She apologised. “ Sorry.’’
“It doesn’t matter,’’ he said indifferently, brushing the ash away. “It’s only a library book.’’ What belonged to everybody, belonged to nobody: he didn’t care. It was part of the way the students felt.
Charmian drank her tepid coffee. She looked round the crowded cafeteria. A bomb in here would be quite destructive. Perhaps there was already one here quietly ticking away. A bomb in here would injure or kill about fifty people. More, if it was a big bomb.
She got up and left the coffee-house. The whole complex of university building was spread out in front of her, like a fan with where she stood as the hand. Some of the buildings were not yet finished and still had workmen’s lorries parked outside; but all, finished or half finished, or old buildings converted, were already in use and bursting with life. But a bunch of destroyers were snuffing round the flanks. They were out for the kill, no doubt about that. And all those sensible people who said there was no real harm meant and it was just showing off were wrong. They wanted to kill the university.
But, of course, you couldn’t kill it all at once. It was a big beast and would require some doing in. Granted that a series of blows was needed, what was being prepared now was the big first one. That was what the Big Bang was all about. A big strike somewhere. Where would it fall?
She took a walk round the block of lecture rooms. These were new, economically priced workaday buildings. She went in and stood at the back of Lecture Room A. A lecture on Minoan art forms was going on, listened to by a handful of quiet students. The lecturer had a soft, gentle voice and was speaking in tones of deep conviction. His small audience was obviously a dedicated one. Charmian noticed with respect that although he occasionally paused to scribble a difficult place name on the board, none of the students looked up from their notes. Ayia Triada, Phaistos and Knossos did not faze them. They knew it already. When Charmian heard the words “Late Helladic period’’ and then “Mycenae’’, she crept out. She knew enough to know that when you heard that name you were in for a good long talk.
Anyway she had answered for herself the silent query that had taken her into the lecture. She didn’t think this remote and placid group were going to get the bomb. The next two lecture rooms were full. One was getting an analysis of Regina versus Mortlock and its place in the development of the law of chattels. There seemed to be an argument about a wife being a chattel or perhaps not being a chattel, it was all rather wrapped up. Charmian quietly left the lawyers, who looked as though they would be at it for a long while yet. Lecture Room C was occupying itself with the poetry of Shelley and had just got to the “Ode to a Skylark’’.
“All quiet there,’’ murmured Charmian to herself, “I swear it. All clean as a whistle and nothing else ever been considered.’’
She wandered on, looking for something, not quite clear what it would be, but sure she would know it when she saw it.
Another group of lecture halls lay to her left across the path, but she chose to ignore them.
The Refectory was straight ahead. She took a quick look in there. Already it was decorated for the ball that evening. She remembered discussions going on about the best way of doing it. For the students the ball was the big thing of the day and they meant to make the most of it. As it was they had had to put up with some firm advice. The Royal Party, they were told, wouldn’t mind how many knees they saw, but no transparent dresses, please. But, as one mildly indignant student had pointed out, that just showed the authorities didn’t know what the girls were really wearing. Long dresses and trousers for evening were in, and no one would be bare, they would all be floating, floating on clouds of chiffon. Perhaps the clouds of chiffon had given students decorating the hall their idea: they had chosen to use Mount Olympus as their theme. Gods and goddesses floated overhead on wires, their bodies cleverly constructed coloured plastics. Fluffy white clouds appeared to support them. Chairs and tables were nicely set out and behind them stood replicas of the Venus de Milo and the Apollo Belvedere, looking jocund. A slightly ribald version of the Laocoon stood in an alcove. Better not to ask what the component parts were up to, and as a matter of fact, you had to look quite hard to see.
There was one student, a girl, still there putting finishing touches to a painting of Leda and the Swan. The girl looked at her demurely over the swan’s bright beak. Charmian knew that the Dean of Divinity was called Dr. Gandar.
“I had to do this at the last moment,’’ said the girl, delicately tipping the swan’s beak with gold. “You can guess why.’’
“Is Dr. Gandar coming to the ball?’’
“Oh yes. He loves a dance. He’ll wear tails and a stiff shirt. Actually I don’t think any of the Faculty’ll see the joke. It’s too subtle.’’
Charmian was silent. She remembered from her own younger days that students always think their own jokes subtle and those of their teachers and mentors obscure.
“Actually it’s rather a nice swan,’’ said the girl. “ I think he’s more beautiful than Leda.’’
“You’re a good artist,’’ said Charmian, surprised.
“Oh yes, I am.’’
“And who’s Leda?’’ asked Charmian. “ I mean who’s she meant to be?’’
“Oh, she’s imaginary,’’ said the girl blandly, Charmian found herself studying Leda’s elegant good looks as if trying to identify them. There was something familiar about them.
“I’ve always thought of Leda as a blonde,’’ she said. This one had the thin dark sinuousness of a Matisse beauty. Probably deliberately, the girl had copied the palette and line of Matisse.
“Yes, she is dark,’’ agreed the girl, even more blandly. The creamy little smile on her lips convinced Charmian that here was the heart of the joke. “ Were you looking for anyone special?’’ the girl asked politely.
