Colin Wilson - Ritual in the Dark

He opened the black wallet that Sorme had handed to him, and took out a pound note.

Take this and use it for a taxi.

No, really, father…

Take it. I have no use for money here — I spend my days in bed. Besides, you are doing an errand for me. I'd go if I could. Take it.

Sorme took the note unwillingly, and pushed it, folded, into his top pocket. He said:

Thank you, father. Shall I phone back to let you know?

No. If anything important happens, come back. But I shall sleep now.

All right, father. Thanks. I hope you get well soon.

Thank you, Gerard.

He let himself out of the front door. As he turned the corner, he met Robin Maunsell hurrying across the road. Maunsell said:

Well, Gerard, you're rather a stranger, aren't you? A stranger to me, I should say, because I hear that you're always popping in and out to Father Carruthers.

Sorme said embarrassedly:

How are you?

I'm very well. But what on earth's going on with you? Are the two of you planning a campaign to convert Austin Nunne?

Something like that, Sorme said, grinning.

Come in and have a cup of tea.

No, thanks, Robin. I'm just doing an errand for Father Carruthers.

Really? Are you coming back?

I expect so. Later in the day.

Well, I can see you're dying to go. Perhaps I'll see you later.

Sorme said untruthfully:

I'm just off for lunch. I'm pretty hungry. But I'll see you later…

All right.

As Sorme turned away, Maunsell said:

Give Austin my regards.

Sorme looked back in surprise, but Maunsell was already in the doorway.

He crossed Rosebery Avenue, walking towards Ludgate Circus, with the idea of finding a taxi in Holborn. His neck was still damp with sweat from the heat of the room, and his throat felt dry. For some reason, he felt no belief that Nunne would be in the Kensington flat. Nunne wouldn't be anywhere where he was known to go regularly if he was avoiding the police… The thought of the women's clothes came to him suddenly. At the time, Nunne's explanation had been inadequate. But his new suspicions provided no satisfactory hypothesis to explain them either.

In Fleet Street he turned into the bar of the first pub he saw. He ordered a pint of mild, and drank a half of it before the burning sensation went out of his throat. He grinned at the bartender, saying:

Ah, that's better.

From the next bar, someone called:

Cheerio, George!

Goodbye, Mr Payne.

Sormesaid:

Was that Bill Payne?

Yes, sir.

He hurried to the door of the pub, and saw Payne on the point of crossing the road. He called:

Hi, Bill!

The noise of traffic drowned his voice; as Payne was about to step off the pavement, he jumped forward and touched his arm. Payne said:

Hello, Gerard! What are you doing here?

Having a drink. Come and join me.

In there? Where were you? I didn't see you.

The bartender said:

You're soon back!

Payne said, grinning:

I planted my friend here to give me an excuse. What are you having, Gerard?

I've got one, thanks. Have one with me. What is it?

Usual, please, George. Let's go in next door. This wood's icy to the arse.

A fire was burning in the lounge bar; Payne carried his glass to the table that stood near it. He said:

Have you heard the news?

About the arrest? Yes.

Payne said with surprise:

Where'd you hear it?

From a police pathologist.

Starr?

No, Stein — the German doctor I know on the case. He came around this morning to follow up the business of the old man. They phoned him while he was with me.

Did they? You mean they told him the hunt was off?

Oh no. Just that the man had been arrested. Stein admitted it might be the wrong man. Why?

Well… surely it's obvious? He hasn't confessed to the murders…

Ah, then you haven't heard the latest. He's made a full confession since.

What! Confessed to what?

All the murders — except one of the women killed the other night.

Are you sure?

Quite sure. It came just before I left the office.

What did it say? Do you know the details?

Some of them. You know about the attack last night?

Yes.

Well, the police found charcoal marks on the woman's throat and hands. She was unconscious, of course. They started a fullscale murder hunt. He must have got into the dockyard somehow — down near Limehouse pier. And somebody spotted him as he tried to climb over the wall this morning. They say he's got a broken knee. He'd tried to clean the charcoal off his face, but there were still traces, and they found the sponge he'd been using in his pocket. They took him to Commercial Street police station and he denied the murders — although he admitted the attack last night. Then they took him to Scotland Yard, and he confessed the lot. So that's it!

Sorme found it difficult to conceal the cold feeling of relief that gave him a desire to laugh. He said:

So he's caught!

He's caught, Payne said.

Do they know anything about his motive?

No. But he's a bit of an idiot. Can't speak properly — has a hare lip — and he's been on probation for being involved in a robbery.

An idiot? That doesn't sound so good.

Why?

Stein told me that an idiot was arrested in the Dusseldorf case, and confessed to the murders. He wasn't the murderer.

I think the police must be fairly sure of themselves. They wouldn't announce his confession if they doubted it. Anyway, for the sake of the police I hope they've got the man.

So does everybody. But why did he wear charcoal last night? There was no sign of charcoal in the previous murders. And Stein told me they'd been after this bloke for a few weeks — he'd been jumping out of doorways and frightening women. That doesn't sound like the killer.

Payne said thoughtfully:

Perhaps you're right. That's a good point. I'll mention that to the chap who's doing the story. Anyway, why should he confess if he's not the killer?

Perhaps the police were rough with him. You said he'd got a broken knee. He wouldn't have much resistance, would he?

But the police wouldn't want him to confess if he wasn't the killer.

Sorme said, shrugging:

I don't know. It's only guesswork. I hope it's the right man. What's his name, by the way?

Oh… Bentley, Alfred Bentley. Lives in Brixton.

But he used to live in Whitechapel, Sorme said.

Did he? Are you sure?

That's what Stein told me.

I didn't know that. So he'd know the district well. Listen, Gerard, I'd better get back to the office. What's the name of this German, in case we want to contact him?

Stein. Franz Stein. And he's working with Macmurdo.

Right. Thanks a lot. I might ring you later. Let's meet for a drink.

All right. Be seeing you, Bill.

After Payne had gone, he finished his pint, staring into the fire. The excitement had been replaced by doubt. He replaced his glass on the counter, went into Fleet Street, and hailed a passing taxi.

When the taxi turned into Palace Gate, he asked the driver:

Would you mind waiting at the end of Canning Place? I shan't be long.

As he walked towards the house, he told himself he could return and dismiss the taxi if Nunne was in. He had no desire to encounter Vannet, and was afraid the taxi might attract his attention.

The area gate creaked open. The curtains behind the barred windows were drawn. He rang the bell and listened carefully. He could hear it ringing somewhere inside. There was no other sound. He rang again. After a wait of another half minute, he took an old envelope out of his pocket, scrawled a message on it and slipped it through the letterbox. Above his head, the front door opened. A man he had never seen before looked down at him. The man said: