spent good nights. So far, so good.
“And Tom,” he said to Danizon, “I must be in court when the charges against Campbell are made. Will you see that he’s not heard until midday—noon—at the earliest?”
“Yes, sir,” Danizon said. “What about Fogarty?”
“If he’s released, make sure he’s effectively trailed,” Roger said.
“I’ll see to it, sir,” said Danizon. “I can tell you that Mr. Coppell will be out most of the day, he’s going to that conference of European Police. And the commissioner will be out too—he’s going to the luncheon reception.”
Roger laughed.
“Almost a free day, in fact!”
“If I were you, sir,” said Danizon, “I’d take at least part of the day off. Just go to court and—but I’m sorry, sir. I’m talking out of turn.”
Roger could almost see him go pink with confusion as he rang off.
A moment later, Janet came out of the sitting-room, a housecap sloping over one eye, a small apron over her nightdress. She carried a mop and a duster and a can of furniture-polish spray. Her nose and cheeks were shiny and her lips pale.
“I’ll have my bath now and get dressed—you open the door when she comes. I’ll bring coffee at a quarter past ten, is that right?”
“Ten o’clock,” urged Roger. “I’m not sure how this interview will go, and I could make heavy weather of it.”
“Why?” asked Janet. “Isn’t she buxom enough for you?”
Five minutes later he was outside, snipping the fading heads off some scarlet parrot tulips and noticing the trimness of lawn and hedge which he had hardly seen during the pressures of the past few weeks. Did either of the boys help Janet much? he wondered. Or was this mostly her work? Practically nothing needed doing, he must remember to compliment her.
He was pulling a few weeds, mostly seedlings, when a car drew up. He looked through the thick privet hedge, able to see that it was a white M.G.: just the car he could imagine Rachel Warrender having. And it was her. She climbed out, and he was slightly startled by her appearance, for she wore a white linen trouser-suit, accentuating her youth and slimness of figure, and a small, round, sailor hat. Not at all the average person’s con-ception of a woman solicitor, Roger thought amusedly. He felt sure that Janet, watching out of the window, would have eyes rounded in surprise.
“Good morning, Miss Warrender,” he called across the hedge. “You found the house all right, then.”
She started, and turned to look at him. And now he was even more startled: in fact appalled. For she looked in terrible distress. Her beautiful eyes were shadowed, and so glassy that he doubted if she had slept all night. She nodded, and formed the words “good morning”, but did not utter a sound. He met her at the gate, and saw that there were tears in her eyes as well as lines at her forehead and mouth. He didn’t shake hands but led the way to the front door, said, “The door on the right,” and followed her into the sittingroom.
Roger doubted whether she would have noticed if this had been a pigsty, she was so preoccupied with her own problems. She sat down in a chair, looking so ill and troubled that he even found himself wondering whether she took drugs and was in urgent need of a shot.
Then, she looked at him very straightly, and said, “Mr. West, I think you are the only man who can help me, and I’m not even sure that you will. May I tell you what is troubling me? And may I beg you to give me your advice?”
RACHEL
“If I can help, I certainly will,” Roger answered, gently. “And if it’s something which, as a policeman, I can’t discuss, I’ll tell you. Are you comfortable there?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
“Will you have a cup of coffee, or—?”
“Nothing, thank you.” She sat upright, and placed her hands on the arms of her chair. “In the beginning it was very simple, but I now believe that you were right and I was wrong. I am afraid that Mario Rapelli did attack Verdi. When I appeared in court I felt sure that he was a victim of conspiracy, and that the police wanted a conviction whether he was guilty or not guilty. I don’t think that is true now.”
“I’m very glad,” Roger said; he wanted to hear all she had to say before asking questions.
“Even last night, when we talked, I hoped I was right first time. But I now have proof that Maisie lied in the witness box and that the other witnesses also lied to me. And I’ve made another discovery, Mr. West, in its way just as bad.” She leaned forward, her eyes seeming to grow bigger and bigger. “I’ve had a private investigator checking. I know that the two men who saw the attack on Verdi, your two witnesses I believe, were approached and offered a substantial sum of money to renege. Smith- son refused, but Campbell agreed.” Now, her face seemed nothing but eyes. “Smithson is dead, and Campbell switched right round and tried to compromise you.”
When she stopped, Roger said evenly, “Do you know who killed Smithson?”
“Fogarty, of course.” Rachel paused, as if to find the right word, then went on, “I believe Fogarty was paid to run Smithson down. I know he claims to have been drunk but—did you know that he was practically a non- drinker?”
“The medical reports say that he had little or no alcohol in his blood that night,” said Roger.
“I should have known you would have discovered that,” remarked Rachel. “My father—” She caught her breath. “My father begged me not to take this case. Why was he so anxious I shouldn’t take it?
