talked a little more, saying nothing, and then ended the conversation. Kengle was grinning from ear to ear when he walked back down the hall and unlocked his way into his room.
One corner of his brain said, What if the set-up’s no good?
Aloud he said, “It’s gotta be better than peddling books.”
He made one concession to good sense. He opened the window before throwing the briefcase into the airshaft.”
9
Maybe I ought to tell the police,” Ellen said. She was hugging herself so hard her arms hurt.
“I don’t think you should,” Dr Godden said carefully. “I think you’re carrying around enough guilt feelings as it is.”
“It’s tonight,” she said. She was shivering, trembling, no matter how hard she hugged herself.
“If Stan had had his way,” Dr Godden reminded her, “it would have been happening right now.”
“Nobody has their way against Parker,” she said. “I hate him.”
“I believe we correctly analyzed Stan on Monday,” Dr Godden said. “He wanted a daylight robbery so that he could not be asked to take an active part in it.”
“If I told the police it was going to happen,” she said, “but didn’t tell them who was going to do it, and then somehow I let Stan know they knew about it—”
“You couldn’t do it,” he told her. “Not without implicating yourself. And then Stan would merely hate you.”
“But there’s no way out! If they get caught, that’s terrible, and if they don’t get caught he’ll want to do it again and that’s terrible.”
“We still can’t be sure he’ll want to do it again,” Dr Godden said, his voice soothing her though she still trembled. “After all, if he didn’t want to take an active part this time it means he’s had some second thoughts already, he’s somewhat afraid now. After the reality of the experience he may decide he never wants to go through anything like that again. We can’t tell one way or the other until he’s actually gone through it.”
”But what if they get caught?”
“Let’s go over the plan,” he said, “and see if we can find any loopholes, anything Parker and the others haven’t thought of. We’ve discussed various parts of the plan from time to time, but we’ve never taken it through from beginning to end. Let’s do that now.”
“All right,” she said. Her voice began to drone.
10
Dr Godden stood in the doorway, watched Ellen Fusco go out through the outer office, and then motioned to the slender young man on the Naugahyde sofa to come in.
The young man, whose face was covered with acne, got to his feet, said nastily, “Ralph’s late again,” and sauntered into the inner office. He sat on the sofa there, spread his legs out, folded his arms and said, “Ralph’s always late.”
Dr Godden shut the door, controlled his impulse to speak harshly, and went over to sit in his accustomed chair at the end of the sofa. “That’s a problem of Ralph’s,” he said. “Perhaps after a while he’ll get over it.”
“Soon everyone will be perfect,” said the young man. He always strove for sarcasm but never attained anything other than petulance.
His name was Roger St Cloud, he was twenty-two years old, militarily unsuitable because of some problem with his inner ear, the only son of well-to-do parents—his father had a controlling interest in Monequois First Savings—and a classic bundle of insecurities and neuroses masked by a juvenile nastiness of manner. The clothing he wore—sneakers without socks, filthy chinos, a ratty turtleneck sweater—was intended to infuriate his parents, and it succeeded. It was the positive relish with which Roger’s parents rose to every bait the boy tossed them that made Dr Godden’s work so much more necessary and at the same time so much more difficult. If he could get the parents in here for regular treatments it might have some good effect on the son, but of course they’d never agree to anything like that.
Well, for the purpose at hand
One corner of his brain said, What if the set-up’s no good?
Aloud he said, “It’s gotta be better than peddling books.”
He made one concession to good sense. He opened the window before throwing the briefcase into the airshaft.”
9
Maybe I ought to tell the police,” Ellen said. She was hugging herself so hard her arms hurt.
“I don’t think you should,” Dr Godden said carefully. “I think you’re carrying around enough guilt feelings as it is.”
“It’s tonight,” she said. She was shivering, trembling, no matter how hard she hugged herself.
“If Stan had had his way,” Dr Godden reminded her, “it would have been happening right now.”
“Nobody has their way against Parker,” she said. “I hate him.”
“I believe we correctly analyzed Stan on Monday,” Dr Godden said. “He wanted a daylight robbery so that he could not be asked to take an active part in it.”
“If I told the police it was going to happen,” she said, “but didn’t tell them who was going to do it, and then somehow I let Stan know they knew about it—”
“You couldn’t do it,” he told her. “Not without implicating yourself. And then Stan would merely hate you.”
“But there’s no way out! If they get caught, that’s terrible, and if they don’t get caught he’ll want to do it again and that’s terrible.”
“We still can’t be sure he’ll want to do it again,” Dr Godden said, his voice soothing her though she still trembled. “After all, if he didn’t want to take an active part this time it means he’s had some second thoughts already, he’s somewhat afraid now. After the reality of the experience he may decide he never wants to go through anything like that again. We can’t tell one way or the other until he’s actually gone through it.”
”But what if they get caught?”
“Let’s go over the plan,” he said, “and see if we can find any loopholes, anything Parker and the others haven’t thought of. We’ve discussed various parts of the plan from time to time, but we’ve never taken it through from beginning to end. Let’s do that now.”
“All right,” she said. Her voice began to drone.
10
Dr Godden stood in the doorway, watched Ellen Fusco go out through the outer office, and then motioned to the slender young man on the Naugahyde sofa to come in.
The young man, whose face was covered with acne, got to his feet, said nastily, “Ralph’s late again,” and sauntered into the inner office. He sat on the sofa there, spread his legs out, folded his arms and said, “Ralph’s always late.”
Dr Godden shut the door, controlled his impulse to speak harshly, and went over to sit in his accustomed chair at the end of the sofa. “That’s a problem of Ralph’s,” he said. “Perhaps after a while he’ll get over it.”
“Soon everyone will be perfect,” said the young man. He always strove for sarcasm but never attained anything other than petulance.
His name was Roger St Cloud, he was twenty-two years old, militarily unsuitable because of some problem with his inner ear, the only son of well-to-do parents—his father had a controlling interest in Monequois First Savings—and a classic bundle of insecurities and neuroses masked by a juvenile nastiness of manner. The clothing he wore—sneakers without socks, filthy chinos, a ratty turtleneck sweater—was intended to infuriate his parents, and it succeeded. It was the positive relish with which Roger’s parents rose to every bait the boy tossed them that made Dr Godden’s work so much more necessary and at the same time so much more difficult. If he could get the parents in here for regular treatments it might have some good effect on the son, but of course they’d never agree to anything like that.
Well, for the purpose at hand
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