Ritual in the Dark

CHAPTER TWO

He liked the new room. When the boxes had been unpacked, and the radio and record player were arranged on the chest of drawers, it seemed smaller than he had anticipated. A fire escape ran past the window, which looked out on a piece of waste ground and on a church. He had also the use of a small kitchen that was probably a converted lumber-room. It was reached by a narrow flight of stairs opposite his door: he was to share this with a Frenchman who lived in the next room.

The move exhausted him. He had awakened without a hangover, but feeling tired and dry-mouthed. When he had finished arranging the room, he felt the sweat running down his sides and along his thighs. He set a kettle to boil on the gas ring; he could hear the thump of his heart, and the roar of the traffic in the Kentish Town Road. The bed stood under the open window; the breeze cooled him. He fell into a doze, and was awakened suddenly by the whistle on the kettle.

He made tea in a two-pint thermos flask, and poured it out through a strainer. He put a record on the gramophone, then sat down at the table, staring at the glowing nipples of the gas fire, sipping the tea. Someone tapped on the door; he called: Come in.

The man who opened the door said: I hear we are to be neighbours and share the kitchen.

Come in, Sorme said. Would you like a cup of tea?

Thank you, I would.

The French accent was not strong, but quite perceptible. Sorme stood up, holding out his hand.

My name's Gerard Sorme.

Edmond Callet. How do you do?

Do you mind sterilised milk in your tea?

Not at all.

He took the whisky-cap off the sterilised milk bottle that he had brought from Colindale; the milk was three days old. He turned down the volume of the gramophone.

The Frenchman asked: What is it? Prokoviev?

Yes, the fifth symphony. Do you like music?

Very much. I used to play the oboe in the orchestra in my home town. Lille.

But you're not a professional musician?

Oh no. I'm an engineer.

When he smiled, he showed a mouthful of regular, white teeth. He had a handsome face, with a square, powerful jaw. Sorme found himself liking him instantly.

Callet sat opposite him, in the armchair.

I hear you're a writer?

Yes. Who told you that?

Carlotte. The girl who cleans up. We have some strange tenants in this house.

You have the worst one above you.

The worst? Why?

He's mad. And he plays gramophone records all night.

Christ! Does he thump around, though?

No, I don't think so. He just plays records. You won't see him during the day. He sleeps.

That's all right. I sometimes work most of the night too. Do you object to the noise of a typewriter?

No. I use one myself. The only person who might complain is the girl in the room underneath.

I see. And who else qualifies as 'strange'?

The Frenchman made a puzzled grimace. Sorme explained:

You said there were several strange tenants?

Ah, yes. Well the old man above you is the worst. There are two homosexuals who live on the ground floor. They won't bother you. They sometimes quarrel all night.

They are all right except when they are drunk. Then they get noisy.

Doesn't the landlady object?

No. She doesn't live here. The German girl is supposed to keep an eye on the place. Carlotte. She lives in the basement.

The record came to an end. Sorme turned the player off. Immediately, they heard the sound of someone knocking on the door of the next room. The Frenchman opened the door, saying: Hello?

Phone for Monsieur Callet, a girl's voice said.

I'll probably see you later. Thanks for the tea.

You're welcome, Sorme said.

He poured himself a second cup of tea, and switched on the record player again.

The heat was making him drowsy. To wake himself up, he began to rearrange his books in the bookcase behind the door. He flattened the three cardboard cartons that the books had been packed in, and heaved them on top of the wardrobe. They met some obstruction and slid down again. He climbed on to a chair, and looked on the wardrobe. There was a pile of books there, pushed to the back against the wall. There were four tattered copies of P. G. Wodehouse, and three volumes in the Notable British Trials Series. One of these had a label inside: Erith Public Libraries. The date stamped inside seemed to be several years earlier.

He lifted them down, blowing the dust off them, then sat down at the table to examine them. A quarter of an hour later he was still reading the first volume he had opened, The Trial of Burke and Hare. It made him feel slightly sick.

Someone knocked on the door. He called: Hello.

The Frenchman looked round the door.

Hello. Lotte asked me to give you a message. Someone phoned for you this morning.

Oh? Did he leave a message?

Yes. She didn't get his name, but he left a telephone number. Here it is.

