It was as if they were meeting for the first time. In the past two days, Nunne had ceased to strike him as a reality. His relief expressed itself as a desire to laugh. He said:
It's good to see you, Austin!
Thank you, Gerard. Your face is also welcome.
The small kitchen smelt of damp; behind the door stood a Calor-gas cylinder with the seal intact. The sink, stove and washing machine were all obviously new. On the draining-board stood three empty whisky bottles.
Which way?
To your left.
The room looked like a smaller version of the Albany Street flat. The carpet was the same eggshell blue; the walls were distempered in cream and navy blue. It was stiflingly hot; a paraffin heater with a hemisphere of glowing wires burned in the grate; the room was lit by two paraffin lamps with tall chimneys. The room had an appearance of disorder; there was a great deal of cigarette ash on the carpet and shells of monkey-nuts. On the table were the remains of a meal, and two whisky bottles, both full. Nunne threw a newspaper and some books off a chair, and said:
Sit down.
Thanks. Mind if I take my coat off?
How did you get here?
Gertrude brought me.
Where is she?
She's gone back to the hotel.
Nunne dropped into an armchair, and picked up a glass from the table. He said:
Help yourself to whisky. Open a fresh bottle. Why did you decide to come?
Sorme tore the lead foil off a bottle of White Horse, and poured himself a large one. He said:
The police have been looking for you.
He squirted soda, then turned round. Nunne was smiling. The teeth looked yellow and fang-like. He said:
I see.
Sorme took off his jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair. He said:
Mind if I open a window?
Do. Where did they visit you?
At Gertrude's.
When?
This morning.
I see.
Nunne was still smiling. Sorme anticipated the question, and was prepared to answer truthfully. Instead, Nunne said:
How long will she wait for you?
All day, if necessary. Or I could phone her at the Crown.
Good. Perhaps we'll do that later. I can drive you back to town.
Sorme allowed no surprise to appear on his face. He said:
Good. You're going up today?
I expect I may as well… now you've come. Allow me a few hours to sober up.
He stretched in the chair, yawned, then emptied his glass.
So you've come all this way to warn me? That's rather sweet of you.
Thanks. It's nothing.
Nunne crossed to the table, and poured more whisky. He was drinking it straight. On his way back, he stopped by Sorme's chair and placed his hand on Sorme's head. He said:
I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, dear boy.
Sorme recognised the note of sincerity through the whisky. He said:
Thanks.
Nunne leaned on the back of the chair. He was still swaying slightly. He said:
You are a friend, aren't you, Gerard?
Sorme looked up at him, and felt again the sudden knowledge of affection. He said:
Yes. I'm a friend.
Nunne smiled down, then walked unsteadily to his chair. Sorme said:
But if you intend to sober up, you won't do it that way.
Nunne said slowly:
No. I think you are right. Yes. I don't wanna get stinko yet.
He returned to the window and emptied his glass outside. He said:
Unfortunately, I need something to drink once I start. No milk.
He went back into the kitchen. Sorme heard him say:
Don't suppose champagne'd improve things. Or Niersteiner. That leaves baby pol or lemonade.
He returned carrying three bottles of lemonade and an opener. He poured a bottle into his empty glass and tasted it. He said:
Ugh! How disgusting!
He set it down on the arm of the chair as if it were nitroglycerine, then seated himself carefully. He said:
Well, go ahead. What did the police want?
Just to know where you were.
I see. Did they say anything more?
No. But when I asked Macmurdo if he wasn't in charge of the Whitechapel murders, he said yes. And he told me there was another murder last night.
Nunne said indifferently:
And did he give you any details?
No.
What time was the body discovered?
Not till late, I think. It wasn't in the early editions of the evening papers.
Nunne reached over and pulled a footstool closer. He closed his eyes, and stretched out, his head dropping forward. He said:
Rather an awkward situation, isn't it, Gerard?
I don't know.
Nunne smiled, his eyes closed. In his attitude of complete abandonment to exhaustion he might have been asleep. He said:
For five hours I've been thinking about this problem. But the whisky was beginning to overcome me.
He opened his eyes suddenly and looked at Sorme.
What am I to do?
Sorme said:
I don't know. I don't quite understand your problem.
He moved his chair further back from the fire; the breeze from the window had lowered the temperature of the room, but it was still overpowering. Nunne stood up and crossed to the window again; Sorme could feel a restlessness and tension that the whisky had not released.
Are you sure you weren't followed down here?
