Suffer the Children Read Free

Conger’s Point long before he was born. But in the old days, the really old days, it had probably ended at the Congers’ front door, a direct pipeline from the heart of the town to the residence of its leading citizens.
    The Conger family, though not the founders of Port Arbello, had been at the top of the sodal heap there for so long that it was now a tenet of faith with the people that not much could go on in Port Arbello without the approval of the Congers. It was also a tenet of faith that the Congers were rich. Not as rich, perhaps, as the Rockefellers and the Carnegies, but close enough so that, to Port Arbello, it didn’t make any difference. They still remembered the days when the railroad had built a special spur into Port Arbello to accommodate the needs of the Admiral’s private car. They still remembered the days when the staff at Conger’s Point was twice the size of the Conger family (which, until recently, had never been small). They assumed that the Congers, being people of taste and sensitivity, had let the staff go not because they could no longer afford them, but because large staffs had come to be considered ostentatious.
    Ray Norton, who lived on the Point Road himself, and had grown up with Jack Conger’s father, knew better. Ray had been of an age that fell between Conger generations, and felt himself privileged to be on warm social terms with two generations of Congers, even though the older one was now dead. Ray had been seventeen years younger than Jack Conger’s father, andwasfifteen years older than Jack. That, plus the fact that he was a neighbor and the chief of police, had put him in a position of being close to power. He enjoyed that position. And he was careful not to undermine it by talking about what he knew of the Congers.
    He pulled the car off the road and into the Congers’ driveway. You could see the house even before you turned into the drive. Indeed, you could see it from the moment the road passed the end of the forest that flourished along the north bank of the Point, and began flanking the field that separated the house from the woods. But Ray was always careful not to look at the house until he had reached the end of the driveway. From there, he could absorb it, could enjoy the grandeur with which it sat at the end of its lane, its full veranda staring austerely through the double row of ancient oaks that lined the drive. It was a saltbox, nearly two hundred years old, but its simple square lines seemed to fit with the bleakness of the lonely point on which it stood. It had a pride to it, as if it were challenging the sea to reach up and sweep it away. So far, the sea had not met the challenge, and Ray Norton doubted that it ever would.
    He parked the car and crossed the porch to the great oaken door. As always, he was tempted to raise the antique brass door knocker and let it crash against its plate to cause the resounding boom in the house that always brought visions of times past into his head. But, as always, he resisted the impulse and pressed the button that would sound the door chimes in the main hall within.
    “Newfangled gimcrack,” he muttered to himself, parodying his New England background.
    Rose Conger opened the door herself, and her face broke into a pleased smile at the sight of Ray Norton.
    “Ray! If you’re looking for Jack, you’re in the wrong place. He really does work these days, you know.”
    “I’ll get to him later,” Ray said. “Right now I need to talk to you. Have you got any coffee on?”
    Rose stepped back to let him in.
    “I don’t, but I’m sure Mrs. Goodrich does. If anything ever happens to her, I don’t know what well all do. Is this a social visit, or are we talking seriously? It makes a difference, you know. When this place was built, they had separate rooms for all kinds of conversations. Take your pick.”
    “How about the back study? I always liked that room. But only when a fire’s lit.”
    Rose smiled. “It’s