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  “You just thought,” breathed Coppell.

  “I also knew that some of the clubs stage occasional sex orgies in the upper rooms and that this witness—Dunster —runs around with some pretty funny people. All-in all, I decided it was worth letting the witness and her counsel and the court know what I knew. And I gambled on Gunn letting it pass with an apology.”

  “Just as you gambled on quietening me down with one,” Coppell said.

  Then Danizon came in with a cup and saucer, looking almost pleadingly at Roger for approbation. Roger took the cup and saucer.

  “Thanks. Oh, sergeant—has Mid-Western Division called?”

  “Not—not lately, sir.”

  “If anyone calls from there, put the call through to me.”

  “Right, sir !” Danizon backed out with obvious relief, and Roger began to pour tea. At least he knew that Coppell liked his strong, with plenty of sugar.

  “We’ve so much drug pushing going on I think the gamble was worth it. But I can’t see Rachel Warrender defending anyone involved in drugs. I think the alibi was a phoney,” he went on, “but I’m not sure drugs are the trouble. I am sure Rapelli’s terrified.”

  “There are orgies,” Coppell pointed out. “The alibi could be genuine.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Roger handed him a cup of tea and held out the sugar bowl. “But if the Dunster girl is telling the truth, then two witnesses that I have, who swear they saw Rapelli’s attack on Verdi, are lying. And I don’t think they are.”

  “Now I begin to see daylight,” breathed Coppell. “You think the defence was trying to discredit police witnesses in advance?”

  “I haven’t the slightest reason to think our witnesses are lying,” Roger replied. “I’ve seen them both after the court hearing. Had to go to a cabinet-making factory in Wandsworth for one and a bakery in Bethnal Green for the other, but their evidence will be all we need. I had to make sure of that, in view of what I’d done in court.”

  Coppell gulped down his tea.

  “So you’ve some sense. And we’ve two witnesses against Rapelli’s three,” he went on, musingly.

  “I can’t imagine any jury believing the sex-party evidence,” said Roger. “The Dunster girl is perfectly capable of that sort of thing, as I said, all the same—” He paused.

  Coppell looked at him intently.

  “Carry on.”

  “Well, sir—” Roger paused again. “The whole thing’s too slick, too convenient for Rapelli, for my liking. The girl’s a thorough bad lot all right, and more than capable of perjuring herself, which was what I meant to show the court when I said what I did. But even though I myself gave it to her on a plate—” Roger smiled ruefully “—I’m just not happy about this alibi.”

  Coppell frowned.

  “What do you intend doing now?” he asked.

  “Well, sir, I’d like to check on who else was supposed to be participating in the fun and games at Maisie Dun- ster’s apartment. I tried this afternoon, in fact, but no one was home. The apartment is in an old house converted into flats or flatlets, and all the tenants seem to work. They were out, anyway. Then I tried to get a line on Rachel Warrender’s recent activities, but drew a blank. Her father is the Member of Parliament and the firm of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender is a very old and reputable one. None of the partners was in and none of the clerks would talk about the girl. I also tried to get a line on Rapelli’s recent movements, and again drew a blank. He says he’s a translator for magazines and publishers of English into Italian and vice versa, but nothing much has turned up about him. I can’t yet prove he’s involved in drugs.” Roger gave a short, rueful grimace. “And when I started out this morning I thought we might really have a line on the drug business, while the case against Rapelli seemed cut and dried. It wasn’t until Rachel Warrender came to see me and threatened to produce her witnesses for Rapelli that things began to misfire.”

  Coppell’s eyes rounded.

  “She did what?”

  “Only half an hour before Rapelli was due in the dock. I went over to the court as soon as I could and arrived just in time. I wanted to make sure Leeminster wasn’t on his own when she arrived. If there was going to be trouble, I wanted to be in the middle of it.”

  “You certainly are that,” growled Coppell. “Where are the defence witnesses now?”