I should say it's pretty unlikely. I kept a constant watch. Gertrude even turned the driving mirror towards me so I could watch out of the back window.
How much does Gertrude know?
About as much as I know.
Nunne ignored the challenge in his words. He drew the curtain back and returned to his chair.
I wouldn't like to be interrupted. God, I feel pretty sloshed… I could do with a cold shower and a rub down. Never mind I want to talk to you.
He drywashed his face with his hands, and pushed his hair back. He drank down half a glass of lemonade, then sat down, grimacing. He said:
As you gather, dear boy, I'm in quite a situation.
How bad is it?
I'm not sure. Did Macmurdo have a warrant for me?
The words brought a tightness to Sorme's chest. He said:
No. I don't think so.
Nunne sat sprawled in the chair; he stared at Sorme and let the silence lengthen. His eyes looked bloodshot and exhausted, but their expression was sardonic. He said finally:
Well, Gerard?
Sorme said nothing, shrugging. Nunne said:
You're still too polite to want to pry into my business. But you're rather committed to it now, aren't you? You've come all this way to warn me. Why did you come?
I… I suppose, to warn you. I've been trying to phone you all weekend.
I've been down here. But I'm grateful, Gerard, very grateful… What would you do if they arrest me?
Sorme said carefully:
You mean for the… murders?
Nunne said quietly: Yes.
Could they arrest you?
I don't know. Probably not. And even if they did, I think they'd be forced to release me.
Sorme emptied his glass. He had just drunk an amount equivalent to four fingers of whisky, and felt totally unaffected. He was also aware how much of his calm he owed to the drink. He reached for the bottle and poured another. Nunne wrenched the cap off another lemonade bottle. Sorme asked:
What makes you assume you won't be arrested?
They've no evidence.
He stood up again and went to the window. He said:
I'd hate Macmurdo to crawl under that window with a tape-recorder. I'm afraid I'd better close it. I'll turn the fire off.
Sorme said:
Are you sure they've no evidence?
Fairly sure. Nothing that would be conclusive in a court of law.
Sorme said:
They'd try very hard. They badly need to make an arrest.
I know. And they might find some excuse for holding me while they wait for a confession. They might easily do that. Hoping I'd crack. I wouldn't.
No?
No. Have you ever noticed that most killers talk too much?
The word made Sorme's hand tighten around the glass; it was there now, between them, like an upturned playing-card. Nunne said:
Whiteway, the Teddington Towpath murderer. Neville Heath. And Peter Manuel. They talked their way to the scaffold.
Sorme said slowly:
You classify yourself with them?
Nunne looked at him seriously; his head made a hardly perceptible gesture of approval, as if he were a professor, and Sorme his most intelligent pupil. He said:
No. I don't. But they remain of interest. You don't confine your reading to Goethe and Dostoevsky, although you classify yourself with them rather than with your contemporaries. The problem is that most criminals are stupid ruffians. Manuel and Heath and the rest were contemptible. Kurten was more interesting. In a more enlightened country — Sweden, for instance — he wouldn't have been executed. He was deeply interested in his own impulses. He used to read Lombroso and Havelock Ellis. With the help of a panel of intelligent doctors he might have added a new domain to psychology.
All traces of the whisky had disappeared, except for the occasional slurring of vowels; there was a feverish brightness in his eyes as he talked. He said:
You know, Gerard, I've sat in judgment on myself many times. I'm not an animal. I'm a man. I can judge myself. If I was a writer or a poet, the human race might agree that I can add something to their knowledge. That means that I must be an identity. I can analyse my own impulses, even if I can't control them. If I could talk to other people about them I might even learn to control them. So why should I be condemned and executed like a mad dog? No one has the right. It would be murder.
Sorme said:
This is what you've been thinking about all morning?
No. Not entirely. But I've thought about it often enough…
He crossed to the window again and peered out, then opened it and drew the curtain aside for a moment. The room was full of the acid odour of paraffin fumes as the heater spluttered. Sorme said:
But what are you going to do now?
Ah, that is a problem. There's only one thing certain. I've got to stop.
But… do you think you'll get away with it?
Why not? If they've no evidence against me…
But if Macmurdo's looking for you he must have a pretty definite suspicion…
That is nothing. No one saw me last night…
Sorme said:
It was you last night?
For the first time, Nunne looked guilty. He said:
Yes.
Did you… know the woman?
Nunne sat down. He said:
Ah, if you want to talk about that… we shall have to start all over again.
Sorme said:
I don't want to talk about it particularly.
