Ritual in the Dark (30 page)

And they never caught him?

No.

Payne laughed softly:

I heard a theory the murderer was a Turk who killed several women in Istanbul. They’d need a special branch of the United Nations to follow up all the stories!

Sorme finished drinking his tea, staring at the crumbs left on his plate; he was trying to imagine what he would do if he met the murderer on a dark night in Whitechapel. He imagined him as a thin man, middle-aged and bald-headed, with bloodless lips, and the eyes of a fanatic. The thought that, at that moment, somewhere in London, the murderer was free, perhaps drinking tea beside some woman in a café, or hanging on a strap in the Underground, produced a lurching sensation of the stomach.

Mozely stood up suddenly. He said:

Oh well, back to work! You coming yet, Bill?

No. I’ll have another cup of tea first.

Sorme stood up, pushing his chair forward, to allow Mozely to pass, Mozely said:

Thanks, old man. Well, bye-bye. If you get any line on Leather Apron, you might let me know. . .

I will, Payne said. You just go back to your office and have a good sleep. Leave it to Payne.

As Mozely went out, Payne crossed to the counter, saying,

More tea for you, Gerard?

Please. But let me get them.

No! I get it off expenses.

He brought the teas in their thick cups and set them on the dull surface of scratched plastic. He stretched and yawned.

I must go back and get some sleep. How you feeling, Gerard?

Half dead.

Are you sorry I got you out of bed so early?

No! I’m glad you did. It was interesting. . .

Why?

Anything that gives you a sense of reality is interesting. Somehow, I’d never realised these murders really happened. Why do you think somebody does something like this, Bill?

That depends. It depends on who he is. If he’s a university professor, the reasons will be different from if he’s a drunken navvy or a sex-crazed teenager. . .

Sorme said: Whoever he is, he’s alive somewhere in London at this moment. . . and has friends who probably don’t even suspect. . .

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Abruptly, as he passed Smithfield Market, he decided to visit Father Carruthers. It was a fortuitous decision, taken with no definite motive that he was aware of.

The Hungarian priest opened the door. Sorme had anticipated that his hour of calling might seem unusual, but Father Rakosi showed no surprise; he had been seated in the depressingly cold waiting-room for only a few moments when the priest returned.

Father Carruthers will see you now.

Thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you.

He received a curiously shy smile in return.

Father Carruthers was standing by the bookcase, wearing a red quilted dressing-gown; standing, he seemed small, almost dwarf-like. He looked better than last time Sorme had called.

Ah, Gerard. How are you?

Well, thanks. You look better.

I feel better this morning. . . Well, this is rather an early hour for you to call. Is anything wrong?

Nothing special, father. I’ve been in Whitechapel since seven o’clock.

Why?

A journalist friend called me. You’ve heard about this double murder?

No. What has happened?

He lowered himself into the deep armchair, his knees towards the coal fire that filled the room with oppressive heat. Sorme said:

Two women were murdered in the night—within half an hour of one another.

And why have you been to Whitechapel?

Sorme recognised the relevancy of the question. He said uncomfortably:

Oh. . . simply because my friend happened to call me up. . . It’s interesting for a writer. . .

He knew, as he said it, that it was untrue; he also felt a curious certainty that the priest knew it too. But the ugly, silenus face showed no sign of disbelief. The priest only said:

You look tired.

I am.

There was a knock at the door. The priest called: Hello?

A short, white-haired man looked into the room. His eyes wandered from Father Carruthers to Sorme.

Good morning, Larry. Am I interrupting?

His voice was deep and resonant; the accent was distinctly German. The priest said:

Hello, Franz. No, you’re not interrupting. Come in.

The German came into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. He took the priest’s right hand in both his own, and shook it gravely, asking:

Well, and how is my friend this morning? You look better.

I feel better today, thank you. Franz, let me introduce you to Gerard Sorme. This is Professor Stein of Düsseldorf.

Stein turned to Sorme, and made a slight bow. The keen, old man’s face was square and clean-cut; above the jutting chin, the line of the lips was tight and straight, and the eyes were as hard and clear as blue glass. The shock of white hair combined with the features to give the face an impression of great power; it seemed incongruous on the short, plump body. Sorme shook his hand, and found himself also bowing slightly in return. Stein said:

I hope I am not interrupting a conversation?

Not at all. I’m just a casual caller.

Like myself then, Stein said. He smiled charmingly at Sorme, and began struggling out of his overcoat. As Sorme helped him, he said:

It’s abominably hot in here, Larry. I’m sure it can’t be good for you. Ah. . . thank you, sir.

His German accent made the colloquial English sound quaint. Sorme placed the coat on the bed. Stein said:

With your permission, Larry, I shall sit by my coat. I have no wish to be toasted.

The window’s open, the priest said mildly.

Stein produced a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting noise. He then opened a snuffbox and offered it in turn to the priest and to Sorme. Sorme said:

No, thanks.

He watched with secret amusement as the two men snuffed the brown powder with the air of connoisseurs. The priest brushed a few spots off the front of his dressing-gown. He said:

Well, Franz, have you been rooting around Whitechapel too?

Stein looked surprised.

You’ve heard already? I didn’t realise that you read the journals.

I don’t. Our friend Gerard has been there.

Stein looked at Sorme: he asked, frowning: You live there?

No, I don’t, Sorme said. I just. . . went there when I heard about the murders.

You must have heard very early!

I did. A journalist friend rang me at six this morning. Excuse my asking, but are you connected with the investigation?

I.
         
. . er. . . I am connected with them. . . in a sense. I am a pathologist as well as a doctor of psychology. But tell me, why did you wish to—er—visit the scene of the crimes?

Sorme felt himself colouring; he was aware of the priest’s eyes as he answered:

I’m a writer. It’s an interesting experience.

Most certainly it is, Stein said emphatically. Such experience is invaluable to a writer. Heinrich Mann made just that remark within my hearing once. . . that very few serious writers have written of murder with authenticity—Zola excepted, perhaps. You know Thérès Raquin?

I’m afraid not.

Stein turned to the priest, saying:

But these murders are really terrible! You talk of human wickedness, my friend, but if you had thirty years, as I have, dealing with crime and violence, you would speak only of human sickness.

Sorme waited for the priest to reply; when he only smiled, Sorme asked:

Do you suppose this man is insane?

Stein turned his piercing eyes on Sorme.

How can we know, until he is caught? The murders prove only one thing—that his condition is pathological.

The priest asked: Do you think the police are any nearer to catching him?

Who can tell? They have received two letters written by a man who claims to be the murderer. That may help.

Sorme said with interest: Have they? Has this been made public yet?

Today, I think. I personally think they are practical jokes.

What did they say?

Oh. . . they jeer at the police for failing to catch him, and promise more murders. The latest was delivered this morning, a few hours after the second murder.

That sounds like the murderer.

Why? Anyone living in Whitechapel could have written the letter in the available time. Even you. You were told of the murder at six o’clock, you say? The letter was posted at Scotland Yard at about seven o’clock.

Sorme said smiling: I see your point. But what I really meant was that it sounds like the murderer to write to the police.

Why do you say that?

Yesterday the newspapers were asking if he’d moved to Greenwich. Last night, he commits a double murder in Whitechapel. He sounds like a man with a sense of being in the public eye!

Stein said, smiling: That is true. Nevertheless, I suspect a practical joker.

For any particular reason? Sorme asked. He spoke with a cautious politeness, aware that he was in a privileged position in being able to question Stein, and anxious not to appear morbidly curious. Stein interlaced his fingers, and stared gravely at his knees; he appeared to find Sorme’s questions perfectly natural.

