Alibi for Inspector West Read online

  JOHN CREASEY

  Alibi for Inspector West

  Copyright Note

  This e-book was created by papachanjo, with the purpose of providing a digitized format of the books written by John Creasey without the least intention of commercial gain of any sort. This e-book should hence be utilized for reading only and if you like it and can buy it, please do to support the publishers.

  I am trying to create at least an ample collection of all the John Creasey books which are in the excess of 500 novels. Having read and possess just a meager 10 of his books does not qualify me to be a fan but the 10 I read were enough for me to rake up some effort to scan and create these e-books.

  If you happen to have any John Creasey book and would like to add to the free online collection which I’m hoping to bring together, you can do the following:

  Scan the book in greyscale

  Save as djvu - use the free DJVU SOLO software to compress the images

  Send it to my e-mail: [email protected]

  I’ll do the rest and will add a note of credit in the finished document.

  from back cover

  “As a point of interest Miss Dunster, were the other two witnesses in your bed at the same time?”

  A trivial enough question, but it proves to be Roger West’s near-fatal blunder because it antagonises his superiors and attracts the glare of hostile publicity. West is left on his own to play a hunch and connect a bizarre assault case to a dangerous drugs racket or perish in the attempt — but he can only do this if the alibi is a phoney.

  The investigations lead him far beyond his expectations, and to financial temptations beyond the dreams of an honest cop.

  “The Roger West stories are perhaps the most successful of all Mr. Creasey’s output”

  The Guardian

  ALIBI FOR INSPECTOR WEST

  (Formerly ALIBI)

  Sensing rather than hearing movement, he half-turned, caught sight of the dark, shiny hair of a man bent low behind him. Then he felt hands thump against his shoulders and went hurtling forward, banging his forehead against the door. It swung open, and he fell headlong into the room. His head smacked against the floor, nearly stunning him, but he was aware of hands gripping his wrists and lifting his legs up, then pushing him to one side. The next moment he was kicked savagely in the ribs, then the door slammed and the light went out. He was alone, in darkness, gasping for breath.

  Gasping.

  He was aware of many things—mostly fear.

  John Creasey’s books have sold nearly a hundred million copies and have been translated into 28 languages. Born in 1908, John Creasey has a home in Arizona, U.S.A., since more of his books sell in the United States than in any other country. He also has his home in Wiltshire, England, and he virtually commutes between the two.

  He has travelled extensively, and is very interested in politics. He is founder of All Party Alliance and has fought four elections for this movement, advocating government by the best men from all parties and independents. Married three times, he has three sons.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  FIRST APPEARANCE

  “And is the accused represented in court?” asked Charles Gunn.

  He did not think, for one moment that the slender young man standing in the dock would have a lawyer here; he didn’t appear to have two pennies to rub together. Yet he had a scrubbed look, and was clean-shaven and short-haired. No one of his age, and he must be in his middle twenties, should have those sunken cheeks and eyes so vividly bright in their deep, dark sockets. He stood upright and very still, looking straight at Gunn, the magistrate on duty that morning.

  “No,” he said, clearly.

  Farriman, the fussy little, prim little, knowing little magistrates’ clerk, fussed with papers and spoke as if he had not heard the prisoner’s answer.

  “No sir, he’s not represented. Perhaps you could suggest legal aid.”

  “Does the accused plead guilty or not guilty?” Gunn asked. He never ceased to be slightly exasperated by the clerk, but seldom showed it.

  Again the prisoner answered very clearly.

  “Not guilty, sir.”

  Gunn looked at the young man, wondering what were the events that had led up to the act of violence that had brought him here. This had all the appearances of a straightforward and simple case; and a grave one. The prisoner was accused of “hitting a man over the head with a musical instrument, to wit, an electric guitar, with intent to cause grievous bodily harm”. “Grievous bodily harm’ could bring life imprisonment, but was likely to be seven to ten years, unless the man who had been attacked died.

  Gunn brought himself up sharply. He was thinking in terms of the accused’s guilt, and that was both wrong and unusual. All he had heard so far was the evidence of arrest and the charge. He was very conscious of that direct gaze; but he had long since learned, however keen his concentration on the man in the dock, to be aware of the rest of the court. Any unusual movement, while seldom distracting him, was carefully noted; and he noted now the unexpected appearance of a latecomer. This latecomer, tall, lean, strong-looking and quite unusually handsome, gave a respectful nod to the bench—to Gunn —and joined the grey-haired Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, who had made the formal charge.

  “I wonder what’s brought West,” Gunn remarked to himself. And, seeing the prisoner’s gaze flicker blankly for a moment, “Rapelli doesn’t recognise him.”