You see… that's my real problem. I can't stay in England. If I was certain I wanted to be cured…
Don't you?
Partly. But it's not like a disease. Surely you can understand that, Gerard?
I think I do…
Don't you see… to do anything worthwhile, you have to be willing to allow yourself to be carried away? You see, I was born like this. It was in my blood. Like your restlessness. I could never settle down to an ordinary life. When I was seventeen I used to pray that I might become a great artist. I used to stare at pictures by Van Gogh or Munch, and think: These men had strange impulses. I think Munch had visions of blood too. I used to think that if I was strong enough I could become a great artist…
He seemed to collapse suddenly, dropping his head again into his hands. Sorme felt an immense pity moving inside him, and a desire to reach across to him. Nunne said:
It was no good. I was too lucky. My family had too much money. To do a thing like that, you need to feel alone.
Sorme said quietly: Poor Austin.
Nunne looked up, smiling; his eyes were red where he had been rubbing them.
No. I'm not poor Austin. I'm f-ing rich Austin. But you know, Gerard, I have a theory. Subconsciously, I've been trying to induce a state of crisis in my life. To get rid of the money and privilege. And now I've done it. The crisis is here. There's no way back now. Think, if I'd left the country yesterday, this poor devil from Brixton might have been sentenced for the murders and no one would have known.
Sorme said:
I'm not so sure. The police have been watching you. Father Carruthers told me to warn you. Stein told him.
Father Carruthers? Nunne said. Is there anybody in London who doesn't know?
I don't know whether he knows. I didn't know until I saw you. I couldn't believe it.
Nunne said:
You believe it now?
No. Not really. Oh, I accept your word for it… but it's not real to me.
Nunne stretched out his hands on his thighs, and stared at them. He said:
But it's true…
Sorme said:
But why? Why do you have to do it?
Nunne looked at him; his eyes seemed strangely hooded, concealed. He said:
How do I know? The impulse goes back so far that I can't even trace it. Haven't you ever felt anything of the sort?
I… suppose so. When I was about six I had a nasty tendency to beat up boys who were smaller than myself… if there was something about them that irritated me. I don't know whether that was sadism or just high spirits…
Nunne said, smiling:
It sounds like authentic sadism.
But I could always understand the impulse at the time. It wasn't like — well, being possessed by a demon or something. It was me all right.
Of course. It always is.
But… you talked to me once about doing something that made you feel as if you'd been changed into an animal.
Did I? Perhaps I did. But that's only a histrionic way of putting it. If you look at yourself objectively, of course you feel like an animal. But it's never as weird as that. You know some psychiatrist has a theory that the old legends of vampires and werewolves arose out of cases of sadism — split personality. I never felt like a werewolf.
How did you feel?
Nunne was staring at his hands again. He said slowly:
I can give you an idea. When I killed that coloured prostitute I felt an immense exaltation. I felt like a prophet cleansing the world, like Jesus throwing the moneychangers out of the Temple. And when she was lying on the ground, I had to suppress an urge to shout and bring the whole street to look at her. I wanted to say: Look, she's dead. She's an example to the world…
He looked up suddenly, and caught the look of fascinated horror on Sorme's face. Somehow, he was not the same person; his face and eyes seemed darker; he reminded Sorme of a gypsy he had known as a child. He said sadly:
I know. You don't understand. You can't.
Sorme said:
No… I understand a little. Was she the first?
Nunne stared back at him; his eyes were bolder now, and somehow depthless.
No. But… I don't want to talk about that.
All right… What do you want to talk about?
The problem of what I'm going to do.
What do you want to do?
I don't know. You see… I've let this impulse grow stronger. And today I feel quite cleansed of it — as if it had gone for good. Perhaps it has gone for good.
The hope was there; Sorme could see it clearly. It would have been impossible to counterfeit. Sorme said quietly:
Because of last night?
Nunne nodded.
Because of last night. Do you know something, Gerard? Last night, for the first time, I felt suddenly disgusted with myself. It seemed stupid and pointless. And all the way back here I was thinking: If I'm caught this time, that's the last time. It won't happen again…
And do you mean that?
I think so. I don't know. You see, Gerard, I still want to do something else. I'm still certain I could do something good, something important. Don't you think so? It's the same urge — the need to let something out of yourself.
Sorme said:
Look, forgive me if this question's stupid. I'd like to ask it all the same. Supposing everything turns out as you want it to. Supposing you go back to London and the police don't arrest you and you start a new life. Wouldn't you ever think back on… the past? Would you feel it had been written off and closed?
