Alibi

Globe has been campaigning for a businessman’s government for years; has even advocated benevolent dictatorship as the way out of our political and economic troubles. Artemeus is right-wing. Sir Roland Warrender has been the rallying point at Westminster for discontent with the present form of government, and there have been some indications that he either sees himself as a leader, or others see him as one—”

“You think there could be an attempt to take over the country,” interrupted Trevillion. He did not raise his voice but spoke as if it were hurtful for him to say such things. “And you want these raids made to ensure that if there is any plot, then it is smashed now, before the ringleaders can escape to plot again. Is that it?”

Roger said simply, “That is it exactly, sir.”

The commissioner, sitting bolt upright, looked like an image of Buddha. He stared intently into Roger’s eyes, and then turned to Coppell. It was a long time before he spoke.

“If I were in absolute control,” he said at last, “I would call out the armed forces to make these raids. But the point you have made very successfully in the past few weeks is that my methods are not police methods. What do you advise, Commander?”

So now everything was in the hands of the commander, C.I.D. It was up to Coppell, thought Roger grimly, to prove his capacity for dealing with such a desperate situation.

Chapter Twenty

POLICEMAN

 

Coppell was looking at Roger, not at Trevillion. The car was now in Parliament Square, but none of them glanced up and none appeared to realise the appositeness of this place at this moment—unless Ashe did. He was tense-faced and his hands, usually relaxed, were tight on the wheel.

“I would assign every man we’ve got, off duty or on, to these raids.” Coppell spoke slowly, weightily. “I would brief all the divisions, call for help from the City Police, be completely ready to make the raids, while you were placing the known facts before the Home Secretary. And I would be ready to move the moment he approved.”

Roger thought almost desperately: But supposing he wouldn’t give the word?

Trevillion frowned.

“I see. Yes. However, supposing the Home Office became entangled in all that red tape which West feels can be such a disadvantage? Supposing I told the Prime Minister —who will be at the Euro-Police Conference tonight —and the Prime Minister called a cabinet meeting and the cabinet ministers dithered?” Trevillion looked at Roger with a wry smile, then turned back to Coppell. “I’m a naval man, Commander. Often have to take decisions and justify them afterwards. If it’s a wrong decision one is in serious trouble, but there isn’t time for reference back to

Whitehall when one is under direct enemy attack.” He paused, looked from Coppell to Roger, then back again to Coppell. “Set the Yard at Action Station, Commander,” he said harshly, “and move into action the moment you’re ready. And don’t lose a second. Understand?”

Coppell was already leaning forward to switch on the radio. By the time they reached the Yard, men were coming in for instructions and every division had been alerted for a raid or raids which might take all night. The Press was clamouring outside the Yard and cameras clicked again and again.

They went inside.

“What do you have to do now?” Coppell asked Roger.

“I promised the Press a statement at the Back Room at seven-thirty,” Roger said. “But I’m anxious to interview Rachel Warrender at once.”

“I’ll fix the statement. You see the Warrender girl and let me know when you’re through,” said Coppell.

“West,” said Trevillion, rubbing his jaw, “I want you to understand one thing. Whether you’re right or whether you’re wrong, you’ve done a remarkable job in a remarkable way. I’m sorry I made it difficult for you.”

He nodded, and moved off.

Coppell cleared his throat.

“Couldn’t agree with him more, Handsome. I made it bloody difficult, too. I’m no public relations man. Can never say what I mean to say, if there’s a back, I put it up. Early on, I wanted to tell you something but couldn’t get it out, you can put my back up, too.” His face was thunderous as he said all this and the shadows seemed to grow darker as he went on, “I’m going to retire. Only got three months to go. I had to recommend someone to take my place. You. But Trevillion had doubts, thought you were a show-off—and in a way I agree with him. You had me over a barrel. But there was a thing I didn’t know.

You shot up high in his opinion when you fought him and me. He likes a lone wolf, a man with the guts to make his own decisions. Thought you ought to know.”

He turned and strode off, leaving Roger staring after him in blank astonishment. Roger didn’t know how long he had been standing there before he could relax, and then, feeling strangely touched, he went along to his own office. On his desk was a single note, which read:

Miss W. is in my office—been here since 6.49 p.m.

Roger read this two or three times, lit a cigarette, then took out whisky and soda, poured himself a tot, left the bottles out with an empty glass and went to the communicating door.

Rachel was facing him as he opened it. For a moment they stared at each other, while Danizon jumped up from his desk and said in some confusion, “This is Miss War- render, sir.”

Slowly she got to her feet and moved like an automaton past Roger and into his office, her face a mask of tragedy and defeat. Roger went to his desk and sat on a corner, gave her a chance to speak, and when she didn’t take it, asked, “Have you heard about Phillipson?”

“Yes.” Her whisper was hardly audible.