Ritual in the Dark

  Yes.

  Why do you think he did that?

  I . . . don’t know. A lot of boys don’t like dolls. They think they’re silly. It’s a sort of expression of contempt.

  Perhaps. But, you see, Austin also has periodic urges to break things. Or hurt things. It’s called sadism.

  Sadism!

  Her coffee slopped into the saucer. She set the cup down, staring at him. He said quickly:

  Oh, don’t get upset. It may not be as bad as you think. But the point is . . . well, that he’s known to the police as a sadist.

  But how? Why?

  He said, shrugging:

  Because he probably mixes with people who don’t mind being beaten for money. And these people are known to the police. Anyway, to cut it short, he’d be an automatic suspect in a case like these recent White­chapel murders. So would thousands of others, of course.

  But . . . the man’s been arrested, you said.

  I know. And if he’s the right man, there’s an end of it. But he may not be.

  I . . . don’t understand. Austin wouldn’t harm anyone. He couldn’t be a murderer. Could he?

  I know. I agree. But he’s got himself into a rather nasty position. If he was sensible, he’d leave the country for a year. I don’t know what kind of trouble he’s in. I think that perhaps he’s being blackmailed.

  What makes you think that?

  He told her in detail about the phone call from Switzerland, the basement flat and the night club. Watching her face, he found himself admiring her. After the first shock her face became calm, and she listened quietly, drinking her coffee. When he mentioned Stein and the Hamburg incident, she interrupted:

  But that’s stupid: he went into a monastery in Germany! Surely they don’t think . . .

  My sweet, it’s not Austin they suspect in particular. As Stein pointed out, the police have to check on thousands of suspects in a case like this. Stein was involved in the Kürten murder case in Düsseldorf, and the police interviewed a fantastic number of people over three years—I forget the figure, but it was something like half a million. And there’s probably a great deal more sadism about today than you realise. What do you suppose happened to all the guards in places like Belsen and Auschwitz? They weren’t all tried as war criminals—or even five per cent of them. I’ve talked to men who went through the German prison camps—men in the French Resistance—and I gather it happened everywhere. They weren’t all sadists, of course. But movements like Nazism incubate sadism. Whereas in England it breaks out as the occasional sex crime or act of violence.

  He was being deliberately abstract to reassure her, sensing that her fear was fear of the unknown, the unexplainable. She said:

  But surely . . . it’s not like that with Austin? He’s just not that kind of a person.

  Sorme said:

  Ah, you may be right there. It’s rather difficult to explain. There are probably two types of sadism.

  He crossed to the kitchen window, and rubbed away the steam; the sight of the trees in the rain brought a sensation of happiness.

  I think that with some people sadism is just an expression of animalism. They feel no responsibility to other people. Psycho­pathic criminals. But I think it could be just an expression of conflict.

  How?

  He did not look round; he had no desire to see her face and feel her need to be convinced. He said:

  For example, I find that I’m tending to grow up sexually. You know there’s an old Army saying: A standing tool has no conscience. I suppose that’s where men differ from women. Sex is a raw, physical appetite for them as well as a way of expressing love. It’s the sense of life-purpose in a man, the need to turn every attractive woman into a mother of his children. Whereas, for a woman, sexual intercourse is a climax of love-making, an expression of tenderness, not an end in itself. Well, I find myself reacting to sex like a woman. If the most beautiful girl in London climbed into my bed and said, ‘Come and get me’, I’d fail. I can’t make love like a machine.

  She said, with a touch of irony:

  I’m glad to hear it.

  But that’s only because the sense of purpose in me is becoming stronger, and therefore more selective. Don’t you see? An animal mates and produces children instinctively. And a great many human beings do the same. But in some men there’s a need to feel more conscious about it all. They oppose the instinct that ties them to a particular woman. Their sexual desire isn’t directed at a particular woman, but at all women. Individual women excite such a man less than the idea of women in general. And that’s the dangerous point where he could become the sexual criminal. His sense of purpose is higher than that of most men, but his instincts are still an animal’s. If he can grow beyond that stage, he’ll go back to the need for one person, and the sense of purpose passes beyond sex. It can become sublimated in a need to become an artist, a philosopher, a social reformer. But until that happens he’s caught between two stools. His sense of purpose makes a fanatic of him, and his appetites can’t soar above sex. Do you understand me?

  I . . . think so. But . . . I don’t see how it could lead to hurting people. If it’s a higher kind of purpose . . .

  Because of the conflict. The man begins to detest himself, and the disgust expresses itself as cruelty. Only in some people, of course. In others—Oliver, for instance—the disgust would turn against himself. He might try to hurt himself. Or simply turn to drink or drugs.

  Even so . . . a man who kills can’t feel this sense of purpose you talk about.

