John Creasey - Alibi

JOHN CREASEY

Alibi for Inspector West

Copyright Note

This e-book was created by papachanjo , with the purpose of providing a digitized format of the books written by John Creasey without the least intention of commercial gain of any sort. This e-book should hence be utilized for reading only and if you like it and can buy it, please do to support the publishers.

I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.

If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:

Scan the book in greyscale

Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images

Send it to my e-mail: papachanjo@rocketmail.com

I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.

from back cover

“As a point of interest Miss Dunster, were the other two witnesses in your bed at the same time?”

A trivial enough question, but it proves to be Roger West’s near-fatal blunder because it antagonises his superiors and attracts the glare of hostile publicity. West is left on his own to play a hunch and connect a bizarre assault case to a dangerous drugs racket or perish in the attempt — but he can only do this if the alibi is a phoney.

The investigations lead him far beyond his expectations, and to financial temptations beyond the dreams of an honest cop.

“The Roger West stories are perhaps the most successful of all Mr. Creasey’s output”

The Guardian

ALIBI FOR INSPECTOR WEST

(Formerly ALIBI )

Sensing rather than hearing movement, he half-turned, caught sight of the dark, shiny hair of a man bent low behind him. Then he felt hands thump against his shoulders and went hurtling forward, banging his forehead against the door. It swung open, and he fell headlong into the room. His head smacked against the floor, nearly stunning him, but he was aware of hands gripping his wrists and lifting his legs up, then pushing him to one side. The next moment he was kicked savagely in the ribs, then the door slammed and the light went out. He was alone, in darkness, gasping for breath.

Gasping.

He was aware of many things—mostly fear.

John Creasey’s books have sold nearly a hundred million copies and have been translated into 28 languages. Born in 1908, John Creasey has a home in Arizona, U.S.A., since more of his books sell in the United States than in any other country. He also has his home in Wiltshire, England, and he virtually commutes between the two.

He has travelled extensively, and is very interested in politics. He is founder of All Party Alliance and has fought four elections for this movement, advocating government by the best men from all parties and independents. Married three times, he has three sons.

Table of Contents

Copyright Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

FIRST APPEARANCE

“And is the accused represented in court?” asked Charles Gunn.

He did not think, for one moment that the slender young man standing in the dock would have a lawyer here; he didn’t appear to have two pennies to rub together. Yet he had a scrubbed look, and was clean-shaven and short-haired. No one of his age, and he must be in his middle twenties, should have those sunken cheeks and eyes so vividly bright in their deep, dark sockets. He stood upright and very still, looking straight at Gunn, the magistrate on duty that morning.

“No,” he said, clearly.

Farriman, the fussy little, prim little, knowing little magistrates’ clerk, fussed with papers and spoke as if he had not heard the prisoner’s answer.

“No sir, he’s not represented. Perhaps you could suggest legal aid.”

“Does the accused plead guilty or not guilty?” Gunn asked. He never ceased to be slightly exasperated by the clerk, but seldom showed it.

Again the prisoner answered very clearly.

“Not guilty, sir.”

Gunn looked at the young man, wondering what were the events that had led up to the act of violence that had brought him here. This had all the appearances of a straightforward and simple case; and a grave one. The prisoner was accused of “hitting a man over the head with a musical instrument, to wit, an electric guitar, with intent to cause grievous bodily harm”. “Grievous bodily harm’ could bring life imprisonment, but was likely to be seven to ten years, unless the man who had been attacked died.

Gunn brought himself up sharply. He was thinking in terms of the accused’s guilt, and that was both wrong and unusual. All he had heard so far was the evidence of arrest and the charge. He was very conscious of that direct gaze; but he had long since learned, however keen his concentration on the man in the dock, to be aware of the rest of the court. Any unusual movement, while seldom distracting him, was carefully noted; and he noted now the unexpected appearance of a latecomer. This latecomer, tall, lean, strong-looking and quite unusually handsome, gave a respectful nod to the bench—to Gunn —and joined the grey-haired Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, who had made the formal charge.

“I wonder what’s brought West,” Gunn remarked to himself. And, seeing the prisoner’s gaze flicker blankly for a moment, “Rapelli doesn’t recognise him.”

