The professors daughter, p.1
The Professor's Daughter, page 1
The Professor’s Daughter
a novel by
Piers Paul Read
Copyright © 2013, Piers Paul Read
It is believed by some that modern society will be always changing its aspect; for myself, I fear that it will ultimately be too invariably fixed in the same institutions, the same prejudices, the same manners, so that mankind will be stopped and circumscribed; that the mind will swing backwards and forwards forever without begetting fresh ideas; that man will waste his strength in bootless and solitary trifling, and, though in continual motion, that humanity will cease to advance.
ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE — Democracy in America
Contents
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part Three
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Four
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Introduction
1
In the autumn of 1967 a girl was to be seen following an older man across Boston Common. It was late afternoon. The air was cold and damp. The sky was grey, the grass dark green and the tree-trunks black. The girl wore a brown coat and a yellow woollen jersey which showed beneath the coat at her neck. Her legs were long and were covered with russet stockings which matched the colour of the leaves at her feet.
The face of this girl was fixed and still. Her eyes were wide open, their glance direct on the shoulders of the man in front of her. Her nose was narrow, and red in the cold: the line of her jaw was taut — the skin close to the bone. Only in her mouth was there a shapelessness inconsistent with the clarity of her other features.
The appearance of the man she followed was in most ways a contrast to hers. His features too were well spaced and balanced, but moulded in flesh, not formed by the bone. From a distance these uniform features might have been to his advantage, though from any proximity he would have seemed unattractive, for his nose was fat and his lips were thick and the skin on his cheeks was clogged and pitted. He was a heavy man and the clothes he wore — a jacket with padded shoulders — made him seem heavier still. His trousers were tight and badly pressed. When a movement of his head allowed his fat neck to separate from the collar of his shirt, there could be seen the scum that had passed from the one to the other: and the bright tie he wore was darkened at its knot by the filth of the fingers that had tied it.
This man, moreover, was twice the age of the girl. The line of his greased black hair retreated over the horizon on his flat scalp, yet the girl — this thin child with serious, staring eyes — came as close as ten steps behind him and kept pace so doggedly that he sensed her related presence and stopped. She stopped behind him. He turned and looked at her. Their eyes met. His were cold and defensive — but their expression changed as soon as he saw the expression in hers. He waited. She approached, faltered and then joined him and they continued side by side across the Common towards Charles Street.
The girl, as she walked, drew in her breath — the first half of a broken sigh — and glanced up at the man.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t got much time.’
She released the air from her lungs. ‘No,’ she replied. The wisps of vapour faded into the air of the evening.
‘Have you got a place,’ the man asked, ‘or shall we go to a hotel?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no. We can go to my apartment.’
Her voice was soft, its accent almost English. The words from the man’s mouth were stubby and nasal — the tone of the Boston docks.
‘Hey,’ said the man. ‘You’re not underage or anything, are you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m … I’m nineteen.’
‘You never know,’ he said.
They came off the Common onto Arlington Street and walked down towards the Charles River. On the north side of Beacon Street the girl opened the door to what had once been the family home of rich Bostonians but was now divided into flats. Her own was made up of the attics at the top. The man, who was heavy, lost his breath in climbing the stairs: he stood in the small hall-way to recover it for what they had come there to do.
The business between them took little more than ten minutes. The man was abrupt, lowering his trousers as he would to defecate and kicking off his shoes. The girl had time only to remove those clothes that had to be removed before he moved onto her and shoved the rest up into her face.
When it was over the girl beneath the man started to cry. Her inhalations became sobs.
‘Please … would you mind … getting off,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said, raising himself. ‘I’ve got to be getting on anyway.’ He moved his feet onto the floor, pulled up his trousers and then started to untie the knotted laces of his shoes. The girl, quietly crying, climbed off the bed and went to the dressing-table in the corner of the room. She stood still in front of it.
‘Look, would you please stop crying,’ said the man. ‘I mean to say, you wanted it, you got it. So what is there to cry about?’
The girl said nothing. Her sobbing seemed to stop. ‘I’m so hot,’ she said, and went to the window.
‘Sure you’re hot,’ said the man, buttoning up his trousers. ‘What do you think you’ve been doing for the last quarter of an hour …’
She opened the window — a sashcord window — from the bottom.
‘… jumping and squeaking like a pack of rubber balls?’ The man went on: ‘You college girls, you make me nervous.’
