Alibi iw-39

by John Creasey

  Chapter Two

  DECISION

  Roger West had been virtually sure what would happen, and there was no reason for him to hesitate; yet he did. Magistrates, even considerate ones like Gunn, had a certain sense of their position and did not like to have their decisions anticipated. Moreover, it was never wise to look slick and over clever in front of the Press; further, he did not want to make Leeminster feel small. So he paused for a few seconds before mouthing “no objection” so that Leeminster could turn immediately and say, “I’ve no objection, sir.”

  “Then if Miss Warrender will call a witness, we can proceed.”

  Soon, from the well of the court, came a buxom girl in her early twenties, fair-haired, blue-eyed, fresh-com- plexioned. She wore a loose-fitting, loose-knit jumper in sky blue and a black mini-skirt which showed very long, very white legs, tiny ankles and surprisingly small feet. She took the stand, hesitating about taking the oath on the Bible, until Rachel Warrender said, “You are going to tell the truth, aren’t you?”

  “I certainly am.” The fair girl’s lips had a tendency to pout, and were too-heavily lipsticked with bright red. “That is all you’re promising,” said Rachel. “. . . so help me God,” said the girl.

  “Your name,” demanded Farriman, formally.

  “Maisie Dunster of 41, Concert Street, Chelsea, S.W.3,” stated the girl.

  Farriman wrote very slowly, very deliberately, and the court paused as if for breath.

  “Very well—please proceed.”

  “Miss Dunster,” said Rachel Warrender, “did you see the accused, Mario Rapelli, at all last evening?”

  The witness’s eyes were turned towards Rapelli, and she nodded.

  “I did.”

  “Will you tell the court what time you were with him?”

  “From seven o’clock until nine,” answered the witness, precisely.

  “Seven o’clock until nine,” echoed Charles Gunn, frowning. He had a feeling that this over-made-up young woman was enjoying herself, finding this appearance before the court quite fun. He felt disapproving, not at all sure that she would hesitate to perjure herself, but that wasn’t his chief anxiety. It would be difficult to make sure that the evidence was keyed to the remand, and he had a feeling that Rachel Warrender proposed to bring evidence about the accusation. He alone was the authority in the court, and he alone could decide how far to let her go with her witnesses.

  The fair girl, at all events, was under oath. He glanced down at Farriman, who came into his own at last.

  “Will you please read the charge, Mr. Farriman, and all relevant statements made in court?”

  “Gladly, sir! The police witness, on oath, stated that he called on the accused, Mario Lucullus Rapelli, at his home at eleven sixteen o’clock last night, Thursday, May 21st, and first cautioned and then charged him with assaulting a Mr. Ricardo Verdi at 17, Doons Way, Hampstead, last evening between eight o’clock and nine o’clock and of causing Mr. Verdi grievous bodily harm by striking him over the head with an electric guitar. The accused denied the charge. After cautioning the accused for a second time the witness stated he told him he was under arrest. He took him to the Mid-Western Divisional Police Station and there he was lodged for the night.”

  Leeminster gave a little nod.

  “Thank you,” Gunn said, and at last looked at the witness. Before he could speak, she burst out, “He couldn’t have attacked Ricky, he was with me, in Chelsea, in my flat.” Then she drew herself up and thrust her provocatively lifted bosom forward, adding in a ringing tone, “In my bed! And I’ve two witnesses to prove it.”

  Someone gasped; two or three tittered; the newspapermen made notes with great eagerness, and Maisie Dunster surveyed the court with an air of triumph at having created a sensation. And she had. Gunn kept his self- control with an effort. He should have questioned the witness himself, of course; by allowing Rachel Warrender to do so he had invited trouble. It was partly because he wanted to hear what would be said. Then, almost unbelieving, he saw Roger West stand up and ask in a most casual-seeming voice, “As a point of interest, Miss Dunster, were the other two witnesses in your bed at the same time?”

  Maisie Dunster turned to look at him.

  “As a matter of fact, they were,” she said defiantly. “Have you never heard of a sex-party?”

