Read Online Ritual in the Dark by Colin Wilson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Colin Wilson
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caught him. He was a soldier. He’d killed her for the three pounds she had in her handbag.
Sorme said: Ugh, what a swine. Poor girl.
Here’s Bill, the Scotsman said.
Sorme turned around as Payne came into the room. He waved to him. Drummond stood up, saying:
I’ll leave you.
Sorme said: If you don’t stop chain-smoking, you’ll need another packet in half an hour.
Ye’re right, Gerard. Thanks for the loan.
The hand, unwashed, covered with light ginger hairs, pressed Sorme’s forearm. Payne called from the counter:
Tea for both of you?
Not for me. Ah’m just goin’. G’bye, m’dear.
Goodbye, Sorme said.
Payne brought the two teas over. He said:
What did he want?
Nothing. Just to talk.
Talk? Didn’t he put the bite on you?
Only for two bob.
I knew it. He usually tries to tap me when he sees me. That’s how I knew he’d bitten you already.
You look ill, Sorme said.
Payne’s face was bloodless. It was a thin face, with a clean-cut profile and cleft chin. When he was tired, his skin took on the greenish tint of the albumen of a boiled duck egg.
I am. I’m half dead with sleepiness. I’ve done two shifts running. The other man’s away with ‘flu.
Did you send a reporter?
Yes, he’s on his way there now. I told him the story came from the police. Tell me what happened.
Sorme repeated the story, beginning with the bottle-throwing incident. Payne drank his tea slowly, and listened without interrupting. He asked:
Do you know which hospital they took him to?
No idea.
Never mind. We can soon check on that. It sounds interesting. You say he was trying to destroy something—papers? That sounds as if the police might have a line on him. But I doubt whether he’s the man they want.
Why?
He was a small man, you say. The pathologist’s report says that the girl was stabbed by a tall man. They can tell from the angle of the wound.
I never read the papers. Tell me all you know about this case.
Nobody knows much. Only what the headlines say.
Yes, but I haven’t even read the headlines. I’d never heard of this murder case until the other day.
You ought to read the papers, you know, Gerard. No writer can afford not to.
I suppose so, Sorme said dubiously. He finished his tea and stared ruminatively at the caked sugar in the bottom. He said:
Tell me about these murders.
Haven’t you read anything at all?
Only about this girl on Friday. Where was she killed?
Somewhere in Whitechapel. I wasn’t on the newsdesk Friday night.
He was looking past Sorme’s head towards the door. He waved suddenly, calling: Martin.
He told Sorme: Here’s the man who can tell you. He was on one of the murders.
The tall, raincoated man waved from the counter. Payne moved across to the inner chair to make room for him as he crossed the room. He said:
You know Martin Mason, don’t you, Gerard?
I didn’t, Sorme said. How d’you do?
The man had a thin, beaky face, with bird-like eyes. The shoulders were narrow and stooped. He nodded briefly at Sorme, carefully placing his hat under the chair.
Martin, Gerard wants to know about these murders. Give him the gen.
Doesn’t he read the papers?
No, Sorme said patiently, not unless I can’t help it.
Nonconformist, eh? Mason said. He had a smooth, nasal voice, with no tone variation; the kind of voice that seems perfectly adapted for sneering.
Sorme smiled to disguise his distaste; he said:
I heard you were on one of these murders?
I was, Mason said, stirring his tea. What do you want to know about it?
Which one?
The third—Catherine Eddowes.
I thought it was the second, Payne said.
No. That was the Spanish dancer, Juanita Miller. Jimmy and Sam covered that. Superb woman.
What about the other case? Sorme said. Did you see her?
Yes, but only later, in the morgue. And she was all covered up. She wasn’t much to look at. Little, middle-aged woman.
Sorme asked: Was it a sex crime?
They can’t tell.
Why not?
She was a prostitute.
What about the
Sorme said: Ugh, what a swine. Poor girl.
Here’s Bill, the Scotsman said.
Sorme turned around as Payne came into the room. He waved to him. Drummond stood up, saying:
I’ll leave you.
Sorme said: If you don’t stop chain-smoking, you’ll need another packet in half an hour.
Ye’re right, Gerard. Thanks for the loan.
The hand, unwashed, covered with light ginger hairs, pressed Sorme’s forearm. Payne called from the counter:
Tea for both of you?
Not for me. Ah’m just goin’. G’bye, m’dear.
Goodbye, Sorme said.
Payne brought the two teas over. He said:
What did he want?
Nothing. Just to talk.
Talk? Didn’t he put the bite on you?
Only for two bob.
I knew it. He usually tries to tap me when he sees me. That’s how I knew he’d bitten you already.
You look ill, Sorme said.
Payne’s face was bloodless. It was a thin face, with a clean-cut profile and cleft chin. When he was tired, his skin took on the greenish tint of the albumen of a boiled duck egg.
I am. I’m half dead with sleepiness. I’ve done two shifts running. The other man’s away with ‘flu.
Did you send a reporter?
Yes, he’s on his way there now. I told him the story came from the police. Tell me what happened.
Sorme repeated the story, beginning with the bottle-throwing incident. Payne drank his tea slowly, and listened without interrupting. He asked:
Do you know which hospital they took him to?
No idea.
Never mind. We can soon check on that. It sounds interesting. You say he was trying to destroy something—papers? That sounds as if the police might have a line on him. But I doubt whether he’s the man they want.
Why?
He was a small man, you say. The pathologist’s report says that the girl was stabbed by a tall man. They can tell from the angle of the wound.
I never read the papers. Tell me all you know about this case.
Nobody knows much. Only what the headlines say.
Yes, but I haven’t even read the headlines. I’d never heard of this murder case until the other day.
You ought to read the papers, you know, Gerard. No writer can afford not to.
I suppose so, Sorme said dubiously. He finished his tea and stared ruminatively at the caked sugar in the bottom. He said:
Tell me about these murders.
Haven’t you read anything at all?
Only about this girl on Friday. Where was she killed?
Somewhere in Whitechapel. I wasn’t on the newsdesk Friday night.
He was looking past Sorme’s head towards the door. He waved suddenly, calling: Martin.
He told Sorme: Here’s the man who can tell you. He was on one of the murders.
The tall, raincoated man waved from the counter. Payne moved across to the inner chair to make room for him as he crossed the room. He said:
You know Martin Mason, don’t you, Gerard?
I didn’t, Sorme said. How d’you do?
The man had a thin, beaky face, with bird-like eyes. The shoulders were narrow and stooped. He nodded briefly at Sorme, carefully placing his hat under the chair.
Martin, Gerard wants to know about these murders. Give him the gen.
Doesn’t he read the papers?
No, Sorme said patiently, not unless I can’t help it.
Nonconformist, eh? Mason said. He had a smooth, nasal voice, with no tone variation; the kind of voice that seems perfectly adapted for sneering.
Sorme smiled to disguise his distaste; he said:
I heard you were on one of these murders?
I was, Mason said, stirring his tea. What do you want to know about it?
Which one?
The third—Catherine Eddowes.
I thought it was the second, Payne said.
No. That was the Spanish dancer, Juanita Miller. Jimmy and Sam covered that. Superb woman.
What about the other case? Sorme said. Did you see her?
Yes, but only later, in the morgue. And she was all covered up. She wasn’t much to look at. Little, middle-aged woman.
Sorme asked: Was it a sex crime?
They can’t tell.
Why not?
She was a prostitute.
What about the
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