John Creasey - Alibi

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 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.

“One of our competitor firms has made a bid for our shares,” Artemeus announced. “It is a substantial bid, and our shareholders are likely to accept unless we can offer them something better. There are two other firms, as you know, who are of some importance in this field. If we took them over, we would be in a position not only to remain independent but also to buy out the main competitor in the field, the one who wants to buy us. Need I tell you how important the issues are?”

“You want a monopoly in the private security organisations,” Roger remarked dryly.

“Exactly.” Artemeus let a kind of shield fall over his eyes, hiding their hardness, and stretched a languid hand for an eclair. “In normal circumstances I would not have been so frank, Mr. West, but the situation is so urgent that I really have no choice. You will no doubt guess that the take-over offer came unexpectedly. It will be announced in the evening newspapers tonight, and you would have seen at once why we are so anxious to have your services.”

Roger said heavily, “Spell it out for me, please.”

“Very well.” Artemeus took a sip of tea, and leaned forward earnestly. “If you are with us, Mr. West, we can merge with the smaller companies. They are equally impressed with your importance, your account-pulling power. If you are not with us, then—” he shrugged his shoulders “—then we shall be taken over. This is really very simple; the ways of big business are usually simple.” When Roger did not answer at once, Artemeus went on, “There is another point of view which you would be well to consider. Your position. You are at this moment in a position to dictate terms. If you wanted double the money I offered, I think my board would be prepared to pay.”

His words seemed to fall on to deaf ears. Roger stared at him but did not speak. He believed that he could understand a great many things which had been obscured until he had come here: certainly he saw a glimmering of new and vivid light. But he wanted time to think, to check some facts—and he needed to keep this man in a good humour as he checked them. For as long as he thought that he might join Allsafe, Artemeus would be blandly pleasant and helpful.

Then, as if aware of uncertainty and tension, Artemeus went on, “If you have doubts, Mr. West, why don’t you talk it over with your wife? She sounded very charming when I spoke to her on the telephone this morning.”

Every muscle in Roger’s body went stiff, and for a moment Artemeus looked alarmed.

“You mean you told my wife about this offer?”

“I—well—I—yes,” said Artemeus, his voice suddenly unsteady. “I—er—I called the Yard this morning and—I —they said you were at home. So I called — West . What is the matter? What are you—”

Roger was on his feet and leaning across the desk. One part of his mind was aware of the cold rage in him and the need for self-control, the other was aware of the fear —the near-terror—on this man’s face. Roger forced himself to stand upright as Artemeus craned back in his chair, hands raised as if he expected physical violence.

“What did you tell her?” Roger grated.

“I—er—I simply said that circumstances enabled me to—er—improve substantially on my previous offer. Good God, West, don’t tell me you hadn’t told her! I took that for granted.” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I really had no idea—”

“You cold-blooded liar,” growled Roger. “You found out she didn’t know and you told her so as to put more pressure on me. You’re so anxious to make your miserable profit you’ll try any trick.”

He moved swiftly, rounding the desk in three strides. Artemeus rose in his chair, then dropped down again, for there was no room to pass. Roger gripped him by the shoulders and shook him to and fro, slowly, deliberately, menacingly. His fingers bit into the man’s fleshy shoulders, and Artemeus winced with pain.

“Are you behind the Globe ’ s campaign? Are you trying to get me thrown out of the Yard or forced to resign so that I have to come to you and take your filthy money? Is that it?” He shook the man to each of the words and Artemeus’s head bobbed to and fro. “Tell me the truth or I’ll shake your head off your shoulders.”