  The two senior policemen were whispering, the three newspapermen in the Press Box now seemed much more interested in West than in anything else, the court officials, including the two wardens with Rapelli, all watched West. That wasn’t really surprising. Chief Superintendent Roger “Handsome” West was probably the best- known policeman in England, with the possible exception of the commander of the Criminal Investigation Department. Moreover, he attracted publicity as a candle attracts moths. His looks; his flair for detection; his persistence and thoroughness and—not least—the countless examples of his unflinching physical courage, all contributed to his reputation. He seldom came to court, and Gunn could not remember him coming to this one except on a major case.

  So, why was he here this morning? Why should the apparently impetuous crime, the result of a fight between two young men, bring this senior policeman whose desk must be covered with details of investigations into major crimes?

  The grey-haired Chief Inspector, Leeminster, turned away from West, who sat back on the police bench and crossed his legs. He did no more than glance at the man in the dock.

  All of this had taken only a few seconds yet it had brought a noticeable lull, creating a mood almost of suspense. This was heightened as Leeminster neared the bench, and as the door to the public benches opened and a young woman came in. On that instant, two things happened at once. Charles Gunn saw West glance very appraisingly at the girl. And the three reporters moved, putting their heads together as if as impressed by this arrival as by West’s.

  “What is it? What is it?” Farriman the magistrates’ clerk asked Leeminster.

  �
�The police ask for a remand in custody,” said Leeminster.

  Of course they did on such a charge, thought Gunn, even more puzzled. Leeminster, obviously prompted by West, had repeated that request quickly.

  The girl was passing the public benches and approaching those where the police and the solicitors and officials sat. She was very striking-looking, her slender figure making her appear taller than in fact she was, and wore an olive green suede suit and tightly fitting hat, which practically covered her short, chestnut-brown hair. She glanced coldly at West, and Gunn felt sure the two had met before. He was mildly amused, for West had the reputation of being a ladies’ man.

  The girl came straight up to the bench. The prisoner seemed to shape his lips to speak and his grip on the rail became very tight. West moved back in his seat—amused? wondered Gunn; or resigned?

  Farriman, who had also been distracted, had taken his time writing down the police request. Now, pretending not to notice the girl, he said, “The police request a remand in custody, sir. The usual period is eight days.” Farriman must have irritated a dozen magistrates by that piece of gratuitous information.

  “I would be grateful for a hearing now, your honour,” the girl said clearly.

  Gunn realised that she was nervous. The formal words, the over-precise enunciation, the huskiness of her voice, all told him that. But at close quarters she was astonishing-looking, with a superb, near-olive coloured complexion, beautiful brown eyes, a short, narrow-tipped nose, bow-shaped lips and a pointed chin. Her face was unusually narrow, which somehow made her looks more striking.

  “What qualification have you to address the court?” demanded Farriman. He would never learn to allow the man on the bench to give a lead as to his own attitude.

  “I am a solicitor,” she stated, her voice still husky, “and I would like to represent the accused.”

  “The prisoner has already pleaded,” Farriman fussed, and at last looked up at Gunn. He could only see Gunn’s head and shoulders, and Gunn could only see a foreshortened view of his grey hair with the pink bald patch, his pince-nez on a flabby nose.

  “He pleaded not guilty,” Gunn said mildly.

  “I should think so,” said the girl, with greater assurance. “I think—”

  “Please, please,” interrupted Farriman. “If the bench would like to hear you then will you please—” He broke off.

  “Do you wish to be represented by this young lady?” Gunn asked Rapelli.

  Rapelli moistened his lips and said something.

  “Speak up, speak up!” Farriman urged.

  Gunn opened his mouth, on the verge of angry reproof, checked himself, scribbled “leave this to me” on a slip of paper and leaned forward and handed it down to Farriman who adjusted his pince-nez, frowned, read and read again. There was a fresh tension in the court, and now everyone was watching Rapelli closely.

  “Let me ask you another question,” Gunn said to the accused. “Do you know this young lady?” He smiled down at the girl. “Perhaps you will turn round so that the accused may see you.”

  She narrowed her eyes in a frown which brought a deep groove between her eyes, then turned abruptly, and said, “We know each other very well. Don’t we, Mario?”

  The young man moved his lips, and admitted “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to be represented by her?” Gunn asked again. “You may be, and I am quite prepared to allow you time for discussion in private.”

  Farriman wriggled in disapproval. Everyone, including Roger West, was staring at the couple. There was a facial similarity between them and their lean, spare figures made them look as if they might be brother and sister.

  “I would like her to represent me,” Rapelli said at last; and he closed his eyes.

  “Very well. If you will give the Clerk your name and qualifications, we may proceed,” said Gunn.

  In a clear voice, she gave her name: Rachel Warrender. She was a junior partner in the firm of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender, of Lincoln’s Inn. She asked if she could consult with her client while he was in the dock, having no wish to take up the court’s time. She went up to Rapelli, and placed a hand on the rail, obviously for no purpose but to touch his. Only the warders could hear what they said, but it was obvious that Rapelli spoke in little more than monosyllables.