She sat on the ledge, swung her legs over and dropped.
The man was straightening his tie. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, ‘Oh Christ, oh sweet Jesus.’ He went to the window. There below was the Charles River and Memorial Driveway. He looked along the small lane that ran beside the building: he could not see her body. Then his eyes came nearer to the wall and he saw her form sprawled on the fire-escape two storeys down.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
He pulled his head back into the bedroom, looked around, saw his jacket, picked it up and put it on. He then left the apartment, went down the stairs and out of the building. He walked as far as Commonwealth Avenue before he came to a call-box. There he dialled the number of the City Police.
‘Look,’ he said into the telephone, ‘this is none of my business, but there’s the body of a girl lying on the fire-escape of twenty-three Beacon Street.’ He then disconnected the line.
2
The police broke into the apartment on the second floor and, from the window, they were able to retrieve the unconscious body of the girl. An ambulance was called and arrived some minutes later to take it in charge.
The police — a sergeant and a patrolman — then went up to the next floor of the house. ‘She sure dropped further than that,’ said the sergeant. They climbed to the top. ‘This is more like it,’ he said. There was no sound from inside, so he drew out a set of pass-keys and let himself in. The patrolman entered behind him.
The hall was small: a grey coat hung on a peg. They went into the living room which was tidy — furnished and decorated in plain, subdued colours, with books on the shelves and pictures on the walls.
‘It’s the wrong side,’ said the patrolman.
‘I know, I know,’ said the sergeant.
They went back into the hall and then into the bedroom.
‘Well, look at this
The window was open: the bed-cover was crumpled and half off the bed.
‘It looks like a struggle,’ said the patrolman.
‘On the bed?’ said the sergeant.
He went towards the window but before he reached it he saw, and stooped to retrieve, the russet stockings on the floor.
‘Hey, it looks like some dirty business,’ said the patrolman.
The sergeant said nothing. He looked at the stockings, the bed, the open window.
‘What do you think, sarge?’
‘We’d better call the station.’
The detective who arrived was young and exact. He glanced at the same objects — the bed-cover and the discarded stockings — and then crossed to the window. He looked down at the fire-escape, then into the room again and then across at the two uniformed policemen.
‘Who was she?’ he asked.
The sergeant shrugged. ‘There’s no name on the door.’
The detective nodded. He went back through the hall to the sitting room and sat down at the desk. He started to go through the few papers, like a bank clerk counting dollar bills, and eventually drew out a letter signed ‘Dad’. He sucked at his gums and nodded to himself as he read the name printed on the paper.
3
The detective (Peterson) drove across the Charles River from Boston to Cambridge. It was now nearly dark — towards seven in the evening. He joined Massachusetts Avenue and passed through Harvard Square — his face passive but for the occasional sucking at his gums. The radio in his car carried messages that were not for him.
Half-way down Brattle Street he stopped, got out and stood straight. He walked about twenty yards up the street and then stood silently for a moment outside a large house on the corner, set back from the street in a garden. The rooms on the ground floor were lighted. The detective walked up to the front door, hesitated and then rang the bell.
A man, aged between forty-five and fifty, opened the door. He looked at the detective through the screen door left up from the summer.
‘Peterson,’ said the detective, ‘Boston Police Department.’
The owner of the house pulled back the screen door.
‘Do you have a daughter called Louisa?’ the detective asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Living at twenty-three Beacon Street?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I’m afraid she’s had an accident, professor ….’
‘Won’t you come in?’
Peterson stepped forward and was immediately in an atmosphere of light and elegance — a long hall-way with pale yellow walls, a wide staircase with a white balustrade.
‘Would you mind coming into my study?’ said the professor. ‘I’d rather hear about this before we tell my wife.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Peterson, removing his hat.
They crossed the hall and passed into a small room whose walls were lined with books. On one side of this room there was an antique, leather-topped desk and on the other two upholstered armchairs placed at an angle to the fire-place. Professor Rutledge sat back in one of these chairs and the detective, Peterson, perched on the other, his hands holding his hat, his elbows resting on his knees.
‘She fell from the window of her bedroom onto the fire-escape … two storeys down. She’s in Mass General right now.’
‘How did it happen, do you know?’