“No, no one special. Perhaps a bomb.’’ Charmian wanted to shatter her calm.
“Oh yes, I do understand. You’re a detective, aren’t you?’’
“You’re well informed.’’
“That sort of information we always have.’’
“Yes. I’ve already noticed you’re well organised.’’
“No.’’ The girl spoke slowly. “We’re not organised. Not all of us, that is. Some of us are just separate people trying to live our lives.’’
“So? What does that mean?’’
“As a matter of fact, when you were coming here, I saw you through the window. I could have cleared out. But I stayed on. I wanted to have a talk with you.’’
“Talk then.’’
“There’s a bad feeling here these days. It was good at first and I thought what a lovely place to be. I was happy. Then it all went sour. I’ve been in nutty places before and I know the feeling. There was a girl in my school who started seeing visions and the weeks before she started seeing them we all felt queer.’’
“And are you seeing visions now?’’
“Miss Fearon is dead and Scilly Duval too. Scilly was a friend of mine. She got burned to death. They say it was an accident.’’ She was talking in unhurried tones but with great force.
“And are you all frightened?’’
“Sort of. Not happy, anyway.’’
“Yes, that’s a bad state to be in. I’ve often been in it myself.’’
“That’s another thing. About you. Has it struck you?’’ She paused. “Well, that you’re in trouble too? Whatever happens you can’t win, can you?’’
“I’m not trying to win,’’ said Charmian irritably.
“I know—it’s only a job, but some jobs aren’t like that. Supposing that as well as the hunter you’re also the hunted.’’
“You’ve read my thoughts,’’ said Charmian in a dry voice.
“We think someone’s out to get you. Perhaps to compromise you.’’ She gave Charmian a sideways glance.
“In my job people are often out to get me, friends and enemies alike.’’
“With friends lik
e yours, you don’t need enemies.’’
“That happens, too. Don’t you think the police have that happen to them all the time? It happens all the time. Look, if you’ve got something to tell me, tell me now.’’
“I don’t really have anything special.’’ She looked away. “But Scilly was my friend.’’ She took a deep breath. “ They say that she shouldn’t have been in the house, that she went back to collect her things and started the fire herself with her cigarette. That could be, I don’t know. But what was she doing in the house? She had all the stuff she wanted. Scilly didn’t own much. Anyway, Timmy had her on this lark that property is a chain round the neck.’’
“A wife is not a chattel,’’ quoted Charmian.
“She was stuck on Timmy, she wouldn’t have gone back for things.’’
“So what did she go back for?’’
The girl spread out her hands. “ I don’t know. Perhaps someone took her back. But I do know that before she died she was a very puzzled girl.’’
“Was it something about the house? Is that what you’re saying?’’
“Yes, I think it was.’’ She looked puzzled herself. “Two people died in that house. It must be the house, mustn’t it?’’
She put a few last touches to her painting and then started to pack up her things.
“I’m so puzzled,’’ she said quietly, bending her head over her box. “I don’t know what to do.’’
Charmian put her hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done something.’’
The girl lifted her head. “Yes, I’ve done something.’’ She watched Charmian. “Action’s up to you now.’’
By the time Charmian got out of the hall there was a policeman on duty outside. He was one she knew. He was breathing heavily as if he’d hurried. He was a tall fair boy with blue eyes and a pleasant smile. He managed to smile at Charmian, but she got the impression he’d rather have not.
“Bit late,’’ he admitted. “Shouldn’t be here really. Shouldn’t be on duty. I’ll probably drop off on my feet. But we’re pushed. We get all the trouble, don’t we? But that’s the job.’’
“More trouble, isn’t there?’’
“Yes.’’ He didn’t amplify it. “I don’t know what the kids are coming to.’’
“What is it now?’’ Charmian looked about her.
“Not here. In a school this time. I don’t know the details. They ought to be able to stop these things. What I say is, they don’t just happen, they brew up a long time and someone ought to see what’s coming. When I was young,’’ he was all of twenty-three, “kids were kids and knew it. Not mini adults. Now they don’t seem to know what they are.’’ He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something more, then shut it again. “Take no notice of me,’’ he said. “ I’m sour.’’ But he managed another smile. “ I heard you give a lecture once.’’
“Did you? I don’t do much of that.’’
“This was in Deerham Hills. I came over on a course. I failed it.’’
Charmian smiled in sympathy.
“I passed next time, though. Me and my mate.’’ He frowned, once again made a move as if to speak and thought better of it. Then, as if he felt he must say something, he said, “You weren’t speaking then.’’
Charmian laughed. “Yes, I remember when I spoke. I only did it once. I was really standing in for someone else. And to tell you the truth, I don’t believe I did it very well. I had a lot on my mind at the time. More than one job.’’
“That’s the way it is,’’ he said sympathetically. “That’s what the public don’t realise: we’ve always got more than one thing to worry about.’’
This was written in Charmian’s book too. While she was worrying about Don and the students she had also to think about Alda and Mrs. Banks. The same characters seemed to move in and out of each story, playing a different part in each. She was playing different ones herself as a matter of fact. In some stories (Ann Hooks’s, for instance) she had a good part and was a wise person, in Don’s she was the villain. There was no doubt whatever than in someone else’s life Don was a hero. She didn’t want to know that person.