  “Division is checking up on them,” answered Roger, and I expect word any time.” When Coppell didn’t speak, he went on, “It’s a peculiar case in every way. Ricardo Verdi and some friends were at a small private club, where they have so-called musical evenings—a record club, I gather, with some instrument playing. Division now says there’s no evidence of pot or of anything erotic —the members like off-beat music and go there to enjoy it. Something happened between Rapelli and Verdi and Rapelli struck Verdi over the head with an electric guitar.”

  Coppell echoed, “A guitar?”

  “A heavy, ornamental one,” confirmed Roger. “I went to see him this afternoon—he’s at the Hampstead Cottage Hospital. The surgeon said that he—Verdi—has an exceptionally thin skull. There is some brain damage and some haemorrhage.”

  “What are his chances?” demanded Coppell.

  “No more than fifty-fifty,” Roger answered.

  “So it might turn out to be a murder charge,” Coppell remarked. “Handsome, if Rapelli did do this job, then we want absolute proof. Absolute, understand. And we won’t have it until you break this alibi, and that means proving that three people are lying. And if they are lying —why? Give me one good reason.”

  “To save Rapelli from being convicted,” Roger answered flatly. “Well, if they are lying then I’ll soon find out.”

  Coppell frowned.

  “You’ve got just seven days.”

  “It ought to be enough.”

  “If you can’t produce positive evidence that the alibi is phoney by the second hearing, the case will probably be dismissed,” Coppell said, “and that won’t do you any good.”

  Until that moment, Roger had been prepared to let the situation ease away, but suddenly anger flared up in him again. There was something very close to a threat, certainly a sneer, in Coppell’s manner and words. He had swung back to his unreasonable, almost bullying manner, and if Roger let it pass then he would always be at Coppell’s mercy. So he schooled himself to ask calmly, “It wouldn’t do me any great harm, surely?”

  “Like hell it wouldn’t!”

  “I hate to remind you,” said Roger, icily now, “that of the crimes brought to the Yard’s notice in the past four years, over fifty per cent have remained unsolved. Yet barely twenty per cent of those I’ve personally investigated have been unsolved. Aren’t I allowed a failure without being covertly threatened with disciplinary action?”

  Coppell turned a dusky turkey-red.

  “You’re being bloody-minded,” he rasped. “You may not have a high opinion of me or the Yard’s performance while I’ve been commander, but let me tell you that a lot of people do have a high opinion of me. And you’re the only senior officer around from whom we’ve had any bad publicity.” He clenched his fist and banged it on the folded copy of the Globe. “And that’s the worst kind of publicity.”

  He turned on his heel, and strode out; the door slammed behind him.

  Roger did not move for some minutes, just sat there like a statue, his face the colour of white marble. His features were set, his full lips drawn very tight, his eyes narrowed beneath the well-shaped brows.

  He was not conscious of thought; barely, of feeling. He felt cold, and once or twice a quiver ran through his whole body. A phrase from childhood was the first thought that came into his mind: as if someone were walking over my grave. Slowly, he forced himself to relax, and getting up, he went to the window and looked out at the complex of modern buildings. It was overcast and there was a spit of rain in the air. He opened the window and although the air was cold and damp, he was glad of it. He needed fresh air.

  It was seve
ral minutes before he went back to the desk, sat down and pulled the Globe towards him. On the front page was the story of a right-wing rally at the Albert Hall, addressed by George Entwhistle, the anti- immigrant M.P., and Sir Roland Warrender, but he did not read these, apart from the headlines. He turned to the article that had so upset Coppell, and read every word closely. A change came over him. This article was slanted—slanted against him and against the police- even to some degree, against the magistrate. One phrase read:

  Since when, in British courts, have the police been authorised to speak except under oath?

  Another ran:

  Chief Superintendent West is one of the Yard ’ s most experienced officers. He has a good reputation as a resourceful and often courageous man. What therefore induced him not only to commit such contempt of court but also to imply—as undoubtedly he did imply —that there was some kind of sex orgy taking place at the flat of the young woman who had just given evidence in defence of the accused? We do not like to believe that such a highly placed officer desired to discredit a witness, but the consequence of his remark: “ As a point of interest, Miss Dunster , were, the other two witnesses in your bed at the same time? ”. . .

