own body betrays me. And one night, I meet the girl in a lonely street and try to rape her. She struggles, and I strangle her. Do you see what I mean? The crime becomes a gesture of disgust, an act of defiance, but it could spring out of a deeper perception than most men possess… If I was a healthy farm labourer with a wife and ten kids, I might not feel that sense of inadequacy.
She shook her head.
I can see what you mean… but somehow I don't feel it. Although I think you're right about Austin. He is looking for something, and he isn't mature enough to know what it is. I know he's self-divided. But I can't imagine him hurting anyone.
Perhaps you're right. Perhaps he wouldn't.
But why do you want to see him now? Why do you want to stay in London? What can you do?
I don't know. I'd like to see him and talk to him. He doesn't know the police suspect him of the Hamburg murder.
Are you sure?
I think so.
Don't you think it might have been the police he was worried about when he rang you from Switzerland?
I don't know. He said it was 'rather an unpleasant man'. I assumed it was blackmail of some sort.
Didn't you ask him?
No. What could I do, except advise him to go to the police? And that doesn't seem the right thing to do at this juncture. But I think he ought to be persuaded to leave England now, while the going's good.
She looked into his face, biting her lip. She asked suddenly:
Do you think he could be the man who did these things in Whitechapel?
No. Of course not.
He said it immediately, allowing himself no time to think. But he knew it was not as simple as that. The Austin he knew and the Austin Gertrude knew were two different men. The Austin he had met in the Diaghilev exhibition was a man who was capable of inflicting pain. Later he had changed, but the change was a reaction to Sorme; it sprang from admiration. He remembered the expression on Nunne's face as he had looked at the photograph of the girl outside the Cinerama theatre. That was an Austin whom Gertrude had never met. He said:
All the same, I'd like to talk to him… frankly. He ought to be warned. Do you think he might be at Leatherhead?
Perhaps. We could go and see.
No. You mustn't come. I'd have to be alone.
All right. But I could drive you down there.
When?
Today. But we'd better phone Albany Street first.
Good. That's fine. And could we go and see Oliver on the way? I'd like to make sure he's OK.
All right.
She stood up.
I'll go and get dressed.
He came to the door, and pulled her to him.
Poor darling. A lot's happened to you in twelve hours, hasn't it? How do you feel?
She smiled briefly.
Bewildered.
He tilted her face by tugging gently at her hair, and kissed her; her lips parted, and she relaxed against him. His hand moved inside the dressing-gown. He said softly:
Don't worry. It's going to be all right.
She shuddered suddenly, pressing against him; a sense of mystery and exaltation rose in him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As the Consul backed out of the garage, he saw the two men walking down the drive. Looking in the driving mirror, Miss Quincey had not noticed them. He said:
You've got visitors.
Really. Who?
She continued to back the car until it was clear of the garage doors.
Two men. Do you know them?
She stopped the car and slipped it into neutral.
No…
She turned off the ignition.
Insurance salesmen, perhaps?
I don't think so…
They could be police.
The men had seen the car and were standing by the front door, looking across at them. Sorme said:
Listen. If they are police, for heaven's sake keep your wits about you. Don't tell them anything about Austin.
But… how do I explain your being here?
That's none of their damn business.
She got out of the car and went across the lawn, saying:
Would you close the garage doors, please?
He was glad to see she was calm as she approached them. He closed the doors and slipped in the lock, then stood by the car, watching her as she inserted her key in the front door and led them into the house. He hesitated about following her; if they were police, he would prefer to stay in the background. He stared up at the sky; it was blue and pale after the downpour; the December sunlight was warm.
She called his name. She was standing in the doorway, beckoning to him. As he crossed the soggy lawn, she came to meet him. She said quickly:
They want to see you too.
Are they police?
Yes. They seem to know who you are.
There was no trace of nervousness in her voice. He said, smiling:
That's OK. We've nothing to worry about.
They went into the house. The two men were in the sitting-room, standing in the centre of the rug; the bigger of the two was cracking the joints of his fingers. Something in the large, red face and the receding hair reminded Sorme of Brother Robbins. The big man said:
Mr Gerard Sorme?
That's right.
We are police officers. My name is Macmurdo — Inspector Macmurdo. This is Detective-Sergeant James. I believe you're a friend of a Mr Nunne?
He spoke slowly, with the formality of a beadle making an announcement; he had a slight Scottish accent.
That's right, Sorme said. He bent down and switched on the electric fire. As he did so, he thought he saw the detective-sergeant noticing his familiarity with the house, then thought with irritation: It's none of his business, anyway.
Miss Quincey said:
Won't you sit down?
No, ma'am, we won't do that. We won't keep you a minute — I can see you're on your way out. We're simply trying to find Mr Nunne. Do you know where he is?
Austin? No… Have you tried his flat?