  Why? Don’t forget, it’s an attempt to resolve a conflict. Let me give you an example. One of the major feelings sexual intercourse arouses in me is a sense of my own inadequacy. For a few seconds, my memories are all intensified, my vision widens. And then it disappears. And I realise that my chief enemy is my own body. I live in the present all the time. And time dilutes my memory. I learn something today, and by tomorrow it’s been washed away like footprints on a sandy beach. The present closes me in. Well, if I was a different type of person I might identify this frustration with sex. The resistance of the physical world might enrage me. I see a pretty twelve-year-old-girl in the street and know I can never satisfy the desire she arouses. The physical world frustrates me and my own body betrays me. And one night, I meet the girl in a lonely street and try to rape her. She struggles, and I strangle her. Do you see what I mean? The crime becomes a gesture of disgust, an act of defiance, but it could spring out of a deeper perception than most men possess. . . . If I was a healthy farm labourer with a wife and ten kids, I might not feel that sense of inadequacy.

  She shook her head.

  I can see what you mean . . . but somehow I don’t feel it. Although I think you’re right about Austin. He is looking for something, and he isn’t mature enough to know what it is. I know he’s self-divided. But I can’t imagine him hurting anyone.

  Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

  But why do you want to see him now? Why do you want to stay in London? What can you do?

  I don’t know. I’d like to see him and talk to him. He doesn’t know the police suspect him of the Hamburg murder.

  Are you sure?

  I think so.

  Don’t you think it might have been the police he was worried about when he rang you from Switzerland?

  I don’t know. He said it was ‘rather an unpleasant man’. I assumed it was blackmail of some sort.

  Didn’t you ask him?

  No. What could I do, except advise him to go to the police? And that doesn’t seem the right thing to do at this juncture. But I think he ought to be persuaded to leave England now, while the going’s good.

  She looked into his face, biting her lip. She asked suddenly:

  Do you think he could be the man who did these things in White­chapel?

  No. Of course not.

  He said it immediately, allowing himself no time to think. But he knew it was not as simple as that. The Austin he knew and the Austin Gertrud
e knew were two different men. The Austin he had met in the Diaghilev exhibition was a man who was capable of inflicting pain. Later he had changed, but the change was a reaction to Sorme; it sprang from admiration. He remem­bered the expression on Nunne’s face as he had looked at the photograph of the girl outside the cinerama theatre. That was an Austin whom Gertrude had never met. He said:

  All the same, I’d like to talk to him . . . frankly. He ought to be warned. Do you think he might be at Leatherhead?

  Perhaps. We could go and see.

  No. You mustn’t come. I’d have to be alone.

  All right. But I could drive you down there.

  When?

  Today. But we’d better phone Albany Street first.

  Good. That’s fine. And could we go and see Oliver on the way? I’d like to make sure he’s o.k.

  All right.

  She stood up.

  I’ll go and get dressed.

  He came to the door, and pulled her to him.

  Poor darling. A lot’s happened to you in twelve hours, hasn’t it? How do you feel?

  She smiled briefly.

  Bewildered.

  He tilted her face by tugging gently at her hair, and kissed her; her lips parted, and she relaxed against him. His hand moved inside the dressing-gown. He said softly:

  Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.

  She shuddered suddenly, pressing against him; a sense of mystery and exaltation rose in him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As the Consul backed out of the garage, he saw the two men walking down the drive. Looking in the driving mirror, Miss Quincey had not noticed them. He said:

  You’ve got visitors.

  Really. Who?

  She continued to back the car until it was clear of the garage doors.

  Two men. Do you know them?

  She stopped the car and slipped it into neutral.

  No. . . .

  She turned off the ignition.

  Insurance salesmen, perhaps?

  I don’t think so. . . .

  They could be police.

  The men had seen the car and were standing by the front door, looking across at them. Sorme said:

  Listen. If they are police, for heaven’s sake keep your wits about you. Don’t tell them anything about Austin.

  But . . . how do I explain your being here?

  That’s none of their damn business.

  She got out of the car and went across the lawn, saying:

  Would you close the garage doors, please?

  He was glad to see she was calm as she approached them. He closed the doors and slipped in the lock, then stood by the car, watching her as she inserted her key in the front door and led them into the house. He hesitated about following her; if they were police, he would prefer to stay in the background. He stared up at the sky; it was blue and pale after the downpour; the December sunlight was warm.

  She called his name. She was standing in the doorway, beck­oning to him. As he crossed the soggy lawn, she came to meet him. She said quickly:

  They want to see you too.

  Are they police?

  Yes. They seem to know who you are.

  There was no trace of nervousness in her voice. He said, smiling:

  That’s o.k. We’ve nothing to worry about.

  They went into the house. The two men were in the sitting-room, standing in the centre of the rug; the bigger of the two was cracking the joints of his fingers. Something in the large, red face and the receding hair reminded Sorme of Brother Robbins. The big man said:

  Mr. Gerard Sorme?

  That’s right.

  We are police officers. My name is Macmurdo—Inspector Macmurdo. This is Detective-Sergeant James. I believe you’re a friend of a Mr. Nunne?

  He spoke slowly, with the formality of a beagle making an announcement; he had a slight Scottish accent.

  That’s right, Sorme said. He bent down and switched on the electric fire. As he did so, he thought he saw the detective-sergeant noticing his familiarity with the house, then thought with irritation: It’s none of his business, anyway.

  Miss Quincey said:

  Won’t you sit down?