I don't know. I think so.
You don't feel — well, pangs of conscience…?
What's the point? It's done now. And if the urge has gone for good, then it wasn't all meaningless…
But what about the women?
Nunne shrugged:
Pooh, a few prostitutes. Women who'd sold their lives, anyway. Do you know what the woman last night said to me? 'I suppose you might be Leather Apron.' She knew I might be.
I suppose she didn't believe it.
She knew it was possible. She just didn't care. If you'd found some loathsome worm in a meat pie, you'd stop eating that brand of meat pie, wouldn't you? And if you carried on eating them, it would prove you didn't really care.
Or that I was too hungry not to eat them.
No. These women aren't too poor to give it up. They could live better as shop assistants or hosiery workers. They just don't care.
But why kill them because they don't care?
Nunne said with a kind of exasperation:
I don't know. I don't know why I want to do it.
He made a movement of his hand towards his stomach:
It's something in here. I feel sometimes that I could take an emetic and get rid of it all. It's like periodic malaria. But try to understand, Gerard. It's not just a disease. It's an excitement. It's a kind of inverted creative impulse. I feel as if I'm serving something greater than myself. It's… it's like a need… to build.
He made a vague shape in the air with his two hands. He laughed suddenly, and it startled Sorme. It was an easy laugh; there was a gaiety in it.
You see, there's even a sort of dramatic impulse behind it, a playwright's desire for climaxes. Don't you see?
Sorme nodded. He said slowly:
You mean… the newspapers ask if the killer's moved to Greenwich — and immediately, there's a double murder? And a man's arrested, and everybody heaves a sigh of relief. And there's another murder…
Nunne was suddenly serious.
In a way, yes. But Gerard… if only I could feel it had gone out of me. For good. This thing has driven me… for three years now.
Since Hamburg?
Nunne looked surprised.
Yes, Hamburg? How did you know?
Father Carruthers again. Stein told him.
Nunne said shortly:
I thought they suspected.
Wasn't it a man in Hamburg?
A youth. Male prostitute.
He was the first?
Nunne nodded.
And… why did you feel the need…?
Nunne said, shrugging:
Don't know. You wouldn't understand.
I might. Did you hate him?
No. On the contrary. I loved him… a little.
And why weren't you caught?
Because no one knew he'd been with me. He had a lot of clients.
But… what did you do with him?
Are you really interested?
Yes.
I'll tell you. I dumped him in a bath of ice-cold water — it was midwinter in Hamburg — and left him there for an hour. Then I carried him up three flights of stairs, and left him in the room of a man whom I knew to be away for the night. He came in at five in the morning and roused the hotel. Then a doctor examined the body, and decided from its temperature that he'd been killed at least eight hours before. And I had an alibi up till two in the morning. So I was allowed to leave the hotel the next day. It was a pretty low dump, anyway, and that was its second murder in a month.
Wasn't it all pretty dangerous? You might have been seen taking him upstairs.
That's true. That was dangerous. And the man in the next room heard me running the bath water at three in the morning; he mentioned it to me the next day. Luckily, I'd taken great care not to wet the hair. But it was dreadfully dangerous.
Nunne was speaking with a certain pride; he might have been telling Sorme a fishing story. Sorme glanced at his watch; it was one-thirty. He had been there about an hour. In that time, Nunne's demeanour had changed completely. He no longer seemed drunk; he talked with a clinical precision; his voice was calm and cheerful. The whisky had affected Sorme; he was aware of being more than half drunk, while feeling no loss of his power to concentrate. He felt a curious acceptance of Nunne; it was no more strange that Nunne should be a murderer than that he should be a homosexual; or that Gertrude Quincey should be his mistress. Things altered; the world was a perpetual flux. There was no finality in space or time; only an immense, immeasurable freedom.
Nunne said:
Tell me what you're thinking, Gerard?
That wouldn't be easy. I can begin to understand… but there are still some pieces missing.
Such as…?
Wouldn't you prefer to be… normal? Or…
Nunne interrupted quickly:
Of course I would. But don't overestimate my abnormality. I suppose a hangman's job is abnormal, but he treats it as a job all the same. So does a man in a slaughterhouse. I know a man who spent the war training teenage boys how to kill easily and silently. I've known Commandos who have killed more Germans than they can count. One of them always goes to Germany for his holidays and says he prefers the Germans to any other race in Europe.
Sorme said gloomily:
You mean murder's a part of the modern mentality?
