CHAPTER 13
Moment Of Sympathy
THERE were, in fact, only three.
Each child was in a separate pram, one high and old-fashioned, the others modern and low. Each was bellowing, his mouth wide open, plump dimpled cheeks crimson red. They were in a patch of the garden cordoned off with high wire, rather like a huge fruit cage.
No women were in sight.
The caterwauling seemed to grow in stridency and rage. The noise made a fourth, silent baby, also in a pram, seem oddly out of place. For he or she was sitting happily, or at least placidly, making no sound at all.
Rollison turned away from the window.
“Yes,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
“I have lived all my life in this house,” said Starter. “I was born here. I have worked and read in this room for over forty years. And for the last three it has been purgatory—absolute purgatory. If I were to extend the lease even by a week, by a day, it would encourage the young women to think that I might relent and allow them to stay permanently. I will not, Mr. Rollison. I have no peace at all. The only time when I dare have the window open is when I am not here to be disturbed. But even when the window is closed it is impossible to concentrate.” He placed broad, spatulate fingers on the window, and slammed it down. Only the placid baby looked up, with no great interest; the others went on crying and although the sound was less urgent it came clearly into the room.
“I trust,” Slatter said, “you are now satisfied. Either they go—or I go.”
“Yes,” said Rollison again, “there can’t be any argument about that.”
“Do you seriously think that I should go?”
“No,” agreed Rollison, thoughtfully. “Not on the face of it.”
“Nothing would make me leave this house. Nothing will make me allow those young women to stay there.”
“Young women—no longer whores?” murmured Rollison.
Slatter made no comment.
“Sir Douglas,” Rollison said. “I’ve heard it said that disappointment and frustration account for your attitude more than anything else.”
“Disappointment and frustration about what?” demanded Slatter.
“That you are not welcome to the beds of these young women.”
“Oh, nonsense!” Slatter waved an arm as if to wave the very suggestion away, but he seemed in no way annoyed. “They will say anything to discredit me. I really do not need these promiscuous young women for any erotic amusement. I am surprised that a woman of integrity like Naomi Smith should allow her charges to make such wild accusations.” He moved towards the door, his back turned squarely towards the window. “Now, do you understand my attitude?”
“I even have a very real measure of sympathy for it,” Rollison murmured.
“Any sane man would,” said Slatter. He turned slowly —as Rollison had noticed before, he had a slight stiffness in his left hip. “Come and sit down.” He sat in a high-backed swivel chair and motioned Rollison towards another. “As you are here, we may as well deal with this matter once and for all.” He folded his hands on the desk, rather as Naomi Smith had done. “I know that I am said to oppose these young women on moral grounds. And indeed I do. But when I am not angry—and I was very angry when you forced your way in—I have to face the fact that this is part of a very much wider social problem. It is not simply a case of young girls being promiscuous —or unwise or unlucky—it is a case of the acceptance of free living by society. No particular girl is to blame. I am not pursuing a righteous vendetta against these particular young women. That would be intolerably unjust. I simply cannot continue to live here. In the beginning, I asked Mrs. Smith if she would move the creche—the cage was put there to keep out cats and other animals, but it wasn’t practicable. There is no room at all, they would be right at the corner, with cars changing gear and passers-by always making a lot of noise.”
“So you were once on friendly terms with Naomi Smith,” murmured Rollison.
“Yes indeed. We were good neighbours. I sympathised in principle with what she was doing. I felt cheated, but not by her or by the young women. It was Professor Nimmo who negotiated the agreement. He knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t have signed even a three year lease had I known what it was all about, so I blame him.”
“There was a great need,” said Rollison.
“Not next door to my house, Rollison I “ Slatter’s voice rose harshly but he recovered, unlinking his fingers, and putting his hands flat on the desk. They were big and powerful. His eyes had a penetrating directness as he went on : “You see how angry I can get! However, there is now another side to this matter and a very grave one. Is it true that Professor Webberson and Dr. Brown have been murdered?”
“Yes. At least one of the girls, too.”
“It is shocking—quite shocking.” Something near to concern softened the stern features. “And is it true that the man who was about to attack Naomi, before you intervened, was like me?”
“In the darkness, very much like you,” answered Rollison.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Like you and also like your nephew,” answered Rollison without hesitation. “In fact, except for your features I could almost swear to it.”
“Except for Good heavens, Rollison, if you can’t
identify the features what possible means of identification is there?”
“Size—build—thickness of neck—height—speed of movement—”
“I can’t move fast.”
“You can, to your right. What is the trouble in your left hip?”
“Osteo-arthritis,” Slatter answered impatiently. “Didn’t you see this man’s face? One of the newspapers says you could identify the attacker beyond all reasonable doubt.”
“Newspapers say a lot of things which aren’t literally true,” replied Rollison. “I could still go into the witness box and swear that the assailant was very like you Ind like your nephew.”
“I see,” said Slatter, his face set again. “You are a long way from convinced, I can see. You think I could be a psychopath or even schizophrenic.” He pursed his lips and looked almost ugly, before he went on: “What would satisfy you?”
“I think I could be sure if I saw you in a half-light with a stocking over your head,” said Rollison. “And the same goes for your nephew. Has he lived with you long?”
“Certainly. He is my only relative,” explained Slatter. “I have acquired great possessions and reasonable wealth and I do not wish to see them all swallowed up by that inanimate thing called the State. So this man used a nylon stocking as a disguise. If you can be sure—” He waved his hands. “Oh, it is nonsense ! How strong are the rumours that I am involved?”
“Quite strong.”
“Has any one of the young women made a personal charge against me?” asked Slatter.
“No.” Rollison did not think the time was right to tell what Anne Miller had said.
“And if indeed there was any truth in it, do you seri-ously believe that there would not have been com-plaints?” demanded Slatter.
“Yes, I do. The girls would keep quiet about it if they thought it could help them to stay next door.”
“Ah,” said Slatter. “Yes, I suppose this is true. Well, there is no justification at all for any charges, whatever you may say. Is there any other reason for you or the police to suspect me?”
“Not that I know of,” answered Rollison. “Do you know of anyone who might want to make you look guilty?”
“I do not,” said Slatter forthrightly. “I believe these charges against me are due entirely to the resentment the young women feel about my attitude—and I still believe my attitude to be completely justified. So!” He stood up very quickly, putting most of his weight on to his right leg. “My answer remains—”