  Charles Gunn sat very still and expressionless. He was of a generation which could still be shocked, yet not surprised, by Maisie Dunster’s brazen statements; at such moments he concluded that he was much more Victorian than he had realised. But the essential thing was to rebuke West, and he said in his sternest voice, “Superintendent, you have no right at all to intervene. Such intervention amounts to contempt of court, as you must know.”

  Farriman, glaring at Roger, obviously agreed. West’s expression was difficult to assess, and Gunn knew he had been fully aware of his offence but had taken the risk in order to throw some doubt on to the reliability of the witness.

  “I am very sorry, sir,” he said. “Very sorry.”

  Gunn growled, “Very well. I will overlook your intervention. As for the witness’s evidence, I do not see its relevance to the issue of a remand.” He glowered at Rachel Warrender, then went on in a clipped voice, “The accused is remanded for eight days on two sureties other than himself of five hundred pounds each. Will you make any arrangements you think necessary below the court,” he added to Rachel Warrender. “Failing the two sureties then of course the accused must remain in custody.” He rapped the bench with his gavel. “Next case, please.”

  Almost at once, the two policemen by the dock helped Rapelli out. Perhaps the most remarkable thing was that the prisoner obviously needed physical support, being so very near collapse. Rachel Warrender hurried after him, while the newspapermen crowded round Maisie. Once she was outside the door of the courtroom, cameras began to click . . .

  • • •

  There in the Globe was a front-page picture of Maisie Dunster and, in the background and coming out of the courtroom, was Roger West. Among the people who saw the picture and read the story was Commander Coppell, chief executive of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, as he sat back in his car after a very late luncheon at the Guildhall. Coppell, a heavy, rather sultry-looking man with smooth, shiny black hair, sat up, read the story in detail, then glowered out of the window at the traffic in the Strand. It was nearly four o’clock before he reached his office. A rather prim and over-zealous secretary was at the door as he opened it.

  “The assistant commissioner would like you to call him, sir.”

  “Get him,” growled Coppell. He went to his desk and sat down, opened the Globe out before him and reread the article. Almost at once his telephone bell rang.

  “The assistant commissioner,” announced his secretary.

  Coppell grunted, and then said, “You want me, sir?”

  “What can you tell me about this Rapelli case?” enquired the assistant commissioner, who was the chief of the C.I.D. department and directly responsible to the commissioner.

  “Only what I’ve read in the Globe,” growled Coppell.

  “Didn’t you know about it this morning?” The assistant commissioner sounded surprised.

  “Oh, West told me about the arrest and said he wanted to ask for an eight-day remand. He didn’t suggest there was anything out of the ordinary about it.” Coppell’s voice was raw with an overtone of complaint. “Or any doubt.”

  “There appears to be a great deal of doubt,” remarked the assistant commissioner. He was an able man who was inclined to veer whichever way the wind was blowing, not one to stand much on his own. “Do you know if West had been informed of the alibi story?”

  “I’ve been out to the Guildhall, that Commonwealth Police Conference luncheon, and only just got back,” Coppell said defensively. “I’ll see West at once.”

  “Let me know what he has to say,” ordered the assistant commissioner. “The Home Office is extremely disturbed.�
�

  “Soon as I can,” promised Coppell.

  He put down the receiver and glowered out of a window which overlooked a mammoth new building and showed a silvery slip of the Thames. He picked up the receiver of a telephone which was connected with his secretary, and as she answered he demanded, “Do you know if Superintendent West is in?”

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  “Then find out and let me know. Don’t let him know I’ve enquired.” Coppell put down the receiver, stood up and changed the direction of his glower; he could now see Lambeth Bridge and a corner of the roof of the Houses of Parliament through a haze caused by a slight drizzle. He was a proud man, and particularly proud of his position; and he was very jealous of it. West had broken the first rule of a hearing; spoken to the court when not under oath. Even apart from that, he had been grossly inefficient: he should have made sure there was no alibi before authorising Rapelli’s arrest.

