John Creasey - Alibi

“I am very sorry, sir,” he said. “Very sorry.”

Gunn growled, “Very well. I will overlook your intervention. As for the witness’s evidence, I do not see its relevance to the issue of a remand.” He glowered at Rachel Warrender, then went on in a clipped voice, “The accused is remanded for eight days on two sureties other than himself of five hundred pounds each. Will you make any arrangements you think necessary below the court,” he added to Rachel Warrender. “Failing the two sureties then of course the accused must remain in custody.” He rapped the bench with his gavel. “Next case, please.”

Almost at once, the two policemen by the dock helped Rapelli out. Perhaps the most remarkable thing was that the prisoner obviously needed physical support, being so very near collapse. Rachel Warrender hurried after him, while the newspapermen crowded round Maisie. Once she was outside the door of the courtroom, cameras began to click . . .

• • •

There in the Globe was a front-page picture of Maisie Dunster and, in the background and coming out of the courtroom, was Roger West. Among the people who saw the picture and read the story was Commander Coppell, chief executive of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, as he sat back in his car after a very late luncheon at the Guildhall. Coppell, a heavy, rather sultry-looking man with smooth, shiny black hair, sat up, read the story in detail, then glowered out of the window at the traffic in the Strand. It was nearly four o’clock before he reached his office. A rather prim and over-zealous secretary was at the door as he opened it.

“The assistant commissioner would like you to call him, sir.”

“Get him,” growled Coppell. He went to his desk and sat down, opened the Globe out before him and reread the article. Almost at once his telephone bell rang.

“The assistant commissioner,” announced his secretary.

Coppell grunted, and then said, “You want me, sir?”

“What can you tell me about this Rapelli case?” enquired the assistant commissioner, who was the chief of the C.I.D. department and directly responsible to the commissioner.

“Only what I’ve read in the Globe, ” growled Coppell.

“Didn’t you know about it this morning?” The assistant commissioner sounded surprised.

“Oh, West told me about the arrest and said he wanted to ask for an eight-day remand. He didn’t suggest there was anything out of the ordinary about it.” Coppell’s voice was raw with an overtone of complaint. “Or any doubt.”

“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. “ Care to be M.C.? ” In this mood I wouldn’t like — to be Master of Ceremonies at a five shilling hop, Roger thought, scowling; then he realised the absurdity of his own mood, and grinned. He was still smiling broadly, without knowing that it made him look quite startlingly handsome and carefree, when the door from the passage opened and Coppell strode in.

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 dock that morning. His heavy jowl looked fuller than usual, his mouth was tightly set, his deepset eyes sparked with irritation.

Roger stood behind his desk.

“I’ve drawn four blanks today,” he observed. “But some days are like that.”

“When you can spare a minute,” Coppell said with heavy sarcasm, “you might tell me what cases went sour on you, and why. You can begin with Rapelli’s arrest. From where

I stand, it was bad enough to send Leeminster to arrest and charge him without being sure he was guilty, but why in hell you persisted in the charge, and then committed contempt of court with that crack about him and the witnesses I shall never understand.”

Roger said in a thin voice, “Won’t you, sir?”

“No. What the hell got into you?”

Very slowly and deliberately Roger pushed his swivel chair into position behind his desk and sat down. He had known what he was doing, and Coppell must realise that; to adopt this attitude was to condemn him before he had been heard. For a few moments he was too angry to speak, but losing his temper would serve no purpose. He looked straight into Coppell’s eyes, and schooled his voice to carry a tone of cool respect.

“I might understandably ask you the same question: what has got into you?”

As he spoke, he knew that it had been the wrong moment; that instead of pulling Coppell up sharply into a more reasonable mood it had put him high on his dignity. Out of the blue, as it were, another crisis was upon him; you didn’t force a quarrel with your superior if you wanted to concentrate on the job in hand. And Coppell had a lot of influence in high places, could present him favourably if he wished and nearly damn him if he chose to be malicious.

Just now, he looked as if he hated Roger, and he actually took a long step forward, as if to sweep the younger man aside.

Chapter Three

CONFLICT

Coppell paused.

That he was genuinely angry showed in the glitter in his eyes and the swarthy flush in his cheeks. Roger wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he thinking much as he, Roger, was thinking: that, angry and resentful though he felt, there was no point in pushing a quarrel? They were mature men, very senior officials, and they should have sufficient self-respect and respect for each other to avoid open conflict. His own anger began to fade but Coppell’s apparently remained. Suddenly it dawned on him that Coppell was now in such a towering rage that he could hardly control himself.

So, he made himself say, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Coppell glowered and growled, “What’s that?”

“I said I was sorry, sir.”

Coppell was only five years Roger’s senior in age and service. Everyone who was anyone at the Yard knew that he had been appointed commander because there had been no one else of sufficient experience for the job. Only the discipline of the Yard, the absolute rule that on duty no officer called a senior in rank by his Christian name, and always used the “sir” held Roger steady now, but his heart was thumping and some of his nerves began to quiver. He couldn’t do more.

Oh, grow up, he thought: and he was thinking of himself, not Coppell. He was suddenly aware that in one way Coppell would never grow up, would probably never know true magnanimity. But at least the “sorry” mollified him and his eyes lost their glitter.

Would Coppell rub his nose in the apology?

If he says I should damn well think so, thought Roger in another surge of emotion, I’ll give him my resignation.

Coppell opened his mouth to speak, but before he uttered a word the door of the communicating room with Danizon opened and Danizon himself came in, pushing the door open with his rump. A tray rattled in his hand. Coppell, nearer the door, acted almost mechanically, and held it for the detective sergeant to come through. Danizon must have known that someone was there but not who it was. He grunted “ta” and placed the laden tray on a corner of Roger’s desk. There was tea, hot water, milk, sandwiches thick with meat, bread and butter and some jam.