Of any mentality, Gerard. Society has always been based on murder. It's no use trying to outlaw murder with laws and moral codes. It has to disappear of its own accord — men have to outgrow it. Don't you see what I mean? My Commando friend — he's a perfectly law-abiding citizen. But murder's still in his system. If there was another war, he'd kill again. He hasn't outgrown murder. It's only that he accepts the laws that forbid it. That isn't the way for a man to grow… You think I'm being a Jesuit?
Sorme said dubiously:
Not a Jesuit. But your defence wouldn't go down in any court of law…
I agree, Nunne said promptly. And I wouldn't expect it to. It's not really a defence. I don't disown what I've done. How can I? I don't even understand it. I was born like it.
I know… But what I don't understand is… well, why you should do it. I can understand everything but the act itself. I can understand the hatred and the disgust. I once wrote a story about a man who kills out of sheer boredom and the desire to do something positive. But… the reasons aren't so important. You don't kill reasons. You kill a human being.
Nunne said seriously:
That's true, in a way. But it isn't as rational as that. It's a kind of irrational resentment, I suppose. Not about people, or even society, but just about… the world.
He was not looking at Sorme as he spoke. His face was averted, and Sorme could see mainly the top of his head, and the heavy black hair that had been newly washed. A speculation about the reason for this passed through his mind, and a feeling of a chill. The conversation suddenly became unreal; he made a mental effort to restore it to focus. He said:
I think I understand you. I've known that kind of disgust. About three months before I left the office for good, I went on a holiday in Kent, and had an experience of the same sort.
His face still averted, Nunne said:
What happened?
Oh… I'd been getting pretty sick of the office. It made me feel dead inside. Finally, the weekends weren't long enough to get it out of my system. I couldn't read poetry or listen to music. It was like being constipated. Well, I got a holiday and went to Kent for a week's hiking. And for the first two days I felt nothing at all, just a sort of deadness inside. And one day I went into a pub in a place called Marden and had a couple of pints. And as I came out, a sort of bubble seemed to burst inside me, and I started feeling things again. And I suddenly felt an overwhelming hatred for cities and offices and people and everything that calls itself civilisation…
He was talking compulsively, glad to speak of himself and restore a feeling of normality to the situation:
Then I got an idea. I sat down at the side of the road and thought about it. I'd read somewhere that the Manichees thought the world was created by the devil, and everything to do with matter was evil. Well, it suddenly seemed to me that the forces behind the world weren't either good or evil, but something quite incomprehensible to human beings. And the only thing they want is movement, everlasting movement. That's the way I saw it suddenly. Human beings want peace, and they build their civilisations and make their laws to get peace. But the forces behind the world don't want peace. So they send down certain men whose business it is to keep the world in a turmoil — the Napoleons, Hitlers, Genghis Khans. And I call these men the Enemies, with a capital E. And I thought: I belong among the Enemies — that's why I detest this bloody civilisation. And I suddenly began to feel better…
Nunne was looking at him now, and nodding his head slowly as he talked. He said, smiling:
Quite. You understand too. The force behind the world is neither good nor evil. Men are not big enough to know anything about good and evil. That's how I felt… the first time it ever happened in London. I'd been to see Father Carruthers and I came away feeling sick of everything. He obviously didn't know what I was talking about. And I walked along Charterhouse Street, and there was an extraordinary sunset over the rooftops. And suddenly I detested it all. Did you ever read that piece in Stein's book on Kurten, about how Kurten used to dream of blowing up the whole city with dynamite? That was how I felt.
He stopped abruptly, and twisted his fingers together. He bent both hands backwards, making the joints crack. His voice had begun to sound curiously thick as he talked. Sorme watched him closely, sensing the tightness that was coming up inside him. Nunne stood up suddenly and went to the table. He poured half an inch of whisky into the tumbler, and tossed it back. When he spoke again, his voice sounded choked:
I can't explain the feeling… but you understand.
Sorme said:
Yes, I understand.
He said it to reassure Nunne rather than because he understood.
Nunne stood with his back to him for a few seconds longer, holding the empty glass. He turned around and ran his fingers through Sorme's hair. He was smiling again. He said:
I wish you did understand, Gerard.
He sat down again; this time on the edge of the chair, his fists resting on his knees. Although the room was now becoming cool, his face was sweating. Sorme said:
I think I do understand, Austin. But… you know… you'll have to stop it. If you stop now, you might be safe. But if you don't… nothing can save you.
Nunne said: I know. That's the problem.
