John Creasey - Alibi

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.

“Are you afraid your father might commit suicide, too?”

“No,” she said, a little more strongly. “He would stand and fight. He will fight.”

“Did you know that there was a plot to set up a rival organisation to the established police forces, one which could take over if there were a coup?”

“No,” she whispered, “I didn’t know—but I feared it. I — I couldn’t bear to investigate. So—I came to you. I believed if anyone could find out, you could.”

It would be easy to say that she should have told him, that earlier knowledge might have saved not only trouble but lives, certainly Phillipson’s life. But what good purpose could be served? Wouldn’t her conscience torment her enough as the days passed?

“I doubt if I would have seen the truth so quickly if it hadn’t been for you,” he said. “But even with your help, if the other security companies hadn’t started to gang up on Allsafe, thus making Phillipson and Artemeus pressure me too hard, I might not have realised what was going on.”

“And you don’t like being pressured,” she remarked. The faint smile at her lips was a good sign.

“Not in court or out of it! Rachel, do you know what actually happened between Rapelli and Verdi?”

“I didn’t,” she answered, “but I do now. I told you I had an enquiry agent at work, but in fact this was a member of the firm’s staff. He knew that Mario was a very right- wing politician who worked for my—my father, whose activities were nearly treasonable, even to the point of conspiring with Phillipson and Artemeus to overthrow the government and establish a new government by thinly disguised dictatorship.

“This member of the staff knew that Verdi suspected Mario Rapelli’s part in the conspiracy. He and Verdi used to work together at rallies and demonstrations, but Verdi discovered they were planning a coup, and he threatened to tell the police. Mario killed him to keep him quiet. Maisie had no idea what was going on, but Fogarty had. And when Hamish Campbell found out, he switched sides because of his right-wing sympathies. They all panicked,” she added helplessly. “When you went to Fogarty’s room they thought you would find some documents and literature there that would give the game away, and Campbell tried—Well, you know what followed.”

“It was quite an extravaganza,” Roger said. “But I am beginning to understand it. They were so desperate that they took wild chances.” He frowned. “Do you know who killed Maisie, and why?”

“I think I know,” Rachel said. “After Maisie learnt that Fogarty had killed Smithson she wouldn’t have anything more to do with him. I think she was beginning to put two and two together, and they thought she knew more than she actually did. The only person she’d speak to was Rapelli, and I think someone went to her flat pretending to be Rapelli, and attacked her before she had time to find out who he really was.”

“One thing you should know, sir,” Danzion said later. “They found a section of a thumbprint on the hammer handle, the hammer used to kill Maisie. We shall get him.”

“Check it with Fogarty’s,” Roger ordered.

They learned, soon, that it was Fogarty’s print.

• • •

“So I killed Smithson,” Fogarty said hoarsely. “And I’d kill you, Rachel Warrender and the whole gang of hypocrites who support the bloody system we live under. We’ve got to have a change, don’t you understand? And we can only get it by revolution.”

“There are some things that make me feel murderous, too,” Roger said, tautly. “Such as Maisie’s death.”

“But I didn’t want to kill Maisie,” Fogarty cried. “She was the mother of my son—sure, she had a son, that’s what she always wanted money for, she paid a foster mother to look after the kid. I didn ’ t want to kill her! ” he cried again. “But she learned too much, she could have brought disaster on everything and everyone I believe in!”

Roger left him and went to the Yard, where he studied the latest reports on Rapelli. Only this afternoon, since he had looked at the film, was there any reference to Rapelli’s political activities. “ He is a member of an extreme right-wing underground group which used the Doon Club as cover .”

“We should have discovered that earlier,” Roger reproached himself. And it was no consolation to know that he would have come round to it sooner or later.

He went straight from the Yard to Brixton Prison. Soon, Rapelli was brought to see him, and obviously the man had heard something of what had happened. He was edgy, his lips twitched occasionally, he clenched and unclenched his hands.

“I’ve just come from Fogarty,” Roger said coldly. “And I know why you attacked Verdi.”

Rapelli said in a hoarse voice, “Is it true that Phillipson of the Globe killed himself?”

“Yes, and it is true that after a study of papers found in his office and in Artemeus’s office we know both men were involved in a plot to overthrow the government and impose one on the country. We also know you were involved, that Verdi found out and refused to go along, and—”

“You can guess what you like,” Rapelli interrupted. “I admit nothing, do you understand? Nothing.”

