Alibi iw-39

by John Creasey

  The commissioner stared, his lips parted; his expression one of complete bafflement. Coppell, having said his” piece, crossed his thick legs and fell silent. Roger felt an unexpected surge of appreciation, of gratitude; but he was far from being out of the wood yet. He would have to be extremely careful what he said and how he said it; the trouble was that although he knew he had stuck his neck out and that the commissioner’s manner wasn’t at all unjustified, he himself was seething with resentment, and it would be difficult to keep a hold on his tongue. He tried to relax—eyes, lips, set of his chin and shoulders, but the effort wasn’t very successful.

  Then he saw the change of expression in the commissioner’s eyes. An “I’ve got him” look which he had seen in the eyes of senior officers often, when he had been younger. He steeled himself for whatever was coming.

  “You found the girl in another man’s bed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In his bedroom, presumably.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was she asleep? Awake? Was the man with her?”

  “She was alone, sir.”

  “And how many police officers did you have with you?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Ah.” The commissioner looked triumphant. “The girl was in bed—by herself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you were in the room, unaccompanied by any police officers.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “No, sir,” Roger stated. “Two men, one a photographer, were in the passage outside.”

  The commissioner rode that like a cruiser riding an Atlantic wave; he ignored it.

  “Was the door locked or unlocked?”

  “Locked, sir.”

  “I see, Superintendent. You, a police officer—” He gulped. “Did you have a warrant to search the room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Had you been freely admitted to this young woman’s room?”

  “No, sir,” Roger said very stiffly. His mouth was dry, his temper high, and his heart was in his boots. The commissioner was conducting this examination as if it were a court-martial, and it was not material that this kind of aggressive questioning was almost unique—that a commissioner might be called upon to decide on what kind of disciplinary action should be taken was permissible, but such direct participation was unheard of.

  “So,” said the commissioner, looking at Coppell. “Not satisfied with a public display of questionable behaviour, you entered a room occupied by a young lady unbidden and alone. Commander, I propose to suspend Superintendent West from duty for an indefinite period, until in fact his conduct of this case can be fully investigated.”

  Roger clenched his teeth, and met the older man’s gaze when it switched back to him. Coppell caught his breath with a curiously choking noise. Roger waited for dismissal, still not saying a word. If he once opened his lips a torrent would spill out.

  “Ach—sir,” Coppell choked.

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “West was—ah—shot at.”

  “By the woman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t I understand that the laws of this country make it justifiable to shoot or otherwise attack an intruder in his own home?”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Shall we discuss this matter in private, Commander?”

  “Ah—if you say so, sir. But I think it would be a great -. disservice to suspend Superintendent West at this juncture.”

  Roger was as astounded as the commissioner, who obviously could not believe his ears. He turned open- mouthed towards Coppell, who was now on his feet. And Roger, glancing at Coppell, saw a beading of perspiration at his forehead and upper lip, although it was not really hot in here.

  “Indeed,” the commissioner said. “Wait outside, Superintendent,” he added to Roger.

  Roger drew a very deep breath, turned smartly, and went towards the door. He did not glance at Coppell, but went out, closing the door softly behind him.

  He was in a passage in an unfamiliar part of the new Yard building. This was the Administrative Section, where C.I.D. men seldom came, and he had not been here before. The passage was wide, the floor carpeted, the walls panelled. There were chairs and couches, all of brown leather. He moistened his lips and wished above all things for a drink, but there was not even a cloakroom in sight. He walked stiffly to the end of the passage and saw a door marked Gentlemen. He went in, and found paper cups and a drinking-fountain. He rinsed his mouth with cold water several times, then drank a little before returning to the other passage. The commissioner’s door was still closed, he hadn’t been gone for three minutes. He began to walk up and down, stiffly; began feeling again. He had been quite numbed. Shock, of course. Shock, and repressed resentment and anger. The commissioner had behaved like the governor of a prison rather than the Chief of Police.

  Well—what had he done?

  There wasn’t any argument about it, though: by going to that room and using the key and entering by himself, he had driven roughshod over regulations. Even though, had the room been empty, there would have been no trouble, he was still in the wrong, and he couldn’t really blame the commissioner for saying so.

  Two men and a girl passed, all of them startled at the sight of him; C.I.D. men were not here often. They went on. He could hear nothing from the commissioner’s room and began to wonder how Coppell was doing. Coppell was obviously in awe of the commissioner but he had put up a fight. Good God! What was happening to the Yard to have a man at its head who could cow a commander of one of the departments!

  Without warning, the door opened, and Coppell stood there, a pale-faced Coppell, who licked his lips before he said, “Come in.”

  There was nothing in his expression to tell Roger what had happened. Roger had an almost overwhelming temptation to turn and walk away. Better anything than face such an indignity. No, no, no, that was crazy thinking. He must face the situation . . . Good Lord! He had a luncheon appointment with Benjamin Artemeus about a possible new job. The thought was like a shot in the arm, and must have shown in his face and his manner as he went in.

  The commissioner was standing up; was that a concession?

  Roger stopped a few feet away from him, and waited.