Sorme leaned forward. He said:
But do you understand it? You're alive now. In two months' time you might be waiting in the death cell. They'd hang you, Austin. They'd have to hang you. They wouldn't dare to commit you to a mental home. Get away while you can. Go to Switzerland. Find a good psychiatrist and pay him five thousand pounds and tell him everything. But don't stay in London.
Nunne looked up and smiled, but the exhaustion was back. He said:
I know you're right, Gerard.
He cleared his throat, and ran both hands through his hair. He began to button up his shirt.
I'm very grateful, Gerard…
Nonsense.
I don't deserve a friend like you.
Sorme said:
Don't be silly.
Nunne stood up.
I suppose we'd better go.
As he spoke, they heard the noise; it was the sound of some metal object being knocked over outside. For a moment, they stared at one another. Sorme glanced towards the window. He said quickly:
That could be the police.
As he spoke, there was a sound of knocking on the door. Nunne said:
I'm afraid you were followed.
I'm sorry…
It doesn't matter.
He opened the door leading to the hall. Sorme caught up with him and grasped his arm. He said quietly:
Don't give anything away.
Nunne turned and smiled at him. It was the calm, sardonic smile that Sorme associated with his first meeting with him, the total certainty of superiority. Nunne said:
Don't worry, dear boy. You be careful.
He went out to the door. A moment later, Sorme recognised Macmurdo's voice.
Mr Austin Nunne?
Yes. What can I do for you?
We'd like to speak to you, if we may. I am a police officer.
Certainly. Come in. I've been expecting you.
Sorme could almost see the eagerness on Macmurdo's face. A moment later, he came into the room, followed by the sergeant and Nunne. He was saying:
Indeed? Why?
Nunne said:
Because my friend here came especially to tell me to contact you.
Sorme was still sitting down. He nodded briefly at Macmurdo.
How do you do?
Macmurdo said:
I didn't expect to see you here. I thought you had no idea where Mr Nunne might be?
Sorme said pleasantly:
I hadn't. I've been looking systematically.
Macmurdo's disbelief was obvious. He said:
I see.
He turned to Nunne.
Mr Nunne, would you mind telling me where you were last night?
Certainly. I was here.
All night?
No. I went out for a breath of air… just a drive around.
At what time?
Oh… as a matter of fact, I don't know. After midnight. My portable radio gave out.
How long were you out?
Oh… about two hours, perhaps.
Where was your car parked?
In the lane outside.
When did you leave it outside the Crown Hotel in Leatherhead?
Nunne sat down on the edge of the table. His face was grave and concentrated.
This morning. I went in to buy a newspaper. And it was such a lovely day that I decided to walk back. I'd had some coffee…
Macmurdo interrupted belligerently:
You know why I'm asking these questions, don't you?
I think so, Nunne said.
Why?
You are investigating the Whitechapel murders. You want to clear me for your list of suspects.
Sorme could see Macmurdo's irritation growing with the confidence of Nunne's replies. The sergeant was standing by the door, watching with interest. Macmurdo said:
Do you mind if we look around the house?
Nunne asked smoothly:
Have you a warrant?
No. But we can soon get one.
Nunne said quickly:
Oh, not at all. Please do look, by all means.
The sergeant went out of the room. A moment later, Sorme heard more men coming in from outside. Macmurdo seated himself in the chair Nunne had vacated. He asked Sorme:
And may I ask how you got here?
By car. Miss Quincey — Austin's aunt — drove me down.
How did you know Air Nunne was here?
Why, we had a long talk after you'd gone and tried to decide where he might be. Finally, she remembered this place…
Where is she now?
In the Crown Hotel.
For the first time, Sorme felt alarm. He felt no fear for himself or Nunne, but Gertrude was a different proposition. He felt a pang of regret for telling her about Nunne. But she knew very little. Even if she admitted…
A plainclothes policeman came into the room and beckoned to Macmurdo; Nunne's eyes met Sorme's for a moment as the Inspector went out of the room. A moment later, he came back.
Would you mind telling me, Mr Nunne, why the fireplace upstairs is full of warm ashes?
Nunne said, smiling:
Oh, of course. I started to make a fire in the bedroom. Then Gerard arrived and I forgot. You'll see the wood and coal in the room…
Did you put any wood on it?
No. I was rather cold. So I lit a grateful of paper and some oily rags. I was sitting there enjoying the blaze when Gerard arrived.
Where were the oily rags from?
Oh… the shed outside. The decorators left them.
Which explains the smell of paraffin?
Quite.
