John Creasey - Alibi
“My God!” she exclaimed. “It is you!”
He gulped.
“West,” he admitted. “Superintendent West. I have—” He broke off. He had been about to add that he had a search warrant, but in these circumstances it would sound absurd.
Maisie Dunster shifted her position, hitching the pillow up behind her, and adjusting the neck of her nightdress.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked gustily.
West hesitated. Whatever else, she showed no venom and no malice, and the simple truth should be as good an answer as any. He shifted his position to ease the ache in his back, and answered, “I came to search the room.”
“Why?”
“It’s occupied by—” He stopped abruptly, then forced a grin. “I thought it was occupied by a Mr. Patrick Fogarty.”
“Well,” she said, “he pays the rent.”
Roger was feeling much more composed, even grateful to the girl for not giving him the run around when it would have been so easy to have made him feel still more of a fool than he looked.
“And you accept his hospitality on occasions,” he remarked.
Her eyes gleamed with a hint of humour, but he didn’t expect the retort she gave.
“On those nights when I’m not one of four in a bed,” she said. “Funny you should guess about the foursome, Mr. West.”
“Very funny,” said West dryly, “if there was a foursome on that particular night.”
Maisie leant forward, still gripping the gun.
“Let me tell you something, Mr. West: nothing is going to make me say I wasn’t with Mario last night. Or the night before last, whenever it was. And if I like to spend one night with one boy friend and the next with another and then have a free-for-all, it’s nothing to do with you or the Police Force, the Bishop of Canterbury or God, for that matter. I’m myself, you understand. I do what I like with myself, and I go with anyone I like.” Then, she broke off, frowning. “What do you want at Fogarty’s, anyhow?”
“He killed a man last night,” stated Roger.
She was so shocked that he thought he had a chance to throw himself forward and disarm her, and but for the pain in his ribs he might have tried. But even when he shifted forward, it shot up to his shoulder and down to his knee.
“You bloody liar !” she burst out. “Pat wouldn’t hurt—!”
“He ran the man down on a zebra crossing,” explained Roger. “He didn’t run away and there’s a possibility that he was drunk.” Her face began to clear as if she were prepared to accept that as a possibility, but he brought a frown back almost instantly by going on, “His victim was one of the two witnesses against Mario Rapelli. Isn’t that a remarkable coincidence?”
The effect of his words was so great that she leant back against the pillow, almost dropping the gun. He felt quite sure that it would be safe to get up and cross to her— but as he began, putting most of his weight on the left leg, which hadn’t been hurt, there was a sharp tap at the door.
Chapter Seven
DISASTER ?
The girl started, and slowly raised her gun again. Roger looked towards the door, and his heart began to thump. Who was the caller? It was bad enough already, but if someone else saw him in here there would be two witnesses. He put his left hand on the arm of the chair, to hoist himself up.
“Who’s there?” Maisie called out.
“It’s no one you know,” a man replied. “Is West still there?”
She hesitated, and then asked, “Who’s West?”
“Don’t play tricks, Maisie. Is he there?”
She pursed her lips but didn’t answer and it was almost possible to guess what she was thinking: which would be the greatest fun, to admit that he was still here, or to pretend that he had gone.
“Maisie,” the man said in a harsh voice, “you could get hurt—or you could be richer by a hundred pounds.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she said, “That’s money.”
“You’re right, it’s money. Cash money.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Is West still there?”
“What do I have to do?” she insisted.
There was a pause and a whisper of voices came from the other side of the door. So at least two men were out there. The whispering did not last long, and the first man spoke again, urgency in his voice.
“Maisie, listen. I want a few pictures of you and Handsome West in bed together. That’s all. You don’t have to do a thing except undress. You’ve got him covered, haven’t you? You’ve got a gun.”
“I’ve got a gun and I’m covering him with it,” Maisie answered.
“So there’s no problem,” the man called. “Make him undress and get into bed with you. Then I’ll come in and take a few pretty pictures. And you can have the hundred smackers now.” There was a short pause before he went on, “Here’s some proof, Maisie. Look under the door.”
Maisie’s gaze dropped to the door.
