by John Creasey
“I may have to, later,” Roger answered, “but I’ve at least a couple of hours.”
“That’s something,” Janet said in an artificial voice betraying a bitter word. “Why don’t you take the papers and have a drink in the sitting room while I’m finishing off?”
Roger washed, slipped on an old jacket and worn leather slippers, had his drink, and went into dinner. Scoop arrived late, obviously pleased with life; and the boys kidded a great deal. They cleared the table between them, then Richard went up to his room to do some work on his Irish trip and Martin up to a box-room where he painted. Roger went into the kitchen and dried up as Janet washed. She was preoccupied, presumably about Martin, so they said very little. Roger allowed his thoughts to roam, from Richard and his startling question, to the case, to Artemeus’s offer, and to the simple fact that he couldn’t make up his mind whether to tell Janet about that or not. If he told her, she would almost certainly want him to leave the Yard, and he would readily understand why. Her anxious “You haven’t got to go out again, have “ you?” was a vivid reminder of her constant complaint. They could never plan to go anywhere or do anything together with any certainty, he was so often called out. A job which paid a fortune and which would leave him free at weekends would be a dream to her.
She had often been edgy over the past few months, and if that was hardly surprising of a woman in the late forties, it wasn’t the easiest situation to live with, especially in a household of men. Scoop’s doubts about telling her directly, Richard’s only half-pretended apprehension about being late for dinner, his own doubts about telling her of the Allsafe offer, were all indicative of the home problems. They weren’t acute but one could never be sure when there would be some kind of emotional upheaval. And so far they had escaped lightly over Scoop’s plans.
He put the last of the china on the kitchen dresser, she wiped the last burnished saucepan and hung it from a head-height shelf. Then she turned and asked with sharp intentness, reminiscent of one of her edgy moods. “What is it that has to be so “mum” with mum? What were you talking to Richard about? What can you discuss with him and not with me?”
Chapter Twelve
CLASH
Roger looked into her face, and felt a sudden surge of love for her. At times such as when Richard had been fooling with her, she looked exactly like the girl she had been when they had met and married. Now, she was tense and anxious. She was, of course, bound to suffer some delayed action from the shock of last night’s news; whatever else, he thought protectively, he must soothe and help her.
So, he laughed.
“You think it’s funny,” she exclaimed.
“I think it’s very funny,” Roger said.
“Well, I don’t think it’s funny at all.” Her eyes were over-bright, and they sparked with anger which must have been brewing all the evening. “Are you going to tell me what it is? Or are you going to hold a family conference to decide whether I can be trusted with the information?”
Roger suddenly felt very tired. He’d hoped to keep it from her—hadn’t wanted to worry her with this particular problem—but he’d have to tell her about it now, of course. He slipped an arm round her shoulders.
“There’s a rumour in Fleet Street, one that reached Richard’s studio, that I have been or am about to be suspended by the commissioner,” he explained. “I went to a room expecting to find a man and instead found a woman. The situation was somewhat compromising.
Richard heard something about this at his studio, otherwise I wouldn’t have said a word to him.”
As he talked, her expression changed from anger to anxiety, then to alarm. She didn’t relax, didn’t speak immediately, and Roger made himself go on, “The whole thing might blow over in a day or two and be forgotten, so I didn’t think there was any point in worrying you about it. Where were you when you heard what Richard said?” he added, in an attempt to take the tension out of the situation.
“In the bathroom.” That was immediately above the path at the side of the house. “Why have you been in disgrace?”
Roger tightened his lips, but fought back a sharp retort, saying, “I don’t think “disgrace” is the right word. The commissioner disapproves of—”
“You making wild accusations in court, and going into a prostitute’s room alone when she’s alone. I have friends in Fleet Street, too, and one of them telephoned me to find out if I know. How often do such situations arise in the course of duty?” Now Janet was really at her emotional worst, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “The commissioner would hardly make such a fuss if this were an isolated instance, would he?”
Again, Roger spoke very slowly.
“Jan, I don’t think now is the time to discuss this.”
“Well, I do!”
“Oh,” said Roger. “You do.” Whatever happened, he thought, he must not lose his temper. He must see the funny side of the situation, must be understanding of the tensions which were tearing at his wife. He tightened his arm about her shoulders, feeling them stiff and unyielding. “Jan,” he said, “had the commissioner known what really happened there wouldn’t have been any fuss. Coppell knew the whole story, and he calmed the old man down. I didn’t know the girl was in the room, and when I heard her breathing I was going to get out but a couple of men had other ideas, pushed me back in, and slammed the door. Then the woman pulled a gun on me. It was really very simple and very silly, and I don’t really know why the old man made an issue of it.”
“Well,” Janet said, in a strangled voice, “I know.”
“Do you, then!”
