What time was the body discovered?
Not till late, I think. It wasn't in the early editions of the evening papers.
Nunne reached over and pulled a footstool closer. He closed his eyes, and stretched out, his head dropping forward. He said:
Rather an awkward situation, isn't it, Gerard?
I don't know.
Nunne smiled, his eyes closed. In his attitude of complete abandonment to exhaustion he might have been asleep. He said:
For five hours I've been thinking about this problem. But the whisky was beginning to overcome me.
He opened his eyes suddenly and looked at Sorme.
What am I to do?
Sorme said:
I don't know. I don't quite understand your problem.
He moved his chair further back from the fire; the breeze from the window had lowered the temperature of the room, but it was still overpowering. Nunne stood up and crossed to the window again; Sorme could feel a restlessness and tension that the whisky had not released.
Are you sure you weren't followed down here?
I should say it's pretty unlikely. I kept a constant watch. Gertrude even turned the driving mirror towards me so I could watch out of the back window.
How much does Gertrude know?
About as much as I know.
Nunne ignored the challenge in his words. He drew the curtain back and returned to his chair.
I wouldn't like to be interrupted. God, I feel pretty sloshed… I could do with a cold shower and a rub down. Never mind I want to talk to you.
He drywashed his face with his hands, and pushed his hair back. He drank down half a glass of lemonade, then sat down, grimacing. He said:
As you gather, dear boy, I'm in quite a situation.
How bad is it?
I'm not sure. Did Macmurdo have a warrant for me?
The words brought a tightness to Sorme's chest. He said:
No. I don't think so.
Nunne sat sprawled in the chair; he stared at Sorme and let the silence lengthen. His eyes looked bloodshot and exhausted, but their expression was sardonic. He said finally:
Well, Gerard?
Sorme said nothing, shrugging. Nunne said:
You're still too polite to want to pry into my business. But you're rather committed to it now, aren't you? You've come all this way to warn me. Why did you come?
I… I suppose, to warn you. I've been trying to phone you all weekend.
I've been down here. But I'm grateful, Gerard, very grateful… What would you do if they arrest me?
Sorme said carefully:
You mean for the… murders?
Nunne said quietly: Yes.
Could they arrest you?
I don't know. Probably not. And even if they did, I think they'd be forced to release me.
Sorme emptied his glass. He had just drunk an amount equivalent to four fingers of whisky, and felt totally unaffected. He was also aware how much of his calm he owed to the drink. He reached for the bottle and poured another. Nunne wrenched the cap off another lemonade bottle. Sorme asked:
What makes you assume you won't be arrested?
They've no evidence.
He stood up again and went to the window. He said:
I'd hate Macmurdo to crawl under that window with a tape-recorder. I'm afraid I'd better close it. I'll turn the fire off.
Sorme said:
Are you sure they've no evidence?
Fairly sure. Nothing that would be conclusive in a court of law.
Sorme said:
They'd try very hard. They badly need to make an arrest.
I know. And they might find some excuse for holding me while they wait for a confession. They might easily do that. Hoping I'd crack. I wouldn't.
No?
No. Have you ever noticed that most killers talk too much?
The word made Sorme's hand tighten around the glass; it was there now, between them, like an upturned playing-card. Nunne said:
Whiteway, the Teddington Towpath murderer. Neville Heath. And Peter Manuel. They talked their way to the scaffold.
Sorme said slowly:
You classify yourself with them?
Nunne looked at him seriously; his head made a hardly perceptible gesture of approval, as if he were a professor, and Sorme his most intelligent pupil. He said:
No. I don't. But they remain of interest. You don't confine your reading to Goethe and Dostoevsky, although you classify yourself with them rather than with your contemporaries. The problem is that most criminals are stupid ruffians. Manuel and Heath and the rest were contemptible. Kurten was more interesting. In a more enlightened country — Sweden, for instance — he wouldn't have been executed. He was deeply interested in his own impulses. He used to read Lombroso and Havelock Ellis. With the help of a panel of intelligent doctors he might have added a new domain to psychology.
All traces of the whisky had disappeared, except for the occasional slurring of vowels; there was a feverish brightness in his eyes as he talked. He said:
You know, Gerard, I've sat in judgment on myself many times. I'm not an animal. I'm a man. I can judge myself. If I was a writer or a poet, the human race might agree that I can add something to their knowledge. That means that I must be an identity. I can analyse my own impulses, even if I can't control them. If I could talk to other people about them I might even learn to control them. So why should I be condemned and executed like a mad dog? No one has the right. It would be murder.
Sorme said:
This is what you've been thinking about all morning?
No. Not entirely. But I've thought about it often enough…
He crossed to the window again and peered out, then opened it and drew the curtain aside for a moment. The room was full of the acid odour of paraffin fumes as the heater spluttered. Sorme said:
But what are you going to do now?
Ah, that is a problem. There's only one thing certain. I've got to stop.
But… do you think you'll get away with it?
Why not? If they've no evidence against me…
But if Macmurdo's looking for you he must have a pretty definite suspicion…
That is nothing. No one saw me last night…
Sorme said:
It was you last night?
For the first time, Nunne looked guilty. He said:
Yes.
Did you… know the woman?
Nunne sat down. He said:
