn’t have agreed if I’d known there would be a murder charge. Or anyhow,” she went on with a flash of honesty, “I would have wanted at least five hundred pounds.”
“Why do you need the money?” Roger demanded.
“That’s nothing to do with the police or anyone,” Maisie retorted, so tight-lipped that he was quite sure that it would be a waste of time forcing the question. “I need a thousand, and I’m halfway there. That’s all you have to know.”
“What about the hundred pounds from the photographer yesterday?” asked Roger.
“That would have been a big help,” she admitted. “I’d have had only four hundred to go. You don’t happen to know anyone who will give or lend me five hundred quid, do you?” She was half-joking, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she was half-serious, too.
“Can’t Rachel Warrender help?” asked Roger.
There was no need for him to rub in the fact that earlier today she had talked so glowingly of Rachel, and this evening had had that violent quarrel with her. He saw Maisie frown, saw her lips tighten, and wondered whether he would get any kind of response.
At last, she said, “No.”
“Why did you quarrel tonight?”
