by Colin Wilson
The man said dogmatically:
I’m not nasty. I got a right as a taxpayer to know why the police haven’t done nothing, ’aven’t I?
The sergeant seemed unperturbed.
Another journalist had pushed up behind Sorme. He asked:
Any idea who she is yet, Sergeant?
Not yet.
Well, why do they keep on gettin’ murdered, that’s what I want to know?
A tall, skinny man had taken up the argument from behind the woman in the shawl; his voice was nervous and high-pitched. The sergeant looked at him slowly, then shrugged:
That’s what we all want to know.
He turned, and began to walk back towards the body. The man called after him:
And that’s what you buggers are paid for—to find out!
Payne said in Sorme’s ear:
There’s a lot of feeling against the police.
I’m not surprised.
Payne began to edge out of the crowd. He said:
Come on. There’s nothing to see.
A heavily built man with a blond moustache came up behind Payne, and clapped him on the shoulder. Payne said:
Hello, Tom! Only just arrived?
The big man chuckled:
Not likely. I was here before you were awake.
You weren’t, you know! We were first on the scene. We were already in Whitechapel when the alarm came.
Were you? In that case, I apologise.
That’s all right, old boy. Ask me any questions you like. I charge a small fee, of course.
Payne turned to Sorme, saying:
You don’t know Tom Mozely, do you, Gerard? This is Gerard Sorme, Tom.
Is he on the Chronicle too?
No. Gerard’s a writer. . . .
Mozely interrupted:
By the way—did you hear that woman shrieking?
Yes. What was it?
Somebody started a rumour that the police had found a crowbar with blood on it, and this woman just started to yell. I was standing a few yards from her . . . made my hair stand on end.
Have they found a crowbar?
No. It was just a rumour. Did you see the other body?
Yes. We were there when the news of this one arrived.
Is it true she’d been bashed over the head?
Yes. Looked like just one blow.
Hmmm. . . . Doesn’t sound like our bloke, does it?
I don’t know. He was probably interrupted.
Sorme said:
What happened?
Before Payne could reply, someone began to call:
Make way there!
An ambulance was nosing into the barrier. Flashlight cameras began to explode, revealing the square for a moment as if by lightning. Payne said:
It looks like Starr.
Who?
The pathologist.
Sorme looked with interest at the square-shouldered man, with the good-tempered face of a farmer, who was pushing his way into the square. Payne immediately pushed after him, grasping Sorme by the sleeve. The constable stopped them, replacing the rope; whereupon the crowd re-formed in packed ranks across the entrance to the square. Payne said:
I wanted to get a place to watch this.
What happens now?
Nothing much. They just shift the body. Look at the faces of some of these people.
Sorme looked cautiously around him and saw set, unemotional faces. There was none of the curiosity or morbid excitement he had expected. He whispered:
They look pretty grim.
Payne nodded briefly, staring across the square. The police formed a circle around the body, and the pathologist knelt beside it. His examination was brief; he dictated something to a girl, who scribbled on a note-pad. He stood up and made a sign to the ambulance men, who carried a grey metal shell and placed it beside the body. Their legs masked it as they lifted it; Sorme could see only the torn hem of a skirt that trailed on the ground as the body swung into the shell. A moment later the doors of the ambulance closed behind it, and the engine started. The policeman removed the rope again, saying: Make way there.
The crowd began to break up. From the warehouse across the square an old man emerged carrying a bucket and a sweeping brush; he splashed water on the pavement where the body had lain, and scrubbed at it with the brush. The ambulance moved slowly out of the square. A sudden feeling of chill passed down Sorme’s back, making him shiver. He turned away, past the window of the small shop, meeting briefly the cardboard smile of a girl in a toothpaste advertisement. For a moment, he experienced an intuition of the state of mind of the murderer, the revolt against the abstract blandishments, the timeless grimaces, the wooden benedictions that preside over railway carriages and roadside hoardings.
Payne said:
Let’s go and get some tea.
Good idea, Mozely said.
Coming, Gerard?
Yes.
You look all in. Tired still?
A little.
A group of photographers walked in front of them. The sky was light now. He allowed himself to lag behind both groups, anxious to concentrate on the insight until it faded, aware of his inability to express it in words. He was hungry: in the café he would eat. How could any insight survive the unending tides of the blood, the body’s seasons? The struggle was lost in advance.
Payne said:
You sit down, Gerard. I’ll bring the teas over.
I want something to eat too.
All right. I’ll get it. Cheese roll?
He sat beside Mozely at a corner table; the reporter was making shorthand notes on a pad. The photographers were occupying a table near the window. He felt tired, discouraged by the prospect of the ride back to Camden Town. Mozely looked up at him suddenly:
What did you think of it?
Of what?
The way everybody reacted?
They all seemed pretty subdued, I must say.
That’s the word. Subdued.
Payne sat down opposite them. He said:
Can you wonder? This makes six murders in a few months. They’re beginning to wonder how many more.