To begin with, the pathological killer is not often a boaster. You see, his crimes are often due to an overpowering impulse, and when the impulse disappears he may become a completely different person. In Germany we have a name for this type of crime. We call it Lustmord—joy murder. Motiveless joy murder. And the joy-murderer is not often proud of the impulse that turns him into a wild animal periodically. You see?

The priest said softly:

But if I remember rightly, your friend Kürten wrote to the police.

That is true. But not to boast—only to draw attention to a body. And then perhaps you remember the case of the Chicago murderer—I forget his name—who wrote above one of his victims: Stop me before I kill again.

Heirens, Sorme murmured.

Ah, you know the case! Well, you see, that is the schizophrenic murderer.

He turned to the priest, and an almost mischievous smile passed across his face. He said:

Now you see, Larry, why I had to become a psychiatrist rather than a priest. How could I prescribe penances for sins when I am not sure that the man who performs the penance is the same man who commits the sins? That is a problem you can’t answer me.

The priest said, smiling.

We also recognise your split personality in the Church you know, Franz. But we talk of sin and remorse instead. It all comes to the same thing. . .

Stein chuckled throatily. It was obvious that he enjoyed luring the priest into discussions. He said:

No, no, Larry. It is not the same thing at all. When you prescribe a penance, you assume the man who committed the sin is the same as the one who will do penance. But what if they are two different people, eh? What about that?

The priest said quietly:

I wouldn’t prescribe a penance for such a man.

No? Stein said, raising his bushy eyebrows. And what would you do?

Try to help him, just as you would.

And how can you help him, if your only way of describing his condition is in concepts like sin?

The priest said:

I need only two concepts to understand his condition—spirit and matter.

Stein said, smiling: Not even God and the devil?

Not even God and the devil.

Then tell me, sir, how you would explain a man like Kürten in these terms?

I’d have to think about it. . .

Ah! You said that last time we argued!

He turned to Sorme and winked, saying:

He is a very difficult fellow to argue with. All these Dominicians are the same. . . When you get them in a corner, they demand time to think!

The priest’s expression remained mild and thoughtful. He said slowly:

Very well, if you want me to try to explain. . . I would express it this way. Man knows himself as body, and what he knows of spirit comes through grace. The poet would call it inspiration. But the spirit bloweth where it listeth. Man has no control over his inspiration. If a piece of music or a poem has moved him once, he can never be certain that it will happen again. But man hates to think that he has no control over the spirit. It would discourage him too much. He likes to believe that he can summon the spirit by some ordinary act. Instead of striving to prepare himself for it through discipline and prayer, he tries to summon it arbitrarily through some physical act—drinking Düsseldorf beer, for instance. . .

Stein said, chuckling:

Which is the way all good Düsseldorfers summon the spirit, since our Dunkelbier is the best in Germany.

The priest laughed with him, and for a moment Sorme had a curious impression that he was listening to an argument between two undergraduates instead of two men in their late sixties. He shrank deeper into his armchair, wanting them to forget his presence. The priest stopped laughing first, and Sorme had a glimpse of the tiredness that always lay behind his eyes. Stein also became grave again. He said:

Very well. But what has this to do with the murderer?

It has to do with sex. For sex is the favourite human device for summoning the spirit. And since it is also God’s gift of procreation, it nearly always works. . . unlike music and poetry.

Or beer, Stein said.

Quite. But even sex is not infallible. And man hates to think that he has no power over the spirit. The more his physical methods fail him, the more voraciously he pursues them. His attempts to summon the spirit become more and more frenzied. If he is a drinker, he drinks more, until he has more alcohol than blood in his veins. If he is a sensualist, he invents sexual perversions.

Ah, Stein said.

There are many other ways, of course—the lust for money and power, for instance. All depend upon man’s refusal to face the fact that the spirit bloweth where it listeth, that no physical act can be guaranteed to summon it. . .

Sorme had forgotten his resolution to keep silent. He said:

But is there no certain way of summoning it, father?