John Creasey - Alibi

“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.

“Ah, Superintendent West —Mr. Artemeus is here.” He led the way to a corner table at which there was room for four but where one man was waiting. This could only be Artemeus. He was a heavily-built, beautifully groomed man, probably in the middle-fifties, with a somewhat sallow complexion and iron-grey hair. As Roger appeared he stood up, hand outstretched.

“Mr. West. How good of you to come.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Roger said, gripping firmly and finding that Artemeus’s grip was also firm but not over-hearty. The head waiter pulled the table out for Roger to sit down, and another waiter hovered.

“What will you have?” asked Artemeus.

“A whisky and soda, please.”

“And bring me another pink gin,” Artemeus ordered the second waiter. When they were alone he proffered cigarettes, and Roger took one almost with relief. He seldom smoked these days, but this might help a little to ease tension.

“Thanks.”

Artemeus said, almost warily, “Dare I say you look a little worn, Mr. West?”

Roger half-laughed.

“More than a little,” he said. “I’ve had a rough morning.”

“One of the—ah—problems you face, no doubt, is the sudden pressure of work, both day and night,” said Artemeus, smiling depreciatingly. “And one of the advantages I can offer you are regular hours, excellent working conditions, and—but perhaps you would prefer to wait until we’ve had lunch before we get to the crux of the matter.”

The waiter arrived with the drinks at almost miraculous speed, and put them down. Roger picked up his glass.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

“Ah! That’s good,” Roger said, and sipped again. “I think I could bear to hear whatever you want to say, then I can ponder and we can perhaps discuss it over luncheon.”

“Good, good!” approved Artemeus. “Oh—I took the liberty of ordering smoked salmon and saddle of lamb— I hope you approve. If not, of course, the menu—”

“Both sound just right,” Roger said, and sipped again.

“Splendid!” Artemeus was just a little over-hearty, over- emphatic, over-anxious to please. “Very well, then, I will get straight to the point. I am a director of Allsafe, the second largest firm of security police in the country, Mr. West. We have some excellent men in all departments and a very extensive business; there is so much in industrial security which the existing police forces cannot handle.” He paused as if to give Roger a chance to comment but Roger simply nodded non-committally. “We need an administrator to replace one who is shortly to retire, and we want an experienced, highly successful detective from Scotland Yard. With such a man at our head we would greatly impress not only our present clients but also attract many new ones. You are the man we want. There is 110 better-known policeman, none who attracts so much public attention, or, may I say, approval. We would, of course, pay a salary fully commensurate with your reputation and your position—”

Artemeus paused for a long time and his gaze was very intent; even piercing. Then he went on with great deliberation, “The salary would be twenty thousand pounds a year—that is, some four times your present emolument. And if that is not sufficient inducement by itself, then perhaps the prospect of a carte blanche on expenses and six weeks holiday a year, including this year if you could join us so quickly, would make the offer more attractive.”

He sat back and sipped his pink gin, while Roger reacted to what he had said in utter disbelief.

Chapter Nine

QUESTIONS

Roger was aware of the chatter of conversation about him, the clatter of dishes, of distant music. An attractive brunette in a wide-brimmed hat, sitting at a table near-by, was obviously more intrigued by him than by her companion. The waiter came up, enquiringly, and Artemeus asked, “Another Scotch, Mr. West?”

“Er—no, thanks.”

“Then we’ll have the wine,” declared Artemeus. “And tell M’sieu Henri we will start luncheon.”

“Very good, sir.”

As the waiter disappeared, deftly weaving his way between tables, Artemeus turned back to Roger with a faint smile, and finished his drink. Roger downed his. He was almost sure that that woman in the wide-brimmed hat was trying to flirt with him; certainly she was trying to attract and hold his attention. In a way he was glad she was there; he could glance at her from time to time and so hide his astonishment at the hugeness of the offer.

Artemeus was obviously waiting for him to comment.

“That’s a very large sum of money,” Roger remarked at last.

“It is a reasonable sum in commercial circles but very substantial compared with the salaries of civil servants,” Artemeus replied. “I have always believed that senior civil servants, particularly the police, have been scandalously underpaid.” Roger let that go without comment. “The private security organisations are better off, especially among the higher ranks, of course.”

“Or you wouldn’t get them to leave the London and provincial forces,” remarked Roger drily. “How did the men who came to you from the ex-colonies shape up?”

“Very well, on the whole,” Artemeus told him.

As he spoke, a black-suited, black-tied waiter with an aproned youth to wait on him appeared with a dish of Scotch smoked salmon and paper-thin brown bread and butter. Roger waited until they had both been served before he asked, “What makes you think my publicity value is worth so much?”