She got bitten once. Didn't you know?
I… I'd heard something about it. Caroline mentioned it.
Caroline? Oh, that blonde?
Sorme asked: Don't you approve of blondes?
Glasp said briefly: Not much.
Or sex of any kind?
That depends.
He emptied his glass, and stood up.
I'm going outside. You about ready to go?
Sorme had decided to phone her from Chalk Farm station, but a bus drew to a stop as they arrived, and they were on the lower deck, panting from the run, before he remembered. The sight of the Hampstead tube station brought a memory of Nunne. He said:
You know, Oliver, I'm worried about Austin.
Why?
He'll get himself into trouble.
That's his funeral.
Yes, but… the police suspect him of worse things than beating his boy friends.
How do you know?
Oh… I just happen to have found out.
They turned into Flask Walk; Glasp looked at him sideways as they passed under a lamp.
From Father Carruthers?
Yes.
How does he know?
I promised him not to let it go any further.
In that case, don't.
Sorme said: I suppose there's no harm in telling you. It doesn't make any difference now. Carruthers has a German friend called Franz Stein — a police pathologist. He told Father Carruthers about a letter he'd received from the Hamburg police. Austin was suspected of killing a male prostitute.
He did, Glasp said.
What? How do you know? Are you sure?
Pretty sure.
How long have you known?
I didn't know until you just told me. But I know it's true.
How?
He was trying hard to see Glasp's face, wondering how seriously to take him. He felt a premonition of disappointment, a suspicion that Glasp might prove to be a charlatan. Glasp's tone was matter-of-fact; it puzzled him.
When I first knew Austin, I used to dream he was a murderer. I had one particularly vivid dream… I was walking behind two men by the side of a river. Suddenly one of them hit the other with a weapon of some kind, and pushed him into the river. It was night, and I couldn't see their faces, but I knew that one of them was Austin, and the man he killed was a tramp of some kind. I woke up immediately… A few hours later, Austin came to see me. As soon as I saw him, I decided it was all nonsense. He just didn't look like the man in my dream…
Are your dreams accurate?
No. More often they're wrong. I've got a morbid sort of mind. It picks up chance impressions and magnifies them. It's the same process that works in my painting. When I was a boy, I once dreamed that a boy in our class was killed in a train accident. For years I was convinced he'd die in a train. But he's a married man now…
But you still think Austin really killed this man?
I… think… When you said it, I remembered my dream. Suddenly, I was certain. You see, sometimes my dreams are accurate…
How do you account for that?
I don't try. It just happens sometimes.
They had arrived at the gates of Miss Quincey's driveway. Sorme could see a light in the sitting-room. He said:
Good. She's in, anyway. We'll have to talk about this when we come out.
Glasp said indifferently: All right.
I'd better try and contact Austin too. He ought to be warned.
Glasp looked at him as he opened the gate. He asked casually:
Ought he?
CHAPTER FOUR
Through the glass panel he saw the kitchen door was open; her voice was speaking to someone.
It looks as if she's got a visitor.
F- it, Glasp said. We should have rung.
Shall we go?
Miss Quincey came out of the kitchen. She called:
Is anybody there?
Sorme rang the bell. She said:
Gerard! Oh, hello, Oliver!
She stood there, looking with surprise from one to the other, holding the door. Sorme felt the awkwardness.
We… just thought we'd come in and say hello. We happened to be over this way…
I've got Brother Robbins here for supper. But come in…
Sorme said hastily:
Er, no… didn't realise it'd be inconvenient. We won't come in now… I don't want to interrupt…
She seemed to recover her self-possession.
That's all right. Come in for a few minutes, anyway. I'm making a cup of tea.
Sorme thought hard for some reason to get away; without looking at Glasp, he knew he was doing the same. Nothing occurred to him. He said lamely:
Well, thanks. But we won't stay long. We're meeting someone in half an hour…
Glasp followed him into the hall. He had not spoken so far. Miss Quincey said:
It's nice to see you again, Oliver. It's a very long time. Take your coat off. Oliver, I think you've met Brother Robbins.
Brother Robbins heaved himself out of an easy chair, and advanced with an over-cordial smile. As Miss Quincey introduced them, he shook their hands with a tight, moist handclasp. Sorme found himself thinking: My God, Dale Carnegie standing for President; the fruity, slightly Cockney voice poured warmth and a smell of onions over him.
I've told you about Gerard, Miss Quincey said.
I'm most delighted to meet you, Brother Robbins said.
At first glance, he struck Sorme as a curious combination of a well-to-do grocer and a shady bookmaker. He was a foot shorter than Sorme, with a fleshy face and pot belly. His clothes looked slightly rumpled and grease- stained, but his shirt collar was immaculately starched, and an old school tie looked newly washed and ironed. Sorme conceived an immediate and keen dislike for him.
You're the young man who's thinking of joining us? Brother Robbins said.
Sorme looked with surprise at Miss Quincey. She interposed:
I don't think he's made up his mind yet!
