Ritual in the Dark

The man said, sighing:

  I . . . see. Ah well. Would you mind describing what happened last night?

  Sorme gave an account of his interview with the old man, repeating, as well as he could remember, everything that was said. The policeman interrupted him only once, to ask:

  Did you get a chance to look at this map?

  None at all. I just walked past him.

  It was behind the cupboard door?

  Yes.

  A street map?

  As well as I could judge, yes.

  Would you recognise a map of White­chapel if you saw it?

  I don’t know. I might. I suppose it could have been White­chapel. I suppose Carlotte told you about this cranky idea about Jack the Ripper he has?

  The man said gloomily: Yes.

  He closed the notebook, and returned it to his pocket. He said: Well, I suppose that’s all.

  Sorme said: Is it a secret, or can you tell me what it’s all about?

  Just a routine check-up over the White­chapel murders. Some­body reported him as a suspicious character. We’ve got to check.

  What are these White­chapel murders?

  Don’t you read the papers?

  Not unless I have to. And I don’t often have to!

  The policeman lit a cigarette, and stood up, looking for an ash-tray. He said: You’re a lucky man. Have a look in today’s papers. You’ll find all about it.

  How were they committed? What weapon, I mean?

  Several. Hammer, scissors, a knife.

  And how many have there been so far?

  Four.

  Sorme said: But what makes you suppose they were all committed by the same person? If the weapons were different, surely . . .

  The policeman interrupted him, smiling:

  Look here, it’s no good asking me. Have a look at your paper. I’m not in charge of the case. I’m just doing a routine check.

  Who is in charge?

  Inspector Macmurdo, Scotland Yard.

  A doorbell rang suddenly in the flat. The man said:

  Ah, that’ll be the ambulance.

  He went to the door; before he could reach it, they heard the sound of footsteps running down the stairs. He opened the door and stood there, listening. Sorme said:

  You know, it’s very odd . . .

  What?

  Well, the way he went on today. He seemed to think you wanted to arrest him.

  Very odd. I’d like to know why.

  I think he’s a little insane.

  I’d better be going. Thanks for the help . . . and the beer.

  Not at all.

  He found the morning paper on the kitchen table. The head­line on the inside page read: Biggest Manhunt Ever. He took it into the living-room, and sat in the armchair to read it. The front page carried the picture of a plump, thick-lipped girl. The text read:

  ‘The hunt for London’s maniac killer continues. Yesterday, every available police officer was diverted on to the biggest Metropolitan manhunt yet for the murderer who has now struck four times in eleven months. Late on Saturday night, Detective-Inspector Macmurdo, in charge of the case, told reporters that the police now have reason to believe that the killer of Gretchen Widman, the forty-five-year-old ex-model found stabbed to death on Saturday morning, was also the man who claimed the lives of Martha Turner (January 6th), Juanita Miller (April 3rd), and Catherine Eddowes (August 17th).

  ‘Martha Turner was killed by a hammer-blow in George Street, Spitalfields. Juanita Miller was stabbed with a pair of scissors. Catherine Eddowes, like Gretchen Widman, was stabbed with a knife.

  ‘The police are now almost certain they are hunting a maniac sadist, with a recurring urge to kill. Since Saturday morning, police have been conducting door-to-door enquiries throughout White­chapel.

  ‘Stallholders in Petticoat Lane Market were questioned about a man who carries a razor-blade and slashes female underwear that is hung up for sale.

  ‘Yesterday afternoon the telephone room at the Yard received over two hundred calls from people who thought that they might have information about the killer.

  ‘Late last night, Detective Inspector Macmurdo said:

  ‘“There has been no further development. The police are still hoping to make an early arrest.”’

  The girl came in as he finished reading. She said:

  Your room’s empty now.

  He stood up, saying: Oh, thank you.

  Would you like a cup of tea?

  Thank you very much. Yes.

  She called from the kitchen:

  The policemen told me you did very well.

  He said, laughing: It’s not often I get so much excitement before lunch.

