Alibi

him.

“Superintendent! Unless you can satisfy me that these assertions are untrue I shall publish, and your reputation will be at stake.”

As suddenly, Roger stopped; then, very slowly, he turned round. Phillipson was close to him, astonishment and perhaps alarm written all over his face. Obviously he was completely flummoxed by Roger’s reaction.

“Mr. Phillipson,” Roger said. “You are the editor of this newspaper and in law you and you alone are responsible for any statement it publishes. You cannot shift that responsibility on to others, most certainly not on to me. Whether you publish that story is entirely a matter for you. As a police officer I can only tell you that in my view the story proves that there is a serious leakage of information at Scotland Yard, and if I were asked by my supervisors what course to take I would advise them to begin a thorough investigation into the leakage. I would also recommend that if any evidence of bribery or corruption were produced—that is, if it could be established that the information was bought from an officer or servant of the Metropolitan Police, action should be taken both against the supplier of the information and against the person who gave the bribe or who encouraged and / or authorised it.”

He paused, drawing a deep breath, looking much angrier even than he felt.

“As a private individual,” he went on, “I would wait for the result of official action before suing for damages. I hope you’re very clear on how I regard this form of blackmail.”

He turned on his heel, speaking again as he reached the door.

“As for the report, I’m going to take it forthwith to the commander of the C.I.D. and I shall ask him to show it to the commissioner immediately. I am sure that both will be fascinated by the half-truths as well as by the outright lies.”

He went out, letting the door swing to behind him.

•     •     •

He would do exactly as he had said, he knew, as he went down in the main lift, but letting fly as he had didn’t actually help. He needed to find out what this was all about, why this vendetta had been started. His position would be enormously strengthened if he could take some evidence to Coppell. but there wasn’t much likelihood of being able to do that. There was a very grave danger that he would be so preoccupied by this that he would not be able to concentrate on the investigation into Maisie’s murder. As a man he hated the report; as a policeman and as a man, he had to find that killer.

He had a sudden mental image of Maisie, lying so near to death.

“You won’t believe me.” And a moment later, “It was Mario.” And then, “There you are. You don’t believe me.” And soon, “Give me a kiss, Handsome.”

He could imagine the feel of the moist warmth of her lips.

Detective Officer Ashe came up, smartly.

“I’m just along here, sir. I—” He broke off, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

Roger looked at him vaguely as they walked on.

“Er, yes, I’m fine.” He got into the car and the puce- uniformed doorman hovered. Should he go to see Artemeus in such a mood as this? he wondered. It was on the way to the Yard, he needn’t stay long, and if he didn’t go he would fidget on and off for hours wondering what the Allsafe man wanted. As they were edging out into a stream of traffic, a bus roared by within inches of the Rover, making two or three pedestrians leap out of the way. “Get his number,” Roger snapped, and Ashe, quick off the mark, called out the number of the bus over the radio-telephone.

“Could have crashed into us and killed a couple of people,” Ashe complained.

“Not often you get a bad bus driver,” remarked Roger. “Do you know the Allsafe offices in the Strand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take me there, please.”

Something, he couldn’t quite place what it was. told him that Ashe was startled by the order. There was rivalry as well as co-operation between Allsafe and the Metropolitan Police, he remembered—then pushed the thought to the back of his mind. The near accident and the flashback to Maisie had helped him recover from his anger at the newspaper editor’s near-threat. But why the hell should they set out to discredit him? Who had he offended? Was it concerned with a case he had investigated—or was investigating? This one, perhaps? But speculation was useless, except that it sometimes set the subconscious mind working. Roger gave a mental shrug to his shoulders and tried to relax for a few moments as they passed first Aldwych, then Waterloo Bridge Road, and, a few moments later, turned right.

A doorman was waiting; a young lad took him up to Artemeus’s office. Artemeus was in a long, panelled room, with an oval conference table and an oak, leather- topped desk, very like that at the Globe. As he stood up to greet Roger, a door opened behind the desk, there was a clink of china, and a woman came in wheeling a tea- trolley laden with teapot, cups and saucers, a plate of thinly cut sandwiches and another of eclairs. Artemeus was smiling, pleased, possibly even smug.

“Very good of you to come, Mr. West . . .  I didn’t want to trouble you but a stipulation has arisen which I didn’t anticipate . . .  Milk? . . .  Just a little milk for Mr. West, Nora . . .  And what I had imagined would be a very relaxed period of contemplation has, I fear, become a matter of urgency . . .  That’s all, Nora, thank you.”

He stopped speaking and looked straight at Roger, and now his amiability seemed to melt away; here was someone who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. Those grey eyes were piercing, and there was a hardness in them which betrayed the true nature of the man.

Roger waited.