The Chinese Egg (24 page)

“Is that all he said? Didn't he tell you that we went to see him first?”

“Who is ‘we'?”

“Vicky. The girl you met here the other day. She and I went to see him.”

“I certainly got the impression it was he who was looking for you rather than the other way about. But of course I'm delighted if you aren't in any sort of difficulty with the police. That's excellent news.”

“I can't think why you should jump to the conclusion that I must have got into trouble,” Stephen said.

His father's reply seemed, at first, to be just the normal jargon. “Repressed aggression against paternalistic figures. . . the need to demonstrate a negative reaction towards authority. . . normal masculine protest of the young human. . . .” He felt he'd heard it all before. And then suddenly he heard his father's voice saying, “. . . but I should like you to believe that if you had got on the wrong side of the law, I should have done everything I could to help. . .” and he realized that this was true, and that although his father was probably mainly relieved that the opportunity wasn't going to arise, at the same time he might have looked forward to being, for once, able to do something for him that Stephen would have to accept, acknowledge, even be grateful for. What was bad was that he didn't want his father's help. He felt intensely irritated by the idea alone. Why? Was it because of everything being wrapped up in all that language? Or because he feared he'd be drawn into the excessively complicated world in which his father seemed to exist? Or because it was all so stilted and unstraight-forward, hedged round with offers of sherry and formal statements? “I think I can promise not to be angry. . . the fact that you are my son will make no difference. . . .” “But it bloody well ought to make a difference, he ought to be prejudiced, he ought to be able to be angry,” Stephen thought, and felt sad and cheated and as if, like Vicky, he had a father so far away that he wasn't
any good. Not understanding was almost as difficult as not knowing each other.

He did try, however, to explain about the Wilmington kidnapping and how he and Vicky were implicated. Dr. Rawlinson couldn't bring himself to ask him about it directly, but his assurances that he would never attempt to force Stephen's confidence or inquire into his private life became too pointed to ignore. Stephen gave him the overheard-in-the-train version and hoped he'd never have to embark on an explanation of any less ordinary way of gaining information. Trying to show a friendly spirit at the end, he asked, “Why do people snatch babies, Dad?”

“It's a sign of a very pathological state of mind. Always women, as far as I know. Often a young girl who's lost a baby of her own for some reason. Though there have been cases of quite young girls who act in that way for no apparent reason. An aberrant acting out of the repressed maternal instinct possibly. . . .” He was off again. Stephen stopped listening, but was then brought back to the present by realizing that his father had asked him a question.

“Sorry! What did you say?”

“I was asking if you were quite satisfied in your own mind that this girl you are. . . involved with, really has nothing to do with this baby's disappearance?”

“Vicky! Of course she hasn't! What on earth?”

“It seems possible that the police may not share your conviction.”

“But why. . .? I mean, if she'd been mixed up in it, why would we go to the police and tell them about what we heard?”

“Mind you, Stephen, I'm not doubting your word. I'm only suggesting that to the police it might sound—suspicious. A clever red herring. You describe a couple no one else has seen, so there can be no confirmation of what you say. You see? To divert suspicion. You couldn't blame them if they feel that there are more questions to be asked before you're—what I think is called ‘in the clear'.”

“But I'd have to be in it too! It couldn't be just Vicky. I was there when we heard them saying that about the baby!”

“Are you sure you were there? In the train with the girl? She
didn't merely tell you this story and you agreed to make it sound more probable by saying that you had been with her at the time?”

It was all so horribly like the confabulations which had in fact taken place between him and Vicky, that Stephen was dumb. His father followed up his advantage by saying, “You know I'm not a snob, Stephen, but I have been wanting to have a word with you about those two girls you brought in here the other day.”

Stephen said, “What about them?”

“Just be a bit on your guard. I only want you to remember that with a girl of that class the standards are different from ours. I mean, she might seem to be taking the same sort of attitude about certain things as yours would be, and then, when it was too late, you might find her expectations were quite different from yours. That's all.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Stephen said, rage rapidly boiling up inside him.

“I'm sure you do, Stephen. Consciously you may reject the idea that as your father I'm in a position to be able to advise you about certain aspects of life, but unconsciously you understand exactly what I'm dealing with. After all, your education in matters of sex hasn't been neglected, I think.”

“You mean that if I got a working-class girl pregnant, she'd expect me to marry her?”

“Roughly, yes. I'm sorry it all has to be spelt out quite so crudely.”

“I don't see it's any worse saying it straight out And I don't see that it's any worse getting one girl pregnant than another, if I don't want to marry her anyway.”

“I was just pointing out that in that class, when a girl gets pregnant. . . .”

“And you can't say you aren't a snob. Class doesn't make any difference nowadays. You'll say next that Vicky or Chris is more likely to have taken that baby because they're not middle class like us.”

“At any rate, the police are more likely to suspect her.”

“That's no reason why you should.”

“I suppose you realize, Stephen, that your springing so heatedly to this girl's defence is a very clear indication that you
are far more deeply involved with her than you realize. . . .”

