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  Roger asked guardedly, “Which particular chief?”

  “Oh, the comissioner: Sir Jacob Trevillion.”

  “I didn’t know he’d been appointed to do any particular job,” Roger replied. “I don’t move in such exalted circles.”

  “Oh.” Artemeus seemed surprised, but Roger doubted whether he really was. “Well, rumour has it that discipline at the Yard was getting slack and needed tightening. Trevillion was a martinet—stickler for discipline—in the Navy. He—”

  “You know, I’m not sure that I want to discuss him,” Roger interrupted.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend—” Artemeus broke off, as if in confusion, but after a few minutes he turned to another subject, broaching it with a self-deprecatory smile. “I don’t suppose you’re able to discuss a case you’re working on, either. It is an unusual one you’ve got now, isn’t it?”

  “You mean, the death of the man Verdi.”

  “Yes. And the bosomy blonde whom you so nicely dealt with in court,” added Artemeus. “I’m less interested in the victim and his assailant and the witnesses, though, than

  “I am in Rachel Warrender. You know, the girl solicitor who appeared for Rapelli at the last moment.” He looked hard at Roger, who nodded, and then went on, “She’s a remarkable young woman from a remarkable family. Do you know much about Warrender, Clansel and War—” render?”

  “Not much,” said Roger, still guardedly; but now his interest was increasing swiftly. A question was banging against his mind like a trip-hammer. Could this be what Artemeus had really wanted to see him about, or was the mention of the girl simply fortuitous? He had wondered at the timing of the offer, and the ingenuous way in which Artemeus had brought the commissioner into the conversation had been worth noting. Now here was “coincidence” number two.

  “They’re mostly insurance and banking lawyers,” said the other man. “It’s fourth generation in each family. Sir Ian Warrender, the senior partner, probably knows more about international insurance and banking laws than anyone alive. He received his knighthood for services in connection with the Bank of England’s overseas activities. Jonathan Clansel was a channel swimmer—did it both ways—and is a great supporter of Boysland.” Boysland, West recollected, was a very big youth club, or group of clubs, which operated mostly in the East End of London. “Sir Roland Warrender, bother of Sir Ian, who also got his knighthood for banking activities—” Artemeus broke off with a smile, then asked, “Ring a bell?”

  “Sir Roland Warrender, the Member of Parliament who’s so right-wing the Conservative Party disowned him last year?” asked Roger.

  “Yes. He’s Rachel’s father.”

  “So I understand.”

  “She’s a junior partner. Older than she looks.” went on Artemeus. “In her late twenties. I was surprised at first that they’d allowed her to intervene for Rapelli, but the more I think of it, the more reasonable it seems. She doesn’t fit in with the family party line. She’s extremely left-wing, a great campaigner for anti-Vietnam, anti- colonialism of any kind, anti-nuclear weapons, anti—” He broke off with a smile. “She’s like the rest of the family in do-gooding and looking out for the underdog—but she sometimes gets a bit confused as to who the underdog is,” he added drily. “How did she show up in court?”

  “Very well, I would say.”

  “Clever—I mean clever—girl,” opined Artemeus. “I can see her as a Member of Parliament one of these days, campaigning for votes for babies at the breast!” He beckoned the waiter. “How about a dessert, Mr. West? They do a very good chocolate gateau here, or their trifles are excellent.”

  “I think cheese—”

  “I’m for the gateau,” Artemeus declared. “And coffee? How about brandy or a liqueur?”

  “I have to work this afternoon,” Roger protested, half- laughing.

  “Wait until you work for us,” Artemeus said slyly. “Then you can take three hours for a big business lunch, and have an hour’s nap before you have to wake up to go home!”

  • • •

  Where was the catch? wondered Roger. There must be one. He couldn’t possibly consider the offer on its face value.