‘Well, sir, we couldn’t question her, you see, because she was unconscious, but there is some evidence that someone else might have been involved. We were tipped off, you see. That’s how we knew she was lying there. Then her bedroom was in a … state of disarray.’
‘Yes,’ said the older man, nodding his head.
‘Of course we don’t know what any of that means — not yet.’
‘No.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘Perhaps,’ said the detective, ‘perhaps you’d like to call the hospital?’
‘Yes,’ said the professor, in a subdued, dull voice. ‘Yes, of course.’ He stood and crossed to the desk. He picked up the telephone and then fumbled with the directory.
‘Seven two six two thousand,’ said Peterson.
‘Oh … oh, yes,’ said Henry Rutledge. He dialled the number and when he was through he asked after his daughter. He listened, thanked the speaker and then replaced the receiver.
‘She’s conscious,’ he told Peterson. ‘It’s not serious. Concussion, and she’s broken a rib … that’s all.’
The detective nodded. ‘She’s a very lucky girl,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Henry Rutledge sat down again. He pressed the tips of the fingers of one hand against those of the other. ‘How could it have happened?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to ask her that,’ said the policeman.
‘Yes; yes, of course.’
‘Perhaps you’d care to come over to the hospital with me?’
‘Yes. That’d be very kind.’
They both stood.
‘What about your wife, professor?’
‘I’ll tell her … if you’ll just wait.’
The detective stood by the fire-place and watched the tall, slim academic leave the room. He looked around at the books — Hobbes, Aristotle, Marx. His eyes stopped: Karl Marx — Capital. V. I. Lenin — The State and Revolution. J. V. Stalin — The Foundations of Leninism.
He heard a woman’s voice — somewhat harsh — from across the hall. ‘Oh Christ … Is she hurt? Well I’m not surprised. No, you go … I can’t … I can’t move.’ Slurred, hiccupped words.
The professor returned. His hair, which was turning grey, was neither long nor short but as well cut as his clothes. The lines on his face were evident but distinctive — as suited to his eminent bearing as his clean shirt and polished shoes. ‘Shall we go now?’ he said.
They drove back through Harvard Square. ‘If there’s anyone else,’ said the detective, ‘we’ll find him.’
The professor nodded. They were both silent.
‘Look … if there’s some kind of record on your daughter, sir, perhaps we ought to know about it.’
‘No,’ said the professor, shaking his head. ‘She was married earlier this year … and they broke up. That must have upset her.’
‘She’s kind of young for that.’
‘Yes, she married young. It didn’t last.’
‘So she might have just jumped?’
‘Yes, but … I don’t know. You’d have to ask the psychiatrist, Dr Fisher.’
4
‘There was evidence,’ said the doctor, ‘that your daughter had been engaged in sexual intercourse very shortly — in fact immediately — prior to the fall.’
The professor said nothing. He looked straight down the corridor in which the three of them walked abreast.
‘This has nothing to do with her injuries,’ said the doctor, ‘but we had to examine her and it was — well, quite evident.’
‘It fits,’ said the detective.
‘You had better call Dr Fisher,’ said the professor.
They came to the room. Peterson left them, to call the psychiatrist. The parent and the doctor went in to the girl. She lay on her back. She wore a white smock laced up to her throat. Her hair was combed. Her eyes were closed. A nurse sat across the room from the bed.
‘Only a minute,’ the doctor whispered. ‘She needs rest.’
Henry Rutledge nodded. He went nearer to the bed and sat on the chair beside it, leaning over towards his daughter. He said nothing while her eyes remained closed, but then she opened them and he said her name. She turned her head, saw her father and without any expression returned to face the ceiling.
‘Poor Louisa,’ said Henry Rutledge. ‘I am sorry. My poor little girl.’
Her face remained quite still.
‘Can you tell me what happened, Lou? The police want to know. Did you fall?’
She did not answer.
‘Was there a man? Was someone there? Please tell me, darling, and I’ll tell the police ….’
She turned her head towards the wall and closed her eyes.
5
Dr Fisher was at a party but Peterson reached him there. He said he would come. His hostess saw him putting on his coat and begged him not to go so soon: he smiled and shrugged. ‘One of my patients just threw herself out of a window,’ he said, ‘so you see ….’ He smiled again — she was a rich and pretty woman — and promised to come back.
When he reached the hospital, Professor Rutledge sat alone in the lobby. They shook hands.
