by John Creasey
“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.
Fifteen minutes later he was entering the Royal Festival Hall. This hall, London’s musical pride since the 1951 Exhibition, was often used during the day for conferences. On this particular day it was almost filled with policemen from over thirty countries of Europe, including each of the Iron Curtain countries. Roger went to a table marked Organisation and spoke to a grey-haired woman whom he vaguely recognised as from the Yard; the Metro-politan Police were responsible for all the arrangements here.
“Good afternoon, Mr. West.”
“Good afternoon. I must speak to Mr. Coppell,” Roger said.
“Oh, no !” she exclaimed. “The president of the conference is making his closing speech. You can’t hear a pin drop in the hall, sir.”
Roger hesitated only for a moment before saying positively, “Five minutes is the absolute limit I can wait.”
“Oh, but it will be an hour at least! I daren’t disturb him.”
“Do you know where Mr. Coppell is?” asked Roger.
“He’s about halfway down on the left-hand side of the centre aisle, but the commissioner’s with him.”
Roger said, “Thank you,” and opened a door into the huge auditorium. A man was standing on the huge stage, small, dark-haired, pale-faced, vivid in a single spotlight. He was Karl Schmidt of West Germany, one of the world’s great policemen and an orator in German, French and English. The woman was quite right; there was utter stillness and there was magnetism in that clear, only faintly guttural voice.
Roger felt acutely self-conscious, and very glad of the carpeted floor. He passed rows and rows of men, with only here and there a woman, but no one appeared to take the slightest notice of him. He was scanning the heads for Coppell’s, which he would recognise—ah! There he was, only one seat off the aisle. Roger drew nearer, and gulped, for the commissioner was in the aisle seat and he could see how intent Trevillion was on the speaker.
. . . “. . . and if we are to bring this dreadful wave of crime to an end . . .”
Roger summoned up all his courage and bent forward. “Excuse me, sir,” he whispered, touching Trevillion’s arm, “I must see the commander.”
“What —!” Trevillion ejaculated.
“Shhh!” someone hissed.
“What?” muttered Trevillion.
Now Coppell had been disturbed, and he turned too. There was just enough light to show Roger’s face, as he breathed, “It’s vitally urgent, sir.”
“I’ll come,” whispered Coppell.
Roger turned and made his way back, noticed this time by people near the scene of the interruption, aware of many eyes turned towards him. But even so, most eyes were still riveted on the figure on the stage.
“. . . we have, as we well know, many political problems and social problems but none of us, whatever our ideology, our faith, wants crime on the scale that we now have it. We must find a set of rules to which we can all subscribe; must have co-operation at its closest in the investigation of certain crimes, such as murder for gain . . .”
Roger went into the foyer, and held the door open. The woman at the table was staring intently; her eyes widened when first Coppell and then the commissioner came out. Roger closed the door quietly, and Coppell said in a growl, “Your reason had better be good.”
Trevillion was staring at Roger in a puzzled way, not at all censorious or angry; just puzzled. Roger led the way towards a place at the foot of a staircase where no one could come upon them unawares, and overhear what was said.
“Well?” Coppell growled again; whether out of anger or to impress the commissioner, Roger couldn’t guess.
“Phillipson of the Globe has just committed suicide by throwing himself out of the window of the Allsafe managing director’s office,” Roger stated. “Benjamin Artemeus, of Allsafe, is under arrest on a charge of assisting Phillipson in an attempt to commit grievous bodily harm. Phillipson and Artemeus were conspiring to get control of all the security companies of consequence in the country.
They used me as a pawn to win shareholders’ votes. All of these facts can be established from a tape-recording made while I was in Artemeus’s office. I have ordered police control of the Allsafe administrative offices and our men are in possession.”
Roger paused, as much for breath as anything else. Neither of the others spoke or moved, and at last he went on, “I believe the editorial and administrative offices of the Globe should be searched forthwith, although it is conceivable that some papers have already been destroyed. I also believe that all the directors and executives of the security companies concerned should be interrogated and their homes searched for incriminating docu-ments. Further, I believe that the law firm of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender is involved, and I think its offices and the homes of its partners should be searched, at once.”
He paused again, and this time Coppell gasped, “Good God!”
“I did not feel that I could give orders for these raids on my own account,” Roger said. “We need all available men from the C.I.D.: all officers off duty should, in my opinion, be called in so that a clean sweep can be made tonight. I doubt if any of the suspects will expect such immediate action, but if we wait until tomorrow then any incriminating documents could be burned or otherwise destroyed, while any individuals engaged in the conspiracy could get together to offer false explanations and in some cases might flee the country during the night.” He moistened his lips, but paused only for a moment. “I hope you will authorise the raids, gentlemen. I believe them to be essential.”
“And Phillipson is dead!” said the commissioner, in-credulously. “I know—I knew him well.”
Was he going to be as slow as that in catching up with the situation? Roger wondered desperately.
“We’d better hear that tape-recorder,” Coppell said. “Is your car outside, Handsome?”
“At the door.”
