y'see? And it was a temptation- to knock on her door one night on some excuse and say: How about it, ma dear? An' I don't think she'd have refused — I don't think so.
Sorme asked, through a mouthful of liver: Why didn't you?
He shrugged, stubbing out the cigarette:
I can't say. Ah was younger then… shy.
He looked at Sorme and smiled suddenly. It was a curiously candid smile.
But on the night it happened, I haird her cry out, and thought she was having a nightmare. I thought: Why not now? an' got halfway to the door. Then I started to sweat and shake. I'd thought about it so long, I wasn't prepared to get it so suddenly. So I lay in bed, feelin' ma heart thumpin' and tryin' to work up the courage. Then I haird someone movin' about, and thought: She can't sleep… But I didn't go. And the next day, they found her strangled.
Did they ever catch him?
Yes. They 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 other women?
Same, Mason said. He smiled, like a conjurer bringing off a trick. Sorme found his dislike concentrating on the blotchy, beak-like nose.
The Spanish girl wasn't, Payne objected.
She wasn't much better, Mason said, glaring. She slept with so many men they couldn't even check up.
Tell me, Sorme said. Is it quite definite that they were all committed by the same man?
Not certain, Mason said. Juanita Miller and Catherine Eddowes were both knifed. But it wasn't the same knife. The knife was found by the body in both cases. In one case a Boy Scout's bowie-knife, in the other a little kitchen affair. But the really surprising feature is that the murderer must have got blood on him, yet he probably returned through London in the early hours of the morning.
Not so difficult, Payne said. London is fairly deserted then.
Sorme said: There could be three explanations of that. He might have been a local man, and not had far to go. He might have had a car. Or he might have carried a coat over his arm which he dropped while he killed the girl, and put it on afterwards to conceal the blood.
Oh, there are more explanations than that, Mason said. We published a letter from someone who thought he might have escaped through the sewers.
