by Colin Wilson
Naturally, he was made very welcome on his return to Russia. He was appointed Archimandrite of the sect, and was generally regarded as something of a saint. He then began his career of repentance. His mistress Limberg had no taste for repentance and left Russia with another young man who hoped to emulate Sergei Fyodorovitch. My friend Pedachenko accompanied Grigory Efimovitch to St. Petersburg, where he shared his extraordinary success for a number of years. They died within a year of one another—Rasputin in nineteen-sixteen, murdered by the bandit Yussupov, and Pedachenko in nineteen-seventeen, shot in the back by one of Kerensky’s men.
The old man took a sip from the full glass, then stood up, holding it carefully. He said politely:
I shall now leave you, borrowing, if I may, your glass.
Sorme stared at him, unable to find words. The old man bowed slightly, saying gravely:
Good night.
He took the empty bottle, and went to the door. Sorme heard the bottle clink into the straw bag. A moment later, the old man returned, still holding the full glass. He said:
You are still certain you can’t lend me eight and ninepence? Sorme fumbled in his back pocket, and produced a crumpled ten-shilling note. He handed it to the old man without speaking. The old man bowed; he said formally:
Sir, you have saved my life. A thousand thanks.
He kissed the note, then backed out of the door. Sorme found his voice to say: Good night, as the door closed. The old man did not reply. He heard him mounting the next flight of stairs, the bottles clinking.
The tiredness had gone; he stood by the window, wondering what to do. A few minutes later, he heard the old man come downstairs again and go out of the house. After a moment’s uncertainty, he went downstairs and rang Nunne’s flat again. There was still no reply. He went and stood in the front doorway for a while, then returned to his room. It was too late to go back to Miss Quincey’s, and Caroline was on the other side of London. There was nothing for it but to go to bed.
He lay awake for two hours, thinking about the old man and about Austin. When he slept, the old man hovered in his dreams. Towards 2 a.m. he went downstairs to the bathroom, and washed his hands and face in hot water. After that, he slept. There was no sound coming from the old man’s room.
He woke again in the cold dawn, dreaming that Gertrude Quincey lay pressed against him. While he kept his eyes closed, he could feel her body against his relaxed limbs, her arms round his neck. She stopped being there when he woke up fully, but the memory was as clear as a physical experience. He stared at the paleing sky; in the clear light of speculation, the desire disappeared; it was possible only through the blurred outlines of sleep.
The sense of well-being expanded in him, a knowledge of increasing power; for a moment he felt glad of the world and the existence of everything in it. Then he fell asleep thinking about Caroline.
CHAPTER FIVE
He was dreaming that Nunne had been condemned to death, and he was telling Stein that it was a monstrous stupidity, that Nunne was a man of genius, an irreplaceable loss to literature. But as he said it, he did not believe it. He knew it would be impossible to express his real reasons for defending Nunne to Stein or anybody else.
A noise woke him. He stared at the wall, and listened to a male voice in the room below singing a popular song. It sounded as if there were decorators at work in the room. He turned on to his back and stared at the sky through the window. It was marble-grey. He found himself wondering whether he would ever defend Austin if it came to a trial for murder. They would be wrong; Stein and the judges would be wrong; but there was no way of altering that. A good psychiatrist might have him declared insane; that would be the simplest solution; but Nunne was not insane.
He got out of bed to put the kettle on, turned the gas to medium, and climbed back into bed. As he did so his eyes rested on the Nijinsky Diary, and something concentrated inside him. There was the image of a man walking along a tree-lined avenue at night, listening to sounds of music coming from a hotel lounge. In the man was an obsession with the superhuman, a desire to rise cleanly and naturally beyond human pettiness, maintaining the flight without uncertainty. For a moment he felt he understood Austin, received a clear insight into the disgust that became violence. He looked out at the grey sky, holding the knowledge firmly, thinking: Nothing matters but this power. No price is too high for it.
At the same time he heard footsteps on the stair, and guessed they were coming to his room. Carlotte’s voice called: Mr. Sorme!
Hello?
She opened the door.
Are you up yet? There’s a gentleman to see you.
Who?
She shrugged.
I don’t know. A German.
German?
He thought hard for a moment, then asked:
An old man?
Yes.
Ah. Ask him to come up, would you, please?
He pulled on a pair of trousers, and was tying his dressing-gown as Stein came into the room. Stein glanced at the rumpled bed, and smiled apologetically:
Am I too early?
Sorme shook his cold hand.
That’s o.k. I was awake. What did you want to talk to me about? Austin?
He was leading deliberately, unwilling to play a cat-and-mouse game. Stein said:
Austin? No, not particularly. I am more interested in this old man above you.
For a moment, registering his surprise, Sorme believed him.
Why? You don’t think he’s the Whitechapel killer?
No. But he may know something. When he was in hospital, he shouted strange things in his sleep.
I’m sure he knows nothing, Sorme said decisively.
No?
I had a talk with him last night. He’s as mad as a march hare, but he doesn’t know anything. How did you find out about him, anyway?
Stein shrugged expressively:
I happened to notice the address on Inspector Macmurdo’s list of routine calls. I knew it was your address also. So I came on the off-chance that you might be able to tell me something.
To Sorme, watching him, the lie seemed transparent; but he remembered that Stein was unaware that Father Carruthers had spoken to him of Nunne. From Stein’s view-point, there was no reason why Sorme should disbelieve him. He said:
I’ll tell you what I can, but you ought to see him yourself. You’d see, he’s cracked.
He raved about murder in the hospital.
Yes. But not these murders. The only Whitechapel crimes that interest him happened sixty years ago.
The Jack the Ripper murders?
Sorme said:
What on earth makes you interested in a man of that age? It must be obvious that he’d be incapable of a series of murders?
Stein said wearily:
Somewhere in London there is a killer. There is nothing to do but check every possibility.
I agree. But you’re wasting your time with the old man. He’s too old. And he’s insane, anyway.
So is the killer.
You think so?
Stein said:
Yes, I think so.
The kettle began to simmer. Sorme said:
Sit down and have a cup of tea. You look tired.
Thank you. I am tired.
Don’t you take a rest on Sundays?
Stein said, shrugging:
In a case like this, there is no time to rest.
He dropped into the armchair, placing his hat on the table. Sorme found himself feeling sorry for him. He spooned tea into the thermos flask and poured in the boiling water. As he turned off the gas-ring he lit the fire. The room was warm from the burning gas; he removed the dressing-gown, and put on a shirt. He said:
Never mind. Maybe you’ll catch him in the act some time.
Perhaps, Stein said. He contemplated the steam that rose from the flask, and then added:
He made another attempt last night.
What?
Sorme stared at him, wondering at the s
ame time if Stein was trying to trap him in some way. Stein was not even looking at him. He asked:
What happened?
I don’t know in detail. A woman was attacked in her room early this morning. Neighbours heard her screams and ran in. The man jumped out of the window and disappeared.
In Whitechapel?
Yes.
But what happened to the woman?
She was still unconscious at eight o’clock this morning. Her skull was fractured.
Will she live?
Probably. Luckily, the injuries have not affected the brain.
So you should get a description of the killer?
We hope so. But the room was in darkness.
Pouring the tea, Sorme thought: Poor Austin. There’s nothing I can do now. Then he stopped himself, thinking: Why Austin? It may not be Austin.
Stein accepted the mug of tea, saying:
So you see why we are getting tired of it all.
I do. Never mind. With luck, you’ll get a description.
Perhaps.
Stein relapsed into silence, drinking his tea.
You say you’re sure he’s insane, doctor?
I think so.
Sorme stopped himself on the point of asking: Insane enough to get sent to Broadmoor?
Instead, he asked:
Do you think all sexual killers are insane?
Why, no, assuredly not. Any more than a starving man who steals a loaf of bread is insane.
I see.
Stein looked at him and asked, smiling:
What are you thinking?
I’m wondering . . . if a murderer might not be saner than the average man.
How?
Sorme stared out of the window for a moment, then said:
For instance, in the days when sacrifices were offered in temples. The priests might have profounder insight into reality than most people. The killing was a symbol.
A symbol? Stein said unbelievingly.
Yes. A sort of rejection of the ordinary daylight. A deliberate turning away from daylight logic.
Stein said, frowning:
But a man who kills is under strain. He is not a philosopher.
Someone knocked on the door. The girl called:
Telephone for Dr. Stein.
Stein said wearily:
Again!
He made a tired gesture of disgust, and went out of the room.
Sorme finished drinking his tea, seated in the armchair. Obscurely, he felt that something important was taking place, but he found it difficult to take it seriously. A sense of reality in him revolted against the complications of diplomacy and deception. Although he knew Nunne’s life might be at stake, it was still impossible to feel completely involved. He tried to focus this sense of unreality, wondering how quickly Stein would interrupt him; after a moment, the feeling recreated itself briefly; he tried to verbalise it. What was at stake was murder—murder of a number of women. If they died, it was because they had no good reason to stay alive. The lives they lost were only half-lives; consequently, the Whitechapel killer could only be half a murderer. And the killer himself was probably only half-alive too. In that case, it was a case of quarter-murder. Futility murdering stupidity and uselessness. Nietzsche had said that a whole nation was a detour to create a dozen great men. . . .
Stein came back into the room. The tired look had gone. He said:
We have caught him.
Sorme sat up.
What!
Stein’s eyes were alive with restrained excitement.
The murderer. He was caught an hour ago.
Sorme stared at him unbelievingly.
Who was it?
A Brixton labourer. He was the man who attacked the woman last night. His description was circulated, and a police-car saw him trying to climb the dockyard wall. The woman identified him an hour ago.
Are you certain it’s the murderer? Has he confessed?
No. In fact, he admits the attack last night, but says it was his first attempt.
Are the police quite sure it’s the right man?
Quite sure. He had blacked his face with burnt cork. They found a sponge smeared with burnt cork in his pocket.
Sorme said, smiling:
Well, congratulations. I hope you’ve found the right man.
Stein said shrugging:
He may not be. Murderers are imitative. In the Kürten case, an idiot was caught in the act of attempted rape, and confessed to the murders. Unfortunately, he was not the killer. I could cite many cases where a murder has been imitated by other murderers. . . . All the same, we must hope.
Sorme said dubiously:
Brixton’s a helluva way from Whitechapel.
Stein smiled.
This man was born and brought up in Whitechapel. Probably he knows Whitechapel better than Brixton. Besides, he may have motives of revenge against women in Whitechapel.
Stein lifted his teacup and emptied it. He said, smiling:
Now we shall see if your theories about the murderer’s mentality are accurate.
He put the cup back on the table, and picked up his hat.
I thank you for the tea. I shall hope to see you again before I return to Germany.
I hope so. You—er—don’t feel interested in the old boy upstairs now?
Stein said:
We shall remain interested, of course, until we are certain that this man is the murderer. But I intend to take a short rest now.
His smile was no longer tired. He said, politely:
I wish you good morning, and thank you.
Sorme shook his hand.
Don’t mind if I don’t come down?
Stein said firmly:
Not in the least. Goodbye.
Sorme listened to the steps descending the stairs, counting slowly up to fifty to make sure that Stein had left the house. Then he glanced in the mirror, caressed his unshaven chin with his fingers, and put on a jacket and overcoat.
Stein’s visit left him with a feeling of suspicion; the news of the arrest had fallen out too neatly. It seemed prearranged. He turned off the gas-fire, and made sure the window was fastened, then locked the door behind him.
. . . . .
Before he asked the question, he knew the answer would be negative. He stood, holding the receiver, contemplating with distaste the moisture that had condensed around the mouthpiece from the previous user. After a while, the girl returned:
The porter says that, as far as he knows, Mr. Nunne didn’t come back last night. I’ll tell him you rang, shall I?
He walked along Camden High Street, uncertain what to do. A taxi cruised past, and for a moment he considered hailing it and going to the Kensington flat. Then the thought that Nunne might not be there either discouraged him. He stood, hesitating, at the corner of Crowndale Road, contemplating the boxes outside the post office. The sight of a bus labelled ‘Farringdon Road’ decided him; he jumped on to the platform before the lights changed. Relaxed on the upper deck, he noticed again the same sense of interior clarity that had come earlier in bed. A point of vitality stirred in him, imposing itself on the outline of St. Pancras station, transforming the thought of trains into a sense of triumph.
The Hungarian priest was at the door of the hostel. He said immediately:
You want to see Father Carruthers?
If it’s possible, please.
Yes? I don’t know if he’s resting.
It’s very important.
The priest opened the door with a latchkey.
You will wait in there, please.
Thank you.
The formalities irritated him. He sank into the armchair beside the gas-fire, then stood up again, tensing his shoulders with impatience. He glanced out of the door, and saw Robin Maunsell coming up the stairs. He withdrew his head immediately, wondering if Maunsell had seen him. The steps turned the corner, and went up the next flight. He smiled with relief. Almost immediately, the Hungarian priest came back.
Thanks.
He pretended to be looking for his gloves on the armchair, to make sure Maunsell was out of sight. The priest said:
You have lost something?
Oh . . . no. They’re here in my pocket. . . .
He went up the stairs two at a time, at once impatient and cautious.
Father Carruthers said:
Good morning, Gerard. You’re soon back.
Morning, father. Hope I’m not a nuisance.
The priest was in bed; he looked ill and tired. The fire in the grate was a mass of glowing coals; Sorme observed the contrast between the room temperature and the icy coldness of the priest’s hand as he took it.
You’re not a nuisance. But I’m afraid I’m not too well today. We shall have to make it brief.
O.k., father. Briefly, then, Stein has just been to see me about Austin.
Was he quite frank with you?
Well, no. In fact, he hardly mentioned Austin at all. That’s why I wanted to see you. He says the Whitechapel killer’s been arrested.
When?
About an hour ago. The phone rang while he was with me. He claimed he’d come to talk about the old man in the room above . . . the one who tried to set the house on fire.
The priest said slowly:
I see. Well, what do you think?
I wonder if it’s some sort of a trick.
Did he question you about Austin?
No. He hardly mentioned him.
But you believe he wasn’t sincere about his reason for coming to see you?
No. I don’t think the police really suspect the old man. He’s too old. They might as well . . . they might as well suspect you. If you see what I mean. . . .
Indeed, they might! Well, so you suppose they might still be interested in Austin?
Sorme said helplessly: I just don’t know, father.
I’m inclined to feel they are. Have you seen him?
Well, that’s another problem. Austin seems to have disappeared. He hasn’t been home for twenty-four hours. Mind, he could be at the Kensington place.
Couldn’t you phone?
He’s not on the phone.
I see. And what about this man who has been arrested?
Some man who attacked a woman last night in Whitechapel. A Brixton labourer. He’d blacked his face, apparently.