  • • •

  As he walked out of the hotel into the bright sunshine of one of the warmest days of summer, Roger saw a nearly empty number 11 bus which would drop him within a minute’s walk of Broadway and the Yard’s new home. He needed a little time for reflection and to recover from the enormous meal. Hastily buying a copy of the latest Globe, he boarded the bus, hurried up the stairs, and stumbled towards a vacant bench at the front, head bent low to avoid the roof. For a few minutes he sat looking through the window as the panorama first of the Strand, then of Trafalgar Square, opened out in front of him, followed by the tall and graceful buildings of Whitehall.

  At last, he opened the newspaper.

  Death of Trial Witness screamed the first headline. Arrest of Another ran the second.

  There was a fairly accurate account of the death of Wilfred Smithson and another of the arrest of Maisie Dunster, some reference to West but no sneers or innuendo, only a slightly critical tone about the Yard’s “carelessness” in allowing a witness to be run down. Roger folded the paper and put it under his arm, almost as the bus passed the narrow end of the street which led down to the old building of Scotland Yard. He had a great nostalgia for the red-brick edifice in which he had spent most of his working life, but when he reached the new headquarters, he could not fail to compare its lightness and airiness favourably.

  He went in, at exactly half past three.

  He had a strange feeling as he walked along the plain, almost hospital-like passage to his office—a feeling which was almost a dread of trouble, of complaint and accusation. But everything was normal, including a note on his desk from Danizon.

  “I’m in Records—back by 3.45 p.m.”

  He would be, too.

  Roger sat at his desk and looked at the files in front of him, each with a copy of his own report, each with contributions from divisional officers, detective sergeants, uniform, policewomen, the Flying Squad, Fingerprints, Records, Photography, Information, pathologists, doctors, coroners, and police courts. There they were, making the whole routine of an investigation. In one of these was the investigation into the death of Ricardo Verdi. Before this case was closed that particular file would be inches thick, hundreds upon hundreds of pages, two, three, four volumes.

  The one on Maisie Dunster would be pretty fat, too.

  So would that on Rapelli himself, as well as the one on Fogarly, Smithson and Campbell.

  In a way every word was necessary, but at times even thought and sight of them flooded West with irritation.

  Quite suddenly, the full significance of Artemeus’s offer swept over him. He could be free from all this ponderous, inescapable routine; he could have four times the money to spend, regular hours, guaranteed holidays. He could begin a whole new life, live in a whole new world. For a few moments he sat back, basking in the promised sun. Then, sharply, he sat up. Maisie and Fogarty had had time to think, it was past time he went to question them again.

  Neither had yet made any statement of any kind.

  He read the list of the contents in their pockets and in Maisie’s handbag, briefed himself completely and then telephoned the Fulham Police Station.

  “I’m coming over right away,” he told the inspector-in- charge.

  “It can’t be too soon, sir,” the man said. “That Dunster woman is a proper harridan. Talk about language, the whole station’s Billingsgate blue!”

  Roger forced a laugh, but he was very thoughtful on the way to see Maisie.

  Chapter Ten

  CELL

  The strange thing was that the woman looked more attractive against the pale grey of the cell walls. As the policeman in charge of cells opened the barred door, she stood up from the narrow bed where she had been sitting reading, and tossed the book aside. She wore a loose-fitting linen shirt-blouse,
she hadn’t made-up so much, her hair seemed dressed closer to her head. Roger stepped inside and a detective sergeant stood just outside when the door was locked again.

  “Well, Maisie,” Roger said. “I hope you feel more like talking.”

  She spoke in a controlled voice which made the words sound even more vicious than they were.

  “You crummy bastard, what makes you think I’ll ever talk to a cop?”

  Roger studied her closely, but didn’t speak immediately.

  “Lost your tongue?” she sneered. She raised both hands, the nails overlong and clawlike, and made a gesture of dragging them down his cheeks. “That shows how gutless you are. You bloody nearly jumped out of your skin. Come on, tell me! What makes you think I’ll ever talk to a cop?”

  Roger answered evenly, “Two things, Maisie.”

  “Who gave you the right to call me Maisie,” she demanded.