“And don’t be flippant, Good gracious, don’t you know me well enough to realise that when I’m worked up like this I don’t want to be teased? He made an issue of it because you’re always breaking the regulations. You just can’t accept discipline, and he knows you can’t have an efficient Police Force without discipline. Why on earth you can’t be like other men and just do your job without volunteering for duty and every dangerous case there is, I shall never know. You’re always working. Do you know we haven’t had an undisturbed evening together for over two weeks?” When Roger didn’t respond, and there was really no way he could, for she was undoubtedly quite right about that she went on, “Well, I hope you are suspended.”
“Jan, please—”
“I hope you’re suspended and I hope you’re fired, or have to resign. Then perhaps you’ll be able to lead a normal home life and your over-developed sense of duty can be devoted to your family, and not wasted on a lot of criminals who ought to be horsewhipped. You don’t work for the police, you slave for them!”
Roger took his arm away, and moved to the open doorway. He hadn’t seen her in such a mood for a long time, six months or more, and he kept reminding himself that this was the delayed action after hearing about Scoop’s decision. It might not be reasonable, but somehow he had to ride it, had to help her to recover.
“Well,” he said, “I won’t slave for them forever.”
He could almost see Benjamin Artemeus over her shoulder; and he did see the sudden change in her expression, the hopeful gleam in her eyes, the new intentness. It was as if she divined that he had some outstanding news for her. And now he had to decide whether to tell her about the Allsafe offer. Swift as light, thoughts flashed through his mind; and finally, decision.
In such a mood as this, he couldn’t possibly tell her; she wouldn’t rest until she had persuaded him to say “yes”, and he was a long, long way from feeling sure that he wanted to leave the Yard. He needed days, probably weeks, to study all the implications both of staying and leaving.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “Are you going to retire?” Her eyes blazed with new hope and she took him by the shoulders and talked as she would sometimes to the boys. “Roger! Promise me you’ll retire soon. Soon. If you want to make me happy again you’ll have to leave the Force, especially now that Martin is going off. I shall be on my own so much in the evenings. When Martin�
�s home it’s not too bad, even if he’s upstairs painting I can go up and have a chat with him if I’m at the end of my tether. But with him gone and Richard likely to get married at any time, I shall go mad here on my own in the evenings. Roger, you’ve got to retire. Do you hear? You’ve got to.”
And suddenly, her intensity being so great, she began to shake him. And she was still shaking him when the telephone bell rang and kept on ringing.
• • •
Roger had to answer the telephone.
Janet was shaking him so furiously, oblivious of everything, that he had to get away, had to have time to recover from the onslaught. The telephone went on ringing, and wrenching himself free, he said brusquely, I must answer that.” Going to the door of the passage, he saw Scoop standing by the telephone, and knew at once, by the set of his chin, the hurt but wary expression in his eyes, that his son had overheard at least the last things Janet had said. Gripping his son by the forearm, surprised, as always, at the boy’s muscular strength, Roger picked up the telephone at the same time.
“This is Superintendent West.”
“Hi, Handsome,” a man said. “This is Bobby Nixon.”
“Hallo, Bob,” Roger made himself say. Usually he could divorce himself from the home situation, no matter how tense, and apply himself to the problem coming from the Yard, but tonight it was much more difficult than usual. Nixon was a divisional superintendent who often acted as a stand-in for divisional men on leave, and Roger wasn’t sure whether he was stationed at the Yard or not at the moment. “Where are you?”
“Fulham.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve just been to see a girl friend of yours,” went on Nixon with heavy humour. “Maisie Dunster.”
“How is her language?” enquired Roger.
“Meteoric—or rather, a bit like the aurora borealis. She wants to see you.”
“Then perhaps she’d better wait.”
“I should come over,” advised Nixon. “I think she’s in a very chastened mood, as a matter of fact. She’s just had a visit from her lawyer, that Warrender girl.” Roger caught his breath at that piece of information. “I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t there myself, but the turnkey said that after about five minutes they had a flaming row. Rachel Warrender left her, and Maisie bellowed a few choice obscenities after her. Or do I mean blasphemies? I saw the Warrender girl out myself, and she looked like murder.”
Roger asked sharply, “When was this?”
Now, he was exclusively concerned only with work; the conflict with Janet had faded into the background; so had Scoop. He released the lad’s arm, pointed upstairs and then put a finger to his lips, wanting to tell Scoop not to let his mother know what he had overheard and then he concentrated absolutely on what Nixon said.
“Half an hour ago,” Nixon answered. “Maisie went on the rampage for a bit, threw everything she could lay her hands on about the cell, then she calmed down and asked to see me. So I went down, and she said she wanted to talk to the great West. I should certainly come if you possibly can, Handsome.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Roger promised, and rang off.
He did not even begin to guess what had happened between Maisie Dunster and Rachel Warrender, but he knew Nixon was right; it was of the utmost importance that he went to see Maisie while she was in her present mood. And it could be a good thing, too—forcing a break from Janet, who would almost certainly become contrite and remorseful in a little while. But he had to decide how to guide Martin.
Martin whispered, “All right, Dad. I won’t let mum know that I heard.” He gave his father’s arm a squeeze, in turn, and then went back upstairs, remarkably agile for such a heavy youth.
Roger went back into the kitchen.