  He stood in the doorway, watching her as she spooned tea into the pot, then lifted the simmering kettle. He said: Don’t you warm the teapot?

  Never! I am sure it makes no difference. My English friends say it does, but I can detect no difference.

  Maybe, he said noncommittally.

  She shot him a sudden friendly smile.

  All right. Next time I make tea for you, I warm the pot.

  He said seriously: Do you think there’s any chance of the old boy coming back?

  I hope not, she said emphatically.

  Have you read this morning’s paper yet?

  Not yet.

  It says the police had two hundred calls yesterday about this White­chapel murderer. It looks as if one of them was about the old boy.

  She handed him tea in a delicate china cup. Sorme said:

  Thanks. . . . Of course, it’s impossible that he could have had anything to do with the murders, isn’t it?

  I think so.

  They went back into the living-room; she sat on the settee.

  I suppose he has an alibi, anyway—playing records all night.

  He sugared his tea and stirred it, saying musingly:

  Still, he could wangle that all right. All he’d need would be an automatic record-changer and a pile of long-players. That’d make a good detective story, don’t you think? A man who always keeps his neighbours awake to give himself an alibi. Then one night he leaves a pile of long-players on, sneaks down the fire-escape and commits a murder, and sneaks back two hours later. Perfect!

  You should suggest that to the police.

  He said: I would if I thought there was any danger of that old bastard coming back here. Frame him. Declare I saw him creeping up the fire-escape in sneakers, with a bloodstained hatchet in one hand! That’d fix him.

  She said with unexpected compassion: Poor old man. He should have a family to take care of him.

  Irritated by her implied reproach of his callousness, he said cheerfully:

  I dare say he has. I expect they’re in hiding to try and avoid him. Come to think of it, I bet that’s who denounced him.

  You shouldn’t be so unkind about him.

  He hasn’t kept you awake all night with his bloody records!

  He sipped his tea. It was very bad tea; it was weak, and had not been left to stand long enough. He added more milk to cool it, and drank it in gulps. She said: More?

  No thanks. I’d better go. By the way, have you looked in his room?

  No, why?

  I wonder if it’s badly burned?

  Why? Do you want to move in there?

  It might be an idea, he said. In case the next tenant turns somersaults all night. Or trains a dancing horse.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The voice at the other end of the line said:

  News-desk.

  Is Mr. Payne there, please?

  Speaking.

  Hello, Bill. This is Gerard.

  Hello, old boy! How’s it go?

  Listen, Bill. Something rather odd’s just happened in this place I’m living in. The police have just tried to arrest an old man as a suspect for the White­chapel murders.

  Has any other newspaper got on to it yet?

  Not as far as I know.

  What happened?

  He barrica
ded his door and set fire to the room.

  Christ! What happened then?

  They broke the door down. He’s in hospital now suffering from burns.

  Hold on. . . . All right, give me the address. It’s Colindale, isn’t it?

  No. I’ve moved to Kentish Town.

  Good. That’s fine. Do you think you could get down here?

  To the office?

  Yes. No. To Joe’s in Carmelite Street. You remember that café we went to with Gret?

  O.k. I’ll go there right away. See you in half an hour.

  Wait. Hold on. Give me the address, and we’ll send a man there right away.

  All right, but would you do me a favour? Don’t mention my name. The landlady might resent it. Get your man to say he found out from the police, or one of the neighbours tipped your office. O.k.?

  O.k. Give me the address.

  He walked back quickly, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. The November sky looked cold and marble-grey.

  . . . . .

  He leaned the bicycle against the window of the café in Carmelite Street, and locked the back wheel. The road was being repaired, and the noise of the pneumatic drill filled the air with vibrations that drowned the noise of machines from the printing works opposite. The café was beginning to fill with the lunch-hour crowd. There was no sign of Payne in either of the two rooms. He took off his raincoat, and placed it on an empty corner table to reserve it, then went to the counter to order. When he came back to the table a man was sitting there. Sorme said without enthusiasm: Hello, Bobby. The man said:

  I’m well, Gerard. How’re you? Ah hope ye don’t mind if I sit down?

