John Creasey - Alibi

Chapter Seventeen

ULTIMATUM?

Roger leaned forward and took the document from Phillipson’s hand. He glanced through it, more to give himself time to think than because he needed to know more than Phillipson had told him. There were about eight, sparsely typewritten pages, and several photographs : one of him, one of Vice-Admiral Trevillion, one of New Scotland Yard, one of an Allsafe Security van standing outside a factory, and finally one of him with Janet and the boys, a happy picture taken about ten years ago.

He looked up.

“You know,” he said, “this seems remarkably like an ultimatum: refute every statement here or we print.”

“You could regard it in that light,” agreed Phillipson, urbanely.

“What exactly would you like—or hope for—me to do?”

“I have no preferences,” answered Phillipson. “If you are able to give a categorical denial of the story then I would not print it. If however you are prepared to confirm it in part or whole, I would print it in its entirety. Can you deny the report, Superintendent?”

Roger looked at him levelly, hoping that nothing in his expression gave away the tension which he felt. He was so angry that it was difficult to be calm, but calm he had to be. He folded the report around the photographs, and the packet was just small enough to fit into the side pocket of his jacket.

“Quite apart from my personal involvement, there is a major issue here,” he stated carefully.

“I would be glad to hear it.”

“Someone at the Yard has been giving you—or your correspondent—confidential information.” Roger drank his coffee, put the cup down, and then shifted from the hardback chair to one of the armchairs. The soft cushions seemed to enfold him and when he stretched his legs and leaned his head back, he both felt like and was a picture of extreme comfort. “The someone must hold a position of great trust, obviously.”

“Ah,” said Phillipson. “Such as you.”

“None of that story has come from me,” asserted Roger.

“As a policeman, would you find that easy to prove?” asked Phillipson.

“I would find it easy to sue for libel, and leave you to prove justification,” Roger retorted.

All of his doubts faded as he spoke. This man was out to get him, and had been from the start. Phillipson had enormous self-confidence and the great prestige and money of a powerful newspaper behind him, and obviously he would not carry out such a vendetta without his board knowing, and approving. This wasn’t simply an editor getting on his high horse over what he considered to be a public scandal; it was a deliberate attempt to discredit him, Superintendent Roger West.

What possible motive could there be?

“As a policeman,” Roger went on, “I would keep my evidence and my methods of investigation to myself, until the time came to defend.” He looked up at the other, whom he could hardly see because of the bright window light, and did not move for a long time. Phillipson was obviously determined to wait until he spoke again before commenting.

Roger put his hands on the arms of the chair, loosely at first, but suddenly gripping with both hands and using all the strength of his arms, so that he positively leapt to his feet. He startled Phillipson, who backed away sharply.

“Well, we’ll soon see,” Roger finished. “I really mustn’t stay.”

“But surely—” began Phillipson.

“Good afternoon,” Roger said, smiling brightly. “Will the young lady who brought me up here see me back to the foyer? Or shall I find my own way down?”

He matched Phillipson’s wide-eyed astonishment with a smile, and turned towards the door. For a few seconds he thought that the man would let him go, but suddenly Phillipson moved and came hurrying after him.

“Superintendent! Unless you can satisfy me that these assertions are untrue I shall publish, and your reputation will be at stake.”

As suddenly, Roger stopped; then, very slowly, he turned round. Phillipson was close to him, astonishment and perhaps alarm written all over his face. Obviously he was completely flummoxed by Roger’s reaction.

“Mr. Phillipson,” Roger said. “You are the editor of this newspaper and in law you and you alone are responsible for any statement it publishes. You cannot shift that responsibility on to others, most certainly not on to me. Whether you publish that story is entirely a matter for you. As a police officer I can only tell you that in my view the story proves that there is a serious leakage of information at Scotland Yard, and if I were asked by my supervisors what course to take I would advise them to begin a thorough investigation into the leakage. I would also recommend that if any evidence of bribery or corruption were produced—that is, if it could be established that the information was bought from an officer or servant of the Metropolitan Police, action should be taken both against the supplier of the information and against the person who gave the bribe or who encouraged and / or authorised it.”

He paused, drawing a deep breath, looking much angrier even than he felt.

“As a private individual,” he went on, “I would wait for the result of official action before suing for damages. I hope you’re very clear on how I regard this form of blackmail.”

He turned on his heel, speaking again as he reached the door.

“As for the report, I’m going to take it forthwith to the commander of the C.I.D. and I shall ask him to show it to the commissioner immediately. I am sure that both will be fascinated by the half-truths as well as by the outright lies.”

He went out, letting the door swing to behind him.

• • •

He would do exactly as he had said, he knew, as he went down in the main lift, but letting fly as he had didn’t actually help. He needed to find out what this was all about, why this vendetta had been started. His position would be enormously strengthened if he could take some evidence to Coppell. but there wasn’t much likelihood of being able to do that. There was a very grave danger that he would be so preoccupied by this that he would not be able to concentrate on the investigation into Maisie’s murder. As a man he hated the report; as a policeman and as a man, he had to find that killer.

He had a sudden mental image of Maisie, lying so near to death.

“ You won ’ t believe me. ” And a moment later, “ It was Mario. ” And then, “ There you are. You don ’ t believe me.” And soon, “ Give me a kiss, Handsome. ”

He could imagine the feel of the moist warmth of her lips.

Detective Officer Ashe came up, smartly.

“I’m just along here, sir. I—” He broke off, looking concerned. “Are you all right?”

Roger looked at him vaguely as they walked on.

“Er, yes, I’m fine.” He got into the car and the puce- uniformed doorman hovered. Should he go to see Artemeus in such a mood as this? he wondered. It was on the way to the Yard, he needn’t stay long, and if he didn’t go he would fidget on and off for hours wondering what the Allsafe man wanted. As they were edging out into a stream of traffic, a bus roared by within inches of the Rover, making two or three pedestrians leap out of the way. “Get his number,” Roger snapped, and Ashe, quick off the mark, called out the number of the bus over the radio-telephone.

“Could have crashed into us and killed a couple of people,” Ashe complained.

“Not often you get a bad bus driver,” remarked Roger. “Do you know the Allsafe offices in the Strand?”

“Yes, sir.”