In that case, I hope you are prepared to face the consequences of being an accessory.
He walked out of the door before Sorme could answer. Sorme followed him down the steps, closing the door behind him. He was not sorry that Stein was annoyed; it saved further argument.
Halfway across the yard he stopped, pretending to look for something in his pockets. Stein halted at the gates of the hospital and looked back; seeing that Sorme was ten paces behind him, he shrugged and walked on. When he was out of sight, Sorme followed slowly. In the Whitechapel Road, he peered into the crowd, and saw the German standing in front of a shop window, waiting. As the traffic lights changed to red, he hurried across the road with a crowd of pedestrians, then turned in the opposite direction from Stein, and walked quickly along the pavement. At the corner of Brady Street he looked back. Stein was no longer visible; a moment later, he caught a glimpse of him signalling a taxi to stop. He stood there watching, concealed by the corner, until the taxi started in the direction of the City. Then he walked along Brady Street and turned into Durward Street.
He rang the doorbell several times, then, suspecting it was out of order, rapped with his knuckles. After another wait, he tried pushing the door. It swung open, and he found himself looking into the face of Glasp's landlady. She said:
Oh, it's you. He's not here any more.
Not here? Sorme said. He remembered she was deaf, and leaned forward to ask: Where is he?
You needn't shout. He's left. Just gone.
Has he left any address?
No. He says he'll send it on.
What about his pictures?
They're still there — upstairs. He's says he'll collect them. I 'spect he doesn't want the police to know where he's gone to.
She turned her back on him, and closed the door.
For a moment, he felt an irritable rage at her rudeness, and had to restrain a desire to kick the door. He stood still, letting it subside, then stepped back into the roadway and looked up at Glasp's window, suspecting that Glasp might have instructed the woman to turn him away, and might be peering out to see if he had gone. There was no one visible; he turned away, and walked off towards Aldgate. He had only walked a few yards when someone behind him said:
Excuse me…
He found himself looking down into the face of a girl of about twelve years old. She was muffled in a brown overcoat, with the collar around her chin. She said:
Were you looking for Oliver Glasp?
Yes. Do you know where he is?
She shook her head.
No. I wanted to see him. Do you think he's really left?
He asked her curiously:
Are you Christine?
She nodded, and her face reddened. He looked down at her with increased interest. Her hair was short and boyish, but the face was undeniably delicate and attractive. It looked pink, as if she had been running, and the flush increased its attractiveness. The eyes were wide and brown in the oval face. Sorme said:
I saw him less than an hour ago just around the corner, so he can't be far away.
But his landlady says he's gone away.
It looks like it.
Where do you think he might have gone to?
That's more than I can guess.
Her eyes became troubled.
Why do you think he went?
Sorme felt suddenly guilty about the brevity of his replies; it was obvious that she suspected him of disliking her. He said:
Oliver's a strange man. I think he was pretty angry and upset. I saw him this morning, and he seemed miserable.
She lowered her eyes.
About me?
I think so.
He could read in her expression the curiosity about how much he knew. Her face was disturbingly open, reflecting her emotions quite clearly. He could understand suddenly why Glasp had been so upset at the notion that she was capable of deception. She asked:
Did he tell you about it?
Yes.
She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other; he noticed that she was wearing ankle socks. A stirring of curtain over her shoulder attracted his attention; it was Glasp's landlady peering out of the window at them. Sorme said:
Which way are you walking?
She said miserably:
Any way.
Walk along here with me.
She fell into step beside him; they walked towards the ruined theatre at the other end of the street. Neither spoke while they were in Durward Street. She asked finally:
Do you think he'll come back?
I don't know. I hope so. But it might be a long time.
They stopped on the corner of Vallance Road. A kind of baffled indignation came into her eyes as she looked at him. She said:
But he can't just go like that. He'd say goodbye to me… wouldn't he?:
Sorme said awkwardly:
I expect he'll be back.
Perhaps… perhaps he thinks he can't see me.
Sorme fed the hope that came up to him in her face.
I expect that's the reason. Now your parents know…
But that's all right now! Mum had it out with dad and made him agree to let Oliver come round to visit us. She said she'd leave him if he didn't stop tormenting everybody…
Her face was pink again, this time with excitement. He noticed that she spoke carefully and well, but the indignation strengthened the London accent. He said soothingly:
Probably he'll write to you.
Do you think he will? If you see him, make him write to me. I don't want him to go away. It's silly. It's all right now. Tell him everything's all right, won't you?
If I see him, I'll tell him. But he might not get in touch with me either.
She said with exasperation:
Isn't he silly! Why does he want to run away like that?
He shrugged and started to make some vague reply. She interrupted:
Is he trying to get away from you too?
He smiled at her penetration.
I think he's trying to get away from everybody at the moment. He's in one of his moods.
Do they last long?
He felt no inclination to admit that he had had no previous experience of them. He said:
Oh, not too long. He's sure to get in touch with one of his friends sooner or later.
But that's not me. If he doesn't want to see me, it's no good…
But I'll make sure he contacts you.
She stared at him hopefully.
How?
