oppressive heat. Sorme said:
Two women were murdered in the night — within half an hour of one another.
And why have you been to Whitechapel?
Sorme recognised the relevancy of the question. He said uncomfortably:
Oh… simply because my friend happened to call me up… It's interesting for a writer…
He knew, as he said it, that it was untrue; he also felt a curious certainty that the priest knew it too. But the ugly, silenus face showed no sign of disbelief. The priest only said:
You look tired.
I am.
There was a knock at the door. The priest called: Hello?
A short, white-haired man looked into the room. His eyes wandered from Father Carruthers to Sorme.
Good morning, Larry. Am I interrupting?
His voice was deep and resonant; the accent was distinctly German. The priest said:
Hello, Franz. No, you're not interrupting. Come in.
The German came into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. He took the priest's right hand in both his own, and shook it gravely, asking:
Well, and how is my friend this morning? You look better.
I feel better today, thank you. Franz, let me introduce you to Gerard Sorme. This is Professor Stein of Dusseldorf.
Stein turned to Sorme, and made a slight bow. The keen, old man's face was square and clean-cut; above the jutting chin, the line of the lips was tight and straight, and the eyes were as hard and clear as blue glass. The shock of white hair combined with the features to give the face an impression of great power; it seemed incongruous on the short, plump body. Sorme shook his hand, and found himself also bowing slightly in return. Stein said:
I hope I am not interrupting a conversation?
Not at all. I'm just a casual caller.
Like myself then, Stein said. He smiled charmingly at Sorme, and began struggling out of his overcoat. As Sorme helped him, he said: It's abominably hot in here, Larry. I'm sure it can't be good for you. Ah… thank you, sir.
His German accent made the colloquial English sound quaint. Sorme placed the coat on the bed. Stein said:
With your permission, Larry, I shall sit by my coat. I have no wish to be toasted.
The window's open, the priest said mildly.
Stein produced a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud, trumpeting noise.
He then opened a snuffbox and offered it in turn to the priest and to Sorme. Sorme said: No, thanks.
He watched with secret amusement as the two men snuffed the brown powder with the air of connoisseurs. The priest brushed a few spots off the front of his dressing-gown. He said:
Well, Franz, have you been rooting around Whitechapel too?
Stein looked surprised.
You've heard already? I didn't realise that you read the journals.
I don't. Our friend Gerard has been there.
Stein looked at Sorme: he asked, frowning: You live there?
No, I don't, Sorme said. I just… went there when I heard about the murders.
You must have heard very early!
I did. A journalist friend rang me at six this morning. Excuse my asking, but are you connected with the investigation?
I… er… I am connected with them… in a sense. I am a pathologist as well as a doctor of psychology. But tell me, why did you wish to — er — visit the scene of the crimes?
Sorme felt himself colouring; he was aware of the priest's eyes as he answered:
I'm a writer. It's an interesting experience.
Most certainly it is, Stein said emphatically. Such experience is invaluable to a writer. Heinrich Mann made just that remark within my hearing once… that very few serious writers have written of murder with authenticity — Zola excepted, perhaps. You know Theres Raquin?
I'm afraid not.
Stein turned to the priest, saying:
But these murders are really terrible! You talk of human wickedness, my friend, but if you had thirty years, as I have, dealing with crime and violence, you would speak only of human sickness.
Sorme waited for the priest to reply; when he only smiled, Sorme asked:
Do you suppose this man is insane?
Stein turned his piercing eyes on Sorme.
How can we know, until he is caught? The murders prove only one thing — that his condition is pathological.
The priest asked: Do you think the police are any nearer to catching him?
Who can tell? They have received two letters written by a man who claims to be the murderer. That may help.
Sorme said with interest: Have they? Has this been made public yet?
Today, I think. I personally think they are practical jokes.
What did they say?
Oh… they jeer at the police for failing to catch him, and promise more murders.
The latest was delivered this morning, a few hours after the second murder.
That sounds like the murderer.
Why? Anyone living in Whitechapel could have written the letter in the available time. Even you. You were told of the murder at six o'clock, you say? The letter was posted at Scotland Yard at about seven o'clock.
Sorme said smiling: I see your point. But what I really meant was that it sounds like the murderer to write to the police.
Why do you say that?
Yesterday the newspapers were asking if he'd moved to Greenwich. Last night, he commits a double murder in Whitechapel. He sounds like a man with a sense of being in the public eye!
Stein said, smiling: That is true. Nevertheless, I suspect a practical joker.
For any particular reason? Sorme asked. He spoke with a cautious politeness, aware that he was in a privileged position in being able to question Stein, and anxious not to appear morbidly curious. Stein interlaced his fingers, and stared gravely at his knees; he appeared to find Sorme's questions perfectly natural.
To begin with, the pathological killer is not often a boaster. You see, his crimes are often due to an overpowering impulse, and when the impulse disappears he may become a completely different person. In Germany we have a name for this type of crime. We call it Lustmord — joy murder. Motiveless joy murder. And the joy- murderer is not often proud of the impulse that turns him into a wild animal periodically. You see?
The priest said softly:
But if I remember rightly, your friend Kurten wrote to the police.
That is true. But not to boast — only to draw attention to a body. And then perhaps you remember the case of the Chicago murderer — I forget his name — who wrote above one of his victims: Stop me before I kill again.
Heirens, Sorme murmured.
Ah, you know the case! Well, you see, that is the schizophrenic murderer.
He turned to the priest, and an almost mischievous smile passed across his face.
He said:
Now you see, Larry, why I had to become a psychiatrist rather than a priest. How could I prescribe penances for sins when I am not sure that the man who performs the penance is the same man who commits the sins? That is a problem you can't answer me.
The priest said, smiling.
We also recognise your split personality in the Church you know, Franz. But we talk of sin and remorse
