Alibi

Maisie closed her eyes, and seemed to force each word out with an effort.

“I told her I’d lied,” she said.

“You told Rachel Warrender?”

“Yes.”

“So she thought you were telling the truth in court?”

Maisie looked resentful and it was a long time before she responded, still as if she were making a great effort.

“Yes. After the police charged him, Rapelli telephoned her and asked her to help him.” Maisie took another cigarette and it quivered between her lips as Roger held the flame for her, then went on huskily, “She told him she wouldn’t at first, but then she changed her mind and came over to my place and questioned all of us. She hadn’t the slightest idea we were lying. We—er—told her all four of us were having fun and games in bed, and she was pretty disgusted, but she was certainly fooled.”

“I see,” said Roger. “Well, it was quite an alibi, even if it was phoney. Tell me, do you ever disport yourselves four to a bed?”

She threw back her head and laughed with surprising heartiness as she replied, “It has been known! We have to be hopped up, and once we are, then inhibitions go out of the window, orgies come in at the door! I think you have to be a pretty wild person, wild in sexual life, I mean, to start it, but once you do—” She broke off, letting smoke drift up past her face and considering him through it; it gave a touch of mystery and of greater sophistication to her expression. “Handsome,” she went on, still with a hint of laughter in her voice, “you’re shocked, aren’t you?”

Roger pursed his lips.

“You are,” she insisted. “I can sense it. My, my, what innocents our policemen are! No wonder so many criminals can get away with murder.” She laughed again. “We’re really quite mild, you should visit some of the Soho and Chelsea orgy-parties!”

“We do,” said Roger drily. “When we raid them. So Rapelli was so anxious to escape from the charge that he paid out two hundred pounds for you all to lie for him. How well do you know him?”

“I’ve had a night or two out with him,” Maisie answered. “You have to admit he’s a handsome type, and although he may not look it, I can tell you he’s quite a man!”

“Oh, I admit it!” said Roger. “So he paid you and the others in advance to lie, and you told Rachel you were telling the truth, she believed you and thought, with your evidence, she could get Rapelli off. Thanks, Maisie. I’ll have a little talk with him soon. Where does Fogarty come in on this?”

“Fogarty is quite a man, too,” she stated.

“And you,” said Roger, “are quite a woman.”

“That’s right,” said Maisie. “Sexual or multi-sexual or whatever the psychoanalysts call it. Did you see The Man From La Mancha? ” When Roger nodded, she threw back her head, and, to Roger’s astonishment, burst into one of the songs from the show. She had a full, ringing voice and the acoustics of the cell block suited it perfectly. “One pair of arms is like another, I don’t know why, or who’s to blame. “I’ll go with you or with your brother. “It’s all the same.”

Then she stood up and with a lift of head and surge of bosom she reached a crescendo with a purity of note which made the man with them drop his ballpoint pen, brought two policemen to the foot of the cell steps and several other prisoners to the bars of their cages to hear although they could not see.

“They’re all the same . . .”

The notes echoed and re-echoed so loudly that it almost seemed as if she were still singing. Then she dropped her hands and covered her eyes with one hand, groping for her chair with the other. The last echoes faded.

“That’s me,” she said, hoarsely.

“Maisie,” asked Roger, “do you go from man to man just to make money?”

“That’s right,” she admitted.

“Won’t you tell me why you want the thousand pounds?” he almost pleaded.

“No, I will not.”

“All right.” Roger stood up. “Would you rather stay here for the weekend or would you rather go home?”

He so startled her that she stood back a pace, staring at him, her eyes widening, and for a few moments there was absolute silence in the room. Then, in a taut voice, she asked, “Would you really let me go?”

“Yes. I made the charges and I should proceed with them, but if you undertake to appear in court on Monday morning, you can go home tonight.” When she didn’t answer, he went on, “You don’t have to. I’m giving you a choice.”

In a mumbling voice, she answered at last, “I’d like to go home.”

“Right,” said Roger briskly. “As I live in Chelsea I’ll run you there on my way.” He stood up. “We’d better have a word with the superintendent before we leave.”

Nixon, far too experienced a policeman to show any surprise, went through the formalities of release, and, at