  Rapelli—Rapelli. The name rang a bell, but he could not call the bell to mind. Well, it didn’t greatly matter, what mattered was that West be called on to explain his actions. He had certainly made trouble for himself by his intervention in court, and his crack about the other witnesses being in the same bed would have some nasty repercussions, despite his having apparently hit the nail on the head.

  Coppell’s secretary called.

  “Mr. West has just gone into his office, sir.”

  “Right,” said Coppell. “If anyone wants me, that’s where I’ll be.”

  • • •

  “I always knew West would go too far one day,” Coppell’s secretary said to the assistant commissioner’s secretary, half an hour later. “Wouldn’t I like to know what’s going on in West’s office!”

  “You’ll be the first to hear,” the assistant commissioner’s secretary replied, tartly. She had a very soft spot for Roger West but for some reason the other woman was always spiteful towards him. Could he have snubbed her at some time? The assistant commissioner’s secretary had no way of telling, but she wished there were a way to warn

  West of the ill-will that Coppell’s secretary had for him.

  • • •

  Roger West was in a mood halfway between anger and chagrin when he turned into his office, for this was a day when nothing would go right. He hadn’t lunched and was both hungry and slightly headachy, which showed a little in the glassiness of his eyes. He had an office of his own but no secretary, drawing from the secretarial pool whenever he needed a stenographer, which wasn’t often. A small office next door was a detective sergeant’s—named Danizon—who acted as his general assistant, sheltered him from too much interference and did everything possible to make life easy for him.

  Roger opened his door and Danizon jumped up from a small desk jammed into a corner.

  “Sir?”

  “Tea and sandwiches, please,” Roger said. “I’m famished.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  “Anyone been after me?”

  “No one in particular,” answered Danizon. “The sureties failed to put up the money for Rapelli, so he’s been taken to Brixton.”

  “Can’t say I mind,” Roger said, but he was puzzled. After making such a plea in court, why hadn’t Rachel Warrender provided the sureties?

  “Did you have any luck?” Danizon asked.

  Roger shook his head and went back to his own room.

  There were a few messages, mostly from the divisions, one notice of a Police Union meeting, one advance notice of the Metropolitan Police Ball, which would be early in October. There was a pencilled note across the corner of this. “Care to be M.C.?” In this mood I wouldn’t like — to be Master of Ceremonies at a five shilling hop, Roger thought, scowling; then he realised the absurdity of his own mood, and grinned. He was still smiling broadly, without knowing that it made him look quite startlingly handsome and carefree, when the door from the passage opened and Coppell strode in.

  Roger had no time to change his expression, which froze into a set grin as Coppell slammed the door behind him.

  “You’ve got a hell of a lot to be happy about,” he growled. “I expected you to be in tears.”

  There wasn’t any doubt about Coppell’s mood; he was out for blood. And there wasn’t the slightest point in answering back in the same tone. The best way to answer Coppell was earnestly.

  “What should I be crying about, sir?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  Roger hesitated, rounded his desk, and pushed a chair into position so that Coppell could sit down. But Coppell preferred to grip the back of the wooden armchair, in much the same way as Rapelli had gripped the rail of the dock that morning. His heavy jowl looked fuller than usual, his mouth was tightly set, his deepset eyes sparked with irritation.

  Roger stood behind his desk.

  “I’ve drawn four blanks today,” he observed. “But some days are like that.”

  “When you can spare a minute,” Coppell said with heavy sarcasm, “you might tell me what cases went sour on you, and why. You can begin with Rapelli’s arrest. From where

  I stand, it was bad enough to send Leeminster to arrest and charge him without being sure he was guilty, but why in hell you persisted in the charge, and then committed contempt of court with that crack about him and the witnesses I shall never understand.”

  Roger said in a thin voice, “Won’t you, sir?”

  “No. What the hell got into you?”