The two senior policemen were whispering, the three newspapermen in the Press Box now seemed much more interested in West than in anything else, the court officials, including the two wardens with Rapelli, all watched West. That wasn’t really surprising. Chief Superintendent Roger “Handsome” West was probably the best- known policeman in England, with the possible exception of the commander of the Criminal Investigation Department. Moreover, he attracted publicity as a candle attracts moths. His looks; his flair for detection; his persistence and thoroughness and—not least—the countless examples of his unflinching physical courage, all contributed to his reputation. He seldom came to court, and Gunn could not remember him coming to this one except on a major case.

So, why was he here this morning? Why should the apparently impetuous crime, the result of a fight between two young men, bring this senior policeman whose desk must be covered with details of investigations into major crimes?

The grey-haired Chief Inspector, Leeminster, turned away from West, who sat back on the police bench and crossed his legs. He did no more than glance at the man in the dock.

All of this had taken only a few seconds yet it had brought a noticeable lull, creating a mood almost of suspense. This was heightened as Leeminster neared the bench, and as the door to the public benches opened and a young woman came in. On that instant, two things happened at once. Charles Gunn saw West glance very appraisingly at the girl. And the three reporters moved, putting their heads together as if as impressed by this arrival as by West’s.

“What is it? What is it?” Farriman the magistrates’ clerk asked Leeminster.

“The police ask for a remand in custody,” said Leeminster.

Of course they did on such a charge, thought Gunn, even more puzzled. Leeminster, obviously prompted by West, had repeated that request quickly.

The girl was passing the public benches and approaching those where the police and the solicitors and officials sat. She was very striking-looking, her slender figure making her appear taller than in fact she was, and wore an olive green suede suit and tightly fitting hat, which practically covered her short, chestnut-brown hair. She glanced coldly at West, and Gunn felt sure the two had met before. He was mildly amused, for West had the reputation of being a ladies’ man.

The girl came straight up to the bench. The prisoner seemed to shape his lips to speak and his grip on the rail became very tight. West moved back in his seat—amused? wondered Gunn; or resigned?

Farriman, who had also been distracted, had taken his time writing down the police request. Now, pretending not to notice the girl, he said, “The police request a remand in custody, sir. The usual period is eight days.” Farriman must have irritated a dozen magistrates by that piece of gratuitous information.

“I would be grateful for a hearing now, your honour,” the girl said clearly.

Gunn realised that she was nervous. The formal words, the over-precise enunciation, the huskiness of her voice, all told him that. But at close quarters she was astonishing-looking, with a superb, near-olive coloured complexion, beautiful brown eyes, a short, narrow-tipped nose, bow-shaped lips and a pointed chin. Her face was unusually narrow, which somehow made her looks more striking.

“What qualification have you to address the court?” demanded Farriman. He would never learn to allow the man on the bench to give a lead as to his own attitude.

“I am a solicitor,” she stated, her voice still husky, “and I would like to represent the accused.”

“The prisoner has already pleaded,” Farriman fussed, and at last looked up at Gunn. He could only see Gunn’s head and shoulders, and Gunn could only see a foreshortened view of his grey hair with the pink bald patch, his pince-nez on a flabby nose.

“He pleaded not guilty,” Gunn said mildly.

“I should think so,” said the girl, with greater assurance. “I think—”

“Please, please,” interrupted Farriman. “If the bench would like to hear you then will you please—” He broke off.

“Do you wish to be represented by this young lady?” Gunn asked Rapelli.

Rapelli moistened his lips and said something.

“Speak up, speak up!” Farriman urged.

Gunn opened his mouth, on the verge of angry reproof, checked himself, scribbled “ leave this to me ” on a slip of paper and leaned forward and handed it down to Farriman who adjusted his pince-nez, frowned, read and read again. There was a fresh tension in the court, and now everyone was watching Rapelli closely.

“Let me ask you another question,” Gunn said to the accused. “Do you know this young lady?” He smiled down at the girl. “Perhaps you will turn round so that the accused may see you.”

She narrowed her eyes in a frown which brought a deep groove between her eyes, then turned abruptly, and said, “We know each other very well. Don’t we, Mario?”

The young man moved his lips, and admitted “Yes.”

“Do you wish to be represented by her?” Gunn asked again. “You may be, and I am quite prepared to allow you time for discussion in private.”

Farriman wriggled in disapproval. Everyone, including Roger West, was staring at the couple. There was a facial similarity between them and their lean, spare figures made them look as if they might be brother and sister.

“I would like her to represent me,” Rapelli said at last; and he closed his eyes.