Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

The girl came out of the room after him. She said:

You can wait in my room if you like. The ambulance should be here soon.

He was about to refuse, then changed his mind:

Thank you. Where is it?

I'll show you.

She went down the stairs ahead of him. He asked her:

What do you make of it all? What's it all about?

I don't know, I know no more than you.

For some reason, he had expected a dismal room, but her living-room was large and comfortably furnished. The floor was carpeted. She switched on a tall reading lamp that stood by the settee; it diffused a pink, warm light. An electric fire, set in the wall, was burning. Left alone, he dressed and combed his hair, then looked through the volumes on the bookshelf; they were mostly in German. He noted that her bed in the corner of the room was a wide divan, thinking automatically: Big enough for two; then thought: No, never wise to have a mistress in the house; she can watch you too closely.

Nevertheless, he looked with interest through the photographs on the sideboard, and noted no young men among them. There were two family groups, and a picture of the girl, looking about ten years younger, with her arm round the waist of a fair-haired girl; they were both dressed in Bavarian costume.

The door behind him opened. He had expected the girl, but it was the policeman called Jack who came in.

Ah. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?

Of course. What about?

Would you mind just sitting down?

He produced a notebook and a ballpoint pen; Sorme sat on the settee.

Now, let's see. You've only been here since Saturday, so I don't expect you know much about the old boy?

Nothing at all, I'm afraid.

But you went up to his room last night?

Only for a few moments.

I see. You didn't get any idea of any papers he kept in there, did you? Something he might want to burn?

I'm afraid not, I wasn't in there for more than a minute and a half.

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!