Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

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 Kurten 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.

Will you go up?

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.

OK, 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.