by John Creasey
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 y
our 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.
“Mind me!” screeched Artemeus.
Phillipson levelled the gun again, and moved to one side. Roger swivelled the chair slowly, tightening his grip on Artemeus, keeping his prisoner always between himself and the gun.
Phillipson fired again, and missed.
As he aimed a third time, the passage door burst open and two Yard men flung themselves into the room. They saw the gun and did not need Roger’s shout of warning. Fast upon that, one of them yelled on a note of alarm that cut through Roger like a knife, “Watch him, sir!”
Watch who?
Watch Phillipson!
Suddenly Roger saw the newspaper editor fling himself towards the window, firing at the two Yard men as he did so. Reaching the window, he kicked the glass through with one foot, then hurled himself out to the pavement ten storeys below.
• • •
Benjamin Artemeus sat shivering in his chair, while Roger looked down at the sprawled figure on the pavement. In her office, Miss Noble sat at the desk, hands on her broad lap, hopelessness in her expression.
• • •
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” said Danizon, “that was a wonderful job. I’ve talked to the secretary, Miss Noble, she says you were magnificent. Her very words, sir. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you look all in.
And you’ll have to see the commander and probably the commissioner very soon. Would it be a good idea if you rested for half an hour? There’s a bathroom next door, and a room next to that where you could put your feet up.”
They were going through papers in Artemeus’s desk.
They had already done a great deal since the shooting and the tragedy. Ambulances and police had arrived and Phillipson’s body had been taken away. An area of the Strand had been roped off and the police were busy there. Other police had been sent to Phillipson’s office, which had been sealed off, and members of the Board of the Globe as well as of Allsafe and other interested com-panies were being interviewed. Artemeus was now at the Yard. He had not spoken since Roger had arrested him, and was so blue in the face that he seemed likely to have a fatal attack at any moment. A police surgeon was standing by. Coppell had been interrupted at the European Police Conference, and he was believed to have told the commissioner about the situation.
There were at least two things Roger didn’t know.
First, who had killed Maisie? Second, what part had Rapelli really played in the murder of Verdi, and why had Verdi been killed?
The answers were somewhere in this mass of papers; they could even be in the evidence he had already discovered, but which he could not interpret properly.
These things went through his mind as he said, “Good idea, Tom. By the way, what brought you in person?”
“I took a chance after I’d ordered patrol cars to come here,” said Danizon, with refreshing honesty. “Just for once I wanted to be out on a job. I—oh, L forgot. Your wife telephoned twice this afternoon, and I thought she sounded anxious. When you’ve had a shower you might like to call her.”
“Yes,” Roger said, heavily. “I will.”
He went along to the bathroom, through a small and pleasantly furnished room where there were drinks, cocktail biscuits, glasses and some magazines—and a telephone. He thought he could guess what Janet had to say and he was in no mood, yet, to hear it. There was a lot to do, and soon he would have to report to Coppell—and quite possibly the commissioner as well.
Chapter Nineteen
INTERRUPTION
Roger soaked for a few minutes in the bath. The water was warm, too warm, but soothing to his over-tired body. Danizon was right, he thought. He must relax completely for ten minutes or so, must clear his mind of everything and forget the case entirely. He lay back and closed his eyes, but immediately he did so thoughts came crowding into his head—thoughts of Maisie, of Rachel Warrender, of Mario Rapelli, of Hamish Campbell, of everyone in-volved—each one forming a clear and living picture on the retina of his mind. Somewhere, in this maze of tangled evidence, were the clues he needed. Both Artemeus and Phillipson had obviously been involved in the campaign to discredit him in the Police Force and thus compel him to join Allsafe. But could that be simply to boost Allsafe against its competitors? Such a thought was inconceivable. And what in heaven’s name, Roger wondered, was the connection with the Verdi affair?
If he had to point a finger at the most astonishing development in this whole case it would be Rachel War- render’s visit, and her pleading for him to find out the truth. She had been in a desperate mood, had not slept all night; it was strange that she had felt so deeply at such a simple deception.
“My God!” Roger suddenly exclaimed aloud.
He looked round, and saw a telephone. He grabbed it, water dripping, instrument slipping from his fingers. An operator answered.
“Detective Sergeant Danizon, please. He’s in Mr. Art—”
“I know where he is, sir.”
There was only a moment’s pause before Danizon answered, but in this pause Roger’s thoughts were racing, and he spoke as Danizon came on the line.
“Have you come across any documents or files showing who represents Allsafe legally?”
“Well, yes, sir,” Danizon said. “I was struck by the coincidence. It’s Warrender, Clansel and Warrender, of Lincoln’s Inn.”
“So it is,” said Roger tautly. “Telephone Rachel War- render and ask her to meet me at the Yard in an hour. You’d better be there, too. I’ll be out of here in five minutes, and I’m going over to the Festival Hall, to see the commander.”
“But if y
ou interrupt him at the conference, sir—” Alarm thickened Danizon’s voice.
“I’ll either be out on my neck or the next deputy commander,” Roger said drily. “I know.”
In ten minutes he was outside in the Strand, facing a battery of reporters and photographers. A large crowd had gathered, hundreds of people watching the police taking photographs and measurements of the spot where Phillipson had fallen. As West appeared, the crowd surged towards him.
“Just a moment, Super.”
“Hold it.”
“Is it true that you were in the room when Phillipson jumped out of the window?”
“What’s it all about, Handsome?”
One man said in a very deep voice, “Can you give us a statement, sir?”
All this time Roger was pushing his way through the surging mass of onlookers, two constables trying to clear a path for him. Cameras were being held high, photographers were on the roofs of cars, on window ledges, even on one another’s shoulders.
“Was it suicide?” one man called.
“Or was he pushed?”
“Just a brief statement, sir,” pleaded the man who had asked before.
Through the crowd Roger could just see the head and shoulders of Detective Constable Ashe. He must be near the car, thought Roger, struggling towards him in the wake of the two constables. At last he reached it, the two policemen as well as Ashe protecting him as he started to get in. Then, standing on the side of the car and supporting himself by the door and a policeman’s shoulder, he faced the crowd.
“I’ll have a statement of some kind ready at the Yard by seven-thirty,” he called in a clear voice. “That’s a promise.”
There must have been fifty cameras snapping him as he stood there. All questions stopped, he got into the car unhindered, and the crowd drew back, allowing Ashe to drive him away.