Macmurdo said:
Decorators use turpentine.
Nunne said, shrugging:
I'm afraid I'm not responsible for what the decorators leave behind. Why does it matter, anyway?
Macmurdo ignored the question. He said:
Why are you in your shirtsleeves if you were cold an hour ago?
Nunne said:
Because this room was very warm indeed an hour ago. As my friend here will tell you. You'll find my jacket and pullover on the bed upstairs.
And what had you been burning in the kitchen stove?
Oh… more rubbish. Newspapers mainly. I like lighting fires.
You hadn't been burning anything else… clothes, for instance?
Nunne said, with a touch of impatience:
You mean bloodstained clothes? Look, Inspector, you don't have to keep fencing with me. I'd like to help you. Just ask me what you like, and I'll answer you as accurately as I can.
Macmurdo repeated deliberately:
Were there any clothes?
No.
You know it's something we can easily verify? By analysing the ash?
Nunne said:
Good. I'm glad to hear that. That should save trouble.
Macmurdo said:
I see.
He leaned forward, as if peering at the paraffin heater. He turned to Nunne suddenly, and said:
What did you do with Millie Rogers?
Sorme's heart lurched unpleasantly; he could see that Nunne was taken by surprise. Nunne said:
I beg your pardon?
Macmurdo said:
You were seen speaking to a woman named Millie Rogers outside a club in Paddington. The Balalaika Club. She was heard to say that she would come home with you. She hasn't been seen since.
Nunne said coolly:
I haven't the faintest idea of what you are talking about, Inspector. And in case you didn't know, my tastes don't lie in that direction.
You deny knowing a woman of that name?
I most certainly do.
You deny speaking to her?
No. Not necessarily. I might quite easily have spoken to a woman of that type if she'd accosted me. So, I imagine, might thousands of other men.
How do you know she was of 'that type'?
Really, Inspector! You don't leave much room for doubt!
The detective-sergeant came back into the room. He was holding a red beret. Macmurdo took it from him. The sergeant said.
Found it in the wardrobe in the bedroom, sir.
Macmurdo asked Nunne:
Whose is it?
Nunne smiled; he said:
Believe it or not, Inspector, it belongs to my aunt. She left it here.
The lady who's waiting now in the Crown?
Yes.
She's been down here?
Once. I took her for a spin in my aeroplane.
Is that the lady who said she didn't know where you might be? Macmurdo asked, with a note of sarcasm.
It is.
And why do you suppose she didn't mention this place to me when I asked her this morning?
Sorme interrupted:
I can tell you that. She'd forgotten it. Besides, it was quite a shock to her to have policemen looking for her nephew.
Macmurdo stared at Sorme with hostility; for a moment, Sorme expected an irritable rebuke. Then the policeman turned away, shrugging, and handed the beret back to the sergeant. He said:
Take some samples of the ash, sergeant.
He turned back to Nunne.
Do you mind if I see your hands?
Nunne held out his hands without speaking. Macmurdo took them in his own, and turned them over. He said:
You've cleaned your nails today.
Of course. I clean my nails every day.
You seem to have been particularly thorough today.
No. Not particularly.
Macmurdo dropped Nunne's hands. Sorme could see he was disappointed; his mouth was beginning to tighten into a line that somehow gave him the appearance of a bulldog. But before Nunne could sit down again, he asked:
Do you possess a knife, Mr Nunne?
Nunne said:
Of course.
He felt in his trouser pocket, and produced a small penknife. Macmurdo said:
I don't mean that kind. Do you possess a larger knife — for example, a Scout's sheath knife?
No.
Have you ever possessed such a knife?
Not since I was a child.
You don't possess any kind of knife that might be used in a fight? A flick knife, for instance?
No… There are one or two sharp kitchen knives at my flat, I suppose… But nothing very dangerous.
The sergeant came back in. He said:
There's nothing much else, sir. I've got samples of the ash.
Macmurdo nodded. He said:
Mr Nunne, I'm afraid we shall have to take you back to the Yard for questioning.
Nunne said sighing:
All right. I suppose it's necessary.
Sorme asked:
What about me?
We shan't be requiring you immediately, Macmurdo said.
Nunne asked:
Do you mind if I go and get some warmer clothes on?
Macmurdo nodded. He said:
Sergeant!
The sergeant nodded, and followed Nunne out of the room.
As soon as they were alone, Macmurdo sat in the chair facing Sorme; he leaned forward, and said carefully:
You realise that if we find anything against Mr Nunne, you'd be liable for a long term of imprisonment as an accessory after the fact?