“Shall we go in that?” Coppell suggested to the commissioner. It was almost a direction and they moved towards the door. “We can hear the rest of West’s story on the way.”
Ashe, talking to a doorman, was suddenly at attention as the three men appeared, and at the car door in giant strides. There was no room for three big men in the back seat, so Roger got into the seat next to Ashe, switched off the two-way radio, and twisted round so that he could face his two seniors. His head was bent because of the low roof, and his side hurt where he had been kicked, but his heart was light because he now knew that he was being taken with utter seriousness. But he still hadn’t reached the crux of his belief—his fear.
“Now, proceed,” said the commissioner.
“The tape will establish what I’ve already said”—Roger went on as if there had been no interruption—” and at least three of our men saw Phillipson throw himself out of the window. I was nearer him than anyone else, but still six or seven feet away. The rest is based largely on conjecture.”
“You mean, the justification for these wholesale raids you want?” asked Coppell.
“On some of the most distinguished men in the country,” Trevillion put in sonorously.
“Yes,” answered Roger, crisply. “It really turns on the fact that Rachel Warrender came to see me and pleaded with me to find out the truth. She told me that she had been in love with Rapelli, that she had believed in him, but that she now found he had bribed his witnesses. She also told me that her father—Sir Roland Warrender— had begged her not to take the case, and she seemed extremely worried about this—almost as if she suspected his motives. She was in very great distress, both for Rapelli’s sake and for reasons which might well concern her father.”
He paused, moistening his lips again; his mouth was very dry.
�
��Warrender,” murmured Coppell, “Phillipson . . .”
Roger’s heart and hopes leapt in unison.
“But what has the error of judgment of a young woman solicitor to do with this?” demanded Trevillion.
“I think she feared her father was involved but couldn’t bring herself to spy on him or even give direct information,” Roger said slowly. “I believe she came to give me the vital clue: that her father, one of the most extreme right-wing politicians in Britain, could be involved.”
“With the most extreme right-wing newspaper,” breathed Coppell.
“That’s right,” said Roger. Thank God Coppell was police-trained, he thought, and saw the significance of all this way ahead of Trevillion. “It all began to fit. I was the pawn, as I’ve said—I had to be the figurehead behind whom the shareholders of Allsafe would rally. And once I had joined them, I was to be built-up by the Globe as a victim of the intolerable rigidity of the Yard’s policy. I was to be a victim of your tyrannical attitude, sir. I was to be the golden boy who could no longer work at the Yard, being blocked at every turn by red tape, officialdom and—no doubt—by governmental control through the Home Office.” He was looking at Trevillion, who frowned slightly at the accusations but made no comment. “And once I was trapped, once I was the figurehead, once the reputation of the Yard had been effectively smeared and the reputation of the police trampled in the dust, once all the major security forces were merged under one control—”
“They would be in competition with us !” cried Coppell.
In the silence which followed, Ashe took his eyes off the road for a moment and gaped at Roger. A car horn hooted, and he swung the wheel in a moment of alarm, but none of the passengers noticed.
“They might even be in a position to take over now,” Roger said, grimly. “Most of their staff are ex-Yard and ex-policemen, many of them in their early fifties, even in their late forties. They would have all the makings of an alternative police force.”
“West,” said Trevillion, in a curiously flat voice, “do you know what you’re saying?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Roger, quietly. “I couldn’t understand why they should go to such lengths to discredit me at the Yard and at the same time discredit the Yard itself. But I can see a very likely reason now. And I can also see beyond this to a political crisis, sir. We are in a constant succession of political emergencies. The Globe has been campaigning for a businessman’s government for years; has even advocated benevolent dictatorship as the way out of our political and economic troubles. Artemeus is right-wing. Sir Roland Warrender has been the rallying point at Westminster for discontent with the present form of government, and there have been some indications that he either sees himself as a leader, or others see him as one—”
“You think there could be an attempt to take over the country,” interrupted Trevillion. He did not raise his voice but spoke as if it were hurtful for him to say such things. “And you want these raids made to ensure that if there is any plot, then it is smashed now, before the ringleaders can escape to plot again. Is that it?”
Roger said simply, “That is it exactly, sir.”
The commissioner, sitting bolt upright, looked like an image of Buddha. He stared intently into Roger’s eyes, and then turned to Coppell. It was a long time before he spoke.
“If I were in absolute control,” he said at last, “I would call out the armed forces to make these raids. But the point you have made very successfully in the past few weeks is that my methods are not police methods. What do you advise, Commander?”
So now everything was in the hands of the commander, C.I.D. It was up to Coppell, thought Roger grimly, to prove his capacity for dealing with such a desperate situation.
Chapter Twenty
POLICEMAN
Coppell was looking at Roger, not at Trevillion. The car was now in Parliament Square, but none of them glanced up and none appeared to realise the appositeness of this place at this moment—unless Ashe did. He was tense-faced and his hands, usually relaxed, were tight on the wheel.
“I would assign every man we’ve got, off duty or on, to these raids.” Coppell spoke slowly, weightily. “I would brief all the divisions, call for help from the City Police, be completely ready to make the raids, while you were placing the known facts before the Home Secretary. And I would be ready to move the moment he approved.”