  The watery eyes regarded him with anxiety. He said:

  No. I’m waiting for Bill Payne.

  That’s all right. Ah’ll go when he comes. Well, you’re looking well, m’boy.

  Sorme looked across at the tired, unshaven face, and repented his brusqueness. The Scotsman looked as if he hadn’t eaten or slept for several days. He said:

  Can I offer you a cup of tea?

  No thank ye, Gerard. Ah’ve just had one. But Ah’ll tell ye what you could do. Ah’m expirin’ for want of a smoke, and Ah’ve only a threepenny piece to ma name. Could ye lend me a couple of bob—or a shillin’d do.

  Sorme said embarrassedly: I dunno. I suppose so.

  He pulled out the wallet, and, removing a folded ten-shilling note, handed it to Robert Drummond.

  If you can change that, you can have two bob.

  Thanks, man. Ye’re savin’ ma life.

  Sorme looked at his watch; it was half-past twelve. Drummond came back, and dropped four florins in front of him. He held out the open packet of Woodbines. Sorme shook his head.

  Thanks, I don’t.

  Ye’re lucky.

  Sorme noticed the trembling of the hand that lit the cigarette.

  The Scotsman sat down, and sighed a cloud of smoke. He detached a shred of tobacco from his lower lip; his eyes closed:

  Aahh! My first today.

  His eyes opened, and looked directly at Sorme for the first time.

  Well, lad, what’ve ye been doin’ since I saw ye last?

  Nothing much. Tell me, Bobby, do you know anything about these White­chapel murders?

  Only what ah’ve read in the papers. Why, do you?

  No. Until yesterday. I’d never even heard of them. I never read the papers.

  Drummond said: Did I ever tell ye about the murder I got involved in in Glasgow?

  No.

  Well. Ah wasn’t exac’ly involved. But the girl livin’ in the room next to me got strangled one night. And the funny thing was, I haird her cry out. And I just lay there and did nothing.

  Why?

  Why? It’s hard to say.

  He stared, brooding, over his second cigarette. The woman called: One liver and chips. Sorme collected it from the counter and paid. When he sat down, the Scotsman said slowly:

  Yes, I can tell ye why. Have ye ever wanted something badly—wanted it a lot more than it’s worth?

  Occasionally, Sorme said. He shook tomato ketchup on to the plate.

  She was a shapely girl, y’understand, not pretty. An’ she didn’t have regular men friends, as far as I could make out, but she wasn’t a hardened virgin either. Men sometimes stayed overnight—not always the same man, y’see? And it was a temptation—to knock on her door one night on some excuse and say: How about it, ma dear? An’ I don’t think she’d have refused—I don’t think so.

  Sorme asked, through a mouthful of liver: Why didn’t you?

  He shrugged, stubbing out the cigarette:

  I can’t say. Ah was younger then . . . shy.

  He looked at Sorme and smiled suddenly. It was a curiously candid smile.

  But on the night it happened, I haird her cry out, and thought she was having a nightmare. I thought: Why not now? an’ got halfway to the door. Then I started to sweat and shake. I’d thought about it so long, I wasn’t prepared to get it so suddenly. So I lay in bed, feelin’ ma heart thumpin’ and tryin’ to work up the courage. Then I haird someone movin’ about, and thought: She can’t sleep. . . . But I didn’t go. And the next day, they found her strangled.

  Did they ever catch him?

  Yes. They caught him. He was a soldier. He’d killed her for the three pounds she had in her handbag.

  Sorme said: Ugh, what a swine. Poor girl.

  Here’s Bill, the Scotsman said.

  Sorme turned around as Payne came into the room. He waved to him. Drummond stood up, saying:

  I’ll leave you.

  Sorme said: If you don’t stop chain-smoking, you’ll need another packet in half an hour.

  Ye’re right, Gerard. Thanks for the loan.

  The hand, unwashed, covered with light ginger hairs, pressed Sorme’s forearm. Payne called from the counter:

  Tea for both of you?