Sorme took the torn envelope flap. He said:

Thanks. I'll ring him now. Where's the phone?

Unfortunately, he left a message asking you to ring him before three. He said he was leaving London at three.

Sorme looked at his watch. It said half past four.

Oh… thanks anyway.

The Frenchman asked conversationally: What are you reading?

Oh, a book on murders.

Did you read about that murder last night?

No.

In Whitechapel. Another girl found beaten to death. It was in the midday paper.

Do you want to see it?

Sorme said, chuckling: Don't bother. I intend to eat a meal today. This stuff makes me feel sick.

When the door closed again he tossed The Trial of Burke and Hare on to the bed, and opened one of the Wodehouse volumes.

In the night, he woke up and remembered Nunne's aunt. Until then he had completely forgotten about her. He reached for his trousers, and felt in the dark for the back pocket. The sheet of notepaper was still there. He struck a match, and read: Gertrude Quincey, The Laurels, Vale of Health, followed by her phone number. He propped it on the chair beside the bed to remind him to phone her in the morning, and lay down again, in the night that now smelt of burnt sulphur, and thought about her. Her figure was slim and attractive; there was something demure about her manner that he found exciting. She was probably fifteen years his senior; perhaps less; perhaps only ten. He speculated idly on the advantages of persuading her to become his mistress, even of marrying her. It would be pleasant to be looked after. But in ten years' time, in fifteen? There was also this business of her being a Jehovah's Witness. Somehow, that did not fit in. He thought of Jehovah's Witnesses as rather slovenly-dressed working-class women.

It would be interesting to find out how serious she was about the Bible classes. Or if her convictions made chastity obligatory.

He knew, with sudden certainty, that there could never be any question of wanting to marry her. It would be a sell-out. There was an intuition of certainty in him that told him that a sell-out for security could never be necessary. He thought instead of making love to her. The idea carried him into sleep.

The following evening he tried phoning her; there was no reply. He depressed the receiver-rest and rang Austin's number; a girl on the switchboard told him that Mr Nunne had gone away for a few days. He returned to his room, feeling curiously disappointed.

Half an hour later he was reading when he heard footsteps ascending the stairs to the old man's room. Someone knocked on the door. A girl's voice called: Mr Hamilton!

There was no reply. The footsteps came down the stairs again. Someone rapped on his door. He called: Come in.

The girl who stood in the doorway said:

I'm sorry to disturb you…

He said: You're Carlotte?

Yes. There is a policeman at the front door…

To see me?

O no! He says someone has thrown a bottle into the street. I think it must be Mr Hamilton. But he won't answer the door. What shall I do?

What makes you think it's him?

It must be. Monsieur Callet is out. Who else could it be?

What do you want me to do?

Could you — go up by the fire escape? He may answer you.

Where's the policeman?

Downstairs.

He climbed out of the window on to the fire escape. A shaft of light came from the open door above.

In the room, the old man squatted on the floor, his back to the door, naked. The choir sang:

Stel a matutina

Salus infirmorum

Refugium peccatorum…

He stood there, uncertain, wondering whether to return quietly to his own room.

When the record stopped, he coughed and knocked on the door. He expected the old man to turn, or start guiltily. Nothing happened. The old man took off the record and selected another from the pile in front of him. Sorme said:

Excuse me…

The old man said over his shoulder:

Come in. Don't stand there.

Sorme advanced into the room.

I'm sorry to trouble you, but there's a policeman down below enquiring about a bottle that somebody threw into the street.

As he spoke, he saw the window was open: it overlooked the street.

The old man said: You are German, are you not?

No, English. So would you mind…?

Yes, all right, all right. Do you like the Roman litany?

He felt irritated and helpless. The old man had a bottle between his knees, with a glass inverted over the neck. The gramophone was a big wooden box; the circle of green baize was loose on the turntable; the wires ran across the room to a radio on the bookshelf. He felt chilled in the draught that blew across the room, and noticed with surprise that the old man was sweating.

I only came to tell you that the policeman seems pretty annoyed. Throwing bottles out of windows causes a lot of trouble…

Tell me, my young friend, do you believe in mortification of the flesh?

He felt suddenly violently angry, and would have enjoyed snatching up the gramophone and smashing it on the perspiring bald head. It was a feeling that he was somehow the victim of a drunk old man. He crossed the room to the door and tried it; it had been locked and the key removed.