There, Janet was sitting in the armchair, one hand at her forehead; obviously crying. She looked up as he approached, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she said, huskily.
“Forget it, Jan.” Roger put his arm about her shoulders again, and squeezed. “I know what a strain it is. Forget it.”
“I—I hate myself.”
“Well, I don’t hate you,” Roger said mildly. “I hope that counts for something. Love, I have to go out, but I don’t expect to be long. Both the boys are home tonight. Shall I see if one of them can come down?”
“Oh, not yet!” Janet was alarmed, and began to run her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want them to see me like this. I’ve some ironing to do, and some sewing. I’ll be all right for an hour. Provided there’s someone in I’m always all right,” she added, forcing a smile. “You go on, dear.”
Roger kissed her damp cheek, and went out.
As he walked into the cool of the evening, he felt numbed. It was a little after half past nine, quite early, but already it had been a long day. What time had he started? About six o’clock, or rather earlier. And he had been running into different situations ever since, all of them unexpected and each needing much more concentration than he had yet been able to give it. As he got out of the car, he thought that in a way this last had been the worst situation, for it had crashed upon him at home, where he should reasonably expect and where he most certainly needed relaxation. There was a cold spear of apprehension within him. If Janet were going to react like this after Martin had gone, what would life be like? He, Roger, couldn’t take too many such scenes, and they had been going on periodically, for a long time.
Gradually, that gloomy apprehension faded and he began to think of Maisie.
It was part of his tactics, born of experience, to go over everything he knew about a suspect before an interview. Thought of Janet faded again, Maisie took her place in his mind, and he went through a series of mental pictures from the first time he had set eyes on her in the witness box, to the time when he had seen her in the cell. There was no need to go and check the reports and his notes, he was quite sure that he recollected everything she had said and done.
At last, he reached the police station. Nixon was waiting for him, tall, lean man with a nearly bald head and large, rather prominent eyes—a sharp contrast to Coppell’s, which were small and deepset.
“Didn’t lose any time,” Nixon remarked as they shook hands. “Always on the ball, that’s my Handsome. Where are you going to interview her? Down in the cells? Or shall we bring her up here, and kid her along a bit? I daresay if she gets a glimpse of the outside world it will oil her tongue.”
“Upstairs is a good idea,” agreed Roger. “Lay on some coffee, will you, and cigarettes? I’ll go down and get her myself.”
“I’ll send a man with you,” offered Nixon. “With the caviar.”
Five minutes later, Roger saw Maisie, sitting with her legs up on the narrow bed, not putting on an act or posing. Her face was set more sombrely than he had seen it, obviously something had upset her very much. She nodded without speaking to Roger, looked surprised when she was taken upstairs, equally surprised to find coffee, cream and chocolate biscuits on a tray, and easy chairs to sit in comfort.
“Why the plush treatment?” she demanded. “Think this will make me talk more?”
“It should make you feel more like a human being,” Roger retorted.
“And less like a louse,” retorted Maisie wryly. “All right, Handsome—give me some of that coffee with a lot of milk and sugar, and I’ll tell you the solemn truth, even if you send me to jail because of it.”
She looked sombre enough to suggest that she really believed that she was about to risk imprisonment.
The man whom Nixon had sent down had a notebook and pencil in his hands.
Chapter Thirteen
SEDUCTION
Maisie took a cigarette and thrust her face forward to get a light. Roger gave her time to drink half a cup of coffee, then squared himself in his chair.
“You know that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence, don’t you?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she replied.
&
nbsp; “Even with that, it’s better to let us have the truth,” he went on. “Did you lie about Rapelli being with you on Thursday night?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Were you paid to lie?”
“Yes.”
“How much did you get?”
“A hundred pounds,” she answered.
“Did you realise what a serious crime it was?”
She shrugged.
“One kind of lie is very much like another to me. What kind of sentence will I get?”
“If you go into the box next week and change your evidence, I doubt if you’ll be charged. I’m not sure in the circumstances that what you said was permissible as evidence, anyhow.”
She looked astounded more than delighted, then, gradually, excitement sparked in her eyes. She stubbed out her cigarette and finished her coffee; Roger poured her another cup.
“But that’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “Wonderful!” Then a shadow passed over her face and she went on, “The trouble is, I may not have the hundred pounds to pay back for—for saying what I did.”
“Whom will you have to repay?” asked Roger.
For the first time, she hesitated, and he wondered whether she was in fact telling the truth, or whether this could be a deliberate attempt at deceiving him. There was absolutely no way of telling, and if she withdrew her statement she would certainly be showing earnest of her new-found honesty.
Then she said, “Mario Rapelli.”
“He was driven to exclaim, “Rapelli!”
“Yes.”
“Did he also bribe the others?”
“Yes,” said Maisie. “He paid us in advance, he said there might be trouble.”
“Did he then!” exclaimed Roger. “Then he knew in advance—”
He broke off, biting his tongue, needing to think. If Rapelli had gone to the club to kill Verdi, then the whole situation changed, took on an even greater significance.