  Roger read on, slowly.

  There were no paragraphs which he could lift out as being, in fact, defamatory, but the whole tenor of the article was critical of the police in general as well as of his handling of this case in particular. At last, he put the paper aside. He had a pressure headache behind the eyes, and a heavy feeling of depression in his breast, like a physical weight. By chance, the paper closed to the front page, and he saw the Entwhistle and Warrender speeches. There was a lead-in by the Globe political correspondent.

  Compared with Sir Roland, Mr. Entwhistle ’ s speech was pure Liberalism, all honey and tolerance. Sir Roland, on the other hand, called again for a Businessman ’ s Government—and government by decree. There is much in what he says . . .

  The ringing of the telephone made Roger start; he let it ring again, picked it up and then announced, “West,” in a very quiet voice.

  “Superintendent Cole of North Western is on the line, sir.”

  “Ah. Thanks.” The call and the fact that it might bring some good news jolted Roger out of his depression, and he went on, “Blackie?”

  “Just one moment, sir,” a man responded. Perhaps it was as well that he had a few moments in which to think. Blackie Cole had charge of a curiously mixed division. Some parts of Hampstead were exclusive and expensive, boasting many of the most opulent homes in London. Others were overcrowded; big, once proud homes had been divided into flats. There and all about the village were “clubs” which were little more than excuses for smoking pot, for sex-parties, for perversion of all kinds. It was most discreetly done, partly because Cole had the district under very tight control. He knew practically everything that went on, when to jump on a “club” which was moving from pot to heroin and other more injurious drugs, when sex-parties were being overdone. He was renowned for his skill in picking out clubs where a number of new “members” from the provinces were starting the pot habit. He raided these and had a remarkable number of successes in sending teenagers back to their homes and away from the temptations of London’s lower night life.

  At last, Cole came on the line.

  “Sorry to keep you, Handsome. I had a call which might have changed my report but instead it’s strengthened it. I feel very bad that I didn’t have this for you earlier. The Doon Club is quite genuine and wholly free from drugs. I’ve checked on twenty-one of its membership of thirty, and there isn’t a whisper of suspicion. There’s not even any reason to believe that they show obscene movies or slides. All the evidence is that they go to listen to and make music and discuss it afterwards.” Cole paused, only to go on before Roger could speak. “There doesn’t appear so far the slightest motive for Rapelli to attack Verdi, but there is one piece of odd information. The two witnesses of the attack—the men you saw—are new members. They joined at the same time, one day last week. I would have a go at them if I were you: they could be lying.”

  Chapter Four

  SHOCK

  Roger put the telephone down slowly after Cole had rung off. It was pointless to jump to conclusions, but all the time Cole had been talking his depression, only briefly vanquished, came back and grew much heavier. Cole, a shrewd man who was cautious enough seldom to put a foot wrong, made it clear that he thought the police wit-nesses could have lied. And if only one of them could be discredited, then the police case would crash and the alibi witnesses could be triumphant.

  Coppell had sensed much of this, of course; that was why he had been incensed by the piece in the Globe. There was nothing surprising in that. With hindsight, the question which had seemed so pertinent in court had been a piece of folly. West gave a funny little laugh. Even Blackie Cole had assumed that he had fallen down on the job; it had not even occurred to him to ask if Roger had seen the two witnesses and checked their story.

  Well, he’d seen them both, and it was time he put a report about them on paper.

  Wilfred Smithson was a cabinet maker in a small factory near the River Wandle at Wandsworth, a big railway arch, painted green. Roger could picture him, white- aproned, standing at a wooden bench, shavings piled on the bench and about his feet, tools in their racks fitted to the wall. At the far end was a circular saw. All about the arch was stacked timber, some already cut to size. Smithson’s job was very skilled: he made first-quality furniture to customer’s requirements. He earned about thirty pounds in a five-day week, was single, and loved music.

