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The Toff and the Fallen Angels - John Creasey
- Дата:23.09.2024
- Категория: Разная литература / Прочее
- Название: The Toff and the Fallen Angels
- Автор: John Creasey
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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 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—”
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 racquet, 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,” mut-tered 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 bee-line 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 Rolli-son’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 I 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?”
“No. I just came to see—” the man hesitated, then took his transmitter out of the inside of his tunic. “I’ll report to the station, sir.”
“Yes. And someone must have seen this chap,” Rollison pointed out. “He had to walk to the net, cut it, and walk back. Didn’t you have a man out here?”
The policeman did not appear to be listening, but was reporting over the microphone.
“Edwards here, sir . . . Someone cut a hole in ..”
Rollison moved off, leaving him to it. Two girls, one a flaxen-haired beauty who seemed to have stepped straight out of a film set, and a smaller one, with flaming red hair, were talking together. They stopped as Rollison came up with them, and fell into step by his side.
“Do you know who did it?” the taller girl asked.
“Not yet,” said Rollison.
“You never will,” said the red-head. “Thank God my offspring was adopted last month, I don’t have to stay any longer. It’s a pretty foul situation, isn’t it, Mr. Rollison?”
“Sickening,” responded Rollison. “Apart from guesswork, do either of you know who is behind it all?”
Both of them looked up at Slatter’s window; he was just turning away. Rollison went across to Anne, who was watching her companion crooning over a baby, obviously soothing herself as much as the child. Anne saw Rollison, and turned her head to him.
“Has he admitted it?” she asked drily.
“No,” answered Rollison.
“And no doubt you believe him,” Anne said stonily. “This is about the last straw. Heaven knows what would have happened if Judy hadn’t come out to see what was upsetting the babies.” She saw Rollison’s expression, and went on: “Yes, this is Judy Lyons.”
Judy half-turned.
“Hallo,” she said. She had a pert, pretty face and a bright, easy voice. “I suppose you still think you’re the great detective. After this, you don’t imagine that any of us will buy that, do you?” She kept moving the child to-and-fro. “I was one of those who said our worries were over when I heard you were interested, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.” She tossed her head and turned back to Anne. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to cover up that hole,” Anne said, proving that she had been on the alert, “and then we’re going to have a rota watch while the babies are out here. We’ve three with chicken pox, and one of the mothers is down with it, too. And then—well, we’d better have a meeting this evening, to decide what to do. Will you come and answer some questions? On how the rats invaded the children of the damned?”
She, too, looked up at the window where Sir Douglas Slatter had been standing. But it was empty, now, and dosed.
CHAPTER 14
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