Roger thought almost desperately: But supposing he wouldn’t give the word?
Trevillion frowned.
“I see. Yes. However, supposing the Home Office became entangled in all that red tape which West feels can be such a disadvantage? Supposing I told the Prime Minister —who will be at the Euro-Police Conference tonight—and the Prime Minister called a cabinet meeting and the cabinet ministers dithered?” Trevillion looked at Roger with a wry smile, then turned back to Coppell. “I’m a naval man, Commander. Often have to take decisions and justify them afterwards. If it’s a wrong decision one is in serious trouble, but there isn’t time for reference back to
Whitehall when one is under direct enemy attack.” He paused, looked from Coppell to Roger, then back again to Coppell. “Set the Yard at Action Station, Commander,” he said harshly, “and move into action the moment you’re ready. And don’t lose a second. Understand?”
Coppell was already leaning forward to switch on the radio. By the time they reached the Yard, men were coming in for instructions and every division had been alerted for a raid or raids which might take all night. The Press was clamouring outside the Yard and cameras clicked again and again.
They went inside.
“What do you have to do now?” Coppell asked Roger.
“I promised the Press a statement at the Back Room at seven-thirty,” Roger said. “But I’m anxious to interview Rachel Warrender at once.”
“I’ll fix the statement. You see the Warrender girl and let me know when you’re through,” said Coppell.
“West,” said Trevillion, rubbing his jaw, “I want you to understand one thing. Whether you’re right or whether you’re wrong, you’ve done a remarkable job in a remarkable way. I’m sorry I made it difficult for you.”
He nodded, and moved off.
Coppell cleared his throat.
“Couldn’t agree with him more, Handsome. I made it bloody difficult, too. I’m no public relations man. Can never say what I mean to say, if there’s a back, I put it up. Early on, I wanted to tell you something but couldn’t get it out, you can put my back up, too.” His face was thunderous as he said all this and the shadows seemed to grow darker as he went on, “I’m going to retire. Only got three months to go. I had to recommend someone to take my place. You. But Trevillion had doubts, thought you were a show-off—and in a way I agree with him. You had me over a barrel. But there was a thing I didn’t know.
You shot up high in his opinion when you fought him and me. He likes a lone wolf, a man with the guts to make his own decisions. Thought you ought to know.”
He turned and strode off, leaving Roger staring after him in blank astonishment. Roger didn’t know how long he had been standing there before he could relax, and then, feeling strangely touched, he went along to his own office. On his desk was a single note, which read:
Miss W. is in my office—been here since 6.49 p.m.
Roger read this two or three times, lit a cigarette, then took out whisky and soda, poured himself a tot, left the bottles out with an empty glass and went to the communicating door.
Rachel was facing him as he opened it. For a moment they stared at each other, while Danizon jumped up from his desk and said in some confusion, “This is Miss War- render, sir.”
Slowly she got to her feet and moved like an automaton past Roger and into his office, her face a mask of tragedy and defeat. Roger went to his desk and sat on a corner, gave her a chance to speak, and when she didn’t take it, asked, “Have you heard about Phillipson?”
“Yes.” Her whisper was hardly audible.
“Are you afr
aid your father might commit suicide, too?”
“No,” she said, a little more strongly. “He would stand and fight. He will fight.”
“Did you know that there was a plot to set up a rival organisation to the established police forces, one which could take over if there were a coup?”
“No,” she whispered, “I didn’t know—but I feared it. I — I couldn’t bear to investigate. So—I came to you. I believed if anyone could find out, you could.”
It would be easy to say that she should have told him, that earlier knowledge might have saved not only trouble but lives, certainly Phillipson’s life. But what good purpose could be served? Wouldn’t her conscience torment her enough as the days passed?
“I doubt if I would have seen the truth so quickly if it hadn’t been for you,” he said. “But even with your help, if the other security companies hadn’t started to gang up on Allsafe, thus making Phillipson and Artemeus pressure me too hard, I might not have realised what was going on.”
“And you don’t like being pressured,” she remarked. The faint smile at her lips was a good sign.
“Not in court or out of it! Rachel, do you know what actually happened between Rapelli and Verdi?”
“I didn’t,” she answered, “but I do now. I told you I had an enquiry agent at work, but in fact this was a member of the firm’s staff. He knew that Mario was a very right- wing politician who worked for my—my father, whose activities were nearly treasonable, even to the point of conspiring with Phillipson and Artemeus to overthrow the government and establish a new government by thinly disguised dictatorship.
“This member of the staff knew that Verdi suspected Mario Rapelli’s part in the conspiracy. He and Verdi used to work together at rallies and demonstrations, but Verdi discovered they were planning a coup, and he threatened to tell the police. Mario killed him to keep him quiet. Maisie had no idea what was going on, but Fogarty had. And when Hamish Campbell found out, he switched sides because of his right-wing sympathies. They all panicked,” she added helplessly. “When you went to Fogarty’s room they thought you would find some documents and literature there that would give the game away, and Campbell tried—Well, you know what followed.”
