John Creasey - Alibi
Roger said heavily, “Spell it out for me, please.”
“Very well.” Artemeus took a sip of tea, and leaned forward earnestly. “If you are with us, Mr. West, we can merge with the smaller companies. They are equally impressed with your importance, your account-pulling power. If you are not with us, then—” he shrugged his shoulders “—then we shall be taken over. This is really very simple; the ways of big business are usually simple.” When Roger did not answer at once, Artemeus went on, “There is another point of view which you would be well to consider. Your position. You are at this moment in a position to dictate terms. If you wanted double the money I offered, I think my board would be prepared to pay.”
His words seemed to fall on to deaf ears. Roger stared at him but did not speak. He believed that he could understand a great many things which had been obscured until he had come here: certainly he saw a glimmering of new and vivid light. But he wanted time to think, to check some facts—and he needed to keep this man in a good humour as he checked them. For as long as he thought that he might join Allsafe, Artemeus would be blandly pleasant and helpful.
Then, as if aware of uncertainty and tension, Artemeus went on, “If you have doubts, Mr. West, why don’t you talk it over with your wife? She sounded very charming when I spoke to her on the telephone this morning.”
Every muscle in Roger’s body went stiff, and for a moment Artemeus looked alarmed.
“You mean you told my wife about this offer?”
“I—well—I—yes,” said Artemeus, his voice suddenly unsteady. “I—er—I called the Yard this morning and—I —they said you were at home. So I called — West. What is the matter? What are you—”
Roger was on his feet and leaning across the desk. One part of his mind was aware of the cold rage in him and the need for self-control, the other was aware of the fear —the near-terror—on this man’s face. Roger forced himself to stand upright as Artemeus craned back in his chair, hands raised as if he expected physical violence.
“What did you tell her?” Roger grated.
“I—er—I simply said that circumstances enabled me to—er—improve substantially on my previous offer. Good God, West, don’t tell me you hadn’t told her! I took that for granted.” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I really had no idea—”
“You cold-blooded liar,” growled Roger. “You found out she didn’t know and you told her so as to put more pressure on me. You’re so anxious to make your miserable profit you’ll try any trick.”
He moved swiftly, rounding the desk in three strides. Artemeus rose in his chair, then dropped down again, for there was no room to pass. Roger gripped him by the shoulders and shook him to and fro, slowly, deliberately, menacingly. His fingers bit into the man’s fleshy shoulders, and Artemeus winced with pain.
“Are you behind the Globe’s campaign? Are you trying to get me thrown out of the Yard or forced to resign so that I have to come to you and take your filthy money? Is that it?” He shook the man to each of the words and Artemeus’s head bobbed to and fro. “Tell me the truth or I’ll shake your head off your shoulders.”
That was when the door near the desk opened, and Phillipson of the Globe came in. He closed the door quietly, and stepped towards Roger, who did not release his hold on Artemeus, just turned his head and glared.
“If you do that, West, you’ll have earned another big headline,” Phillipson said. “Let Artemeus go.”
Chapter Eighteen
THREAT
For a long time, it seemed, Roger stood unmoving, while Phillipson’s words echoed and re-echoed in his mind. Then he relinquished his hold on Artemeus, and the man fell back into his chair, gasping for breath. Phillipson, his calm and assured self for a few moments, gave him a sideways glance and seemed to become momentarily alarmed. Artemeus’s breath was coming in short gasps, and he was heaving, as if breathing were painful and shallow. Phillipson went closer to the desk, on the other side from Roger, and pressed a bell. Immediately, a woman said, “Yes, sir?”
“Miss Noble, doesn’t Mr. Artemeus have some tablets for his heart condition?” Phillipson asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered Miss Noble. “He keeps them in a snuff-box in his left-hand pocket. Shall I bring in some water?”
“There’s milk here,” observed Phillipson. “The next time I ring, I want you to play back that tape.”
Roger put his hand into Artemeus’s left-hand pocket and took out a small, flat box, silver-coloured. He opened this as Phillipson poured out some milk into Artemeus’s cup. Roger went behind the gasping man and gently eased his head backwards, while Phillipson put a small tablet to the parted lips, and ordered firmly, “Take this tablet, Ben.”
Artemeus opened his mouth and swallowed hard; the tablet disappeared.
“Now drink some milk.”