  “Superintendent,” said the commissioner, “I am given to understand that you have made considerable progress in the current investigation. Further, I am aware that there were extenuating circumstances to your gross failure to observe regulations. In these circumstances the matter of suspension is held over. I want you to understand, however, that the rules and regulations of the Force must be observed.” He paused, and then barked, “Do you understand?”

  A wave of relief greater than he had ever known surged over Roger as he answered, “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Very well,” said the commissioner, and nodded dismissal.

  • • •

  “That was bloody purgatory,” Coppell growled.

  Roger swallowed hard.

  “Thanks for what you did.”

  “The man’s a—” began Coppell, only to break off. “Can’t say you helped yourself much.”

  “I got off on the wrong foot,” Roger said.

  “Yes. Better watch your feet.”

  “I certainly will,” Roger said feelingly.

  They walked along in silence for some time, until they were in the C.I.D. building, passing familiar places and familiar faces. Then Coppell shot Roger a sidelong look, and said, “Bloody unfortunate. I tried—”

  He was outside his office and his secretary appeared, a wild look in her eyes. She glared at Roger as she spoke to Coppell.

  “Sir, your call to Vienna has come through. I’ve been trying everywhere to find you.”

  “Didn’t have far to look,” grunted Coppell, and nodded to West. “See you.”

  He went into his office and the door closed. For a few seconds Roger was in the passage alone and it reminded him vividly of w
aiting outside the commissioner’s room. Well, he hadn’t been suspended, and he could carry on with the case, but—oh, to hell with it all! The pressures were too great.

  He felt heavy-hearted and dismayed, both at himself and what had followed. Not only did this case seem to have gremlins working against him, but he was making his own gremlins. He hadn’t had time to think about it last night because of Scoop’s problem and he hadn’t allowed himself time to think this morning. He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was twenty past twelve. If he Were going to that lunch he would have to get a move on; he would be at least ten minutes late as it was. He opened the door of his own office and went inside, and as he did so Danizon appeared at the communicating door.

  Danizon smiled, the most normal and trouble-free sight Roger had seen that morning.

  “Just looked in to remind you about your luncheon appointment,” he said. “A Mr. Artemeus rang up ten minutes ago. I promised to ring him at the Savoy Grill if you couldn’t make it.”

  “Ring and tell him I’ll be twenty minutes late,” Roger ordered.

  • • •

  The luxury and the ostentation of the Savoy Grill was more than a change, it was a salve and a solace. So was being recognised by the doorman and one of the porters, and by the head waiter when he went in.

  “Ah, Superintendent West —Mr. Artemeus is here.” He led the way to a corner table at which there was room for four but where one man was waiting. This could only be Artemeus. He was a heavily-built, beautifully groomed man, probably in the middle-fifties, with a somewhat sallow complexion and iron-grey hair. As Roger appeared he stood up, hand outstretched.

  “Mr. West. How good of you to come.”

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Roger said, gripping firmly and finding that Artemeus’s grip was also firm but not over-hearty. The head waiter pulled the table out for Roger to sit down, and another waiter hovered.

  “What will you have?” asked Artemeus.

  “A whisky and soda, please.”

  “And bring me another pink gin,” Artemeus ordered the second waiter. When they were alone he proffered cigarettes, and Roger took one almost with relief. He seldom smoked these days, but this might help a little to ease tension.

  “Thanks.”

  Artemeus said, almost warily, “Dare I say you look a little worn, Mr. West?”

  Roger half-laughed.

  “More than a little,” he said. “I’ve had a rough morning.”

  “One of the—ah—problems you face, no doubt, is the sudden pressure of work, both day and night,” said Artemeus, smiling depreciatingly. “And one of the advantages I can offer you are regular hours, excellent working conditions, and—but perhaps you would prefer to wait until we’ve had lunch before we get to the crux of the matter.”

  The waiter arrived with the drinks at almost miraculous speed, and put them down. Roger picked up his glass.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Ah! That’s good,” Roger said, and sipped again. “I think I could bear to hear whatever you want to say, then I can ponder and we can perhaps discuss it over luncheon.”

  “Good, good!” approved Artemeus. “Oh—I took the liberty of ordering smoked salmon and saddle of lamb— I hope you approve. If not, of course, the menu—”

  “Both sound just right,” Roger said, and sipped again.

  “Splendid!” Artemeus was just a little over-hearty, over- emphatic, over-anxious to please. “Very well, then, I will get straight to the point. I am a director of Allsafe, the second largest firm of security police in the country, Mr. West. We have some excellent men in all departments and a very extensive business; there is so much in industrial security which the existing police forces cannot handle.” He paused as if to give Roger a chance to comment but Roger simply nodded non-committally. “We need an administrator to replace one who is shortly to retire, and we want an experienced, highly successful detective from Scotland Yard. With such a man at our head we would greatly impress not only our present clients but also attract many new ones. You are the man we want. There is 110 better-known policeman, none who attracts so much public attention, or, may I say, approval. We would, of course, pay a salary fully commensurate with your reputation and your position—”

  Artemeus paused for a long time and his gaze was very intent; even piercing. Then he went on with great deliberation, “The salary would be twenty thousand pounds a year—that is, some four times your present emolument. And if that is not sufficient inducement by itself, then perhaps the prospect of a carte blanche on expenses and six weeks holiday a year, including this year if you could join us so quickly, would make the offer more attractive.”

