John Creasey - Alibi

“Let him go,” Roger ordered.

“What?” screeched Otley. “Once she gets him home she’ll murder the poor creep. Give him a week’s rest, Handsome. Ask for a remand in custody on Monday; after a week she’ll have cooled down a bit.”

“Let him go at half past seven,” Roger insisted.

“But why? ”

“I want him followed,” Roger said. “He’s a little too meek and mild and she’s a lot too rumbustous for my liking. See where he goes and what happens.”

“Will you fix the watching?” asked Otley, his resistance ebbing.

“Yes,” Roger promised. “Thanks, Sam.” He rang off and then went into Danizon’s room, saying as he opened the door, “I want two men to go over to the Fulham station and to shadow Pearson when they let him out.”

“What’s he done to deserve getting out?” asked Danizon.

“He’s a good sprat to catch a mackerel,” Roger answered.-

Danizon hesitated, then slapped his knee and laughed; and doing so, looked more clown-like than ever.

“And you want the mackerel!” he cried. Then he sobered. “I’ll fix it,” he added. “Oh, before you go, sir, I’ve managed to get a quick line on the man Artemeus. He’s fairly new on the board of Allsafe, been there two years or so, I gather. He was with one of the big banks for several years as Chief Security Officer, and then Allsafe—”

Danizon stopped abruptly, as an idea suddenly struck him, his expression one of utter consternation.

“Good Lord, you’re—you’re not going to join them, sir, are you?” he asked. When Roger didn’t answer, he went on in tones of even greater distress, “You can ’ t, sir. It would be a disaster!”

“Tom,” said Roger at last, lying not only to soothe this man but also to make as sure as he could that no rumours circulated round the Yard that night or in the next few days; it was often said, and only half in jest, that after the House of Commons Scotland Yard was the biggest talking shop in town. “We are finding out whether some of the work we do overlaps with the security firms wastefully. Better not spread it around, though, or a lot of other people could jump to the wrong conclusion.” Then he chuckled. “But I’m not as important as all that, Tom.”

“Don’t you believe it,” rejoined Tom Danizon, and there was no shadow of doubt that he spoke from the heart. “This place would damn near collapse without you. What you don’t understand, if I may say so, is that the whole Yard’s behind you.”

“In what?” asked Roger, startled.

Tom Danizon winked broadly.

“I know you can’t admit anything or say anything about it, sir, but everyone knows about your little brush with the great white chief yesterday. And they hate his—I mean, they don’t really appreciate a man who comes in from one of the other services and starts laying down the law to us. A question of teaching your grandmother how to suck eggs, really. Anyhow, sir, the whole of the C.I.D. staff and a lot from the other departments are right behind you. And it’s bloody well time someone here had the guts to start leading with their right—like you did in court yesterday. And it’s time we coppers were allowed to do our job instead of being hamstrung by a lot of half-witted regulations. Supposing you did go into the room on your own and found Maisie Dunster, by herself; no one in their right minds would think you’d lay a hand on her. Anyone who says different is a stinker, that’s what I say.”

At last, Danizon stopped; and once stopped, fell into some confusion, as if embarrassed at having talked so freely. His talking had done one thing, however—enabled Roger to recover from his own surprise. And now he was ready with a question.

“Where did you get all this confidential information?”

Danizon looked even more embarrassed. Give him a pair of baggy trousers and he could walk straight into a circus, thought Roger irrelevantly, feeling a sudden warmth of affection for his assistant.

Danizon hesitated. “Well, no names no pack drill, but we’re behind you to a man. Do you know, there’s even talk of a strike if you’re suspended. Wouldn’t surprise me if it came off, either. See what I mean when I say that we’re with you?”

“Yes,” Roger said, very quietly. And he felt as touched and as humble as he sounded.

Danizon turned and fled.

Chapter Eleven

HOME

Roger drove along the Embankment towards Chelsea much more slowly than usual. It was already seven o’clock, and the West family ate at seven-thirty, whether he was home or not. It was a sunny evening with a light breeze, and the slanting sun made golden ripples of the muddy Thames. The south bank of the river seemed to sprout another big building every day, the skyline was forever changing. There was a wide stretch of road near the Albert Bridge, near his turn-off for Bell Street, and for the second night in succession he pulled into the kerb here.

It had really been a day.

The two most important things, in their way, had a delayed action effect. First, the offer from Artemeus, second the bombshell of Danizon’s outburst. He had only been with Roger for a few months and although he had proved sound and reliable, Roger had never suspected him capable of such deep feeling. Not only was this surprising; there was also the astounding fact that what had happened in the commissioner’s office had gone round the Yard so swiftly; who on earth had “leaked” that information?

Coppell? he wondered hazily, then rejected the possibility. Coppell wouldn’t stick his neck out so far. Then who? Roger couldn’t even begin to imagine. He stopped trying, and passed to the other block buster: the

Yard’s support for him, whether he was right or wrong. He hadn’t even know that the story had spread, much less that the rest of the department had been lining up behind him.

Strike action!

“Oh, no!” he said aloud in a strangled voice.

A small foreign car pulled up behind him, and a moment later the door opened and a tall, dark-haired and—although Roger said it himself—good-looking young man uncoiled himself and came striding towards him. Roger opened the nearside door as Richard put his head in the doorway.

“Hi, Dad!” He had not only the deep, pleasing voice and broad, eager smile, but some elusive quality of like- ability, and Roger’s heart rose.

“Hi, Fish!”

“Daydreaming?” asked Richard. “Or working out all your problems? Hey, it’s lovely out here. Give yourself a breather for five minutes.”

“Good idea,” said Roger, and he climbed out.”

He was a little taller and much broader than his son. They made a striking couple as they stood on the parapet, looking at gaily beflagged pleasure craft and a string of five barges, the first one pulling the others. Even the breeze was warm. Richard looked upstream, so that he could see Roger, who asked lightly, “How have things been at the studio today?”

“Pretty lousy,” declared Richard. “Not enough to do, that’s my problem. Got a bit of luck, though. I’m going to Southern Ireland—Eire, you know—to make a film on Cromwell relics. Two other chaps are coming over and we’ll be on a strict budget, but that’s television all over. Pay a fortune for productions that aren’t worth putting out, and mean as muck over films really worth making. I say, Dad.”

Richard broke off, eyeing his father intently, eagerly, a look which Roger had known since the boy had been six or seven. Roger knew perfectly well that some almost preposterous question was about to come forth with an earnestness to make it quite obvious that Richard was wholly serious.

“Yes?” asked Roger invitingly.