John Creasey - Alibi

“Didn’t lose any time,” Nixon remarked as they shook hands. “Always on the ball, that’s my Handsome. Where are you going to interview her? Down in the cells? Or shall we bring her up here, and kid her along a bit? I daresay if she gets a glimpse of the outside world it will oil her tongue.”

“Upstairs is a good idea,” agreed Roger. “Lay on some coffee, will you, and cigarettes? I’ll go down and get her myself.”

“I’ll send a man with you,” offered Nixon. “With the caviar.”

Five minutes later, Roger saw Maisie, sitting with her legs up on the narrow bed, not putting on an act or posing. Her face was set more sombrely than he had seen it, obviously something had upset her very much. She nodded without speaking to Roger, looked surprised when she was taken upstairs, equally surprised to find coffee, cream and chocolate biscuits on a tray, and easy chairs to sit in comfort.

“Why the plush treatment?” she demanded. “Think this will make me talk more?”

“It should make you feel more like a human being,” Roger retorted.

“And less like a louse,” retorted Maisie wryly. “All right, Handsome—give me some of that coffee with a lot of milk and sugar, and I’ll tell you the solemn truth, even if you send me to jail because of it.”

She looked sombre enough to suggest that she really believed that she was about to risk imprisonment.

The man whom Nixon had sent down had a notebook and pencil in his hands.

Chapter Thirteen

SEDUCTION

Maisie took a cigarette and thrust her face forward to get a light. Roger gave her time to drink half a cup of coffee, then squared himself in his chair.

“You know that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence, don’t you?” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Even with that, it’s better to let us have the truth,” he went on. “Did you lie about Rapelli being with you on Thursday night?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Were you paid to lie?”

“Yes.”

“How much did you get?”

“A hundred pounds,” she answered.

“Did you realise what a serious crime it was?”

She shrugged.

“One kind of lie is very much like another to me. What kind of sentence will I get?”

“If you go into the box next week and change your evidence, I doubt if you’ll be charged. I’m not sure in the circumstances that what you said was permissible as evidence, anyhow.”

She looked astounded more than delighted, then, gradually, excitement sparked in her eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette and finished her coffee; Roger poured her another cup.

“But that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Wonderful!” Then a shadow passed over her face and she went on, “The trouble is, I may not have the hundred pounds to pay back for—for saying what I did.”

“Whom will you have to repay?” asked Roger.

For the first time, she hesitated, and he wondered whether she was in fact telling the truth, or whether this could be a deliberate attempt at deceiving him. There was absolutely no way of telling, and if she withdrew her statement she would certainly be showing earnest of her new-found honesty.

Then she said, “Mario Rapelli.”

“He was driven to exclaim, “ Rapelli ! ”

“Yes.”

“Did he also bribe the others?”

“Yes,” said Maisie. “He paid us in advance, he said there might be trouble.”

“Did he then!” exclaimed Roger. “Then he knew in advance—”

He broke off, biting his tongue, needing to think. If Rapelli had gone to the club to kill Verdi, then the whole situation changed, took on an even greater significance.

“How—ah—how long have you known him?” he asked. He pictured the sallow, handsome face of the youth who had been in the dock and remembered how impressed he had been, how sorry he had felt for the boy.

“A few weeks,” said Maisie.

“How much did he pay in all?”

“A hundred for me and a hundred each for the others,” Maisie answered.

“Did you know what the charge would be?”

“We knew we were to say he had been with us that evening during those hours. Later when we heard what he’d done, we thought it was a great joke at first. Mario loves the guitar, and can’t bear to get even a scratch on it—” She gave a hollow laugh. “We didn’t know it was going to be so serious,” she went on. “Even I wouldn’t have agreed if I’d known there would be a murder charge. Or anyhow,” she went on with a flash of honesty, “I would have wanted at least five hundred pounds.”

“Why do you need the money?” Roger demanded.

“That’s nothing to do with the police or anyone,” Maisie retorted, so tight-lipped that he was quite sure that it would be a waste of time forcing the question. “I need a thousand, and I’m halfway there. That’s all you have to know.”

“What about the hundred pounds from the photographer yesterday?” asked Roger.

“That would have been a big help,” she admitted. “I’d have had only four hundred to go. You don’t happen to know anyone who will give or lend me five hundred quid, do you?” She was half-joking, but her eyes betrayed the fact that she was half-serious, too.

“Can’t Rachel Warrender help?” asked Roger.

There was no need for him to rub in the fact that earlier today she had talked so glowingly of Rachel, and this evening had had that violent quarrel with her. He saw Maisie frown, saw her lips tighten, and wondered whether he would get any kind of response.

At last, she said, “No.”

“Why did you quarrel tonight?”

Maisie closed her eyes, and seemed to force each word out with an effort.

“I told her I’d lied,” she said.

“You told Rachel Warrender?”

“Yes.”

“So she thought you were telling the truth in court?”

Maisie looked resentful and it was a long time before she responded, still as if she were making a great effort.

“Yes. After the police charged him, Rapelli telephoned her and asked her to help him.” Maisie took another cigarette and it quivered between her lips as Roger held the flame for her, then went on huskily, “She told him she wouldn’t at first, but then she changed her mind and came over to my place and questioned all of us. She hadn’t the slightest idea we were lying. We—er—told her all four of us were having fun and games in bed, and she was pretty disgusted, but she was certainly fooled.”

“I see,” said Roger. “Well, it was quite an alibi, even if it was phoney. Tell me, do you ever disport yourselves four to a bed?”

She threw back her head and laughed with surprising heartiness as she replied, “It has been known! We have to be hopped up, and once we are, then inhibitions go out of the window, orgies come in at the door! I think you have to be a pretty wild person, wild in sexual life, I mean, to start it, but once you do—” She broke off, letting smoke drift up past her face and considering him through it; it gave a touch of mystery and of greater sophistication to her expression. “Handsome,” she went on, still with a hint of laughter in her voice, “ you ’ re shocked, aren’t you?”

Roger pursed his lips.

“You are,” she insisted. “I can sense it. My, my, what innocents our policemen are! No wonder so many criminals can get away with murder.” She laughed again. “We’re really quite mild, you should visit some of the Soho and Chelsea orgy-parties!”

“We do,” said Roger drily. “When we raid them. So Rapelli was so anxious to escape from the charge that he paid out two hundred pounds for you all to lie for him. How well do you know him?”