  He sat back and sipped his pink gin, while Roger reacted to what he had said in utter disbelief.

  Chapter Nine

  QUESTIONS

  Roger was aware of the chatter of conversation about him, the clatter of dishes, of distant music. An attractive brunette in a wide-brimmed hat, sitting at a table near-by, was obviously more intrigued by him than by her companion. The waiter came up, enquiringly, and Artemeus asked, “Another Scotch, Mr. West?”

  “Er—no, thanks.”

  “Then we’ll have the wine,” declared Artemeus. “And tell M’sieu Henri we will start luncheon.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As the waiter disappeared, deftly weaving his way between tables, Artemeus turned back to Roger with a faint smile, and finished his drink. Roger downed his. He was almost sure that that woman in the wide-brimmed hat was trying to flirt with him; certainly she was trying to attract and hold his attention. In a way he was glad she was there; he could glance at her from time to time and so hide his astonishment at the hugeness of the offer.

  Artemeus was obviously waiting for him to comment.

  “That’s a very large sum of money,” Roger remarked at last.

  “It is a reasonable sum in commercial circles but very substantial compared with the salaries of civil servants,” Artemeus replied. “I have always believed that senior civil servants, particularly the police, have been scandalously underpaid.” Roger let that go without comment. “The private security organisations are better off, especially among the higher ranks, of course.”

  “Or you wouldn’t get them to leave the London and provincial forces,” remarked Roger drily. “How did the men who came to you from the ex-colonies shape up?”

  “Very well, on the whole,” Artemeus told him.

  As he spoke, a black-suited, black-tied waiter with an aproned youth to wait on him appeared with a dish of Scotch smoked salmon and paper-thin brown bread and butter. Roger waited until they had both been served before he asked, “What makes you think my publicity value is worth so much?”

  “Simple power of observation,” answered Artemeus smoothly.

  “Doesn’t that put you on the spot?” asked Roger.

  “Meaning?”

  “That I could ask for more.”

  Artemeus pursed his lips.

  “How much more?”

  “I haven’t even begun to think it through,” answered Roger. “In fact the offer you’d made would be big enough if I were of a mind to resign from the Yard.”

  “Are you?” asked Artemeus, quite sharply.

  “I can’t really say I am,” answered Roger slowly, “but I can’t truthfully say that I don’t sometimes get tired of the Yard.” He shrugged. “The hours, the fact that one is constantly on call—”

  “The fact that your wife gets sick of being disappointed when, instead of taking her out, you’re called to a job,” Artemeus murmured. “West, I don’t want to try to persuade you, and I don’t for a moment expect an immediate answer now. I can leave the offer open for two months, perhaps a little more, to the end of July. If you haven’t accepted by then, I’ll have to look for someone else.”

  He stopped, while the saddle of lamb, beautifully browned, was brought to them on a large copper dish and then carved at their side. There were gr
een peas mixed with tiny onions, new potatoes and mint sauce with red- currant jelly. After they were served, he continued as if there had been no pause.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll be glad to answer any questions, now or later.”

  “Thank you,” Roger said. “First—is the offer confidential?”

  “Absolutely. Only my board and I know about it. All discussion has been in person, and none of my staff has been involved.”

  “Thanks. Where would the job be?”

  “You would be in London most of the time and your office and staff would be situated centrally. There are five provincial or regional offices and you would probably need to visit two of them each month.”

  “What kind of work is involved?”

  “Industrial and commercial security, such as watching buildings—particularly banks, conveying wages from banks to factories and offices, investigating industrial sabotage of all kinds. You would find it a cake-walk, West.”

  “Possibly,” Roger said drily. “What staff would I have?”

  “You would need at least two secretaries, probably two receptionists and some other clerical help.”

  “About three times what I get now,” Roger said ruefully.

  “Precisely. You could do your job of organising a nationwide security service, instead of spending half your time making out reports, talking to subordinates and kow-towing to the com—” Artemeus broke off, looking slyly at Roger. “I’m sorry,” he added mockingly, “I quite forgot. You aren’t exactly the type to kow-tow to anyone, are you?”

  Roger said evasively, “I have my superiors.”

  “Yes, indeed. Well!” Artemeus beckoned the waiter and pointed to the saddle of lamb, now beneath the huge lid. “Another two cuts, I think,” he said, “and the rest for Mr. West.” After the carving and the fussing was over and the table wheeled away, he went on, “Any more questions?”

  “No pressing ones,” Roger answered.

  “Good! So far you’ve come up with nothing I wasn’t prepared for.” Artemeus went on eating, and then said a- propos of nothing, “Your no doubt revered chief used to come in here quite a lot, before he became your chief. Is he doing the job he was supposed to do?”