by John Creasey
Slatter put the poker back in the fireplace.
He looked at Rollison with nothing but acute dislike on his handsome face. ‘Handsome?’ Rollison asked himself. Certainly striking, certainly strong.
‘What is it you wish to say to me?’
‘It’s very simple,’ Rollison said. ‘I want you to know that I have acquired a certain amount of evidence that suggests that you attacked Mrs Smith last night - and that you killed Professor Webberson and Dr Brown. Before I hand it over to the police, I want to hear what you have to say about it.’
‘I have just one thing to say,’ answered Slatter. ‘It is ludicrous nonsense.’ After a pause, he went on in a steely voice: ‘And a second thing to say: I don’t believe you have any evidence at all.’
‘Don’t you?’ said Rollison.
‘No, I do not.’
‘I am the evidence,’ stated Rollison.
‘That remark makes no more sense than the rest of your assertions.’
‘It will make sense to the police when I identify you as the man whom I saw attack Mrs Smith last night.’
‘Even the police wouldn’t be deceived by such a lie,’ said Slatter. He had a deep but not powerful voice and spoke with complete composure. If his expression said anything, it was that he had nothing but contempt for the man who had invaded his privacy and manhandled his nephew.
‘If I make a statement on oath, not only the police but a judge and jury will take me seriously,’ said Rollison. ‘Even you cannot seriously doubt that.’
Slatter did not immediately deny it, and for the first time what might have been a look of apprehension showed in his eyes, but it soon vanished, and in an offhand voice which was slightly gruff, he said: ‘You must make your own decision. You know well enough that it wasn’t I.’
‘I don’t know anything of the kind,’ said Rollison.
‘Even that is a lie.’
‘Uncle—’ Guy began, but a glance from the older man silenced him.
‘Is that all you have to say, Mr Rollison?’ Slatter had fully recovered his poise.
‘No,’ said Rollison.
‘Will you please finish your charges and leave me to finish my lunch?’
‘Will you grant an option to renew the lease of Number 31?’ asked Rollison.
Slatter drew his heavily marked brows together in concentration, and then very slowly shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I want them out.’
‘To get them out you might have to get a court order and—’
‘They wouldn’t go that far,’ interrupted Slatter. ‘They are ready to pull out already.’
‘Driven to it by murder,’ observed Rollison.
‘Driven to it by their own stupidity. However I will not bandy words with you. The answer is no, I will not grant an option, even if you offer to withdraw your identification of me as a criminal. That is a very cheap trick, Mr Rollison - I nearly said that it was not worthy of you, but that would be paying you a compliment.’
‘Why do you want them out?’
‘That is my business.’
‘Is inhumanity your business?’
‘Mr Rollison,’ said Slatter, with great precision, ‘I do not regard myself as a judge of what is humane and what is not. I want those harlots out of my house. They would never have gone there but for a trick - I was not informed of the kind of hostel it was to be. Hostel?’ His voice rose. ‘Or brothel? You no doubt know, Mr Rollison.’
‘Hostel,’ said Rollison.
‘I don’t believe you, and nothing will change my mind.’ Slatter held Rollison’s gaze for a long time, and Rollison felt quite sure that he meant what he said. ‘Make your absurd charges against me if it amuses you, but you are wasting your time, Mr Rollison. I hope you realise that, and will now leave.’
‘Do you really feel utterly indifferent about the infants next door?’ demanded Rollison.
‘No, I do not feel at all indifferent.’ Suddenly, Slatter was enraged, even his cheeks were tinged with pink, and his hitherto cold eyes flashed. ‘I am intensely concerned with them - determined that they will be taken away from the whores who brought them into this world and placed in the charge of proper authorities. Those women have no right at all to be in charge of children. They may care for them physically but their moral and spiritual life will be ruined. And—’
He broke off, drawing back a pace, as if some new thought had crossed his mind - and then he recovered, and to Rollison’s surprise, put out an arm and touched him.
‘I believe that to be true,’ he said. ‘I do not believe such women should have the custody of those children, but that is not the chief reason why I want to close the home down. Mr Rollison, you are not the interfering braggart I believed you to be. I can see that you are motivated by genuine humanitarian reasons. Come with me, and I will give you a demonstration which will show you another side of this coin.’
‘Uncle—’ Guy began.