Do you think it’s the fault of the police?
What can they do? They can only follow up every clue and keep hoping he’ll slip up.
Happened in the Cummins case, Mozely said.
What was that? Sorme asked.
During the war. He was a sexual maniac. He killed four women—mostly prostitutes—in the Soho area. Finally, someone interrupted him while he was strangling a girl in a doorway in the Haymarket. He ran off and left his gas-mask case behind, so they got him. . . . But the interesting thing is this. When he was interrupted in the last case, he promptly went off and found another girl in Paddington, and tried to kill her too. She got away as well.
Payne said:
That was before my time. Anyway, do you really think this bloke’s a sexual maniac?
Mozely said, shrugging:
He’s a maniac of some sort; that’s a dead cert.
Sorme ate the cheese roll hungrily; when he had finished it, he crossed to the counter and bought another. When he returned to the table, Payne was saying:
. . . and he saw someone bending over the body. He shouted: Is there anything wrong? And the man said: Yes. I think she’s dead. Go and get a copper, quick! When the man got back five minutes later, the man had gone—there was only this woman.
What’s this? Sorme asked.
The first murder last night.
Do they think the man was the murderer?
I don’t know. It sounds likely.
Mozely said:
They’ll soon find out when they discover how long she’d been dead.
Sorme asked:
Could the man describe the bloke who sent him for the policeman?
No. It was in the dark, and he says he didn’t go within ten yards. I shouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t afraid of bumping into the murderer!
How was she killed?
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sp; A blow on the head. It must have been a tremendous blow with a bar of some kind.
And the other woman had her throat cut? He certainly varies his methods!
Sorme asked:
Do you think it sounds like the Greenwich killer?
Mozely shook his head.
I doubt it. You know what it sounds like, don’t you?
Payne interrupted:
As if the killer got a bit fed-up about the headlines asking if he’d moved south of the river?
Exactly.
The three of them drank their tea in silence.
Mozely said finally:
What I can’t understand is this. He must have got blood on his clothes after that second murder. And he must have passed a policeman as he was getting away. The place was alive with them. How did he do it?
He could have had a car parked near the scene of the murder, Sorme said.
Too dangerous. The police take the number of every car parked around here at night. The risk would be too great.
Payne said:
Whoever he is, he either has amazing courage or he’s insane.
Insane, Mozely said.
But he must be after something in Whitechapel . . . either that, or he lives here. Or why should he stick to this area?
He’s not after anything, Mozely said. How could he be? He doesn’t seem to pick his victims. He just takes anybody who comes along. Have you come across this Leather Apron idea?
No. What’s that?
Oh, a lot of people think it’s a chap called Leather Apron. Nobody seems to know who he is or what he does, except that he’s a foreigner, and terrorises some of the whores around here.
Payne asked:
Have you mentioned him in your story?
Yes. I don’t think it’ll come to anything, but I heard his name mentioned half a dozen times this morning.
Did you ask any questions?
Of course. No luck. He seems to be just a name.
It might be worth following up, Payne said.
Have you heard this story about the foreign crime experts? They say there are several on the case now.
Sorme said:
I’ve heard about that. There’s some German . . . I forget his name . . .
Mozely said: By the way, did you read that letter in The Times yesterday?
No.
Very interesting. Apparently there were several murders at a place called Bochum in Germany after the war—just like these. The man apparently wrote a letter to the police saying he’d kill six more women, then stop. The murders stopped immediately after his letter.
And they never caught him?
No.
Payne laughed softly:
I heard a theory the murderer was a Turk who killed several women in Istanbul. They’d need a special branch of the United Nations to follow up all the stories!
Sorme finished drinking his tea, staring at the crumbs left on his plate; he was trying to imagine what he would do if he met the murderer on a dark night in Whitechapel. He imagined him as a thin man, middle-aged and bald-headed, with bloodless lips, and the eyes of a fanatic. The thought that, at that moment, somewhere in London, the murderer was free, perhaps drinking tea beside some woman in a café, or hanging on a strap in the Underground, produced a lurching sensation of the stomach.
Mozely stood up suddenly. He said:
Oh well, back to work! You coming yet, Bill?
No. I’ll have another cup of tea first.
Sorme stood up, pushing his chair forward, to allow Mozely to pass. Mozely said:
Thanks, old man. Well, bye-bye. If you get any line on Leather Apron, you might let me know. . . .
I will, Payne said. You just go back to your office and have a good sleep. Leave it to Payne.
As Mozely went out, Payne crossed to the counter, saying,
More tea for you, Gerard?
Please. But let me get them.
No! I get it off expenses.
He brought the teas in their thick cups and set them on the dull surface of scratched plastic. He stretched and yawned.
I must go back and get some sleep. How you feeling, Gerard?
Half-dead.
Are you sorry I got you out of bed so early?
No! I’m glad you did. It was interesting. . . .
Why?
Anything that gives you a sense of reality is interesting. Somehow, I’d never realised these murders really happened. Why do you think somebody does something like this, Bill?
That depends. It depends on who he is. If he’s a university professor, the reasons will be different from if he’s a drunken navvy or a sex-crazed teenager. . . .
Sorme said: Whoever he is, he’s alive somewhere in London at this moment . . . and has friends who probably don’t even suspect. . . .
. . . . .
Abruptly, as he passed Smithfield Market, he decided to visit Father Carruthers. It was a fortuitous decision, taken with no definite motive that he was aware of.
The Hungarian priest opened the door. Sorme had anticipated that his hour of calling might seem unusual, but Father Rakosi showed no surprise; he had been seated in the depressingly cold waiting-room for only a few moments when the priest returned.
Father Carruthers will see you now.
Thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you.
He received a curiously shy smile in return.
Father Carruthers was standing by the bookcase, wearing a red quilted dressing-gown; standing, he seemed small, almost dwarf-like. He looked better than last time Sorme had called.
Ah, Gerard. How are you?
Well, thanks. You look better.
I feel better this morning. . . . Well, this is rather an early hour for you to call. Is anything wrong?
Nothing special, father. I’ve been in Whitechapel since seven o’clock.
Why?
A journalist friend called me. You’ve heard about this double murder?
No. What has happened?
He lowered himself into the deep armchair, his knees towards the coal fire that filled the room with oppressive heat. Sorme said:
Two women were murdered in the night—within half an hour of one another.
And why have you been to Whitechapel?
Sorme recognised the relevancy of the question. He said uncomfortably:
Oh . . . simply because my friend happened to call me up. . . . It’s interesting for a writer . . .
He knew, as he said it, that it was untrue; he also felt a curious certainty that the priest knew it too. But the ugly, silenus face showed no sign of disbelief. The priest only said:
You look tired.
I am.
There was a knock at the door. The priest called: Hello?
A short, white-haired man looked into the room. His eyes wandered from Father Carruthers to Sorme.
Good morning, Larry. Am I interrupting?
His voice was deep and resonant; the accent was distinctly German. The priest said:
Hello, Franz. No, you’re not interrupting. Come in.
The German came into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. He took the priest’s right hand in both his own, and shook it gravely, asking:
Well, and how is my friend this morning? You look better.
I feel better today, thank you. Franz, let me introduce you to Gerard Sorme. This is Professor Stein of Düsseldorf.
Stein turned to Sorme, and made a slight bow. The keen, old man’s face was square and clean-cut; above the jutting chin, the line of the lips was tight and straight, and the eyes were as hard and clear as blue glass. The shock of white hair combined with the features to give the face an impression of great power; it seemed incongruous on the short, plump body. Sorme shook his hand, and found himself also bowing slightly in return. Stein said:
I hope I am not interrupting a conversation?
Not at all. I’m just a casual caller.
Like myself then, Stein said. He smiled charmingly at Sorme, and began strugg
ling out of his overcoat. As Sorme helped him, he said:
It’s abominably hot in here, Larry. I’m sure it can’t be good for you. Ah . . . thank you, sir.
His German accent made the colloquial English sound quaint. Sorme placed the coat on the bed. Stein said:
With your permission, Larry, I shall sit by my coat. I have no wish to be toasted.
The window’s open, the priest said mildly.
Stein produced a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting noise. He then opened a snuff-box and offered it in turn to the priest and to Sorme. Sorme said:
No, thanks.
He watched with secret amusement as the two men snuffed the brown powder with the air of connoisseurs. The priest brushed a few spots off the front of his dressing-gown. He said:
Well, Franz, have you been rooting around Whitechapel too?
Stein looked surprised.
You’ve heard already? I didn’t realise that you read the journals.
I don’t. Our friend Gerard has been there.
Stein looked at Sorme: he asked, frowning: You live there?
No, I don’t, Sorme said. I just . . . went there when I heard about the murders.
You must have heard very early!
I did. A journalist friend rang me at six this morning. Excuse my asking, but are you connected with the investigation?
I . . . er . . . I am connected with them . . . in a sense. I am a pathologist as well as a doctor of psychology. But tell me, why did you wish to—er—visit the scene of the crimes?
Sorme felt himself colouring; he was aware of the priest’s eyes as he answered:
I’m a writer. It’s an interesting experience. . . .
Most certainly it is, Stein said emphatically. Such experience is invaluable to a writer. Heinrich Mann made just that remark within my hearing once . . . that very few serious writers have written of murder with authenticity—Zola excepted, perhaps. You know Thérèse Raquin?
I’m afraid not.
Stein turned to the priest, saying:
But these murders are really terrible! You talk of human wickedness, my friend, but if you had thirty years, as I have, dealing with crime and violence, you would speak only of human sickness.
Sorme waited for the priest to reply; when he only smiled, Sorme asked:
Do you suppose this man is insane?
Stein turned his piercing eyes on Sorme.
How can we know, until he is caught? The murders prove only one thing—that his condition is pathological.