To Stephen's own surprise, his instant reaction to his father's disparaging reference to ‘this girl' was to see under attack, not Chris's pretty, flushed face, but Vicky's; bonier, plainer, alive with intelligence and feeling. He almost didn't believe what he saw. He still felt the stirring of rivalry with Paul for Chris's affections. But for Chris he didn't feel the need to protect, he didn't feel that spark of recognition which proclaims, “This is my sort of person, this is what I understand.” He admired Chris, thought she was lovely and sweet and warm, but he realized, with the echo of a pang, that she was not for him. He could never feel completely at ease with Chris's direct view of life, he couldn't accept the black and white terms in which she saw her own and other people's actions. He remembered now Vicky's silences, Vicky's embarrassments, how she'd looked when she told him she didn't really belong to Chris's mother and father, the warmth with which she'd claimed a relationship, through appreciation and love, to Mrs. Stanford and Chris. All this, while his father's measured, cultivated voice sounded in his ears. He heard the end of the sentence, “. . . of course she is unusually good to look at, I'm not surprised you find yourself attracted, but. . .” and he interrupted, “Vicky's not the pretty one,” and saw his father's astonishment and felt glad that he had broken out of the parental pattern and had committed himself to something that was justified only by feeling, and not by the logical clauses of cold reason.

On Friday morning Stephen rang the number Price had given him, and heard his voice, a little impatient, immensely weary, “Price here.”

“It's Stephen Rawlinson. You said to let you know if anything happened. We've had another.”

“When?”

“Just now. About an hour ago. And I think it might be urgent.” “Where are you?”

“In a call box near the tube station.”

“Is the girl there too?”

“She's waiting outside.”

“Right. Don't tell me anything now. I'll send a car for you. Can you be at that coffee place I saw you in the day before yesterday? Both of you?”

“Yes, we'll be there.”

“See you.” Price rang off.

“What did he say? Did he believe. . .?” Vicky asked as soon as Stephen was out of the call box.

“He's sending a car for us right away. He sounded as if he believed it.”

“He didn't on Wednesday. Not at the beginning.”

“I thought he did by the end. It was something to do with the picture.”

“Then why didn't he say? If he knows it was there, wherever it was. He doesn't tell us anything.”

“That's just because he's police.”

“You don't think really he thinks it was me, like your father said?”

“No, I don't. I think that's just my father being too clever by half. As usual.”

“You don't talk about him as if you liked him much, Stephen.”

Stephen said, “Come on. We've got to get back to the café, He's sending for us there,” and they started towards it. But Vicky wasn't going to let him get off without answering and as they walked, she said again, “Don't you like your father at all?”

“Well, you've seen him. Would you?”

“I only saw him for about five minutes. He might not be like that all the time.”

“No, he isn't, exactly. But rather. Making things more complicated than they need be and criticizing my mother.”

“I suppose he's very clever,” Vicky said.

“He is, but it's all. . . I don't know how to express it. It's all thinking. He's stupid about people's feelings. And he pretends not to have any himself.”

“Have any what? Feelings?”

“That's right.”

“Perhaps he's frightened of them,” Vicky said.

“Yes. You're quite right. That's what it is, he's frightened. How did you guess?”

“I know what it's like. You feel it's safer to work it all out by thinking. Then you won't be made to look silly. Or get hurt.”

“Do you feel like that now?”

“How do you mean, now? Because of the police, do you mean?”

“No. I meant with me.”

Astonished, Vicky turned to look at him. To his fury Stephen felt himself blushing. Immediately Vicky blushed too and looked away again. Neither of them spoke. The next thing Vicky said was, “There's the caff. Let's get a table by the window where we can see when they come.” Stephen, glancing sideways, saw that her colour had returned to its normal smooth pallor. He followed her into the coffee shop.

Forty minutes later they were again in the Kensington police station, sitting opposite Price, and he was saying, “Now then. Tell me about it.”

“It was another flash,” Stephen said.

“Where were you?”

“In the café. Vicky and I were having coffee.”

“Go on.”

“I saw Mrs. Wilmington. . . .”

“Mrs. Wilmington?”

“Yes. It was dark. She was walking along a road.”

“What road?”

“I'm afraid I don't know. It looked as if it might be in the country. There weren't any houses. Only trees.”

“If it was dark, how could you see anything?” Price asked sharply.

“In the headlights of the car.”

“So there was a car too?”

“There were two. She was walking away from one. I'm not sure what make it was. Smallish. Could have been a Fiat, that sort of shape. I could see that better than the other, because the headlights from the other car were brighter.”

“Was there anyone else there?”

“There was a driver in the other car, I could see the outline of his head. And a passenger beside him. I couldn't see anything else.”

“How was Mrs. Wilmington dressed?”

Stephen was uncertain. “I'm not sure. Trousers, I think, and a sort of jacket. But there was one thing. . . .”

“What?”

“She was carrying something in her hand.”

“A handbag?”

“No. Smaller. Like a book.”

“An envelope, could it have been?”

“Yes, it could easily.”

“Did you see this too?” Price asked Vicky.

“Not quite the same. I saw more inside the other car.”

“Tell me.”

“I couldn't see much. It was dark, like Stephen said. Only I could see their heads against the light of her car. Mrs. Wilmington's. There were three of them. It was like as if I was looking in through the window at the back.”

“Could you see their faces?”

Vicky shivered. “They had stockings on over their heads. It was horrid.”

Stephen said, “But you heard them say something.”

“I heard one of them say, ‘Don't let her see the kid's not here.'”

“Could you see her? Mrs. Wilmington?”

“Not properly. I could see someone coming down the road. But their heads were between her and me.”

“Do you agree with Stephen's description of what she was wearing?”

“I didn't notice. It all happened so quickly.”

Price sat and looked at them.

“What did you think was happening? You,” he said to Vicky.

“I thought she was going to give them money so as to get the baby back.”

“But the baby wasn't there?”

“That's what they said.”

“What did you make of it?” Price asked Stephen.

“I thought she was handing over the ransom money too. I didn't know about the baby not being there, though. Not until Vicky told me.”

“What makes you think this is urgent?” Price said to them both.

“Because she mustn't do it, must she? Not pay a lot of money and not get the baby back.”