Artemeus drank; gulp, gulp, gulp. Phillipson drew back, putting the cup down, while Roger slid the small box back into the sick man’s pocket. The harsh breathing seemed to ease at once, but a bluish tinge at his lips grew rather worse. After a few moments, Phillipson leaned forward and rang again. Almost at once, voices sounded, and suddenly Roger recognised his own.
“Tell me the truth or I’ll shake your head off your shoulders.” The restrained fury could not be disguised.
“Go back a little further,” Phillipson ordered into the speaker.
Roger walked swiftly to the desk. Since Artemeus’s mention of Janet he had hardly thought, just reacted—first to his own anger, then to Phillipson’s calmness and control. But now he knew exactly what to do. Ignoring Phillipson’s astonished stare, ignoring the metallic twang of his and Artemeus’s recorded voices, he picked up the telephone and dialled a number.
“Scotland Yard,” an operator answered.
“Detective Sergeant Danizon,” Roger said. He saw Phillipson’s eyes widen, saw the man’s assurance wilting. “Hallo, Tom. I want you to send four men to the offices of the Allsafe Security Company in the Strand. They are to come straight up to the office of Mr. Artemeus— Benjamin Artemeus. I will be here to give them instruc-tions . . . No, don’t ring off yet! I want an immediate check on the directors of all the major private security corporations; you’d better make that senior directors as well as directors . . . Yes . . . I want to find out if there is any association between any of them and Mario Rapelli, Maisie Dunster, or Hamish Campbell, in fact with any of the people concerned in the Verdi affair. It’s very urgent,” he went on. “Get it started, and I’ll come back as soon as I can and talk to the commander to see that we get it done tonight . . . Get those four men over here from the nearest patrols.”
He rang off. Artemeus was sitting back in his chair, his breathing very much easier. Phillipson was still staring, open-mouthed. Roger poured himself out some more tea and helped himself to an eclair.
“What good do you think this will do you?” demanded Phillipson, his voice suddenly shrill. “When I tell your superiors that you used violence on Artemeus, you will be through at the Yard.”
“Possibly,” Roger said coldly. “Has it ever occurred to you to put the public good above your own?”
“Don’t be a smug hypocrite!”
“Oh, no,” Roger said. “I’m not a hypocrite. I’m hotheaded at times and at others I cut corners and get myself into trouble, but I always work for the public good. That’s my job. You’re the hypocrite here. You run a newspaper supposedly in the public interest, yet use it to try to influence the activity of the police force and to smear the character of police officers.”
Phillipson said, “You must be bluffing.”
“He—he is,” said Artemeus in a choky voice. “He—he— he’ll play if you offer him enough.” His voice was thin and wheezy, but his colour was better and he sat up in his chair. “A—a hundred thousand pounds, West—tax free. Just forget this clash of ideas, and—and join us.”
“This, as you call it, is now part of the official record,” said Roger coolly. I don’t yet know exactly what’s going on but I do know it will soon stop.” He now felt in complete control of the situation. “You would both be well advised to make a full and truthful statement.”
“A—a hundred and fifty thousand,” Artemeus gasped. “Tax free.”
“Maisie Dunster was murdered this morning,” Roger said coldly. “Ricardo Verdi was murdered last Wednesday. If you can tell me why, here’s your chance to justify your attitude. If you can’t or won’t I shall take you both to Scotland Yard for questioning and possible charge.”
“You’ve nothing to charge us with,” Phillipson protested thinly.
“Attempting to bribe a policeman in the course of his duty—”
“No one would ever believe it!”
Roger moved with devastating speed, reached the door, opened it and barked, “Miss Noble. Was the tape still recording when Mr. Artemeus came round?”
The woman was sitting at a desk with several telephones, a small push-button telephone control board, and several tape-recorders, all of these in slots at the side of her desk, all of them playing. She moved her hand as if to stop one but Roger rasped, “Don’t touch that.”
He strode forward.
“Which is the recorder for the other room?” She pointed a quivering finger towards it. “Don’t touch it,” Roger ordered. “I know you work for Mr. Artemeus, but if you obstruct me in any way you will be an accomplice to him and an accessory to everything these men have done.”
She dropped back into her chair.
Roger looked at the tape-recorder, which was marked “Mr Artemeusso the woman had told the truth, he thought. Glancing back into the room through the wide open door, he saw the two men staring after him; they looked appalled. He took another step forward, thinking that the four Yard men should be here soon, that he hadn’t much further to go. He wasn’t sure of the strength of his case, wasn’t at all sure of the details, but he did know that he had become involved through none of his own causing in a struggle for the monopoly of private security forces in the country. Warned by a sixth sense, he looked back yet again, and this time saw Phillipson spring towards the open doorway, a gun in his hand. Roger did not move, except to throw a glance over his shoulder at Miss Noble, who might already be so involved that she was virtually compelled to help both Phillipson and Artemeus. Phillipson drew a pace nearer but was still further away from Roger than Artemeus, who was sitting motionless at his desk, but must be aware of the gun in his associate’s hand.