  This last was indisputable, for radio music filled the archway, sometimes so loud that it drowned the noise of the band and circular saw, while Smithson had a small tape-recorder on the bench and tiny earphones; he listened to music of his own liking and contrived somehow to blot out the popular tunes from the radio.

  Roger could also see him as a small, thin-faced, very lean youth of perhaps twenty-one.

  “I’ve never been so surprised in my life. They flew into a temper, swearing at each other in Italian, I think, and Rapelli grabbed Verdi’s guitar and crowned him. Verdi went out like a light.”

  Smithson had seemed so transparently honest.

  So had Hamish Campbell.

  Campbell was a pastry-cook at a large bakery at Bethnal Green, in the East End and right across London from Smithson. He had been in a kitchen leading off the main kitchen, with huge pans of dough, great electric ovens, and everywhere the rich, all-pervading smell of baking and new-baked bread. Campbell had been rolling pastry; another, older man had been operating a machine for cutting the pastry into shapes for tarts; these went on a conveyor and the tarts were carried away and filled by a feed nozzle. Roger could remember, fascinated, how the nozzles disposed different kinds of filling from strawberry jam to lemon curd.

  Campbell, plumpish, fair-haired, fresh-faced and freckled, had honest-looking brown eyes.

  “Rapelli just snatched the guitar away and biffed Verdi over the head with it—almost as if the music was driving him mad. Blimey I I can hear the bang now—broke the instrument and Verdi’s head.”

  “Did Rapelli say anything?” Roger had asked.

  “No,” Campbell had answered. “He turned and walked away. I could see Verdi’s head was bleeding something cruel, so I phoned the police and said they needed an ambulance. Wilf—that’s my mate—he gave Verdi some first aid. He’s a carpenter, see, used to people cutting themselves with chisels and saws. He’s got his first-aid certificate. If you ever cut yourself he’s your man.”

  The divisional report corroborated the story; division had found Smithson giving capable first aid by padding the wound and stopping the bleeding. He and Campbell had both made statements to the police, and Leeminster, who had been the divisional officer in charge that night, had had no reason to doubt their story.

  Roger finished the handwritten report, and felt less anxious and troubled. He rang for Danizon, who came in promptl
y, looking freshly washed and brushed.

  “Have these typed—the usual report copies,” Roger ordered, and added, “no—make it two more than the usual number.”

  “Will—er—will the morning do?” asked Danizon.

  “Why not this afternoon?” asked Roger, and glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—it’s six-fifteen! Yes, the morning will do. I’ll keep these meanwhile. You get off.” He fore- bore to ask where the sergeant was so anxious to go, put the reports in his brief-case to read at home, and then sat back and reflected over the day. He still could not think of Coppell without a rising sense of indignation, and that in itself was enough to make him disgruntled. He pushed his chair back and was about to get up when his telephone bell rang.

  “Superintendent West,” he almost barked.

  There was a slight pause before a familiar voice sounded.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  “Scoop!” Roger exclaimed, and could picture the big face of his elder son, Martin-called-Scoop; and also could imagine the faint smile on it.

  “Don’t sound so horrified,” Scoop said, in a rather troubled voice.

  “Just surprised!” said Roger. “It must be a year since you called me at the office. I—is everything all right?” he diverged suddenly. For on the last occasion Martin had telephoned him at the Yard it was to tell him that Janet, his wife, had fallen down some stairs and was at the hospital awaiting a doctor’s report.

  “Er—no one’s fallen down and broken their neck,” Scoop said in his slightly rueful, half-jesting way. “But— I—er—I’d like a talk with you, Pop. Er—Dad. Er—I mean, not with the family. It—er—well, Mummy’s been a bit—er—well, impatient lately and I—er—”

  “We can have a drink, or a meal, or you can come here,” Roger said quietly. “I can telephone your mother and say I’ll be late.”