John Creasey - Alibi

There were tears in her eyes.

And his eyes stung.

• • •

Later, when their bodies had intermingled with a passion which they had not known for a long time, they fell asleep.

When, just after half past seven, Martin brought in a tea tray, Roger was still holding her tightly.

“ Whoops! ” exclaimed Scoop. “See you later.”

He put down the tray and fled.

• • •

On the Monday morning, Roger and Janet after waking early, were talking about the case. Relaxed in a chair by the bedside with Janet sitting against pillows, a bed- jacket draped over her shoulders, Roger could see the whole series of incidents more clearly. Now and again Janet asked a question, for clarification, but for the most part it was a monologue. The tea was cold in the pot and the room warm from hot sunshine when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the extension by the side of the bed, and glanced at the clock. It was a little after nine.

“Roger West,” he announced, expecting someone from the Yard.

“Mr. West,” a woman said, and he knew at once that this was Rachel Warrender, “I will be grateful if you can spare me an hour this morning.”

“I may not be able to fit in an hour,” Roger had to reply. “Will half an hour do?”

“You’re very kind. Shall I come to your office?”

“If you do, it will have to be official,”Roger said.

She hesitated for a moment, then said huskily, “You’re quite right, thank you. Where do you suggest?” Roger was looking at Janet and framing the name “Rachel W” with his lips. Janet’s eyes widened and she stretched out a hand, whispering, “Roger!”

“Just a moment,” Roger covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Had a brainwave?”

“Why not ask her here?” Janet suggested. “I could bring in some coffee or a drink, and I’d love to see her.”

It was a sensible idea, it would help to seal their new understanding, the new mood, and Roger turned back to the telephone.

“If you could be at my home in half an hour or so, we could talk here.”

“Oh, that would be splendid!” He had not heard Rachel Warrender speak with such spirit before. “I may be a little more than half an hour, I’m at my office in Lincoln’s Inn, but I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

She rang off.

As Roger replaced the receiver, Janet was getting out of bed. She edged towards the window, so that she couldn’t be seen from the street. Stretching up to draw the curtains, her skin was so white, her figure so lovely, her hair so dark where it fell about her shoulders, that he caught his breath.

“If she’ll be here in half an hour I ’ ve got to get a move on.” Out of the tail of her eye she saw him get up from the chair. “Darling, you get shaved quickly. I’ll have to make some toast—darling, you’ll have to. I—Roger! ” she almost screamed. “Roger, there isn’t time!”

“I know,” he said, enveloping her. “And I’m nearly an old man.” He held her very tightly, then kissed her on the forehead and let her go. “I’ll get my own breakfast.”

He bathed, shaved, made toast, piled on butter and marmalade, made instant coffee, telephoned the Yard to say he would not be in the office until eleven thirty or so, checked that nothing new had developed over the Rapelli case and that Fogarty, Campbell and Rapelli, the only remaining three on any kind of charge, all appeared to have spent good nights. So far, so good.

“And Tom,” he said to Danizon, “I must be in court when the charges against Campbell are made. Will you see that he’s not heard until midday—noon—at the earliest?”

“Yes, sir,” Danizon said. “What about Fogarty?”

“If he’s released, make sure he’s effectively trailed,” Roger said.

“I’ll see to it, sir,” said Danizon. “I can tell you that Mr. Coppell will be out most of the day, he’s going to that conference of European Police. And the commissioner will be out too—he’s going to the luncheon reception.”

Roger laughed.

“Almost a free day, in fact!”

“If I were you, sir,” said Danizon, “I’d take at least part of the day off. Just go to court and—but I’m sorry, sir. I’m talking out of turn.”

Roger could almost see him go pink with confusion as he rang off.

A moment later, Janet came out of the sitting-room, a housecap sloping over one eye, a small apron over her nightdress. She carried a mop and a duster and a can of furniture-polish spray. Her nose and cheeks were shiny and her lips pale.

“I’ll have my bath now and get dressed—you open the door when she comes. I’ll bring coffee at a quarter past ten, is that right?”

“Ten o’clock,” urged Roger. “I’m not sure how this interview will go, and I could make heavy weather of it.”

“Why?” asked Janet. “Isn’t she buxom enough for you?”

Five minutes later he was outside, snipping the fading heads off some scarlet parrot tulips and noticing the trimness of lawn and hedge which he had hardly seen during the pressures of the past few weeks. Did either of the boys help Janet much? he wondered. Or was this mostly her work? Practically nothing needed doing, he must remember to compliment her.

He was pulling a few weeds, mostly seedlings, when a car drew up. He looked through the thick privet hedge, able to see that it was a white M.G.: just the car he could imagine Rachel Warrender having. And it was her. She climbed out, and he was slightly startled by her appearance, for she wore a white linen trouser-suit, accentuating her youth and slimness of figure, and a small, round, sailor hat. Not at all the average person’s con-ception of a woman solicitor, Roger thought amusedly. He felt sure that Janet, watching out of the window, would have eyes rounded in surprise.

“Good morning, Miss Warrender,” he called across the hedge. “You found the house all right, then.”

She started, and turned to look at him. And now he was even more startled: in fact appalled. For she looked in terrible distress. Her beautiful eyes were shadowed, and so glassy that he doubted if she had slept all night. She nodded, and formed the words “good morning”, but did not utter a sound. He met her at the gate, and saw that there were tears in her eyes as well as lines at her forehead and mouth. He didn’t shake hands but led the way to the front door, said, “The door on the right,” and followed her into the sittingroom.

Roger doubted whether she would have noticed if this had been a pigsty, she was so preoccupied with her own problems. She sat down in a chair, looking so ill and troubled that he even found himself wondering whether she took drugs and was in urgent need of a shot.

Then, she looked at him very straightly, and said, “Mr. West, I think you are the only man who can help me, and I’m not even sure that you will. May I tell you what is troubling me? And may I beg you to give me your advice?”

Chapter Fifteen

RACHEL

“If I can help, I certainly will,” Roger answered, gently. “And if it’s something which, as a policeman, I can’t discuss, I’ll tell you. Are you comfortable there?”

“Perfectly, thank you.”

“Will you have a cup of coffee, or—?”

“Nothing, thank you.” She sat upright, and placed her hands on the arms of her chair. “In the beginning it was very simple, but I now believe that you were right and I was wrong. I am afraid that Mario Rapelli did attack Verdi. When I appeared in court I felt sure that he was a victim of conspiracy, and that the police wanted a conviction whether he was guilty or not guilty. I don’t think that is true now.”

“I’m very glad,” Roger said; he wanted to hear all she had to say before asking questions.