It is possible… it is possible. But that would not explain Austin's secrecy.
Why not? It might. Anyway, perhaps he is in some sort of trouble. After all, a man with perversions can land in trouble pretty easily. Perhaps it isn't the police he's worried about. It could be that someone's blackmailing him…
He stopped, with a sense that such speculation was futile. The priest's eyes nicked up to his face and were lowered again.
You may be right, but the best way to find out is to wait until Austin comes back, and ask him. It is not at all improbable that the police might question him in connection with the Whitechapel murders — if he is known to them as a sexual invert. In cases of sadistic murder they spread their net very wide. They have to, since there is no other way.
How do you mean, father?
In the average murder, someone has a motive, and it is simply a matter of finding it. In a sexual crime — unless the criminal is caught in the act — the police have nothing to go on. I was in Dusseldorf at the time of the Kurten murders. The number of suspects the police interviewed over three years ran into hundreds of thousands. So it is not at all impossible that Austin may be one of those questioned.
Sorme said, smiling: Or me… or anybody else?
Quite.
Sorme stood up. He said:
Look, father, I'm not going to keep you any longer. I know you're supposed to be resting. Thanks for listening to me. I had to talk to somebody about it or bust.
You were right to come to me. But some time you must come here to talk about yourself.
Thank you, father.
One more thing. I have a friend — a German doctor — who is working with Scotland Yard. When you have talked to Austin — if you think he needs help — get him to contact me. Dr Stein might be able to save some trouble.
Thanks, father. I'll do that.
He picked up his coat, and opened the door. As he did so, he remembered a question he had forgotten to ask:
By the way, father, do you know a painter named Glasp?
Yes.
Austin has some paintings by him on his walls. How old is he?
I… I'm not sure. About twenty-six or so.
Twenty-six? He must be very talented. Two of the paintings are dated nineteen forty-eight. That means he'd be about seventeen when he did them.
He is very talented — or he was. He is also very poor, and he's been in a mental home twice. Perhaps Austin will introduce you to him.
Do you know where he lives, by any chance?
I'm afraid not. I haven't seen him for some years. Father Rakosi may have his address. Austin is sure to.
He's a Catholic?
Yes.
The door opened as he stood with his hand on the knob. It was the Scotswoman.
Time for your rest, father.
Sorme said:
I'll come again soon, if I may, father. Goodbye.
Goodbye.
In the hall, he encountered the Hungarian priest. He said:
Pardon me, Father Carruthers said you might know the address of a painter called Glasp.
Yes. Do you want it?
If it's no trouble, please.
Wait just a moment. I can get it for you.
He went into a room next to the waiting-room; a moment later, he reappeared with a notebook:
It is number twelve Durward Street.
Sorme wrote it down in his own address book. He asked:
Where is it?
East one, Whitechapel.
Do you know his Christian name?
The priest looked surprised:
You do not know him?
No. I've seen some of his paintings. I thought I might go and see him some time.
I see. You will not find him sociable. His name is Oliver. He is not easy to talk to.
Sorme slipped his address book into his pocket.
Thank you, father. Maybe I'll write him a letter. Good afternoon.
Outside, he looked around automatically for his bicycle, until he remembered he had travelled by Underground. He walked towards Chancery Lane station, swinging the leather grip. Glasp's Christian name had confirmed his suspicion that the obscene drawings had been sketched by him: they were initialled O.G. But this in itself meant nothing. It was only another fragment of the jigsaw puzzle that fitted around Nunne.
He had thought so much about Nunne that Nunne's reality was becoming shadowy. He thought: I am negative. That's the trouble. I am negative, and I am interested in Nunne because he is positive. I am like a stagnant pond. And Nunne is a stone that has disturbed the scum.
He walked towards Kingsway, and the mood of gloom and self-irritation deepened. He was aware that, to some extent, this was because he had not eaten since breakfast. The faint intoxication induced by the liqueurs was beginning to wear off too.
In the Underground he came close to falling asleep. He wiped the tears out of his eyes with his handkerchief, and immediately yawned again.
Tired. That's the trouble. I'll eat and sleep when I… oh, damnation.
He remembered Caroline, and that he was due to meet her in two hours. The thought depressed him. He considered phoning her and telling her that he couldn't make it, but the idea troubled him even more than the thought of being at Leicester Square by six o'clock. Finally, he left the tram at Camden Town, and went to a ready-made tailors to buy trousers.
Before he had been with her for a quarter of an hour he realised he liked her, that he was going to enjoy the evening. There was no kind of constraint between them. He observed that this was because she took him for granted, as if it was the tenth time he had taken her out and not the first. She treated him casually, like an intimate of long standing.
It was something he had noticed also in Austin's manner.
The restaurant was in a basement in the King's Road: it was entered through a coffee bar. Half a dozen voices called her name as soon as they came in, and a bearded youth, wearing a duffle-coat, flung his arms around her and kissed her, crying:
Alloa, me luv, it's grand ter see yer!
She introduced him to Sorme, saying: This is Frank. He's playing Verlaine in the play we're doing.
The young man had a plump, immature face; his beard was scanty and silky.
Sorme found it hard to imagine anyone less like Verlaine. The youth said: Howdy, pardner? Ah hope you ain't a fightin' man, 'cause ah ain't brought ma six shooters. Coffee for both of you?
We're having a meal downstairs, Caroline said. We may see you afterwards.
Come to the party. It's on the bomb site opposite the art school. Bring a bottle of wine.
We might do that, she said. They pushed their way through the crowd of youths and girls who lined the counter and the high stools along the walls. Sorme heard someone say:
There's Miss Beddable for Nineteen Fifty-eight.
