John Creasey - Alibi

“I’ve had a night or two out with him,” Maisie answered. “You have to admit he’s a handsome type, and although he may not look it, I can tell you he’s quite a man!”

“Oh, I admit it!” said Roger. “So he paid you and the others in advance to lie, and you told Rachel you were telling the truth, she believed you and thought, with your evidence, she could get Rapelli off. Thanks, Maisie. I’ll have a little talk with him soon. Where does Fogarty come in on this?”

“Fogarty is quite a man, too,” she stated.

“And you,” said Roger, “are quite a woman.”

“That’s right,” said Maisie. “Sexual or multi-sexual or whatever the psychoanalysts call it. Did you see The Man From La Mancha? ” When Roger nodded, she threw back her head, and, to Roger’s astonishment, burst into one of the songs from the show. She had a full, ringing voice and the acoustics of the cell block suited it perfectly. “ One pair of arms is like another, I don ’ t know why, or who ’ s to blame. “ I ’ ll go with you or with your brother. “ It ’ s all the same. ”

Then she stood up and with a lift of head and surge of bosom she reached a crescendo with a purity of note which made the man with them drop his ballpoint pen, brought two policemen to the foot of the cell steps and several other prisoners to the bars of their cages to hear although they could not see.

“ They ’ re all the same . . .”

The notes echoed and re-echoed so loudly that it almost seemed as if she were still singing. Then she dropped her hands and covered her eyes with one hand, groping for her chair with the other. The last echoes faded.

“That’s me,” she said, hoarsely.

“Maisie,” asked Roger, “do you go from man to man just to make money?”

“That’s right,” she admitted.

“Won’t you tell me why you want the thousand pounds?” he almost pleaded.

“No, I will not.”

“All right.” Roger stood up. “Would you rather stay here for the weekend or would you rather go home?”

He so startled her that she stood back a pace, staring at him, her eyes widening, and for a few moments there was absolute silence in the room. Then, in a taut voice, she asked, “Would you really let me go?”

“Yes. I made the charges and I should proceed with them, but if you undertake to appear in court on Monday morning, you can go home tonight.” When she didn’t answer, he went on, “You don’t have to. I’m giving you a choice.”

In a mumbling voice, she answered at last, “I’d like to go home.”

“Right,” said Roger briskly. “As I live in Chelsea I’ll run you there on my way.” He stood up. “We’d better have a word with the superintendent before we leave.”

Nixon, far too experienced a policeman to show any surprise, went through the formalities of release, and, at Roger’s suggestion, promised to send a patrol car after them.

“Don’t want any more wild charges, do you?” he asked dryly.

Soon, they were on the way, Maisie next to Roger in front of his car, the police car a hundred yards behind. Maisie’s thigh ran warmly against Roger’s on the bench seat of his Morris and he did not know whether it was deliberate or not. She was staring straight ahead, not smoking; she had a pleasant profile; if she were not quite so plump she would be very pretty, he thought.

“Do you know Hamish Campbell?” he asked.

“No.”

“He was the man outside your door this morning.”

“I know—I saw the evening papers by the courtesy of the police! His name and photograph were there. I knew he was at the club where Rapelli hit Verdi over the head.”

“Do you know Pearson, the man who was with him?”

“No.”

“Did you know Verdi, himself?”

“No.”

“Did you know that Rapelli went to this Doon Club?”

“I knew he went to a lot of music clubs and discotheques, he was a nut on pop beat music and erotic dancing. There are a lot of nuts. Let me tell you this, Handsome, before you drop me—first right at the end here, then first left and the third house along,” she interpolated. “Rapelli and I knew each other but we weren’t in each other’s pockets. I can tell you what he’s like as a lover, but I don’t know anything else about him—not that counts, anyhow.”

Roger made (he two turns, and pulled up outside the house in which Maisie lived, one of several in a short terrace. This part of Chelsea was a strange mixture of architecture; there were a few Tudor cottages, at least one early Georgian house standing in its own grounds, and some early Victorian houses, all mixed with small blocks of modern apartments built on the sites of houses which had been bombed out of existence during the war.

Roger stopped, and leaned across her to open the door. She waited until he touched the handle, then, seizing his arm in a surprisingly tight grip, held it to her bosom. Leaning sideways and imprisoned as he was, his face a little lower than hers, Roger was acutely aware of her breath against his cheek. Maisie leaned forward, her eyes bright and mischievous, her lips parted. Suddenly she bent her head and thrust her lips against his, moving so swiftly that he had no opportunity to turn away. It was several seconds before she drew back, pushed open the car door, and thrust one leg out to the pavement.

“Handsome,” she said. “I promised you the truth and now you know it all. I don’t hate the way I earn my money. I have a very big appetite. I eat men. I could eat you. Come and see me when you’re off duty. Just give me enough time to get nice and tarted up for you. Any time. And I don’t mean as a paying guest, either. I mean just as a guest.”

She got out and slammed the door.

He sat without moving for what must have seemed a long time to the men in the patrol car. He wondered whether they could have seen anything through the rear window of his car, but their headlights had not been on and there was no street lamp near. It didn’t much matter, anyhow. He flicked his lights and almost at once one of the men got out of the car and came hurrying towards him.

“Sir?” The man pushed his head close to the open window.

“I wasn’t able to ask Mr. Nixon before,” Roger said, “but I want you two to watch this house, particularly Miss Dunster, until some men come from the division to keep an eye on it and her. I’ll talk to Mr. Nixon by radio.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

The man’s “goodnight” followed Roger as he began to move off. He drove slowly, turning the corner before calling Nixon and putting through the request which was tantamount to an order. Nixon made a light remark. “Didn’t think you’d let her go for the sake of it, Handsome. I’ll fix it.” Roger grunted and rang off.

Now he had to make a quick decision.

He touched his lips, still slightly tender from the crushing pressure of Maisie’s. He had never known a kiss like it, nor such a body, so demanding and yet so yielding.

It was lucky he was a staid old married man, he thought, smiling to himself and dismissing Maisie from his mind. There were three things he could do.

First, go back to Janet. She would be glad to see him, he felt certain, and anxious to make amends.

Second, go and question Rapelli. It was late and Rapelli, even if not asleep, would be tired and therefore more likely to talk. And if Rapelli once cracked, then the case was over.

Third, go and see Rachel Warrender, and chance her mood.

He knew that he should go back to Janet, that to force himself to go on working was an example of the excessive attention to duty which so often exasperated her. But if he went back and found that her mood had hardened, it would probably lead to an argument, possibly a near- quarrel which could carry them far into the night.