Alibi

unexpected development. Could you possibly spare half an hour this afternoon?”

It never rained but it poured. However, he should be away from the Globe’s office at about three or three- fifteen, however, and would be fairly near the Allsafe offices in the Strand. There was no reason why he shouldn’t look in, although every reason why Artemeus should not think him at the security company’s beck and call. But making a prestige issue was pointless now.

“I could look in briefly about three-thirty,” he said. “Perhaps a little earlier.”

“How very kind I I’ll be in my office and free from three o’clock onwards, and I won’t make any appointments until you’ve been. I do appreciate it.” Artemeus was almost effusive.

Roger rang off, and called Danizon.

“I want a car right away, for Fleet Street and the Strand,” he said. “I’ll be out for about two hours altogether.”

“Right, sir! I’ll fix it.”

Roger rang off again, and opened the Rapelli file, glanced through it, then put it in his black portfolio. Next he called Abe Court, who was a very brusque man on the telephone, one who always gave the impression that he couldn’t wait to ring off.

“Handsome? . . .  I’ve a little more information but not much. Those two men we had on Maisie were diverted —there was an emergency call to Martin’s Bank in the High Street, and they were almost on the spot, so they took a chance. They arrested the bank raiders too—a couple who would have escaped if they hadn’t arrived when they did. Hardly the point, I suppose, two thieves in custody and one life lost, but that killing could have been an inside job. No certainty my chaps were to blame . . .  They’re very cut up about it. Want to see them here or at the Yard? I’ve got “em here for you.”

“The Yard,” Roger said. “Four-thirty.”

“Right, Handsome. They’re both good men, don’t forget.”

Roger thought bleakly as he rang off: and Maisie is dead. Nevertheless, he was glad that Abe Court fought for his men, and God knew he was the last man to condemn an officer for using his own judgment in an emergency. He picked up the Fogarty file, which was very thin, and the file on Hamish Campbell, which was not much thicker. He put these in the portfolio, also.

A new Rover was outside the main entrance with a youthful, very blond, young detective officer standing by the door. His colouring reminded Roger vividly of Maisie’s fair hair, so spattered and soaked in blood.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The man opened the door.

“Hallo. Ashe.” Roger got inside, and waited for the other to get at the wheel before adding, “The Globe offices, park the car as near as you can and stand where you can keep me in sight. I might be out in twenty minutes.”

“Right, sir.”

The Globe’s offices were nearly brand new, very modern, and in an off-white which nevertheless reflected the glare off the sun. Fleet Street’s narrow roadway was jammed with cars, cabs and huge red buses; one was so used to them. Roger thought, it was difficult to see them as a major cause of London’s traffic problems. The pavements on either side were thronged, too; why did girls look so much prettier and more provocative in sleeveless cotton dresses? There was a space outside the newspaper’s offices, and a doorman in a puce-coloured uniform came forward smartly.

“Superintendent West, sir?”

“Yes.”

“The young lady on the right as you go in will take you up to Mr. Phillipson, sir.”

The “young lady” was in a puce-coloured dress with a very short skirt, and she had long and shapely legs. Her face was more pert than pretty. She led Roger to a small lift, obviously reserved for V.I.P.s, and within two minutes he was in the long, narrow office of the editor. The walls were of marble or mock-marble, the floor was covered from wall to wall in tufted black carpet. A few plaques of past editors were on the walls. At one end of the room was a horseshoe-shaped conference table with ten or twelve places, at the other an enormous desk with

Phillipson behind it, his back to the window, and several comfortable-looking armchairs in front. There were some very modern upright chairs, too.

Phillipson stood up. He was tall, distinguished-looking, and silver-haired, a very lean man in a beautifully cut suit. He did not round the desk but extended his arm across it; after they had shaken hands he motioned to one of the easy chairs.

“Do sit down, Superintendent.”

“May I have one of these?” Roger took an upright chair which was at the side of the desk, and this way he could see Phillipson without having the sun in his eyes; and Phillipson did not have him in such a searching light and at the slight disadvantage of being in a semi-recumbent position.

Phillipson smiled but did not comment.

“I asked you to come because I have a report—a well- authenticated report from a highly reliable source, I may say—which directly concerns you,” he said. “In some cases I would print the story as fair comment, but this one is so personal that, as you said over the telephone, some of the—ah—mud would stick even if we printed a denial the next day. I thought that in view of our somewhat strained relations this week, it might be wise to discuss the report with you first.”

He waited long enough for Roger to comment, but Roger stayed silent. A door near Phillipson opened and a fluffy-haired, middle-aged woman in a dark dress came in with a trolley on which were coffee, brandy, liqueurs and cigars. The soft treatment, Roger reflected drily.

“White or black coffee, sir?”