Sorme said bluntly:
Look, Inspector, you're barking up the wrong tree. Austin's not a murderer, no matter what his other peculiarities may be.
Macmurdo said:
Are you sure?
Pretty sure.
Tell me, Mr Sorme, what were you two speaking about before I came?
All kinds of things. The Whitechapel murders, among others.
Did Mr Nunne give you any explanation of why he should be suspected?
Nothing I didn't know already.
And what did you know already?
That Austin has certain — sexual peculiarities. Enough to make him a natural suspect in a case like this.
That he is a sadist, in fact?
All right.
But you still think he couldn't bring himself to kill?
Storme stared back levelly; he said:
He is also homosexual. The victims of these murders were women.
He might have a resentment against women.
Perhaps.
Macmurdo persisted:
Don't you agree?
I've seen no sign of it.
Nunne came back downstairs; he was buttoning an overcoat. He smiled at Sorme, and Sorme smiled back. They were both aware that Macmurdo was watching them closely for any exchange of signals. Nunne transferred his smile to Macmurdo, saying:
Ready, Inspector?
All right, Bob, Macmurdo said.
The sergeant led the way out of the house.
One of the plainclothes policemen went in front. Nunne and the detective-sergeant followed. The other policeman walked behind them; finally, Sorme and Macmurdo brought up the rear, walking ten yards behind the others. Sorme was aware that Macmurdo was trying to make Nunne nervous; it was like a game of chess. Nunne would worry about whether Sorme had given anything away, and now Sorme had been threatened with an accessory charge, he had his own reasons for fear. As they climbed over the stile, Sorme found himself wondering: If Austin gives himself away, can they make the accessory charge stick? Poor Austin — he's weakened himself by taking me into his confidence. I wonder if there's any basis for this stuff about Millie Rogers? The clothes in the basement flat. Do they know about the basement flat? Wish I could speak to Austin.
Macmurdo said:
I don't understand you.
Why not, Inspector?
You've only known Mr Nunne for a week. Even if he was convicted, there'd be no case against you. Why involve yourself?
Sorme said coldly:
It's the first time I knew I was involved.
You rushed down here this morning to warn him. You must have realised he might be the man we want.
Sorme said:
He happens to be a friend of mine. And you asked me to contact him yourself. If you hadn't come, he would have come to you. We were just leaving for London.
As he said it, he thought he saw an element of doubt in Macmurdo's eyes; suddenly, he was certain. Macmurdo had no final evidence on Nunne. It was all bluff and hope. There had been four murders in a week. The arrest of the Brixton man was a failure. Macmurdo had to make an arrest somehow. Relief contracted his skin like cold water. Macmurdo said:
You're a very loyal friend, Mr Sorme.
I hope so.
Two black cars were parked in the lane where Miss Quincey had set him down. Sorme asked:
Can you give me a lift back to the Crown?
We can. I want to see the lady there — Miss Quincey, is it?
Nunne was climbing into the first car; Sorme could see that Macmurdo had no intention of allowing them any contact. He called:
Austin?
Nunne turned round. Sorme said:
If you get away in time, let's meet for supper tonight.
Good idea, Gerard.
He waved as he climbed into the car. Sorme felt a sense of triumph. It had been done; contact had been made; Nunne knew that nothing was wrong. Sorme climbed into the back of the other car, and Macmurdo followed. Macmurdo said:
I doubt whether you'll make that supper date.
No? Why?
We may have a warrant for his arrest when we get back.
Really? Is that wise?
I think so, Macmurdo said sharply.
Sorme allowed the malice to come out; he said, smiling:
Another false arrest might only make things worse. My impression is that everyone's getting rather short-tempered with the police. Supposing you arrest Austin and there's another murder tomorrow night?
Macmurdo scowled; again Sorme was aware of the uncertainty, the fear of making a mistake, the fear of ridicule in the newspapers. Macmurdo said irritably:
That's my worry.
I know, Sorme said.
He relaxed on the cushions and looked out of the window. The car in front had already passed the hotel.
Macmurdo said:
Stop here a moment.
The car halted at the traffic lights. Sorme asked:
Shall I get out?
You'd better, Macmurdo said.
Aren't you coming in? I thought you wanted to see Miss Quincey.
Macmurdo said shortly:
That'll do later.
Sorme stepped out of the car and slammed the door as the lights changed. He stood for a moment, watching it disappear among the traffic, then crossed the road to the hotel.