  No, ma’am, we won’t do that. We won’t keep you a minute—I can see you’re on your way out. We’re simply trying to find Mr. Nunne. Do you know where he is?

  Austin? No. . . . Have you tried his flat?

  We have, ma’am. He hasn’t been back for two days.

  But why do you want him? What has he done wrong?

  Macmurdo smiled.

  There’s no need to get upset, ma’am. Most of the people the police interview haven’t done anything wrong. Mr. Sorme, do you have any idea where we might contact Mr. Nunne?

  I’m afraid not. What about his parents’ home?

  No. He’s not there. When did you last see him?

  I . . . I think . . . on Saturday. I had lunch with him on Saturday.

  Have you had any contact with him since?

  No. I’ve tried to phone him at his flat several times.

  I see. For any particular reason?

  No. He’s quite a close friend of mine.

  You’ve no idea where he might be?

  None at all. Miss Quincey might have more idea than me.

  Miss Quincey shook her head.

  I’m afraid not. But he often goes off for days without bothering to tell anyone.

  Macmurdo asked Sorme:

  Did he tell you he was likely to be going away for a few days?

  No.

  I see. Well, thank you very much. Sorry to have troubled you.

  Miss Quincey said:

  But can’t you tell us what it’s about? His family must be terrified . . . with the police making enquiries about him.

  Why, ma’am? Have they any reason to feel worried about him?

  Well . . . no. But when the police start to enquire . . . it would be hardly surprising if they were worried. Can’t you give me some idea of whether it’s serious?

  Before Macmurdo could reply, Sorme said:

  You’re investigating the White­chapel murders, aren’t you?

  Yes. How did you know?

  I’ve seen your name in the papers.

  Miss Quincey sat down. She said:

  Murders? Is Austin involved in . . . ?

  Her voice trailed off. Watching her, Sorme was surprised and pleased; she was showing exactly the right degree of uncertainty. Macmurdo said soothingly:

  We only want to ask him a few questions. He might be able to help us.

  Sorme said:

  I thought the murderer had been caught?

  The Inspector and the sergeant exchanged glances. It was the sergeant who replied:

  So did we, until last night.

  Has there been another murder?

  Macmurdo said: Yes.

  He walked towards the door, followed by the sergeant. Miss Quincey said:

  But what could Austin know about it?

  Macmurdo said:

  He may know nothing, ma’am. That’s why we want to see him. If you hear from him, I’d be grateful if you’d let us know. You too, Mr. Sorme. Good morning.

  Miss Quincey sat, staring at him, until the door closed. They watched the two figures walking back up the drive. She said:

  So . . . it looks as if it is Austin they’re looking for?

  I . . . don’t know. If there was a murder last night . . . it’s hardly surprising, is it? They’d want to question everybody even remotely connected with it. Besides, they can’t be very suspicious of Austin, or they’d have asked more questions. They didn’t even ask me about the Kensington flat. . . .

  Do you think they know about it?

  Surely they must. They aren’t as slack as all that.

  He stopped, staring out of the window; they heard the sound of a car engine starting. He said slowly:

  I just . . . don’t know. I don’t know what to believe.

  She said quietly:

  If he’s
guilty, there’s nothing we can do.

  She went out of the room before the meaning of her words came home to him. He switched off the fire, and went out. He heard her bedroom door open; when he went in, she was powder­ing her nose at the dressing-table. He said:

  Listen, Gertrude. Tell me something. Supposing he is guilty. Would you let them hang him?

  She looked at him from the mirror; her face was surprised.

  What could I do?

  Wouldn’t you even try to help him?

  She turned around to stare at him.

  You mean . . . if Austin had killed all those women?

  As she said it, he saw the dawning of belief in her eyes. It was no longer a remote possibility, too improbable to consider. The shock was reflected back in him. It was the first time he had considered it as a simple matter of crime and punishment. He said:

  I can’t believe he’s the killer. After all, he’s homosexual. But I’m certain he knows something about it. All the evidence points that way.

  But how? How can he?

  He moves among perverts. There’s a kind of freemasonry. Anyway, it might not be one man who’s responsible. It could be several . . . a society, even.

  You mean . . . a society for killing?

  Well, it could be. There have been stranger things. The thugs of India were a religious society.

  He could see her clutching at the idea; it was a way out. He sat on the edge of the bed, and sank deeply into it. She said:

  You think Austin could be somehow involved. . . .

  He knew what she meant; ‘involved’ was a euphemism for ‘misled’, ‘corrupted’. He said:

  It’s possible. Most of these sadistic ventures seem to be com­munal. Anyway, it’s probable that he knows something about it.

  She said:

  We ought to find him. Do you think it’s safe to go to Leatherhead?

  We could try. Perhaps if we went to see Glasp on the way, they wouldn’t bother to follow us. Anyway, they may not be interested.

  As he spoke, he was remembering the fact that Macmurdo was in charge of the case, and that nothing was less likely. For a moment, he was assailed by a temptation to leave it alone. He recognised the same doubt in Miss Quincey’s face. He said:

  We’d better find out about this other murder before we do anything. It may have no connection with the previous murders. Perhaps they’ve really got the killer. . . .