The stories cross, though, thought Charmian, they cross at me. X marks the spot. I am X.
She climbed a slope and then looked down to where the great group of science buildings stood—chemistry and physics, life sciences and engineering.
The engineering building was to one side, and adjoining it a lower building of very original design, with a bright green roof. Something about it suggested that it housed an extraordinary capacity. It was expensive too, nothing about it had been skimped. This in itself was enough to draw comment in a period of stringent economy.
Charmian walked down the slope to get a better look at the building. The slope grew steeper towards the end. She stopped about a hundred yards from the building. All quiet, but she knew that inside there were complex machines clicking away, each a creature with a memory, a rudimentary reasoning power, and, in a quiet kind of way, a voice. Or, at any rate, the power of expressing itself. She sat down on the grassy slope and considered it.
“Of course,’’ she said, aloud, “the big computer. The most expensive piece of equipment in the university.’’
From where she sat the whole place looked deserted. But she had an idea that the big computer never rested.
Slowly she got up and made her way back to the central group of university buildings. There was a row of telephone booths opposite the coffee-house. She took a coin from her pocket and tossed up. Should she telephone or not?
“Heads I do, tails I don’t,’’ she said. She could see Don and Van still drinking coffee and talking. Or rather Van was talking and Don was listening and playing with a spoon. A classic picture of a man not liking what he heard. Her coin came up tails, but she telephoned anyway.
By now the Midport police knew her voice even if, apparently, they did not welcome it.
“The Computer House is the place,’’ she said without preamble. “Everything else is just façade.’’
“No bomb there. We’ve looked.’’
“You don’t need a bomb,’’ Charmian pointed out. “A spanner, well directed, would do. Two strong men would do. One, even.’’
There was dead silence from the other end.
“You must really try to control your enthusiasm,’’ said Charmian coldly. “ Just act on what I say. I tell you I know what I’m saying.’’
“Wait: don’t sound off.’’ He was placatory. “We’ve checked and double-checked. The Computer House is empty and the door locked. Got that, locked? And the keys are all in the hands of authorised persons.’’
“Are you sure? You’d better check,’’ said Charmian.
She walked out into the sunlight. She could just see the green roof of the computer building over the tops of the trees.
She made up her mind to walk over there again and try to get into the building. If it was locked, well it was locked, but at least she could look in the windows.
Don was walking up the slope and stopped when he saw her.
“What are you doing here?’’ she asked suspiciously.
“I am a scientist,’’ he said. “ Don’t forget that, will you? And the science blocks are over there. I was in the lab. checking up.’’
“I don’t forget you’re a scientist. I just have to get all your different activities in my mind.’’
“There’s quite a rasp in that,’’ said Don.
They both heard the sound of footsteps on the path behind them and turned to look. They were the footsteps of Shirley Jackson, but they could have been the heavy footsteps of a man who had died, because he was running too. Harder and quicker than ever he had run in his life. He was quite keeping touch with Shirley.
“I was looking for you,’’ said Shirley breathlessly. “You’re wanted.’’
Chapter Twelve
There was a hush over Palmer’s Road School. Inside, the normal noises of the morning were stilled. Outside
, there was confused murmurous humming like a lot of children talking but trying to pretend they are not talking. From where she stood in classroom 2B, Ann Hooks knew what that noise was.
The whole school had been evacuated from the building and were lined up in the school playground. The whole school, that was, except Class 2B, which was still sitting unhappily in here with her. A girl in the front stirred slightly in her seat and Ann stared nervously at her. Both of them were scared to move.
“Keep still,’’ said a voice from the door. “Girl in front, keep still.’’
There was no teacher in the room. The boy with the gun had sent the teacher out when he let Ann in. It was one for the other, he’d said, and he happened to want Ann in. He was standing, hunched, in one corner by the door. He wouldn’t be there long. Already he’d fidgeted round twice, making a circuit of the room and adding to the tension.
“Don’t be frightened of me, children,’’ he said. “ You don’t have to be afraid. Do what I say and you’ll be all right. After all, I’m one of you.’’ He motioned to Ann Hooks. “Tell them to do what I say.’’
She hesitated.
“Go on.’’ He waved the gun. She didn’t know for sure it was loaded. Who could tell? “Tell them to do what I say.’’
“They can hear.’’
“Tell them all the same. I want you to tell them. Say, relax, kids, he won’t hurt you.’’
“Relax, kids, he won’t hurt you,’’ repeated Ann.
“Yes, that’s exactly right. You might put a bit more feeling in it, though.’’ He considered. “Say it again and get the feeling there.’’
Ann was silent.
“Please.’’ He rapped on a desk with the gun. The child in the desk, a girl, flinched.
“Relax, kids, he won’t hurt you,’’ said Ann quickly.
“That was better. You got some feeling there. You got haste. Now say: because it’s not you he’s after.’’
Ann was silent.
“Flip, flop,’’ he said. “ Flip, flop, that’s way you talk. Up and down. Can you hear that, children?’’
“Leave them be,’’ said Ann.
A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death Page 13
