John Creasey - Alibi

“Simple power of observation,” answered Artemeus smoothly.

“Doesn’t that put you on the spot?” asked Roger.

“Meaning?”

“That I could ask for more.”

Artemeus pursed his lips.

“How much more?”

“I haven’t even begun to think it through,” answered Roger. “In fact the offer you’d made would be big enough if I were of a mind to resign from the Yard.”

“Are you?” asked Artemeus, quite sharply.

“I can’t really say I am,” answered Roger slowly, “but I can’t truthfully say that I don’t sometimes get tired of the Yard.” He shrugged. “The hours, the fact that one is constantly on call—”

“The fact that your wife gets sick of being disappointed when, instead of taking her out, you’re called to a job,” Artemeus murmured. “West, I don’t want to try to persuade you, and I don’t for a moment expect an immediate answer now. I can leave the offer open for two months, perhaps a little more, to the end of July. If you haven’t accepted by then, I’ll have to look for someone else.”

He stopped, while the saddle of lamb, beautifully browned, was brought to them on a large copper dish and then carved at their side. There were green peas mixed with tiny onions, new potatoes and mint sauce with red- currant jelly. After they were served, he continued as if there had been no pause.

“Meanwhile, I’ll be glad to answer any questions, now or later.”

“Thank you,” Roger said. “First—is the offer confidential?”

“Absolutely. Only my board and I know about it. All discussion has been in person, and none of my staff has been involved.”

“Thanks. Where would the job be?”

“You would be in London most of the time and your office and staff would be situated centrally. There are five provincial or regional offices and you would probably need to visit two of them each month.”

“What kind of work is involved?”

“Industrial and commercial security, such as watching buildings—particularly banks, conveying wages from banks to factories and offices, investigating industrial sabotage of all kinds. You would find it a cake-walk, West.”

“Possibly,” Roger said drily. “What staff would I have?”

“You would need at least two secretaries, probably two receptionists and some other clerical help.”

“About three times what I get now,” Roger said ruefully.

“Precisely. You could do your job of organising a nationwide security service, instead of spending half your time making out reports, talking to subordinates and kow-towing to the com—” Artemeus broke off, looking slyly at Roger. “I’m sorry,” he added mockingly, “I quite forgot. You aren’t exactly the type to kow-tow to anyone, are you?”

Roger said evasively, “I have my superiors.”

“Yes, indeed. Well!” Artemeus beckoned the waiter and pointed to the saddle of lamb, now beneath the huge lid. “Another two cuts, I think,” he said, “and the rest for Mr. West.” After the carving and the fussing was over and the table wheeled away, he went on, “Any more questions?”

“No pressing ones,” Roger answered.

“Good! So far you’ve come up with nothing I wasn’t prepared for.” Artemeus went on eating, and then said a- propos of nothing, “Your no doubt revered chief used to come in here quite a lot, before he became your chief. Is he doing the job he was supposed to do?”

Roger asked guardedly, “Which particular chief?”

“Oh, the comissioner: Sir Jacob Trevillion.”

“I didn’t know he’d been appointed to do any particular job,” Roger replied. “I don’t move in such exalted circles.”

“Oh.” Artemeus seemed surprised, but Roger doubted whether he really was. “Well, rumour has it that discipline at the Yard was getting slack and needed tightening. Trevillion was a martinet—stickler for discipline—in the Navy. He—”

“You know, I’m not sure that I want to discuss him,” Roger interrupted.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend—” Artemeus broke off, as if in confusion, but after a few minutes he turned to another subject, broaching it with a self-deprecatory smile. “I don’t suppose you’re able to discuss a case you’re working on, either. It is an unusual one you’ve got now, isn’t it?”

“You mean, the death of the man Verdi.”

“Yes. And the bosomy blonde whom you so nicely dealt with in court,” added Artemeus. “I’m less interested in the victim and his assailant and the witnesses, though, than

“I am in Rachel Warrender. You know, the girl solicitor who appeared for Rapelli at the last moment.” He looked hard at Roger, who nodded, and then went on, “She’s a remarkable young woman from a remarkable family. Do you know much about Warrender, Clansel and War—” render?”

“Not much,” said Roger, still guardedly; but now his interest was increasing swiftly. A question was banging against his mind like a trip-hammer. Could this be what Artemeus had really wanted to see him about, or was the mention of the girl simply fortuitous? He had wondered at the timing of the offer, and the ingenuous way in which Artemeus had brought the commissioner into the conversation had been worth noting. Now here was “coincidence” number two.

“They’re mostly insurance and banking lawyers,” said the other man. “It’s fourth generation in each family. Sir Ian Warrender, the senior partner, probably knows more about international insurance and banking laws than anyone alive. He received his knighthood for services in connection with the Bank of England’s overseas activities. Jonathan Clansel was a channel swimmer—did it both ways—and is a great supporter of Boysland.” Boysland, West recollected, was a very big youth club, or group of clubs, which operated mostly in the East End of London. “Sir Roland Warrender, bother of Sir Ian, who also got his knighthood for banking activities—” Artemeus broke off with a smile, then asked, “Ring a bell?”

“Sir Roland Warrender, the Member of Parliament who’s so right-wing the Conservative Party disowned him last year?” asked Roger.

“Yes. He’s Rachel’s father.”

“So I understand.”

“She’s a junior partner. Older than she looks.” went on Artemeus. “In her late twenties. I was surprised at first that they’d allowed her to intervene for Rapelli, but the more I think of it, the more reasonable it seems. She doesn’t fit in with the family party line. She’s extremely left-wing, a great campaigner for anti-Vietnam, anti- colonialism of any kind, anti-nuclear weapons, anti—” He broke off with a smile. “She’s like the rest of the family in do-gooding and looking out for the underdog—but she sometimes gets a bit confused as to who the underdog is,” he added drily. “How did she show up in court?”

“Very well, I would say.”

“Clever—I mean clever—girl,” opined Artemeus. “I can see her as a Member of Parliament one of these days, campaigning for votes for babies at the breast!” He beckoned the waiter. “How about a dessert, Mr. West? They do a very good chocolate gateau here, or their trifles are excellent.”

“I think cheese—”

“I’m for the gateau,” Artemeus declared. “And coffee? How about brandy or a liqueur?”

“I have to work this afternoon,” Roger protested, half- laughing.

“Wait until you work for us,” Artemeus said slyly. “Then you can take three hours for a big business lunch, and have an hour’s nap before you have to wake up to go home!”

• • •

Where was the catch? wondered Roger. There must be one. He couldn’t possibly consider the offer on its face value.

• • •

As he walked out of the hotel into the bright sunshine of one of the warmest days of summer, Roger saw a nearly empty number 11 bus which would drop him within a minute’s walk of Broadway and the Yard’s new home. He needed a little time for reflection and to recover from the enormous meal. Hastily buying a copy of the latest Globe, he boarded the bus, hurried up the stairs, and stumbled towards a vacant bench at the front, head bent low to avoid the roof. For a few minutes he sat looking through the window as the panorama first of the Strand, then of Trafalgar Square, opened out in front of him, followed by the tall and graceful buildings of Whitehall.