John Creasey - Alibi Страница 8

Coppell was staring at him incredulously, and Roger realised that he was gazing particularly at his right cheek.

Almost mechanically, Roger put his hand up to his face, and he touched a sore spot, looked at his fingers and saw a smear of blood.

“So they came as near as that,” Coppell said, no longer angry or growling. “Would you recognise them again?”

“They’re all at division, on a charge,” Roger said flatly.

“Who was with you?” Coppell asked.

Roger thought: Here it comes. It was an effort to answer, “No one.”

Coppell gasped, “You went alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, no one could ever question your guts whatever they might say about your sense.” Coppell gave a twisted grin which robbed the words of most of their sting. “I have to go and report to the commissioner. If it goes right, this little job might save your bacon.” With a flare of alarm, he asked, “They didn’t get a photograph, did they?”

“No. And I didn’t get into bed,” Roger retorted.

Coppell sniffed back a laugh. “Almost a pity you didn’t,” he rasped. “You really would be the playboy of the Yard, then, wouldn’t you?” He stood up.

Roger answered, straight-faced, “Yes, sir. The woman was Maisie Dunster.”

“Maisie—” Coppell was completely taken aback again. “That witness for Rapelli, you mean? The alibi bedfellow?” There was a hint of a stutter in his voice.

“Yes,” answered Roger.

“And she was in the room of the man who ran down and killed a witness against Rapelli. My God! We’ve got some strings to unravel here,” Coppell declared. “What about our second witness? Don’t let anything happen to him, will you? If you do I’ll have your neck.”

“I’ve taken very good care of him,” Roger said confidently. “He’s the man who wanted Maisie to pop into bed with me while he took some photographs. What did you say about strings to unravel?”

He did not believe that he had ever seen the commander so dumbfounded, utterly bereft of words. It seemed a long time before Coppell began to relax, and as he did so the communicating door opened and his secretary said in a reproving voice, “The commissioner has just called again. He insisted—” She broke off, astounded at Coppell’s expression.

Very slowly the commander of the Criminal Investigations Department stood up. He rounded his desk and was halfway to the door before he turned round, saying gruffly, “Better come with me, Handsome. The commissioner had better hear this straight from the horse’s mouth.”

Chapter Eight

DISAPPROVAL

The commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Jacob Trevillion, was a big, bucolic man, ex-navy, with a manner too often faintly reminiscent of a drill-sergeant. He had a saving sense of humour, his bark being always worse than his bite, and he overlooked a great many errors provided rules and regulations were strictly observed. Entering his office, these things passed through Roger’s mind and he even wondered whether Coppell could have brought him along here on the “it’s time West was taught a lesson” principle. He had never met this man face to face over Yard business, only on official and social occasions, and he felt a sharp sense of trepidation.

In front of the commissioner was a copy of last night’s Globe.

He was frowning; and after a swift glance towards them he put the newspaper to one side and shuffled through some papers. Roger saw that amongst them were some of his own and some of Coppell’s reports on the Rapelli case.

The commissioner kept them standing just long enough to make Roger begin to fret, then looked up once more.

“Ah, commander. Have a seat. Superintendent—I think you have some explanations to make.”

Roger said in a flat voice, “About what, sir?”

“About your grave error of judgment when you asked a question in court yesterday.”

Roger kept silent.

“Well?” the commissioner barked.

“I don’t really think I committed an “error of judgment, sir.”

“You don’t what! When this—” the commissioner placed a fist on the Globe “—so severely takes you and the Yard to task!”

“I know I asked for trouble, sir, but it was an odd situation, and got out of hand. I felt it essential to establish the character of the witness who really shouldn’t have been allowed to testify. Thanks to some very clever tactics by her counsel, she was being allowed to give evidence that she had been in bed with a man accused of a serious crime, at the time of the crime. If it ever came to trial, as I would expect, this evidence would be on record. I did take a chance, sir, in establishing her character—”

“That’s enough, Superintendent.”

“Sir.”

“You’ve been in the service long enough to know the elementary rules, haven’t you?” The sarcasm almost dripped.

“Yes, sir,” Roger said, very quietly. “I have been in the Force for twenty-six years. And in countless cases I have managed to get results by taking some risks. Once that alibi evidence was given, the damage was done, and I felt impelled to try to discredit the witness. The very fact that a junior partner of a highly reputable firm of solicitors—”

“That’s enough, West!” roared the commissioner. “Rules are rules, and by God I’ll have you know it !”

“Commissioner,” Coppell interrupted, in a strangely mild voice for him, “West found the girl witness in another man’s bed this morning. The bed of a man who ran down and killed one of the prosecution’s witnesses in the Rapelli case.”

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 waiting 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.