“There appears to be a great deal of doubt,” remarked the assistant commissioner. He was an able man who was inclined to veer whichever way the wind was blowing, not one to stand much on his own. “Do you know if West had been informed of the alibi story?”
“I’ve been out to the Guildhall, that Commonwealth Police Conference luncheon, and only just got back,” Coppell said defensively. “I’ll see West at once.”
“Let me know what he has to say,” ordered the assistant commissioner. “The Home Office is extremely disturbed.”
“Soon as I can,” promised Coppell.
He put down the receiver and glowered out of a window which overlooked a mammoth new building and showed a silvery slip of the Thames. He picked up the receiver of a telephone which was connected with his secretary, and as she answered he demanded, “Do you know if Superintendent West is in?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“Then find out and let me know. Don’t let him know I’ve enquired.” Coppell put down the receiver, stood up and changed the direction of his glower; he could now see Lambeth Bridge and a corner of the roof of the Houses of Parliament through a haze caused by a slight drizzle. He was a proud man, and particularly proud of his position; and he was very jealous of it. West had broken the first rule of a hearing; spoken to the court when not under oath. Even apart from that, he had been grossly inefficient: he should have made sure there was no alibi before authorising Rapelli’s arrest.
Rapelli—Rapelli. The name rang a bell, but he could not call the bell to mind. Well, it didn’t greatly matter, what mattered was that West be called on to explain his actions. He had certainly made trouble for himself by his intervention in court, and his crack about the other witnesses being in the same bed would have some nasty repercussions, despite his having apparently hit the nail on the head.
Coppell’s secretary called.
“Mr. West has just gone into his office, sir.”
“Right,” said Coppell. “If anyone wants me, that’s where I’ll be.”
• • •
“I always knew West would go too far one day,” Coppell’s secretary said to the assistant commissioner’s secretary, half an hour later. “Wouldn’t I like to know what’s going on in West’s office!”
“You’ll be the first to hear,” the assistant commissioner’s secretary replied, tartly. She had a very soft spot for Roger West but for some reason the other woman was always spiteful towards him. Could he have snubbed her at some time? The assistant commissioner’s secretary had no way of telling, but she wished there were a way to warn
West of the ill-will that Coppell’s secretary had for him.
• • •
Roger West was in a mood halfway between anger and chagrin when he turned into his office, for this was a day when nothing would go right. He hadn’t lunched and was both hungry and slightly headachy, which showed a little in the glassiness of his eyes. He had an office of his own but no secretary, drawing from the secretarial pool whenever he needed a stenographer, which wasn’t often. A small office next door was a detective sergeant’s— named Danizon—who acted as his general assistant, sheltered him from too much interference and did everything possible to make life easy for him.
Roger opened his door and Danizon jumped up from a small desk jammed into a corner.
“Sir?”
“Tea and sandwiches, please,” Roger said. “I’m famished.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Anyone been after me?”
“No one in particular,” answered Danizon. “The sureties failed to put up the money for Rapelli, so he’s been taken to Brixton.”
“Can’t say I mind,” Roger said, but he was puzzled. After making such a plea in court, why hadn’t Rachel Warrender provided the sureties?
“Did you have any luck?” Danizon asked.
Roger shook his head and went back to his own room.
There were a few messages, mostly from the divisions, one notice of a Police Union meeting, one advance notice of the Metropolitan Police Ball, which would be early in October. There was a pencilled note across the corner of this.
Roger had no time to change his expression, which froze into a set grin as Coppell slammed the door behind him.
“You’ve got a hell of a lot to be happy about,” he growled. “I expected you to be in tears.”
There wasn’t any doubt about Coppell’s mood; he was out for blood. And there wasn’t the slightest point in answering back in the same tone. The best way to answer Coppell was earnestly.
“What should I be crying about, sir?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
Roger hesitated, rounded his desk, and pushed a chair into position so that Coppell could sit down. But Coppell preferred to grip the back of the wooden armchair, in much the same way as Rapelli had gripped the rail of the
