“Khaki, please.”
“Thank you.” She poured out, offered him sugar, poured out for Phillipson, and left them.
“Brandy?” Phillipson asked.
No thanks,” said Roger. “I haven’t much time and I would like to know the details of this report, please.”
“Very well.” Phillipson picked up a thin sheaf of papers, without glancing at them. “This is prepared by my chief correspondent, who has concentrated on it with three reporters, for two days. I have a copy here for you. It states, very simply, that you are likely to be placed under suspension before the week is out; that, if suspended, you will resign; that some of your somewhat arrogant behaviour in the past few days is due to the fact that you have a most attractive offer of a post in a private security company, at four times your salary in the Metropolitan Police. The implication is that you have deliberately ridden rough-shod over police rules and regulations so as to precipitate a crisis in which you would be dismissed or could resign without any loss of—ah—dignity and respect. If you simply resigned to take a more paying job you would lose the respect not only of your colleagues but of a great many of the general public. If, however, you resigned as a protest against the autocratic methods being adopted at the Yard, largely by the new commissioner, you would retain the goodwill both of police and public.”
Phillipson stopped; and the room seemed hushed. There was not even a rustling of paper, no sound from outside. Then Phillipson stood up, making himself a silhouette against the big window behind him, looked out over Fleet Street and towards Ludgate Circus and St. Paul’s, and went on very quietly, “I hope you agree that you should have an opportunity to refute any of these statements, Superintendent. As this is prepared as a major feature for tomorrow’s issue, it has to be set and carefully proof-read, as well as checked by our legal departments to make sure that any libel read into it can be defended on the grounds of fair comment. That is why I asked you to come this afternoon. What is your comment, Superintendent?”
ULTIMATUM?
Roger leaned forward and took the document from Phillipson’s hand. He glanced through it, more to give himself time to think than because he needed to know more than Phillipson had told him. There were about eight, sparsely typewritten pages, and several photographs : one of him, one of Vice-Admiral Trevillion, one of New Scotland Yard, one of an Allsafe Security van standing outside a factory, and finally one of him with Janet and the boys, a happy picture taken about ten years ago.
He looked up.
“You know,” he said, “this seems remarkably like an ultimatum: refute every statement here or we print.”
“You could regard it in that light,” agreed Phillipson, urbanely.
“What exactly would you like—or hope for—me to do?”
“I have no preferences,” answered Phillipson. “If you are able to give a categorical denial of the story then I would not print it. If however you are prepared to confirm it in part or whole, I would print it in its entirety.
Roger looked at him levelly, hoping that nothing in his expression gave away the tension which he felt. He was so angry that it was difficult to be calm, but calm he had to be. He folded the report around the photographs, and the packet was just small enough to fit into the side pocket of his jacket.
“Quite apart from my personal involvement, there is a major issue here,” he stated carefully.
“I would be glad to hear it.”
“Someone at the Yard has been giving you—or your correspondent—confidential information.” Roger drank his coffee, put the cup down, and then shifted from the hardback chair to one of the armchairs. The soft cushions seemed to enfold him and when he stretched his legs and leaned his head back, he both felt like and was a picture of extreme comfort. “The someone must hold a position of great trust, obviously.”
“Ah,” said Phillipson. “Such as you.”
“None of that story has come from me,” asserted Roger.
“As a policeman, would you find that easy to prove?” asked Phillipson.
“I would find it easy to sue for libel, and leave you to prove justification,” Roger retorted.
All of his doubts faded as he spoke. This man was out to get him, and had been from the start. Phillipson had enormous self-confidence and the great prestige and money of a powerful newspaper behind him, and obviously he would not carry out such a vendetta without his board knowing, and approving. This wasn’t simply an editor getting on his high horse over what he considered to be a public scandal; it was a deliberate attempt to discredit him, Superintendent Roger West.
What possible motive could there be?
“As a policeman,” Roger went on, “I would keep my evidence and my methods of investigation to myself, until the time came to defend.” He looked up at the other, whom he could hardly see because of the bright window light, and did not move for a long time. Phillipson was obviously determined to wait until he spoke again before commenting.
Roger put his hands on the arms of the chair, loosely at first, but suddenly gripping with both hands and using all the strength of his arms, so that he positively leapt to his feet. He startled Phillipson, who backed away sharply.
“Well, we’ll soon see,” Roger finished. “I really mustn’t stay.”
“But surely—” began Phillipson.
“Good afternoon,” Roger said, smiling brightly. “Will the young lady who brought me up here see me back to the foyer? Or shall I find my own way down?”
He matched Phillipson’s wide-eyed astonishment with a smile, and turned towards the door. For a few seconds he thought that the man would let him go, but suddenly Phillipson moved and came hurrying after
