They'll soon find out when they discover how long she'd been dead.
Sorme said:
Could the man describe the bloke who sent him for the policeman?
No. It was in the dark, and he says he didn't go within ten yards. I shouldn't be surprised if he wasn't afraid of bumping into the murderer!
How was she killed?
A blow on the head. It must have been a tremendous blow with a bar of some kind.
And the other woman had her throat cut? He certainly varies his methods!
Sorme asked:
Do you think it sounds like the Greenwich killer?
Mozely shook his head.
I doubt it. You know what it sounds like, don't you?
Payne interrupted:
As if the killer got a bit fed-up about the headlines asking if he'd moved south of the river?
Exactly.
The three of them drank their tea in silence.
Mozely said finally:
What I can't understand is this. He must have got blood on his clothes after that second murder. And he must have passed a policeman as he was getting away. The place was alive with them. How did he do it?
He could have had a car parked near the scene of the murder, Sorme said.
Too dangerous. The police take the number of every car parked around here at night. The risk would be too great.
Payne said:
Whoever he is, he either has amazing courage or he's insane.
Insane, Mozely said.
But he must be after something in Whitechapel… either that, or he lives here. Or why should he stick to this area?
He's not after anything, Mozely said. How could he be? He doesn't seem to pick his victims. He just takes anybody who comes along. Have you come across this Leather Apron idea?
No. What's that?
Oh, a lot of people think it's a chap called Leather Apron. Nobody seems to know who he is or what he does, except that he's a foreigner, and terrorises some of the whores around here.
Payne asked:
Have you mentioned him in your story?
Yes. I don't think it'll come to anything, but I heard his name mentioned half a dozen times this morning.
Did you ask any questions?
Of course. No luck. He seems to be just a name.
It might be worth following up, Payne said.
Have you heard this story about the foreign crime experts? They say there are several on the case now.
Sorme said:
I've heard about that. There's some German… I forget his name..
Mozely said: By the way, did you read that letter in The Times yesterday?
No.
Very interesting. Apparently there were several murders at a place called Bochum in Germany after the war — just like these. The man apparently wrote a letter to the police saying he'd kill six more women, then stop. The murders stopped immediately after his letter.
And they never caught him?
No.
Payne laughed softly:
I heard a theory the murderer was a Turk who killed several women in Istanbul.
They'd need a special branch of the United Nations to follow up all the stories!
Sorme finished drinking his tea, staring at the crumbs left on his plate; he was trying to imagine what he would do if he met the murderer on a dark night in Whitechapel. He imagined him as a thin man, middle-aged and bald-headed, with bloodless lips, and the eyes of a fanatic. The thought that, at that moment, somewhere in London, the murderer was free, perhaps drinking tea beside some woman in a cafe, or hanging on a strap in the Underground, produced a lurching sensation of the stomach.
Mozely stood up suddenly. He said:
Oh well, back to work! You coming yet, Bill?
No. I'll have another cup of tea first.
Sorme stood up, pushing his chair forward, to allow Mozely to pass, Mozely said:
Thanks, old man. Well, bye-bye. If you get any line on Leather Apron, you might let me know…
I will, Payne said. You just go back to your office and have a good sleep. Leave it to Payne.
As Mozely went out, Payne crossed to the counter, saying,
More tea for you, Gerard?
Please. But let me get them.
No! I get it off expenses.
He brought the teas in their thick cups and set them on the dull surface of scratched plastic. He stretched and yawned.
I must go back and get some sleep. How you feeling, Gerard?
Half dead.
Are you sorry I got you out of bed so early?
No! I'm glad you did. It was interesting…
Why?
Anything that gives you a sense of reality is interesting. Somehow, I'd never realised these murders really happened. Why do you think somebody does something like this, Bill?
That depends. It depends on who he is. If he's a university professor, the reasons will be different from if he's a drunken navvy or a sex-crazed teenager…
Sorme said: Whoever he is, he's alive somewhere in London at this moment… and has friends who probably don't even suspect…
Abruptly, as he passed Smithfield Market, he decided to visit Father Carruthers. It was a fortuitous decision, taken with no definite motive that he was aware of.
The Hungarian priest opened the door. Sorme had anticipated that his hour of calling might seem unusual, but Father Rakosi showed no surprise; he had been seated in the depressingly cold waiting-room for only a few moments when the priest returned.
Father Carruthers will see you now.
Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb you.
He received a curiously shy smile in return.
Father Carruthers was standing by the bookcase, wearing a red quilted dressing-gown; standing, he seemed small, almost dwarf-like. He looked better than last time Sorme had called.
Ah, Gerard. How are you?
Well, thanks. You look better.
I feel better this morning… Well, this is rather an early hour for you to call. Is anything wrong?
Nothing special, father. I've been in Whitechapel since seven o'clock.
Why?
A journalist friend called me. You've heard about this double murder?
No. What has happened?
He lowered himself into the deep armchair, his knees towards the coal fire that filled the room with