  At last, Rachel Warrender turned and looked at Chief Inspector Leeminster. Leeminster had not moved from the time she had arrived, and in some way—a way which made him invaluable as a detective—he seemed to have faded into the background. Only now did anyone appear to notice him.

  “I confirm my client’s plea of not guilty,” she said, “and I would like to ask for a dismissal of the charge, which has no justification whatsoever.”

  “Oh,” said Gunn, and pursed his lips. “Dismissal.” If this young woman persisted in her request then he would have to decide how to respond: order an eight day remand, the normal way, without taking evidence; or accept evidence now, which he could by stretching a point. If he did this the court would have to call police and other witnesses, hear much more than the simple evidence of arrest already given. It could take an hour; several hours, perhaps. Well, this was his job and time wasn’t vital; but there were at least six other cases waiting, each of them likely to be one for summary justice. He might have to adjourn and make arrangements for another magistrate to take the waiting cases.

  “The police submit that they will need at least six or seven days in which to complete their enquiries,” Leeminster stated. “We respectfully repeat our application for a remand in custody, your honour.”

  “The enquiries can be completed in this court, in ten minutes,” stated Rachel Warrender with stinging acerbity.

  “I think I can satisfy the court that there is no case to answer.”

  “Do you propose to bring witnesses?” asked Gunn.

  “Yes, sir. Three witnesses who will state—”

  “Really!” Farriman exploded. “We cannot be told in advance what witnesses will state.”

  “We can and should be told in advance what the accused’s representative expects to establish,” Gunn said urbanely. “What do you hope to establish, Miss Warrender?”

  “That my client could not have committed the crime he is accused of because he was at least six miles away from the place where it was committed,” stated Rachel. She spoke much more clearly now, her voice was firmer and her manner assured. She glanced at Farriman, as if to say: I know what I’m doing as well as you.

  Gunn said, “And what have the police to say?”

  “The police are quite satisfied that they can prove the charge,” Leeminster declared with equal firmness.

  “And can you bring witnesses?”

  “We can, sir, in due course.”

  Gunn contemplated them both, aware of West watching him intently, and sensed that, for a reason which he couldn’t yet see, this was an important issue for the police. There was another point: the prosecution, in this case the police, could not be denied a remand to enquire into an alibi. If she were a good lawyer, the young woman certainly knew that as well as the police. So they were deliberately sparring, as if each was anxious to find out how far the other would go.

  So Rapelli would have to be remanded. The only question was whether it should be on bail or in custody.

  “How long do you say it will take the police to prepare their case?” he asked.

  “About a week, sir,” Leeminster repeated.

  “I can submit the defence now,” said Rachel Warrender. “I have my witnesses outside the courtroom.” She really was pushing hard, as if hoping that the police would yield, even withdraw the case, or at least withdraw their opposition to bail. When Gunn didn’t respond she went on with a touch of impatience, “If there are three witnesses who can state categorically that my client could not possibly have committed the crime since he was in another place at the time the crime was committed, surely that would justify a dismissal, your worship.”

  Leeminster kept
silent, leaving this to the court.

  “No,” said Gunn, after a brief pause. “As it is a defence of alibi, the police will have every right to insist on a remand. When can you produce your witness, Chief Inspector?”

  “I would hope within the week, sir, but I cannot say for certain until we have completed our enquiries.”

  “And you still ask for a remand in custody?”

  We do, sir.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “That the accused’s life could be in jeopardy, or alternatively that he could leave the country,” Leeminster stated.

  Gunn did not speak immediately, but pursed his lips, leaned back in the beautifully carved oak chair and looked up at the intricately decorated ceiling. He was aware of the way everyone looked at him, knew that his decision would be as important to the police as to the accused and his lawyer. He, Charles Gunn, was suddenly and unexpectedly presented with a very difficult problem. He was quite sure that the police would not have asked for custody on any grounds unless they were convinced of the need, and the decision rested solely on him. With Farriman, stickler for the rule and regulation, breathing stertorously below him, West, the prisoner and this young woman staring at him intently, he felt very much on the spot.

  Suddenly, he leaned forward.

  “Mr. Farriman—”

  Farriman climbed slowly, arthritis-bound, from his — chair, and his head and shoulders appeared over the front of the bench. He kept his voice low so that no one else could hear.

  “Yes, your honour?”

  “Is there any provision, Mr. Farriman, for hearing a witness in order to assess the advisability of bail or otherwise?”

  “There’s no provision, sir, but I have known such an occurrence. I have indeed. There is no provision specifically against it.”

  “Thank you,” said Gunn, sitting back, and linking his fingers together. “I would like to hear one of your witnesses, Miss Warrender, before making any decision. I trust,” he went on, peering down at Leeminster but more concerned with West’s reaction, “that the police have no objection.”