‘You can come with me or stay and finish your lunch,’ said Slatter. Now gripping Rollison’s arm lightly he led the way out of the room and up the staircase. In spite of his surprise at Slatter’s change of attitude, Rollison noticed the magnificence of a Rubens and a Gainsborough on the staircase, and at the landing saw a tapestry of deep colours depicting a medieval wedding - a piece probably unique. Slatter thrust open the door of a long, beautiful room, the walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling with books.
It was a scholar’s room; a room for quiet thought and contemplation; a sanctuary.
Through the open window came the wailing as of at least half a dozen babies - and even from this end of the room it was easy to imagine that there were many more.
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 Slatter. ‘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 crèche - 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!’ 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?’
‘Osteoarthritis,’ 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 and 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 seriously believe that there would not have been complaints?’ 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—’
Across his words, very loud and clear, came a scream from outside; another scream followed. By that time Rollison was on his feet, leaping towards the window. As he flung it up he saw a girl in the doorway of the house, at the entrance to the cage, standing with her hands raised, staring into the cage. She screamed again: ‘Anne! Anne!’
Rollison saw two things in the same moment. Anne Miller, appearing at the girl’s side; and two small, dark creatures on one of the prams.
‘My God!’ exclaimed Rollison. ‘Rats’
He saw Anne rush forward, shouting wildly and waving her hands; one of the rats turned and skimmed down the side of the pram, the other stared as if in defiance. Another girl appeared, then two or three more. One of them carried a tennis racket, another a putting iron. By then Anne was within three feet of the rat still on the pram, and she continued to approach it although the stiffness of her movements showed how great was her fear.
The girl with the putting iron pushed past her and poked at the rat - and Rollison, one leg over the sill, wondered whether it would spring at her in a frenzy. Close to the window was a drainpipe, immediately below the jutting ledge of another window. He caught a glimpse of the rat scuttling away, before he turned his back on the scene, and climbed down; he supported himself against the window ledge, and then dropped to the ground.
A girl was crying.
A second had rushed to one of the babies and picked it up with a gesture of desperation. Almost at once other girls went to the remaining babies.
Rollison reached the side door of the cage and opened it, but no one seemed to notice him go in. Something started them all talking against one another, the only one who seemed to keep absolutely silent was Anne.
‘I’m going tonight!’ one girl gasped.
‘We can’t stay - we’ll have to go somewhere,’ muttered another.
‘But we haven’t anywhere else to go!’ came from a realist.
Others were crying . . . more were talking, saying the same kind of thing.
‘We’ve got to find somewhere.’
‘It’s impossible to stay here.’
‘Did you see them? Actually on Donald’
s pram.’
‘Two huge rats.’
‘I once heard of a rat—’
‘For heaven’s sake be quiet, Chloe!’
‘How—how did they get in?’
‘Yes - how did they get in?’ demanded another. ‘There must be a hole in the netting.’
Immediately, several of the girls began to scan the foot of the cage, which Rollison was already doing. So far he had found no break - no sign of anything which was large enough for a mouse to have got through. Several of the girls saw and recognised him, one or two said ‘hallo’. Slatter was still watching from his study window. A policeman appeared at the door leading from the house, followed by a second, who made a beeline for Rollison.
‘Did you see what happened, sir?’
‘I saw two rats but I didn’t see how they got in,’ answered Rollison. ‘And the wire doesn’t seem to be broken.’
‘Been a lot of rats since they pulled down that old house and started building,’ the policeman said.
Then Rollison saw a hole almost at shoulder height and not two feet away from the policeman’s face. The man turned. The girls were still talking, some were trying to soothe and reassure the others. The girl who had first raised the alarm was now by Anne, who held one of the children in her arms.
‘My God!’ breathed the policeman. ‘Look at that.’
He was looking at the spot which had caught Rollison’s attention - a round hole cut in the strands of the wire. It had obviously been done recently, there were shiny surfaces to some of the cut strands, catching the sun. It was about the size of a football, perhaps a little smaller, and a dozen rats could have got through there.
‘They were placed inside all right,’ the policeman said. He was in his twenties, red faced, grey eyed, healthy looking. ‘My God, what swine! They’ll do anything to drive these girls out, won’t they? Anything.’
‘It certainly looks like it,’ agreed Rollison. ‘Have you advised the Yard?’