The old man said thickly: Sit down and have a drink. What part of Germany do you come from?

Sorme turned round, and was suddenly shocked and repelled by the blotchy nakedness; a tainted spittle of disgust rose in his throat. The old man poured gin into the tumbler, and then inverted the glass over the neck of the bottle again. He shook the bottle so that the glass clinked, and smiled:

You can't get out that way.

He flung out his right arm, pointing; Sorme followed the direction of his finger to a wall cupboard. The door stood open.

Do you know what this is, my young friend, my little German friend?

No.

'Is a map, isn't it? A map. But do you know what it is?

There was a map pinned to the inside of the door; it seemed to be drawn in ink.

Of course you don' know. An' I'm hot goin' a tell you… It's my secret…

He crossed the room quickly and went out of the fire door again. The old man called: Hi, wait a minute! Sorme went down the fire escape and climbed back into his own room.

Well? the girl said.

It's no good; he's drunk. You'll have to tell the policeman it won't happen again. He's too drunk to listen.

She turned and left the room without speaking. He closed the window and knelt by the gas fire, warming his hands. From somewhere downstairs he could hear a deep male voice speaking. The gramophone above was playing again. He was puzzled by the violence of the killing instinct that the old man had aroused in him. Even now, it would have given him pleasure to stand in the doorway and empty a revolver into the repulsive nakedness. The strength of his own hatred surprised him.

His hands were grimy, from touching the rail of the fire escape. He washed them in the kitchen, gradually relaxing as he leaned over the sink, his hands in the warm water.

When he came down again the girl was waiting in his room. She stared back from the bookcase as he came in: Oh — I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind me coming in…

Not at all. What happened?

He says he will have to report it. That's all.

Will you have a glass of wine?

She looked as if about to refuse. He took the bottle out of the cupboard, saying: I'm having one.

Please. Just a little, then.

It was the bottle he had opened the day before and was still nearly full. He poured wine into a tumbler and handed it to her.

Sit down.

Thank you.

She sat in the armchair by the fire. She had a strong, pointed face, with high cheekbones. Her mouth was full, but strong, not sensual. If she had been slimmer she might have been almost beautiful. Her English was perfect.

What do you think we ought to do about him?

He said: I'm all for killing him. He disgusts me.

What did he say?

Nothing intelligible. He was pretty drunk. He was sitting on the floor in the nude.

Nude. You mean naked?

That's it.

He pulled a hard chair up opposite her and sat down.

I don't understand him. It is strange that he has not killed himself. He drinks all the time.

Who is he? Do you know?

He was an engineer. His wife died. I think he has money. Sometimes he talks in Hyde Park about religion.

What about religion?

I don't know. Some Russian sect who believe in dancing round a bonfire. And he talks a lot when he's drunk. About murder.

Murder?

Yes. He pretends he has a great secret… about — what do you call him — Jacques L'Eventreur?

Jacques… Jack the Disemboweller? Oh, you mean Jack the Ripper What does he say about him?

I don't know. He talks a lot when he is drunk.

Why does Mrs Miller tolerate him? Why doesn't she throw him out?

Why should she? She doesn't have to live in the same house with him. He pays three pounds a week for that room. No one else would pay so much.

He finished his wine, and poured some more. She had not touched hers yet. She said: He frightens me. Once he stole a pair of my shoes.. There was a ring at the front doorbell. She jumped up immediately:

I have to go. That is for me.

Did you get them back?

Oh, yes. I found them in his cupboard. Goodbye. Thank you for the wine.

Not at all. Come up some evening when you don't have to go out.

He sat, staring into the gas fire, then leaned over and picked up her untouched wine. It tasted warm. He said aloud: I must get a woman. I'm getting sex-starved. He thought of the women who stood outside the Camden tube, their eyes following the men who walked past; then realised immediately that he had no desire for a prostitute. It would have destroyed his appetite, like a meal in a Rowton House. He finished the wine, and sat down at the typewriter.