  “Two things,” repeated Roger equably, ignoring her last question. “First if you tell the truth now, then we won’t have to hold you on a charge of perjury; as things are you could have that hanging over your head for months. Second, if you tell the truth now, we could do something about the charge of wilfully obstructing a policeman in the course of his duty.”

  “That would let you off the hook,” Maisie sneered. “And believe me you’re well and truly on it. Handsome West tries to rape innocent girl—can’t you see the headlines?”

  Roger laughed.

  “What I’m looking for is the innocent girl!”

  “Why you—” she began, and then she drew back, the expression on her face changed, and she gave a reluctant laugh. “Do you know, if you weren’t a cop, I could like you.”

  “Ah!” said Roger quickly. “Then we do have some kind of rapport. And I could like you well enough to believe you’d tell the truth because you think it’s the right thing to do.”

  Now, her face resumed its original sneer.

  “Don’t make me laugh!”

  “Maisie,” Roger said. “You can save me and the police a lot of trouble. You can save other witnesses a lot of trouble. And at the same time you can save yourself a lot of trouble, simply by telling me who bribed you to lie in the witness box.”

  She caught her breath.

  “I didn’t lie!”

  “Of course you lied,” insisted Roger. “And your friends will lie too, if they’re put in the witness box, but eventually we’ll find out.” He moved his position a little and her gaze swivelled round, she was so intent on him. “Rapelli wasn’t with you during the hours you say he was. And if you or anyone else, including your friend Fogarty, think that by killing police witnesses who can prove Rapelli was somewhere else you will keep the truth from coming out, you’re wrong.”

  Maisie’s eyes narrowed.

  “No one killed anyone,” she retorted.

  “Rapelli killed Verdi.”

  “Crap!”

  “And Fogarty killed one of the men who saw what happened at the Doon Club,” Roger added with great deliberation.

  “ Fogarty wouldn’t kill—”

  “He ran a man down on a zebra crossing. I told you so.”

  “Oh,” she said, as if with relief. “He was drunk.”

  “There was no alcohol content in his blood.”

  “None in Fogarty’s? That’s a laugh!” But despite her words, Maisie began to look worried. “Did you catch him last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “So that’s why he didn’t come back,” she said, with a sigh. Then her lips set in a faint smile, and she went on, “So I’ve heard what you wanted to say and it doesn’t amount to a row of beans.”

  “Maisie,” said Roger in a quiet voice, “did Rachel War- render know you’d been bribed to say Rapelli was with you the night before last?”

  For the first time, he really pierced her guard. She faced him squarely, her eyes still narrowed, her hands clenched in front of her breasts. He heard the depth of her breathing, sensed that she was fighting an inward battle with herself, wondered if she would talk. Then her lips curled, and he knew that for the time being, at least, he had failed.

  “You crummy copper,” she answered. “Rachel Warrender wouldn’t know a thing which wasn’t straight up and down, crosswise and diagonal. She couldn’t have known what wasn’t true, anyhow.”

  She turned away, flounced on the bed showing a lot of leg, and picked up the book. He saw, with a surprise which even broke through his disappointment, that it was Huxley’s Brave New World.

  • • •

  Fogarty, who had been brought to this police station, swore that he could remember nothing of the accident the previous night.

  Hamish Campbell simply refused to answer questions; refused even to admit that he had deliberately sidetracked the policeman who had been watching him before he had reneged as a police witness.

  The smaller man who had been outside Fogarty’s room with Campbell was named Pearson, Walter Pearson, a freelance photographer.

  “Campbell told me he had a juicy picture for me,” he said. “So I brought my camera. That’s all I know, Mr. West. I swear that’s all. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened, I swear I didn’t.”

  Roger thought he was probably telling the truth, but he said, “We’ll see what the magistrate says.”

  “Oh God, don’t put me in court,” Pearson cried. My wife will knock the hell out of me if you do.”

  Roger found it difficult not to be sorry for him.

  He left the calls and went upstairs, then straight to the Yard and up to his office, mulling over all that had been said, particularly over Maisie’s surprising reaction to the question about Rachel Warrender. So far Fogarty hadn’t been charged, and it might be advisable to let him go and have him followed.

  When he reached the office, more reports were in. Pearson was what he claimed to be, and his wife had been on the telephone twice, demanding his release. West put that report, from Information, aside, and read another. For the first time he learned that Hamish Campbell had a room in the same house as Fogarty.

  Well, well.

  “I wonder who else lives there,” Roger mused aloud, and sending for Danizon, he told him to have all the tenants checked. After telephoning Fulham to have Fogarty charged with driving a car with intent to cause grievous bodily harm, and Pearson with loitering, he then settled down to decide what to do next. There was one noticeable fact about the three prisoners: none of them had demanded to see a lawyer. Why not? Did they believe that they would be represented and well-looked after— by Rachel Warrender, for instance?

  It was now after six o’clock; Roger flicked a thought towards Janet and Scoop, then lifted a telephone.

  “Get me Miss Rachel Warrender of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender, solicitors—Lincoln’s Inn,” he added.

  “Very good, sir,” said the operator.

  Would the girl be in? Roger wondered. Girl? How old was she?—twenty-three or four, he had thought, but Artemeus was sure she was older. He could recall her face vividly, the sharp features and the arched lips, the imperious brown eyes. He waited for the call to come through, concentrating on her, on Maisie’s outburst, then on Benjamin Artemeus. Suddenly he pressed the bell for Danizon, who came in promptly. He was obviously not planning to go anywhere tonight, thought Roger.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Artemeus, Benjamin,” Roger said.

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you call him?”

  “At the Savoy Grill, sir. I left a message.”

  “Did he call you from his office, do you know?”

  Danizon frowned. He had a rather round, plump, earnest face, and would, Roger frequently thought, need little make-up to look like a circus clown.

  “He spoke direct to me, sir. No secretary came on the line first.”

  “Check if he came on direct to the operator,” Roger ordered. “In fact check Allsafe for details about him on Monday, and let me have a report as soon as you can.”

  “Rig
ht, sir!”

  “You off, now?”

  “I’ll be here for another hour at least, sir. I’m getting my files bang up to date.”

  “That’s good.” Roger nodded dismissal, and as Danizon went out the telephone bell rang. Was it Rachel War- render or was he too late for her?

  “West here,” he said briskly.

  “Your call to Miss Warrender,” the operator told him, and after a brief pause she added, “You’re through.”

  Roger said quietly and pleasantly, “Hallo, Miss War- render. This is Superintendent West. I’m glad I caught you before you left the office.”

  “I am usually here until seven,” Rachel Warrender replied in a studiously calm voice. “How can I help you?”

  “I thought I might be able to give you a little information,” Roger stated.

  “If you are going to attempt to justify your arrest of Maisie Dunster, you are wasting your time,” Rachel retorted, coldly.

  “That wasn’t exactly the point,” Roger assured her. “I’ll justify that in the court whenever I have to. Did you know she was arrested in the room—in the bed—of a man who ran down and killed one of my witnesses against Rapelli?”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed Rachel.

  “We’ll prove how true that is on Monday, too,” Roger said. “And I can tell you that I have reason to believe that my other witnesses have been under pressure to withdraw their evidence. Moreover I believe Maisie Dunster was paid to give false evidence. Don’t you think you have gone too far?”

  There was a long pause. He wished he could see her face and the expression in her eyes, but he could not even imagine how she looked. But he did not have to imagine the lift in her voice, her obvious and deep satisfaction, when at last she spoke.

  “So you haven’t a reliable witness left against Mario?” she remarked.

  Roger said rather weakly, “Haven’t I?”

  “You can’t have! One is dead and the other terrified of being caught out in a lie.”

  “Miss Warrender,” Roger said. “I strongly advise you to discuss this case with one of your senior partners before you jump to any further conclusions. I really do.”