John Creasey - Alibi

• • •

Fogarty, who had been brought to this police station, swore that he could remember nothing of the accident the previous night.

Hamish Campbell simply refused to answer questions; refused even to admit that he had deliberately sidetracked the policeman who had been watching him before he had reneged as a police witness.

The smaller man who had been outside Fogarty’s room with Campbell was named Pearson, Walter Pearson, a freelance photographer.

“Campbell told me he had a juicy picture for me,” he said. “So I brought my camera. That’s all I know, Mr. West. I swear that’s all. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened, I swear I didn’t.”

Roger thought he was probably telling the truth, but he said, “We’ll see what the magistrate says.”

“Oh God, don’t put me in court,” Pearson cried. My wife will knock the hell out of me if you do.”

Roger found it difficult not to be sorry for him.

He left the calls and went upstairs, then straight to the Yard and up to his office, mulling over all that had been said, particularly over Maisie’s surprising reaction to the question about Rachel Warrender. So far Fogarty hadn’t been charged, and it might be advisable to let him go and have him followed.

When he reached the office, more reports were in. Pearson was what he claimed to be, and his wife had been on the telephone twice, demanding his release. West put that report, from Information, aside, and read another. For the first time he learned that Hamish Campbell had a room in the same house as Fogarty.

Well, well.

“I wonder who else lives there,” Roger mused aloud, and sending for Danizon, he told him to have all the tenants checked. After telephoning Fulham to have Fogarty charged with driving a car with intent to cause grievous bodily harm, and Pearson with loitering, he then settled down to decide what to do next. There was one noticeable fact about the three prisoners: none of them had demanded to see a lawyer. Why not? Did they believe that they would be represented and well-looked after— by Rachel Warrender, for instance?

It was now after six o’clock; Roger flicked a thought towards Janet and Scoop, then lifted a telephone.

“Get me Miss Rachel Warrender of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender, solicitors—Lincoln’s Inn,” he added.

“Very good, sir,” said the operator.

Would the girl be in? Roger wondered. Girl? How old was she?—twenty-three or four, he had thought, but Artemeus was sure she was older. He could recall her face vividly, the sharp features and the arched lips, the imperious brown eyes. He waited for the call to come through, concentrating on her, on Maisie’s outburst, then on Benjamin Artemeus. Suddenly he pressed the bell for Danizon, who came in promptly. He was obviously not planning to go anywhere tonight, thought Roger.

“Yes, sir?”

“Artemeus, Benjamin,” Roger said.

“Yes?”

“Where did you call him?”

“At the Savoy Grill, sir. I left a message.”

“Did he call you from his office, do you know?”

Danizon frowned. He had a rather round, plump, earnest face, and would, Roger frequently thought, need little make-up to look like a circus clown.

“He spoke direct to me, sir. No secretary came on the line first.”

“Check if he came on direct to the operator,” Roger ordered. “In fact check Allsafe for details about him on Monday, and let me have a report as soon as you can.”

“Right, sir!”

“You off, now?”

“I’ll be here for another hour at least, sir. I’m getting my files bang up to date.”

“That’s good.” Roger nodded dismissal, and as Danizon went out the telephone bell rang. Was it Rachel War- render or was he too late for her?

“West here,” he said briskly.

“Your call to Miss Warrender,” the operator told him, and after a brief pause she added, “You’re through.”

Roger said quietly and pleasantly, “Hallo, Miss War- render. This is Superintendent West. I’m glad I caught you before you left the office.”

“I am usually here until seven,” Rachel Warrender replied in a studiously calm voice. “How can I help you?”

“I thought I might be able to give you a little information,” Roger stated.

“If you are going to attempt to justify your arrest of Maisie Dunster, you are wasting your time,” Rachel retorted, coldly.

“That wasn’t exactly the point,” Roger assured her. “I’ll justify that in the court whenever I have to. Did you know she was arrested in the room—in the bed —of a man who ran down and killed one of my witnesses against Rapelli?”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Rachel.

“We’ll prove how true that is on Monday, too,” Roger said. “And I can tell you that I have reason to believe that my other witnesses have been under pressure to withdraw their evidence. Moreover I believe Maisie Dunster was paid to give false evidence. Don’t you think you have gone too far?”

There was a long pause. He wished he could see her face and the expression in her eyes, but he could not even imagine how she looked. But he did not have to imagine the lift in her voice, her obvious and deep satisfaction, when at last she spoke.

“So you haven’t a reliable witness left against Mario?” she remarked.

Roger said rather weakly, “Haven’t I?”

“You can’t have! One is dead and the other terrified of being caught out in a lie.”

“Miss Warrender,” Roger said. “I strongly advise you to discuss this case with one of your senior partners before you jump to any further conclusions. I really do.”

“How very chivalrous of you,” said Rachel, the lilt still in her voice. “Goodnight.” He thought she was on the point of putting the receiver down when she spoke again, quickly, almost eagerly. “Shall I see you in court on Monday? Or will you think better of it this time, and stay away?”

Lightly, Roger retorted, “I thought we might go together.”

He rang off, nothing like as pleased with the remark as he sounded. It had been trite, and the young woman had had the best of the telephone encounter; she was still very sure of herself. He was as nearly sure as he could be that she felt secure in whatever she was doing, or else had no idea of what was going on. She might be much more worried than she pretended, of course, and putting up an act, but she was very sharp-witted and probably as sure of herself as she sounded. Thoughtfully, almost ruefully, he sat back in his chair. It was twenty-five minutes to seven, and nothing on his desk was desperately urgent. He could go home for dinner and come out again for another questioning session with the three prisoners if he thought it worthwhile.

Then he snapped his fingers and snatched up the receiver, called the police station where prisoners needed close to the Yard were held, and said, “Superintendent in charge, please.” Almost at once a man with a pronounced Lancashire voice spoke.

“Superintendent speaking.”

“Sam,” said Roger, knowing that this was an old stager, Superintendent Sam Otley. “You’ve a man named Pearson under charge of uttering threats and common assault—”

Otley broke in with a guffaw.

“Poor devil! Have you seen his wife?”

“No. What’s she like?”

“Two-Ton Tessie to the life except for Tessie’s sweet temperament,” said Otley. “She’s huge—God knows what they look like together in bed. He’s a shrimp, she—”

“Sam,” interjected Roger, warningly.

“Eh? Oh! Well, she’s been round here at least three times. Once she threatened to throw the duty sergeant down the steps! Wouldn’t be surprised if she couldn’t do it, too. You can hear her voice all over the station. What do you want with Pearson, anyhow?”