  Not for me. Ah’m just goin’. G’bye, m’dear.

  Goodbye, Sorme said.

  Payne brought the two teas over. He said:

  What did he want?

  Nothing. Just to talk.

  Talk? Didn’t he put the bite on you?

  Only for two bob.

  I knew it. He usually tries to tap me when he sees me. That’s how I knew he’d bitten you already.

  You look ill, Sorme said.

  Payne’s face was bloodless. It was a thin face, with a clean-cut profile and cleft chin. When he was tired, his skin took on the greenish tint of the albumen of a boiled duck egg.

  I am. I’m half-dead with sleepiness. I’ve done two shifts running. The other man’s away with ’flu.

  Did you send a reporter?

  Yes, he’s on his way there now. I told him the story came from the police. Tell me what happened.

  Sorme repeated the story, beginning with the bottle-throwing incident. Payne drank his tea slowly, and listened without interrupting. He asked:

  Do you know which hospital they took him to?

  No idea.

  Never mind. We can soon check on that. It sounds interesting. You say he was trying to destroy something—papers? That sounds as if the police might have a line on him. But I doubt whether he’s the man they want.

  Why?

  He was a small man, you say. The pathologist’s report says that this girl was stabbed by a tall man. They can tell from the angle of the wound.

  I never read the papers. Tell me all you know about this case.

  Nobody knows much. Only what the headlines say.

  Yes, but I haven’t even read the headlines. I’d never heard of this murder case until the other day.

  You ought to read the papers, you know, Gerard. No writer can afford not to.

  I suppose so, Sorme said dubiously. He finished his tea and stared ruminatively at the caked sugar in the bottom. He said:

  Tell me about these murders.

  Haven’t you read anything at all?

  Only about this girl on Friday. Where was she killed?
r />   Somewhere in White­chapel. I wasn’t on the news-desk Friday night.

  He was looking past Sorme’s head towards the door. He waved suddenly, calling: Martin.

  He told Sorme: Here’s the man who can tell you. He was on one of the murders.

  The tall, raincoated man waved from the counter. Payne moved across to the inner chair to make room for him as he crossed the room. He said:

  You know Martin Mason, don’t you, Gerard?

  I didn’t, Sorme said. How d’you do?

  The man had a thin, beaky face, with bird-like eyes. The shoulders were narrow and stooped. He nodded briefly at Sorme, carefully placing his hat under the chair.

  Martin, Gerard wants to know about these murders. Give him the gen.

  Doesn’t he read the papers?

  No, Sorme said patiently, not unless I can’t help it.

  Nonconformist, eh? Mason said. He had a smooth, nasal voice, with no tone variation; the kind of voice that seems perfectly adapted for sneering.

  Sorme smiled to disguise his distaste; he said:

  I heard you were on one of these murders?

  I was, Mason said, stirring his tea. What do you want to know about it?

  Which one?

  The third—Catherine Eddowes.

  I thought it was the second, Payne said.

  No. That was the Spanish dancer, Juanita Miller. Jimmy and Sam covered that. Superb woman.

  What about the other case? Sorme said. Did you see her?

  Yes, but only later, in the morgue. And she was all covered up. She wasn’t much to look at. Little, middle-aged woman.

  Sorme asked: Was it a sex crime?

  They can’t tell.

  Why not?

  She was a prostitute.

  What about the other women?

  Same, Mason said. He smiled, like a conjurer bringing off a trick. Sorme found his dislike concentrating on the blotchy, beak-like nose.

  The Spanish girl wasn’t, Payne objected.

  She wasn’t much better, Mason said, glaring. She slept with so many men they couldn’t even check up.

  Tell me, Sorme said. Is it quite definite that they were all committed by the same man?

  Not certain, Mason said. Juanita Miller and Catherine Eddowes were both knifed. But it wasn’t the same knife. The knife was found by the body in both cases. In one case a Boy Scout’s bowie-knife, in the other a little kitchen affair. But the really surprising feature is that the murderer must have got blood on him, yet he probably returned through London in the early hours of the morning.