He was smiling as he went on painting. He said:
This is a new side to Austin's character. Glasp and de Sade, eh? The two paintings he bought from me…
He had some Japanese prints signed OG as well.
They're Korean. I copied them from a set in the British Museum.
He painted silently for a moment, then stood back to look at the effect. He said, without looking at Sorme:
All the same, I don't see much in common in your tastes…
No. But… there's a similarity of aim. Except…
Except what?
I sometimes wonder if it's just a matter of enterprise. I don't share his tastes, but I admire the wish to experiment. It seems a good thing in itself…
You mean chasing little boys?
No, I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of the sadism.
Glasp stopped painting to stare at him.
Is he? I didn't know that.
Didn't you? I thought you knew him very well.
No. Glasp went on painting. Not well at all, apparently. How did you find out?
He told me so. Father Carruthers knows about it too.
What sort of practices?
Glasp's Yorkshire accent suddenly became more noticeable. His attention seemed to be focused on the canvas. Sorme said:
I don't know. Nothing spectacular, I suppose. Probably wallops his boy friends.
In the other room, a kettle that stood on a gas ring began to send up a jet of steam; the water bubbled out on to the bare floorboards. Sorme went over to it and lifted it off the gas ring. Glasp said:
Cup o' tea?
Please.
Glasp laid the palette on the table, and replaced the brushes in the jam jar.
What I don't understand is this idea of yours that you're like Austin. From what you tell me, you don't seem to have anything in common.
No? I think there's a lot in common. We're both dissatisfied. We're both experimenters. Only he seems to have carried his experiments rather further than I've ever dreamed of.
Glasp was washing out an aluminium teapot at the sink in the other room. He said:
No? You mean you'd like to wallop your girl friends?
Sorme said, laughing: No. I'm sure I wouldn't. All the same…
And why did you want to meet me? Did you think I might be another?
Another what?
Bloke that goes in for experiments?
I thought you might be.
Glasp said, smiling: I suppose you're right. Where do we go from there?
Nowhere, probably, Sorme said. He took the mug of tea and spooned sugar into it.
He noticed that when Glasp smiled his forehead twitched and contracted; it seemed to be an involuntary nervous spasm. Glasp saw him noticing it. To distract his attention, Sorme said:
You have big hands. Like Austin.
Glasp sugared his tea and stirred it. His hands were large and ugly, with big knuckles; they looked faintly grimy, networked with lines of paint dust that had sunk into the pores. He said: Les mains de Troppmann.
Who?
Troppmann. Don't you know about him? Jean Baptiste Troppmann, the multiple killer.
No. Who did he kill?
A whole family. About eight people.
What on earth for?
Money. He made a few hundred francs out of it. He had enormous hands. They still call big hands 'mains de Troppmann' in some parts of France. I expect it ran in his family, and the surname came from it. Too much hand.
Was he a sadist?
I don't think so. Just homosexual, with an obsession about making money.
The tea was hot and strong. Glasp stood his on the window-sill, and went on painting. Sorme asked him:
Are you interested in murder?
Sometimes.
When?
Glasp said, with an odd smile: Crime runs in our family… in a sense.
Sorme said, grinning:
You come from a famous line of burglars?
Not quite. He grinned back at Sorme over the teamug; his forehead twitched again. As far as I know, our connection with it was always indirect. I had a great aunt who was the last victim of Jack the Ripper. My mother once had a meal with Landru in Paris. And my great-grandfather knew Charley Peace.
Did your mother know it was Landru?
No. She knew nothing about him. He said he was an engineer named Cuchet, and tried to get her to come away with him for the weekend. She recognised his photograph a few months later when he was arrested. She said he'd behaved like a perfect gentleman…
Amazing!
Some people are attracted by crime. Others seem to attract it. My family attract it.
You notice that, as soon as I settle in Whitechapel, a crime wave begins? That's in the family tradition.
Sorme looked at him closely. He sensed an underlying seriousness. For the first time, he was aware of an element of strain in Glasp; it came out also in the twitching forehead. He asked:
Are you serious about the aunt who was a victim of Jack the Ripper?
Quite serious. The last victim.
The woman who was killed in the room in Miller's Court?
No. There was another one. She was killed under a lamppost in Castle Alley. That was Great-aunt Sally McKenzie. I don't know much about her except she seems to have been the black sheep of the family.
I've never heard of that one…
He began to wonder whether Glasp was inventing the whole story. He said, smiling:
You seem to come from a family of victims.
That's right. All victims. Unconscious masochists. Except me. I'm a conscious masochist.
Are you?
Glasp smiled at his look of surprise. He said:
Not in Austin's sense. I don't go in for that.
Sorme moved the stool closer to the wall, so that he could lean back on it as he watched Glasp. There was something jerky and emphatic in the way Glasp painted, an intentness in his concentration on the canvas, that made Sorme think of a fencer. He said: I won't stay here talking any longer. It's probably just putting you off your work.
That's all right, Glasp said.
Sorme watched him, unspeaking for about five minutes. He said:
Would you mind if I had a look at some of the paintings in there?
Again he sensed Glasp's hesitation. He was on the point of saying: It doesn't matter… when Glasp said: Go ahead. But don't talk about them.
All right.
He went into the other room and looked at the canvases leaning against the walls.
The first thing that struck him was that their colours were harsher than in the canvases he had seen in