That night, the vastation happened again. He woke up feeling hot and slightly drunk. He was still fully clothed, lying on the bed. Opposite his eyes, the radio droned softly; he had fallen asleep listening to a late night chamber concert. The room was in darkness, except for the light from the wavelength panel, and the red glow of the neon lights from the cinema over the way. His mind formed the question as he stared across the room: What am I doing here? It seemed arbitrary; he might have been anywhere or anything. A sense of alien-ness oppressed him, and he tried to focus his attention on it to discover its precise nature. Immediately, an orgasm of fear twisted his heart, and drained the strength out of his will. It was an awareness that his own existence was not capable of detaching itself from existence to question it. Existence faced him like a blank wall.

There was an instinctive desire to penetrate the wall, to assert his reality beyond it, and a terror that came with the recognition that he was trapped in existence; that no detachment from it was possible. The terror was like losing an arm: too violent to hurt.

He came back to his own existence, lying on the bed, with a jerk of relief. He swung himself off the bed, and crossed the room to switch off the radio, thinking: Absurd or not, I choose to be here.

Back in bed again, he tried to recreate the fear, and the perception that caused it, and failed. It had drained him, like sexual fulfilment, and his mind formed words instead of sensations. The only thing he could recall was the sense of alien-ness, a feeling: I do not belong here. He wondered vaguely, losing the struggle to keep awake, whether the insight was not some kind of guardian, a benevolence whose aspect was nothingness.

He woke up again in the night, and felt curiously disgusted with his body, as if it were already dead flesh. Suddenly, he realised what it was that disgusted him; it was the idea of his own non-existence.

He woke up with an immediate sense that something was happening. He looked at his watch; it was half past ten. Someone was banging on the door of the old man's room.

The voice of the German girl called:

Open the door, please. Someone wants to speak to you.

The old man's voice shouted something. It sounded muffled. The knocking was repeated. The old man called again; this time his voice sounded clearer:

Who is it?

A male voice said: Police officers. Would you mind opening your door?

Sorme sat up in bed, thinking immediately of the bottle. There was a noise from overhead, a movement of bare feet on the floor. Then something heavy moved, an article of furniture. The male voice called again.

Would you let us in, please?

There was no reply, only another dragging sound across the floor. The knocks on the door became heavy and peremptory. Suddenly, the old man's voice, shrill and breathless, shouted:

What do you want?

The German girl said soothingly:

They only want to ask a few questions.

What about?

The policeman said: Open the door, and we can talk.

The old man's voice was harsh, hardly recognisable; he shouted:

I know you. I know your tricks.

There was a note of hysteria in it. The policemen were now conferring with the girl in low voices. In the room above, the bare feet padded across the floor. Something clanged as it fell. The policeman shouted: If you don't let us in, I'm afraid we shall have to force the door.

Sorme swung himself out of bed and pulled his trousers on. He looked around for his slippers, and then remembered he had left them in the kitchen. His door opened suddenly, and the German girl looked in. He was still on the floor, looking under his bed.

Her voice said:

There's no one here. You can come in.

He straightened up as a man came into the room. The girl whispered: O, I'm sorry. I thought you were out.

He felt embarrassed, his hair tangled, still wearing the pyjama jacket. He asked: What it is?

Sshhh! We don't want him to hear. This gentleman is a policeman. He wants to get on to the fire escape. Do you mind if he comes through your room?

No. Of course not.

The plain-clothed policeman said gruffly: Thank you, sir.

Sorme heaved up the lower window frame. It went up with a shriek of unoiled pulleys. The girl grimaced. The policeman had picked up a sheet of newspaper from the table, saying quietly: Do you mind, sir? He laid it on the bed, and stepped on it to climb out of the window. He was a short man, with a pointed, bird-like face. He stood there for a moment, staring up at the room above, then went quietly up the fire escape.

Sorme lowered the window six inches to lessen the draught. He asked the girl:

What's it all about?

She shrugged: He must be mad. They only want to ask him a few questions.

About throwing that bottle?

Oh no. Not that.

What has the old boy done?

She said mysteriously: It is about a murder. They think he might know something.

They heard a sudden blow on the door above as someone tried to force it. The old man's voice screamed:

You're not coming in!

The girl ran to the window and looked out. The policeman called:

Tell Bert to come and help, would you? I'm afraid we'll have to break the door.

Sorme hurried to the door, but before he reached it the other policeman ran into the room, wrenched up the window, and clambered out. The girl said:

What does he think he's doing, the fool? No one wants to hurt him.

