John Creasey - Alibi
“Superintendent West, sir?”
“Yes.”
“The young lady on the right as you go in will take you up to Mr. Phillipson, sir.”
The “young lady” was in a puce-coloured dress with a very short skirt, and she had long and shapely legs. Her face was more pert than pretty. She led Roger to a small lift, obviously reserved for V.I.P.s, and within two minutes he was in the long, narrow office of the editor. The walls were of marble or mock-marble, the floor was covered from wall to wall in tufted black carpet. A few plaques of past editors were on the walls. At one end of the room was a horseshoe-shaped conference table with ten or twelve places, at the other an enormous desk with
Phillipson behind it, his back to the window, and several comfortable-looking armchairs in front. There were some very modern upright chairs, too.
Phillipson stood up. He was tall, distinguished-looking, and silver-haired, a very lean man in a beautifully cut suit. He did not round the desk but extended his arm across it; after they had shaken hands he motioned to one of the easy chairs.
“Do sit down, Superintendent.”
“May I have one of these?” Roger took an upright chair which was at the side of the desk, and this way he could see Phillipson without having the sun in his eyes; and Phillipson did not have him in such a searching light and at the slight disadvantage of being in a semi-recumbent position.
Phillipson smiled but did not comment.
“I asked you to come because I have a report—a well- authenticated report from a highly reliable source, I may say—which directly concerns you,” he said. “In some cases I would print the story as fair comment, but this one is so personal that, as you said over the telephone, some of the—ah—mud would stick even if we printed a denial the next day. I thought that in view of our somewhat strained relations this week, it might be wise to discuss the report with you first.”
He waited long enough for Roger to comment, but Roger stayed silent. A door near Phillipson opened and a fluffy-haired, middle-aged woman in a dark dress came in with a trolley on which were coffee, brandy, liqueurs and cigars. The soft treatment, Roger reflected drily.
“White or black coffee, sir?”
“Khaki, please.”
“Thank you.” She poured out, offered him sugar, poured out for Phillipson, and left them.
“Brandy?” Phillipson asked.
No thanks,” said Roger. “I haven’t much time and I would like to know the details of this report, please.”
“Very well.” Phillipson picked up a thin sheaf of papers, without glancing at them. “This is prepared by my chief correspondent, who has concentrated on it with three reporters, for two days. I have a copy here for you. It states, very simply, that you are likely to be placed under suspension before the week is out; that, if suspended, you will resign; that some of your somewhat arrogant behaviour in the past few days is due to the fact that you have a most attractive offer of a post in a private security company, at four times your salary in the Metropolitan Police. The implication is that you have deliberately ridden rough-shod over police rules and regulations so as to precipitate a crisis in which you would be dismissed or could resign without any loss of—ah—dignity and respect. If you simply resigned to take a more paying job you would lose the respect not only of your colleagues but of a great many of the general public. If, however, you resigned as a protest against the autocratic methods being adopted at the Yard, largely by the new commissioner, you would retain the goodwill both of police and public.”
Phillipson stopped; and the room seemed hushed. There was not even a rustling of paper, no sound from outside. Then Phillipson stood up, making himself a silhouette against the big window behind him, looked out over Fleet Street and towards Ludgate Circus and St. Paul’s, and went on very quietly, “I hope you agree that you should have an opportunity to refute any of these statements, Superintendent. As this is prepared as a major feature for tomorrow’s issue, it has to be set and carefully proof-read, as well as checked by our legal departments to make sure that any libel read into it can be defended on the grounds of fair comment. That is why I asked you to come this afternoon. What is your comment, Superintendent?”
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.”
“Take me there, please.”
Something, he couldn’t quite place what it was. told him that Ashe was startled by the order. There was rivalry as well as co-operation between Allsafe and the Metropolitan Police, he remembered—then pushed the thought to the back of his mind. The near accident and the flashback to Maisie had helped him recover from his anger at the newspaper editor’s near-threat. But why the hell should they set out to discredit him? Who had he offended? Was it concerned with a case he had investigated—or was investigating? This one, perhaps? But speculation was useless, except that it sometimes set the subconscious mind working. Roger gave a mental shrug to his shoulders and tried to relax for a few moments as they passed first Aldwych, then Waterloo Bridge Road, and, a few moments later, turned right.
A doorman was waiting; a young lad took him up to Artemeus’s office. Artemeus was in a long, panelled room, with an oval conference table and an oak, leather- topped desk, very like that at the Globe. As he stood up to greet Roger, a door opened behind the desk, there was a clink of china, and a woman came in wheeling a tea- trolley laden with teapot, cups and saucers, a plate of thinly cut sandwiches and another of eclairs. Artemeus was smiling, pleased, possibly even smug.
“Very good of you to come, Mr. West . . . I didn’t want to trouble you but a stipulation has arisen which I didn’t anticipate . . . Milk? . . . Just a little milk for Mr. West, Nora . . . And what I had imagined would be a very relaxed period of contemplation has, I fear, become a matter of urgency . . . That’s all, Nora, thank you.”
He stopped speaking and looked straight at Roger, and now his amiability seemed to melt away; here was someone who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. Those grey eyes were piercing, and there was a hardness in them which betrayed the true nature of the man.
Roger waited.
“One of our competitor firms has made a bid for our shares,” Artemeus announced. “It is a substantial bid, and our shareholders are likely to accept unless we can offer them something better. There are two other firms, as you know, who are of some importance in this field. If we took them over, we would be in a position not only to remain independent but also to buy out the main competitor in the field, the one who wants to buy us. Need I tell you how important the issues are?”
“You want a monopoly in the private security organisations,” Roger remarked dryly.
“Exactly.” Artemeus let a kind of shield fall over his eyes, hiding their hardness, and stretched a languid hand for an eclair. “In normal circumstances I would not have been so frank, Mr. West, but the situation is so urgent that I really have no choice. You will no doubt guess that the take-over offer came unexpectedly. It will be announced in the evening newspapers tonight, and you would have seen at once why we are so anxious to have your services.”