• • •

Roger telephoned Rachel Warrender at her Hampstead flat, and told her what he had said to Rapelli. Very slowly she answered, “It’s one thing to be a Fascist, another to be a cold-blooded murderer. But I’ll go and see him in the morning, Mr. West.”

“I hoped you would,” said Roger.

“I’m sure you did,” said Rachel in a very emphatic way. “You’ re one of the rare human beings who would help his own worst enemy, aren’t you? We’ll meet again, Mr. West, but just now I would like to thank you for being exactly what you are.”

When he rang off, he sat very still and silent. But he could not sit idle for long. He wanted to be at the hub of the Yard, helping to organise the raids, to be the first to hear the results.

There was an air of hustle and bustle and excitement as the different teams went out, first to the divisions, then to the offices and the houses of the people involved. Soon, more evidence came in of the plot. Documents found in Sir Roland Warrender’s safe proved what he had been planning, and Sir Roland admitted everything to a Yard superintendent.

His firm’s partners were involved, too, except for Rachel.

So were some of the directors and major shareholders of the Globe.

The raid on the Globe was a masterly achievement; everyone who knew what Phillipson had planned was charged, but most of the reporting, administrative and machine-room staff were quite unaware that the Globe was to have been the voice of rebellion, and they produced the next edition with banner headlines about the story.

By midnight, the raids were nearly all over, key houses and offices were taken over by the police. First the Home Secretary and then the Prime Minister were told, and faced with a fait accompli, gave their approval. Two cabinet ministers were on the fringe of the organisation as a political machine, a few members of Parliament had been aware of what Warrender was planning, but none had known of the Allsafe plot. Just after midnight, Roger was still at his desk when Coppell and Trevillion came in.

“All that matters is done for the night,” Coppell said, “I’ll stay and see it through. You go home, Handsome. You need some rest.”

“That’s an order,” the commissioner insisted, with a glint in his eyes.

Yes, it was time to go home; time to see Janet.

He had telephoned home and talked to Martin, telling him he would be late, asking him to tell Janet not to sit up, but Janet might have ignored that, and be waiting. What was she thinking? As far as she knew he had been offered an ideal job and not told her and not accepted it. He drove to Bell Street, slowly, and went right into the garage. The living room lights were on, so Janet hadn’t gone to bed. Oh, well. As he opened the kitchen door he heard the television, and was startled. Only rarely, and usually for political occasions, was there television after midnight. He reached the door and looked in. Both the boys and Janet sat round the screen, and there was no commentary, just some street scenes—Strand scenes. There was a picture of a man on the pavement —Phillipson! So a camera had been there that early. There were shots of the ambulance, of Phillipson being lifted in, of more police cars arriving, then, suddenly, pictures of a seething crowd of people.

“There he is!” cried Janet.

“Good old Pop!” chortled Richard.

“ Hush! ” breathed Scoop.

The camera followed him, Roger, as he pushed and the police pushed and at last he was at the car. Slowly he turned to face the crowd, and a remarkable silence fell upon the people. He looked round, and, watching, he was satisfied with his poise. His voice came from the television, as Janet said with a choky kind of emotion, “Oh, he’s wonderful!”

“ I ’ ll have a statement of some kind ready at the Yard by seven-thirty. That ’ s a promise. ”

“Do you know,” Scoop said, “I’ve never yet known Dad break a promise?”

“ Hush !” breathed Richard.

There was a swift change of scene to the news room at Scotland Yard, in fact a conference room which was jammed tight with people. The commentator used as few words as he could as first Coppell and then the commissioner spoke.

“We can’t and won’t answer any questions,” Trevillion said, “but Commander Coppell has a statement which we have both signed. Copies will be available as you leave the room. Harrumph! Commander.”

The camera switched to Coppell’s face, his deepset eyes, his heavy jaw. He read the statement slowly, almost at dictation speed.

“A series of raids on professional, commercial and (one) newspaper building have been and are being made by officers of the Metropolitan Police Force in conjunction with the City of London Police Force this evening. Raids have been and are being carried out also on private homes. A number of arrests have already been made and others are pending. The charge in each case is that of conspiring against the State.