not believe it. He knew it would be impossible to express his real reasons for defending Nunne to Stein or anybody else.
A noise woke him. He stared at the wall, and listened to a male voice in the room below singing a popular song. It sounded as if there were decorators at work in the room. He turned on to his back and stared at the sky through the window. It was marble-grey. He found himself wondering whether he would ever defend Austin if it came to a trial for murder. They would be wrong; Stein and the judges would be wrong; but there was no way of altering that. A good psychiatrist might have him declared insane; that would be the simplest solution; but Nunne was not insane.
He got out of bed to put the kettle on, turned the gas to medium and climbed back into bed. As he did so his eyes rested on the Nijinsky Diary, and something concentrated inside him. There was the image of a man walking along a tree-lined avenue at night, listening to sounds of music coming from a hotel lounge. In the man was an obsession with the superhuman, a desire to rise cleanly and naturally beyond human pettiness, maintaining the flight without uncertainty. For a moment he felt he understood Austin, received a clear insight into the disgust that became violence. He looked out at the grey sky, holding the knowledge firmly, thinking: Nothing matters but this power. No price is too high for it.
At the same time he heard footsteps on the stair, and guessed they were coming to his room. Carlotte's voice called: Mr Sorme!
Hello?
She opened the door.
Are you up yet? There's a gentleman to see you.
Who?
She shrugged.
I don't know. A German.
German?
He thought hard for a moment, then asked:
An old man?
Yes.
Ah. Ask him to come up, would you, please?
He pulled on a pair of trousers, and was tying his dressing-gown as Stein came into the room. Stein glanced at the rumpled bed, and smiled apologetically:
Am I too early?
Sorme shook his cold hand.
That's OK. I was awake. What did you want to talk to me about? Austin?
He was leading deliberately, unwilling to play a cat-and-mouse game. Stein said:
Austin? No, not particularly. I am more interested in this old man above you.
For a moment, registering his surprise, Sorme believed him.
Why? You don't think he's the Whitechapel killer?
No. But he may know something. When he was in hospital, he shouted strange things in his sleep.
I'm sure he knows nothing, Sorme said decisively.
No?
I had a talk with him last night. He's as mad as a march hare, but he doesn't know anything. How did you find out about him, anyway?
Stein shrugged expressively:
I happened to notice the address on Inspector Macmurdo's list of routine calls. I knew it was your address also. So I came on the off-chance that you might be able to tell me something.
To Sorme, watching him, the he seemed transparent; but he remembered that Stein was unaware that Father Carruthers had spoken to him of Nunne. From Stein's viewpoint, there was no reason why Sorme should disbelieve him. He said:
I'll tell you what I can, but you ought to see him yourself. You'd see, he's cracked.
He raved about murder in the hospital.
Yes. But not these murders. The only Whitechapel crimes that interest him happened sixty years ago.
The Jack the Ripper murders?
Sorme said:
What on earth makes you interested in a man of that age? It must be obvious that he'd be incapable of a series of murders?
Stein said wearily:
Somewhere in London there is a killer. There is nothing to do but check every possibility.
I agree. But you're wasting your time with the old man. He's too old. And he's insane, anyway.
So is the killer.
You think so?
Stein said:
Yes, I think so.
The kettle began to simmer. Sorme said:
Sit down and have a cup of tea. You look tired.
Thank you. I am tired.
Don't you take a rest on Sundays?
Stem said, shrugging:
In a case like this, there is no time to rest.
He dropped into the armchair, placing his hat on the table. Sorme found himself feeling sorry for him. He spooned tea into the thermos flask and poured in the boiling water. As he turned off the gas ring he lit the fire. The room was warm from the burning gas; he removed the dressing-gown, and put on a shirt. He said:
Never mind. Maybe you'll catch him in the act some time.
Perhaps, Stein said. He contemplated the steam that rose from the flask, and then added:
He made another attempt last night.
What?
Sorme stared at him, wondering at the same time if Stein was trying to trap him in some way. Stein was not even looking at him. He asked:
What happened?
I don't know in detail. A woman was attacked in her room early this morning. Neighbours heard her screams and ran in. The man jumped out of the window and disappeared.
In Whitechapel?
Yes.
But what happened to the woman?
She was still unconscious at eight o'clock this morning. Her skull was fractured.
Will she live?
Probably. Luckily, the injuries have not affected the brain.
So you should get a description of the killer?
We hope so. But the room was in darkness.
Pouring the tea, Sorme thought: Poor Austin. There's nothing I can do now. Then he stopped himself, thinking: Why Austin? It may not be Austin.
Stein accepted the mug of tea, saying:
So you see why we are getting tired of it all.
I do. Never mind. With luck, you'll get a description.
Perhaps.
Stem relapsed into silence, drinking his tea.
You say you're sure he's insane, doctor?
I think so.
Sorme stopped himself on the point of asking: Insane enough to get sent to Broadmoor?
Instead, he asked:
