by Colin Wilson
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 shirt-sleeves 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?
Sorme 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 plain-clothes 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.
CHAPTER NINE
The girl behind the enquiries desk directed him to the bar. Miss Quincey was sitting alone in a basket armchair, reading a copy of Vogue. She looked up as soon as he came into the room; her smile was spontaneous and warm. It was good to be back with her again. She said:
I’m glad you came. I was beginning to worry. Is everything all right?
She took his hand as he bent over her, releasing it almost immediately. He said:
Not too bad, sweet. I’ll get a drink. Will you have another?
No thanks. This is my second. I’ve just had lunch.
He brought his pint of bitter back to her table, and pulled a chair close to hers. He said:
It’s lucky the police didn’t come in here with me. They arrived about an hour after me.
They found Austin?
Yes. But it’s all right. Don’t be alarmed. I think it’s going to be o.k.
She glanced around the empty bar, then asked in a whisper:
Is it Austin?
He said noncommittally:
I’ll talk about it outside. You ready to leave?
She nodded. He tilted the beer glass and took a long draught, almost emptying it. She asked:
Where is Austin now?
On his way to Scotland Yard. For questioning.
Have they a warrant for him?
No. And I don’t think they will have. I’ve arranged to meet him for supper tonight.
She sipped her gin and orange; her hand was trembling slightly. He said:
Don’t worry. He’s probably one of fifty suspects they’ve questioned today. It doesn’t mean a thing.
This seemed to reassure her. He finished the beer, and stood up. The barman said: Good afternoon, sir! as they went out.
Where did you park the car?
Over in the car-park.
Neither of them spoke until the car had begun to pull out of the Leatherhead traffic on the Epsom road. He said:
Remind me to contact Caroline when we get back. I’m supposed to meet her for supper.
She ignored the words, staring straight ahead through the windscreen. Then she asked:
What has happened to Austin?
For the first time, Sorme realised that he had not yet decided what to tell her. An instinctive desire to protect her made him say:
He’ll be all right. He’s in trouble, but not too much.
But . . . does he know about . . . ?
The murders? He didn’t tell me specifically. I think he was afraid to involve me, for my own sake. But I’m afraid he knows enough to get him into trouble. As an accessory. . . .
Then he’s not . . .
No. He’s not the killer.
Are you sure?
Quite sure.
Thank God.
Her relief touched him, and made him feel guilty. She started to laugh, leaning forward; the car swerved, then straightened out. She said:
You don’t know what a nightmare this past few hours has been.
He said sympathetically:
I can guess, sweet.
But I knew it couldn’t be true. I know Austin’s often a little foolish . . . but he could never do that.
The families of most murderers probably feel like that, you know.
But he’s not a murderer. You said you . . .
No, he’s not. But he may be in pretty bad trouble.
But why? Surely they aren’t interested in anyone else?
They are. This murder hunt has turned the underworld upside down. An awful amount of dirt has been stirred up.
But what has he done? It can’t be as serious as all that? His father can pay lawyers . . .
I hope it won’t get to that stage. If he’s sensible, he’ll stay out of England for six months. Look, sweet, could you stop at the Post Office in Epsom? I’d better send Caroline a telegram. Do you know the address of this place she’s at?
. . . . .
The Scottish woman said:
He’s asleep at the moment. Can you come back at six?
Sorme said:
I’m afraid this is urgent. It’s something he’ll want to know immediately. It may be a matter of life and death.
She looked unimpressed.
I’m sorry. I can’t disturb him when he’s asleep.
He repressed the irritation that made him want to push her out of the way. The Hungarian priest came out of the vault
behind him, saying politely:
Excuse me.
Sorme said:
Look, father, I’ve got to see Father Carruthers. It’s urgent. The priest glanced from Sorme to the Scotswoman; he looked embarrassed and doubtful. He asked:
And he is asleep?
The woman said:
And he can’t be disturbed.
Father Rakosi asked anxiously:
Is it important?
Sorme took two paces back from the door, coming close to the priest. He said in a low voice:
It’s about the Whitechapel murders. He asked me to let him know immediately anything happened.
The priest glanced at the woman, then said apologetically:
I think you’d better wait inside. I will see if he is awake.
The woman turned without another word, and walked off. Sorme followed the priest into the dark interior that smelt of polish and tidiness. The priest said:
You wait here, please.
Sorme stood by the frosted-glass windows, swearing under his breath about the Scotswoman. It was not her refusal that irritated him, but her hostility and the desire to obstruct. He thought: How dare she be hostile to me, the bitch? She doesn’t know me. What makes people turn nasty like that? Is that a form of sadism?
The idea interested him; he sat in the chair, thinking about it. Sadism is inflicting pain. Does petty-mindedness qualify as sadism? The choice of stupidity rather than intelligence? But how do I understand Austin’s? Inverted love. . . .
The priest came back; he said quietly:
He is awake.
He turned and walked into the next room. Sorme hastened up the stairs and along the corridor, half-expecting to be intercepted by the Scotswoman. The priest’s door stood slightly ajar; he rapped with his knuckles and went in.
Father Carruthers was sitting up in bed, the plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders; his face looked tired and dazed. The room was colder than usual; the window was open.
Hello, father.
The priest said:
What has been happening?
Sorme closed the door carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed. He said:
Austin has been taken to the police station for questioning. There was another murder last night.
I heard about the murder. What do they want with Austin?
He sat up, pulling his body into a more comfortable position; Sorme leaned forward and stopped the pillow from slipping until the priest had adjusted himself. He said:
They suspect him of the murders.
Have you spoken to him?