For a split second, Roger glanced towards the door, also. And immediately paper showed, as if it had been at floor level ready to slip beneath the bottom of the door. The first glimpse showed it for a five pound note, and after it was right inside the room, a second followed it.
Roger looked away from the money to Maisie, and he saw the expression on her face. There was tightness— avarice?—at her mouth and a mean look in her eyes. She actually licked her lips as she glanced at Roger. The rustling of the currency notes sounded quite clearly in a silence otherwise broken only by their breathing.
The man called, “That’s thirty quid, Maisie.”
“Show some more.” Maisie’s voice was tense.
“Thirty’s a good earnest.”
“I want to see sixty.”
“But—”
“If you haven’t got it, forget it. No one’s going to leave here until I’ve seen the colour of sixty quid. Mr. Superintendent Roger West or anyone. Show the money.”
There was only a short pause before more money came through the gap at the foot of the door. It was in one pound notes now, quite a sheaf of them at a time. Maisie looked at Roger, the gun steady in her hand, and pointing towards his stomach. He had a feeling that she had used a gun before and would unhesitatingly use one again.
“Okay, peeler,” she said to Roger. “Peel.”
The man outside crowed, “That’s my baby!”
“Peel, peeler.” Maisie played on the word again, obviously pleased with her joke. “It’s not so difficult. I know a lot of men who would jump at the chance of getting in bed with me.” When Roger didn’t even begin to move, she went on in a sharper voice, “Do what I tell you!”
Roger stood up, slowly. He felt as if he were a character in a film or television series; not quite real. The situation was as bizarre as any he had experienced; and in its way, as deadly. So was Maisie Dunster. From the way she handled the pistol he felt even more sure that she was used to it, and from the set of her lips he felt nearly sure that she would shoot unless he obeyed. But he couldn’t possibly obey. He couldn’t in any circumstances allow himself to be photographed, naked, in bed with this woman. Nothing would ever explain it away. His reputation would be smashed. Coppell would have to suspend him from duty and at the very best he would have to resign.
For the first time he recalled the luncheon date with Benjamin Artemeus, and he almost grinned.
“Take that grin off your face and get a move on,” she ordered; and she touched the trigger.
The report of the shot was very sharp, making Roger start. He heard the bullet smack into the wall behind him; it could not have missed his face by more than an inch. After the thud of sound there was utter silence for several seconds, and during them Roger found a hundred thoughts flashing through his mind, none of them pleasant.
There wasn’t an iota of doubt left about Maisie’s seriousness. If he started to undress, she might relax, but it wasn’t likely; she had a very wary glint in her eyes.
If by some miracle he got out of this room, then there were the men on the landing to stop him.
“Handsome,” she said, levelling the gun at his middle, “I’m not going to tell you again. Strip!”
He unbuttoned his jacket, took it off slowly, and draped it over the arm of the big chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat with slow deliberation, and did the same with that. He put his hand to the knot of his tie and as he undid it took a step towards the bed. His side still hurt, but not so much. He let the ends of the tie dangle loose, and then spoke for the first time.
“You’re crazy to do this.”
“So I’m crazy.”
“It couldn’t be worth it for a thousand pounds, let alone a hundred.”
“You ought to look in my handbag,” she said. “Hurry.”
“Maisie,” the man from outside called. “How about opening the door so that we can help you?”
“He’ll open the door when he’s ready,” Maisie called back. “I don’t trust you any more than I trust him.”
“Maisie,” Roger said, “you’ll have every policeman at the Yard after you.”
“And you’ll have every policeman at the Yard laughing at you,” Maisie jeered. “Those photographs will be worth a fortune. I can sell my life story to any Sunday newspaper! Hurry.”
He sprang at her from a standing start.
He knew that she had time to squeeze the trigger, that at point blank range she couldn’t miss. He could be killed; badly wounded; blinded. But there was no time to find out. He heard the bark of the shot, felt burning on his cheek, then closed with her, gripping her right wrist and thrusting it sideways, flinging his right arm round her and hugging her close. Her body, except at the breasts, was very firm, and he felt her arms tighten as big muscles flexed. As she began to struggle he realised that unless he finished this quickly, he could be in deepest trouble. There was a momentary reluctance to fight as if she were a man, until he felt her knee driving against his thigh; an inch or two to the right and he would be in agony.