She flung herself on the bed again and craned out through the window. The door above gave way with a crash. The old man's voice shouted despairingly:

Don't come near me.

The girl turned round and stared at him. There was a sudden shriek of pain that made them both tense. Sorme said: My god, what's he done? Perhaps I'd better go and help.

As soon as he climbed out of the window, he saw the black smoke that poured through the doorway. He took the stairs three at a time. Flames and smoke made it impossible to see into the room. One of the policemen was shouting: Open the window!

The flames abated for a moment, and he could see that the fire seemed to be immediately inside the door. He recoiled against the rail of the fire escape, then threw himself forward into the room. Smoke filled it like a dense brown fog. The old man was writhing on the floor. He seemed to be on fire. Both policemen were trying to smother the flames with blankets. Sorme wrenched open the window on the far side of the room, and breathed gratefully the clean air. When he turned back into the room, he was able to see that the fire was coming from a paraffin tin that lay on its side near the stove, still gushing oil. He took a running kick at it and sent it through the door and into the yard. The old man rolled under his feet, still screaming, and made him fall on to the bed. He regained his balance, and heaved the mattress off the bed and into the middle of the flames. Immediately, the area of flame was reduced to a few square feet, lapping around the edge of the mattress.

One of the policemen called hoarsely: Good man! They stopped using the blankets as beaters, and threw them into the flames. Sorme opened the wardrobe, and threw all the clothes he could find. His eyes and throat were smarting from the fumes. He began to stamp on the flames that still burned, cannoning into the policeman as he staggered drunkenly, coughing in the smoke. On the floor, the old man was silent.

The draught through the room was clearing the smoke. Sorme left the policeman to stamp out the flames, and started to tear away the trunk and armchair that had been pushed against the door. He turned the key in the lock, and pulled it open. In his eagerness to breathe clean air, he almost fell down the stairs.

He resisted the impulse to close the door behind him and cut himself off from the smoke and stink of paraffin. He sat on the top stair, his back against the banisters, breathing deeply. After a few minutes the smarting died out of his eyes. He felt begrimed from head to foot with smoke. When he had ceased to feel that he was suffocating, he went back into the room again. Both policemen were standing outside, on the fire escape, panting. The fire was out. The old man was lying, perfectly still, in the middle of the floor. Sorme turned and went downstairs again. Three people were inside, looking out of the window. He turned away with disgust, and went up to the kitchen. There, he turned the tap on full, and held his head underneath it. He pulled off the pyjama jacket and rubbed his body with a wet sponge, which soothed his hot flesh with a luxurious coolness. His body ached and throbbed as if he had been beaten. He soaped the sponge and his face and chest, and then, lowering his trousers, the lower half of his body. When he had dried himself he felt better. His hair, which he had allowed the water to soak, dripped on his shoulders and down his neck. He rubbed it vigorously with the towel, then combed it. He went downstairs again, carrying the pyjama jacket.

His door was now closed. In the room, both the policemen were sitting without their coats and jackets. The old man lay on the bed, moaning gently. The two men looked at him and smiled when he came in. One commented:

Blimey, I thought we'd had it that time, didn't you, Jack?

The one called Jack glanced at the bed, saying:

Stupid old bastard. What's he have to do that for?

The other one looked at Sorme; he said:

Thanks for the help.

Not at all. Are you arresting him?

No. We just wanted to ask him a few questions.

Their faces and hands were grimy; both were still sweating. Sorme asked: Can I offer you a drink?

I'll say you can! the policeman called Jack said.

What of? the other asked.

Wine or beer?

Beer for me.

And me.

He opened a quart of light ale, and poured into two glasses and a china mug. He drank his own down in one long draught. He pushed the bottle towards them, saying: Help yourselves.

Thanks. We will.

Where's Carlotte — the German girl?

Phoning the ambulance.

The girl came back into the room as he spoke.

They will be here soon. How is he?

The man called Jack shrugged:

Can't tell at his age. He's not badly burned, but there's the shock…

The old man was lying on the bed, his eyes open, breathing heavily. He began to groan. Sorme said:

I'll go and dress, if you don't mind.

He took a pair of neatly folded trousers from the drawer, and a shirt and tie. Both policemen refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle; they ignored the old man.

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!

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.