  Very slowly and deliberately Roger pushed his swivel chair into position behind his desk and sat down. He had known what he was doing, and Coppell must realise that; to adopt this attitude was to condemn him before he had been heard. For a few moments he was too angry to speak, but losing his temper would serve no purpose. He looked straight into Coppell’s eyes, and schooled his voice to carry a tone of cool respect.

  “I might understandably ask you the same question: what has got into you?”

  As he spoke, he knew that it had been the wrong moment; that instead of pulling Coppell up sharply into a more reasonable mood it had put him high on his dignity. Out of the blue, as it were, another crisis was upon him; you didn’t force a quarrel with your superior if you wanted to concentrate on the job in hand. And Coppell had a lot of influence in high places, could present him favourably if he wished and nearly damn him if he chose to be malicious.

  Just now, he looked as if he hated Roger, and he actually took a long step forward, as if to sweep the younger man aside.

  Chapter Three

  CONFLICT

  Coppell paused.

  That he was genuinely angry showed in the glitter in his eyes and the swarthy flush in his cheeks. Roger wondered what was going on in his mind. Was he thinking much as he, Roger, was thinking: that, angry and resentful though he felt, there was no point in pushing a quarrel? They were mature men, very senior officials, and they should have sufficient self-respect and respect for each other to avoid open conflict. His own anger began to fade but Coppell’s apparently remained. Suddenly it dawned on him that Coppell was now in such a towering rage that he could hardly control himself.

  So, he made himself say, “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Coppell glowered and growled, “What’s that?”

  “I said I was sorry, sir.”

  Coppell was only five years Roger’s senior in age and service. Everyone who was anyone at the Yard knew that he had been appointed commander because there had been no one else of sufficient experience for the job. Only the discipline of the Yard, the absolute rule that on duty no officer called a senior in rank by his Christian name, and always used the “sir” held Roger steady now, but his heart was thumping and some of his nerves began to quiver. He couldn’t do more.

  Oh, grow up, he thought: and he was thinking of himself, not Coppell. He was suddenly aware that in one way Coppell would never grow up, would probably never know true magnanimity. But at least the “sorry” mollified him and his eyes lost their glitter.

  Would Coppell rub his nose in
the apology?

  If he says I should damn well think so, thought Roger in another surge of emotion, I’ll give him my resignation.

  Coppell opened his mouth to speak, but before he uttered a word the door of the communicating room with Danizon opened and Danizon himself came in, pushing the door open with his rump. A tray rattled in his hand. Coppell, nearer the door, acted almost mechanically, and held it for the detective sergeant to come through. Danizon must have known that someone was there but not who it was. He grunted “ta” and placed the laden tray on a corner of Roger’s desk. There was tea, hot water, milk, sandwiches thick with meat, bread and butter and some jam.

  “Best I could do, sir,” said Danizon, then for the first time saw Roger’s face. He broke off, his expression asking, “What have I done wrong?” Then he glanced round and saw who had held the door open for him.

  Out of the blue, Roger had a thought that was almost inspired, and he said, “Fetch another cup for the commander, sergeant.”

  “Er—yes sir!” Danizon could not get out of the room quickly enough, and he shot one agonised glance over his shoulder as the door closed on him.

  Coppell gave a kind of grin.

  “Training him for the canteen?” he asked.

  “I missed lunch,” Roger replied, and wondered whether the incident would restore Coppell to a reasonable mood.

  “Doing what?” asked Coppell, and then he snorted. “Looking for those other two who were in bed with Rapelli?”

  That appealed to him; if he, Roger, went carefully they would be over the worst, although the conflict between them would probably never fade entirely.

  Before he could answer, Coppell snorted again.

  “Well, let’s hear more. You wouldn’t stick your neck out unless you had a reason, even if a bloody bad reason. The Home Office is on the warpath, so your explanation had better be good.”

  Roger’s heart dropped.

  “There’s been a lot of cannabis and some heroin pushed in and around Doons Way, which is a short street with some small clubs and a lot of noise,” he stated. “I thought that the man Rapelli was involved. I was afraid that if Rapelli was out on bail he himself might be attacked next.”