“Phillipson,” Roger said, “put that gun down.”
Phillipson advanced a step closer. He looked very pale and his eyes glittered.
“One hundred and fifty thousand pounds for your co-operation,” he said in a low rasping voice, “or I shall kill you.”
• • •
Roger did not doubt that the man meant it. In the tone of his voice, in his manner, there was all the indication needed. For the second time in a few days he was at the business end of a gun. Again, his thoughts flashed to Maisie, but they did not linger. He was face to face with disaster at a time when the whole world seemed to be tumbling about him. Two appointments, fairly straightforward appointments with two highly reputable men, and he was confronting the leaders of the campaign against him.
He still did not understand why, but felt quite sure he was right. The menace of the gun was all too convincing.
“You heard me,” Phillipson grated.
“Yes,” Roger agreed. “I heard you. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds to sell my soul, or else death by shooting.” How long would it be before the patrols got here, he wondered anxiously. He must play for time, and hope it wouldn’t run out before they arrived. “I always wanted to be rich,” he went on. “Always. And I always wanted to be the boss. Would I be the boss of Allsafe?”
“Yes!” cried Artemeus. “Yes, there would be no one else. You would be the administrative and executive chief, the commissioner and the commander C.I.D. rolled into one I And you’d get those holidays. You would have normal hours. When I told her this your wife was delighted.”
“I’m sure she was,” Roger said. Once again he felt that seething rage rise within him, but fought it down. “What do I have to do to qualify for this high position and considerable fortune?”
“Withdraw those men you sent for,” ordered Phillipson. “And then resign from the Yard at a Press Conference tonight.”
“Why tonight?” asked Roger.
“For God’s sake use your head!” cried Artemeus. “If you join us and all the newspapers have the story tomorrow none of our shareholders would accept the competitor’s offer. That’s all you have to do. Appear at a televised Press Conference and resign. We’ll give you six months’ advance on your salary, and you can have a month’s holiday—two months’ holiday.”
“It’s too easy,” Roger said, half-laughing. “It’s far too good to be true.” Even to his ears his laughter sounded completely genuine. I should have been on the stage, he thought wryly. Then he thought: When the devil are those four men coming? They couldn’t be long, now, it must be twenty minutes since he had telephoned Danizon, who would waste no time.
He sauntered back to Artemeus’s office, aware of Miss Noble’s heavy breathing, the whirring of the tape-recorder as every word they uttered was recorded. Phillipson still kept him covered with his gun, but did not seem so distressed, and Roger saw that Artemeus had a document of some kind on the desk in front of him. Artemeus had recovered remarkably well from that attack, he thought.
“You just have to sign this contract,” Artemeus said” now. “That’s all.”
“And this confession,” added Phillipson.
“Ah—a confession sounds interesting,” said Roger casually. “What have I done?”
“Killed Maisie Dunster,” Phillipson stated. So Phillipson and Artemeus were involved in the Verdi case, thought Roger grimly. This whole affair was obviously far, far deeper than he had realised. Exerting all his self- control to appear casual and unconcerned, he picked up the first document, and found it exactly what Phillipson had said: a short confession that he had attacked Maisie because she knew that he had been taking bribes and covering up the activities of notorious criminals. It was beautifully typed on paper from New Scotland Yard. How had they come by that?
“Sign that or I shall shoot you,” Phillipson’s voice was steady.
Roger put his hand to his pocket, and there was a silent cry within him. When are those four coming? Phillipson lowered his arm and Artemeus handed him a pen with which to sign. Roger took this, poised it over the confession—and then, in a lightning movement, jerked it backwards and towards Phillipson’s face. At the same time he leapt past Artemeus, twisting round as he did so. Phillipson was staggering back, the gun waving, but he would recover his balance before Roger could get at him, and there was only one thing left to do. Grabbing Artemeus’s jacket with one hand so that the man was unable to move, he swivelled his chair round with the other, and crouched behind it. Phillipson steadied, the gun pointed, and suddenly a bullet spat; there was a zutt of sound and a stab of flame and a bullet buried itself in the big oak desk.
