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.
CHAPTER THREE
THE VOICE at the other end of the line said:
Newsdesk.
Is Mr Payne there, please?
Speaking.
Hello, Bill. This is Gerard.
Hello, old boy! How’s it go?
Listen, Bill. Something rather odd’s just happened in this place I’m living in. The police have just tried to arrest an old man as a suspect for the Whitechapel murders.
Has any other newspaper got on to it yet?
Not as far as I know.
What happened?
He barricaded his door and set fire to the room.
Christ! What happened then?
They broke the door down. He’s in hospital now suffering from burns.
Hold on. . . All right, give me the address. It’s Colindale, isn’t it?
No. I’ve moved to Kentish Town.
Good. That’s fine. Do you think you could get down here?
To the office?
Yes. No. To Joe’s in Carmelite Street. You remember that café we went to with Gret?
OK. I’ll get there right away. See you in half an hour.
Wait. Hold on. Give me the address, and we’ll send a man there right away.
All right, but would you do me a favour? Don’t mention my name. The landlady might resent it. Get your man to say he found out from the police, or one of the neighbours tipped your office. OK?
OK. Give me the address.
He walked back quickly, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. The November sky looked cold and marble-grey.
* * *
He leaned the bicycle against the window of the café in Carmelite Street, and locked
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.
CHAPTER THREE
THE VOICE at the other end of the line said:
Newsdesk.
Is Mr Payne there, please?
Speaking.
Hello, Bill. This is Gerard.
Hello, old boy! How’s it go?
Listen, Bill. Something rather odd’s just happened in this place I’m living in. The police have just tried to arrest an old man as a suspect for the Whitechapel murders.
Has any other newspaper got on to it yet?
Not as far as I know.
What happened?
He barricaded his door and set fire to the room.
Christ! What happened then?
They broke the door down. He’s in hospital now suffering from burns.
Hold on. . . All right, give me the address. It’s Colindale, isn’t it?
No. I’ve moved to Kentish Town.
Good. That’s fine. Do you think you could get down here?
To the office?
Yes. No. To Joe’s in Carmelite Street. You remember that café we went to with Gret?
OK. I’ll get there right away. See you in half an hour.
Wait. Hold on. Give me the address, and we’ll send a man there right away.
All right, but would you do me a favour? Don’t mention my name. The landlady might resent it. Get your man to say he found out from the police, or one of the neighbours tipped your office. OK?
OK. Give me the address.
He walked back quickly, his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. The November sky looked cold and marble-grey.
* * *
He leaned the bicycle against the window of the café in Carmelite Street, and locked
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