He made love very gently, aware of the tension in her, the fear of being hurt.
They lay side by side, looking at the ceiling. He said:
That old bleeder's back upstairs.
Are you sure?
Afraid so.
He raised on one elbow, and tasted his lukewarm tea. She said:
I'll make you some more.
Don't bother… You know, I think I'll ask Austin if he doesn't know of a flat. His father owns half Marylebone. I don't think I can stand this old sod for another week. It'd wreck me.
Someone knocked on the door, startling him. He whispered to Caroline: Ssshh! and slipped out of bed, reaching for the gown.
He expected to see Carlotte. It was the old man. His eyes looked less watery; he was wearing a tweed suit that seemed to be of good quality, and a clean shirt. He smiled shyly:
I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but do you happen to have a match?
His voice was clear and firm. Sorme groped in the dressing-gown pocket, and handed him a box.
Thank you… but I won't take the box…
That's all right. It's nearly empty.
The old man smiled at him, as if they had some secret reason for liking one another, and dropped the matches in his pocket. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Sorme said:
I… hope you're… better now.
I am. Thank you.
As if Sorme's words had decided him, he turned and walked away. As Sorme started to close the door, he turned round, smiling apologetically.
Perhaps you'd like to see the morning paper?
He pulled a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to Sorme, then disappeared hastily, as if afraid of having committed an indiscretion.
Sorme went back into the room, opening the paper. The headlines read: HUSBAND ARRESTED FOR GREENWICH MURDER.
Who was it?
Him. He jerked his chin at the ceiling.
He sounded all right.
Oh, he does. He is all right till he gets drunk. Which he is for about twenty-three hours a day.
He stood at the table, reading the front page. She was dressing again. He said:
So he didn't move after all.
Who?
The Whitechapel killer.
As he was pulling on his shoes, she said suddenly:
You ought to buy a flat in Whitechapel. I bet the value of property's gone down since these murders.
That's a very clever remark, sweet.
Don't you think?
Why not? Or perhaps Austin and his father are in this together — Austin doing the murders and his father buying the property at cut prices.
She said, grimacing: But I shouldn't think Austin would murder women, would he?
I don't know. I'll ask him when I see him.
He arrived at Albany Street half an hour late. The doorman said:
Ah, Mr Nunne's waiting for you, sir. You haven't brought the other two gentlemen with you, then?
No. No sign of them?
They hadn't arrived five minutes ago, when Mr Nunne rang down.
Nunne opened the door. Sorme said immediately:
I'm sorry I'm late.
That's all right. They haven't arrived yet either. How are you, Gerard? You look tired.
Too much writing, I expect.
Whisky?
Thanks. By the way, Austin, I meant to ask you when we were alone… Do you know of any unfurnished flats or rooms around here?
For you?
Yes. I'm thinking of changing.
But my dear boy, you're always changing.
I know. Do you remember that old man I told you about?
Yes. Is he out of hospital?
Sorme nodded.
He arrived this morning. So I expect I'll get no sleep until he has another accident.
Nunne sat in the armchair, and lit a cigarette.
There are always ways and means, aren't there?
Seeing Sorme's puzzled look, he said:
We might arrange a little accident, don't you think?
Are you serious?
Quite. For instance…
The buzzer sounded. Nunne crossed to the door. Alone for a moment, Sorme stared at the bars of the fire, and wondered what new aspect of his personality Nunne was preparing to spring on him. He heard a loud American voice say:
Hiya, man! Good to see ya.
They came into the room, followed by Nunne. Nunne said:
That's Gerard Sorme. Gerard, this is Cal Teschmeyer and Rudi James.
The short, Italianate-looking man said affably:
Hiya, Gerard. How're ya?
His friend reached over the back of the chair, patted Sorme on the shoulder, and said in a deep, pleasant voice:
Glad t'meetcha, man.
He flopped into the armchair that Nunne had vacated, letting his arms fall limply over the sides. He had a long, hollow face, with three days' growth of blond stubble on the chin. Like his companion, he wore a leather jacket, with a brightly coloured shirt underneath. The Italian-looking man sat beside Sorme on the divan, saying:
What d'they call you — Jerry?
You can if you like.
Good. I'm Cal and he's Jimmy.
Nunne asked from the sideboard:
What will you have?
Any bourbon?
Yes.
Jimmy turned round in his chair, and peered into the drink cabinet. He whistled shrilly.
Hey, dig that crazy man! He's got a dozen bottles of the stuff in there! We struck lucky, son. Yoohoo!
He sprang up, loped over to Nunne, and seized a bottle with both hands, kissing it fondly. He said throatily:
Boy, am I glad to see you!
Cal asked Sorme:
You a writer?
Sorme said, shrugging: Nothing worth talking about. What do you write?
