by John Creasey
“It was quite an extravaganza,” Roger said. “But I am beginning to understand it. They were so desperate that they took wild chances.” He frowned. “Do you know who killed Maisie, and why?”
“I think I know,” Rachel said. “After Maisie learnt that Fogarty had killed Smithson she wouldn’t have anything more to do with him. I think she was beginning to put two and two together, and they thought she knew more than she actually did. The only person she’d speak to was Rapelli, and I think someone went to her flat pretending to be Rapelli, and attacked her before she had time to find out who he really was.”
“One thing you should know, sir,” Danzion said later. “They found a section of a thumbprint on the hammer handle, the hammer used to kill Maisie. We shall get him.”
“Check it with Fogarty’s,” Roger ordered.
They learned, soon, that it was Fogarty’s print.
• • •
“So I killed Smithson,” Fogarty said hoarsely. “And I’d kill you, Rachel Warrender and the whole gang of hypocrites who support the bloody system we live under. We’ve got to have a change, don’t you understand? And we can only get it by revolution.”
“There are some things that make me feel murderous, too,” Roger said, tautly. “Such as Maisie’s death.”
“But I didn’t want to kill Maisie,” Fogarty cried. “She was the mother of my son—sure, she had a son, that’s what she always wanted money for, she paid a foster mother to look after the kid. I didn’t want to kill her!” he cried again. “But she learned too much, she could have brought disaster on everything and everyone I believe in!”
Roger left him and went to the Yard, where he studied the latest reports on Rapelli. Only this afternoon, since he had looked at the film, was there any reference to Rapelli’s political activities. “He is a member of an extreme right-wing underground group which used the Doon Club as cover.”
“We should have discovered that earlier,” Roger reproached himself. And it was no consolation to know that he would have come round to it sooner or later.
He went straight from the Yard to Brixton Prison. Soon, Rapelli was brought to see him, and obviously the man had heard something of what had happened. He was edgy, his lips twitched occasionally, he clenched and unclenched his hands.
“I’ve just come from Fogarty,” Roger said coldly. “And I know why you attacked Verdi.”
Rapelli said in a hoarse voice, “Is it true that Phillipson of the Globe killed himself?”
“Yes, and it is true that after a study of papers found in his office and in Artemeus’s office we know both men were involved in a plot to overthrow the government and impose one on the country. We also know you were involved, that Verdi found out and refused to go along, and—”
“You can guess what you like,” Rapelli interrupted. “I admit nothing, do you understand? Nothing.”
• • •
Roger telephoned Rachel Warrender at her Hampstead flat, and told her what he had said to Rapelli. Very slowly she answered, “It’s one thing to be a Fascist, another to be a cold-blooded murderer. But I’ll go and see him in the morning, Mr. West.”
“I hoped you would,” said Roger.
“I’m sure you did,” said Rachel in a very emphatic way. “You’ re one of the rare human beings who would help his own worst enemy, aren’t you? We’ll meet again, Mr. West, but just now I would like to thank you for being exactly what you are.”
When he rang off, he sat very still and silent. But he could not sit idle for long. He wanted to be at the hub of the Yard, helping to organise the raids, to be the first to hear the results.
There was an air of hustle and bustle and excitement as the different teams went out, first to the divisions, then to the offices and the houses of the people involved. Soon, more evidence came in of the plot. Documents found in Sir Roland Warrender’s safe proved what he had been planning, and Sir Roland admitted everything to a Yard superintendent.
His firm’s partners were involved, too, except for Rachel.
So were some of the directors and major shareholders of the Globe.
The raid on the Globe was a masterly achievement; everyone who knew what Phillipson had planned was charged, but most of the reporting, administrative and machine-room staff were quite unaware that the Globe was to have been the voice of rebellion, and they produced the next edition with banner headlines about the story.
By midnight, the raids were nearly all over, key houses and offices were taken over by the police. First the Home Secretary and then the Prime Minister were told, and faced with a fait accompli, gave their approval. Two cabinet ministers were on the fringe of the organisation as a political machine, a few members of Parliament had been aware of what Warrender was planning, but none had known of the Allsafe plot. Just after midnight, Roger was still at his desk when Coppell and Trevillion came in.
“All that matters is done for the night,” Coppell said, “I’ll stay and see it through. You go home, Handsome. You need some rest.”
“That’s an order,” the commissioner insisted, with a glint in his eyes.
Yes, it was time to go home; time to see Janet.
He had telephoned home and talked to Martin, telling him he would be late, asking him to tell Janet not to sit up, but Janet might have ignored that, and be waiting. What was she thinking? As far as she knew he had been offered an ideal job and not told her and not accepted it. He drove to Bell Street, slowly, and went right into the garage. The living room lights were on, so Janet hadn’t gone to bed. Oh, well. As he opened the kitchen door he heard the television, and was startled. Only rarely, and usually for political occasions, was there television after midnight. He reached the door and looked in. Both the boys and Janet sat round the screen, and there was no commentary, just some street scenes—Strand scenes. There was a picture of a man on the pavement —Phillipson! So a camera had been there that early. There were shots of the ambulance, of Phillipson being lifted in, of more police cars arriving, then, suddenly, pictures of a seething crowd of people.
“There he is!” cried Janet.
“Good old Pop!” chortled Richard.
“Hush!” breathed Scoop.
The camera followed him, Roger, as he pushed and the police pushed and at last he was at the car. Slowly he turned to face the crowd, and a remarkable silence fell upon the people. He looked round, and, watching, he was satisfied with his poise. His voice came from the television, as Janet said with a choky kind of emotion, “Oh, he’s wonderful!”
“I’ll have a statement of some kind ready at the Yard by seven-thirty. That’s a promise.”
“Do you know,” Scoop said, “I’ve never yet known Dad break a promise?”
“Hush!” breathed Richard.
There was a swift change of scene to the news room at Scotland Yard, in fact a conference room which was jammed tight with people. The commentator used as few words as he could as first Coppell and then the commissioner spoke.
“We can’t and won’t answer any questions,” Trevillion said, “but Commander Coppell has a statement which we have both signed. Copies will be available as you leave the room. Harrumph! Commander.”
The camera switched to Coppell’s face, his deepset eyes, his heavy jaw. He read the statement slowly, almost at dictation speed.
“A series of raids on professional, commercial and (one) newspaper building have been and are being made by officers of the Metropolitan Police Force in conjunction with the City of London Police Force this evening. Raids have been and are being carried out also on private homes. A number of arrests have already been made and others are pending. The charge in each case is that of conspiring against the State.
“This is only a preliminary statement. No others will be issued tonight and no questions will be answered. It can be stated, however, that these raids followed the death by suicide of the editor of the Globe, and that among those arrested are Sir Roland Warrender, M.P., Benjamin Artemeus of the Allsafe Security Company,
and members of the boards of both of these as well as other companies and partnerships.
“We are of the opinion that it should be stated that these raids, and the arrests of individuals inimical to the state, were made at the instigation of Chief Superintendent Roger West. Further, it should be stated that among those charged is Miss Gwendoline Ferrow, secretary to the undersigned, Commander Coppell.”
The picture faded.
Coppell’s bitchy secretary! Roger gasped inwardly. So that was how so much information had been leaked.
Martin got up slowly and moved to the screen and switched off. Then he saw Roger. Showing no sign that he had done so, he went across to Janet, by whom Richard was already sitting. With a gleam in his eyes, he asked,
“Good thing he didn’t take that job, isn’t it, Mum?”
“Yes,” Janet said huskily. “Yes, it is. Not that anything would ever make him resign from the Force until he’s compelled to by old age. It’s his life. I do know, boys. Try —try to make him understand. I do. I tried to get him this afternoon, I wanted to tell him that this man Artemeus was obviously trying to make me persuade him! But nothing would have made me. I wanted to try to make him understand that I know he would hate to work for Allsafe, that he mustn’t do it for me.” She paused, looked from one son to the other, and then asked in a pleading voice, “Do you think, after all I’ve said in the past, that he will believe me?”
Martin looked down on her solemnly, then glanced over her head at Roger, and said, “Why don’t you ask him?”
Janet sprang up and spun round. Roger moved towards her. He could never know the brilliance in his eyes, the glow, the satisfaction which shone in his face.
“Come on, Fish,” said Martin-called-Scoopy. “This is no place for little boys.”
THE END