So he chopped the side of his right hand down on to the back of her neck. Locks of hair took some of the force of the blow but it nearly knocked her out, and she sagged away from him. He let her fall back. She wasn’t faking, she was almost out. Dragging her down towards the foot of the bed, he rolled her up in the bedclothes, leaving only her head and face and her feet showing.
The man outside called, “Maisie!” in an urgent voice.
Roger raised his voice in a gasping falsetto.
“Coming!” he called.
He bent down and picked up the pistol, went to the door, which had a Yale lock and, when slammed, was self-locking and could only be opened from the outside with the key. He turned the knob slowly, then jerked the door open. He saw one man disappearing down the stairs. He fired a shot over the man’s head, bringing him to a shocked standstill, his thin face turning towards Roger.
The other was halfway down the second flight of stairs, still moving. Roger fired a shot which struck the stairs just ahead of him, and he also came to a standstill, slipped on a stair and nearly fell. He grabbed the banister rail to save himself. He didn’t turn round but there was a familiar look about him.
“Stay there,” Roger ordered. He started down, pushed past the small man who now cowered against the wall. The other was pressing against the wall, too, his gaze on Roger’s gun.
That was the moment when Roger recognised him: he was the pastry-cook from Bethnal Green—Hamish Campbell!
Roger, gun in hand, pushed past him. As he did so a door downstairs opened and a Jamaican girl came out, brightly dressed and attractive. She glanced up in surprise at the sight of Roger.
He smiled broadly, reassuringly, and asked, “Will you call the police, please? Dial 999 and ask for the police service and ask them to send a car here at once. Give them the number of the street, will you?”
“Why, surely,” she gasped. “Of course I will.” She hurried to the pre payment telephone in the hall and glanced round, opening her bag. She kept her head very well and there was only the faintest of quivers in her voice.
It was while she was talking that Roger felt wave after wave of relief surge over him.
Three minutes later, a police car arrived.
“I’ll charge these two men with uttering threats and common assault,” Roger said to the police from the car. “Watch the big one very carefully.”
“Are we to take them to division?” the patrol officer asked.
“Yes,” Roger said. “Then send for a car with a woman officer; there’s a woman upstairs we want to take in — “uttering threats” will do to start with on her. Don’t lose any time, will you?”
“Not a split second, sir,” the other assured him.
In twenty minutes Maisie Dunster was on her way to divisional headquarters in a police car, and the two men were ahead of her. Roger did not follow, but went to the Yard, arriving about ten o’clock. He went straight to his office, nodding right and left but acutely aware of the fact that his arrival was receiving more than the usual attention. There were several messages on his desk, including one reading: Please call the commander. It was timed at nine-five over an hour ago. He put in the call at once and Coppell’s secretary spoke with a note of malice in her voice.
“The commander is very late for a conference, waiting for you.” There was a moment’s pause before Coppell growled, “Come and see me, now.”
Roger was at the outer office door a few minutes later, glanced at the secretary, who set her lips thinly and led the way to the communicating door. She opened it and Roger went through, to see Coppell putting down a telephone. He glowered up.
“Where the hell have you been?”
For a split second, Roger felt the familiar anger rising, but he couldn’t reasonably blame Coppell for his own mood or his own folly. A phrase came into his head and almost before he realised he was going to utter it, he blurted, “Getting myself in more trouble.”
That stopped even Coppell, whose lips parted—and then closed as he sat back heavily in his chair.
“Come again?”
“I went to search the room of the driver of the car with which our witness Smithson was killed. I made another mistake.” Coppell was still so taken aback that he missed the obvious: “another”, and Roger went on, “I took it for granted that it would be empty. Instead, a woman was there, and a couple of bright sparks offered her a hundred quid to take me to bed—at the point of a gun.” Roger paused, then took the pistol out of his pocket. “Here’s the gun,” he said, and placed it in front of Coppell. “It came near to killing me.”
Coppell was staring at him incredulously, and Roger realised that he was gazing particularly at his right cheek.
Almost mechanically, Roger put his hand up to his face, and he touched a sore spot, looked at his fingers and saw a smear of blood.
