I thought you didn't want me to warn him?
Not openly, perhaps. On the other hand, it seems to me very probable that he is not guilty. In that case…
He broke off, staring at the eiderdown, his chin on his chest. Sorme was uncertain whether his attitude showed deep thought or simply fatigue. He stood up and crossed to the window, which was open about an inch at the top; the faint current of cool air was a relief. As he waited, the priest went on:
What you say about Austin may be true for yourself. I could imagine a certain type of man who needs a sense of moral purpose, who feels the world to be meaningless…
Sorme interrupted:
Austin once said something like that to me. He said he felt futile or meaningless… no, unintended; that was the word.
Did he? What else did he say?
Oh… something about feeling he ought not to be alive. He said if there was any justice in the world he'd've broken his neck or something. Mind, he was in a pretty low state that evening.
Unintended. I must admit, you surprise me. But it bears out what you say. But, as I was about to say… I can imagine that a man might feel a need to enter the order of good and evil, to escape a sense of futility. And I can imagine him committing a crime merely to prove to himself that he is capable of evil, and therefore not entirely… unintended. But I have never in my life come across such a case — except, perhaps, in juvenile delinquents.
Sorme said, shrugging:
The way you put it, I agree it sounds unlikely. But I'm not talking about conscious motives. I'm just saying that if Austin was the killer, I could understand. I mean, take Oliver Glasp… He's the same sort of person. I've seen a lot of Oliver over this past week, father, and I think I've got to know a lot about him. Well, I know he'd never suffer from any sort of strain if he believed in his own genius. He'd have a purpose then. As it is, he's got himself involved with some ten-year-old girl from a slum tenement. It gives him a sense of meaning from day to day, and that's what he needs to keep going. But he doesn't believe in his own reality enough to exist without something of the sort. Don't you see what I'm trying to say, father? Oliver needs people more than ideas — he's an emotional person. So when he's under strain, he gropes around for people. I need ideas more than people. When I rebel, it's a rebellion of ideas. But Austin's sensual as well as emotional. He needs a physical outlet for his rebellion — driving fast cars, flying an aeroplane. Doesn't it sound plausible?
He was carried away by the excitement of his own words; when he stopped, he experienced a feeling of guilt. Father Carruthers was listening with his head drooping, his eyes closed; he might have been asleep. Without opening his eyes, he said softly:
Yes, it sounds plausible.
Sorme said: I'm afraid I'm talking too much.
I'm sorry. I'd like to help you more. But I feel very tired.
Yes, absolutely, I'll go now.
Go and see Austin.
If I can find him!
Try at his Kensington flat. Take a taxi there.
All right. But I'll take a tube.
The priest said:
Open that top drawer behind you… no, the left one. There should be a plastic case there… Yes, thank you.
He opened the black wallet that Sorme had handed to him, and took out a pound note.
Take this and use it for a taxi.
No, really, father…
Take it. I have no use for money here — I spend my days in bed. Besides, you are doing an errand for me. I'd go if I could. Take it.
Sorme took the note unwillingly, and pushed it, folded, into his top pocket. He said:
Thank you, father. Shall I phone back to let you know?
No. If anything important happens, come back. But I shall sleep now.
All right, father. Thanks. I hope you get well soon.
Thank you, Gerard.
He let himself out of the front door. As he turned the corner, he met Robin Maunsell hurrying across the road. Maunsell said:
Well, Gerard, you're rather a stranger, aren't you? A stranger to me, I should say, because I hear that you're always popping in and out to Father Carruthers.
Sorme said embarrassedly:
How are you?
I'm very well. But what on earth's going on with you? Are the two of you planning a campaign to convert Austin Nunne?
Something like that, Sorme said, grinning.
Come in and have a cup of tea.
No, thanks, Robin. I'm just doing an errand for Father Carruthers.
Really? Are you coming back?
I expect so. Later in the day.
Well, I can see you're dying to go. Perhaps I'll see you later.
Sorme said untruthfully:
I'm just off for lunch. I'm pretty hungry. But I'll see you later…
All right.
As Sorme turned away, Maunsell said:
Give Austin my regards.
Sorme looked back in surprise, but Maunsell was already in the doorway.
He crossed Rosebery Avenue, walking towards Ludgate Circus, with the idea of finding a taxi in Holborn. His neck was still damp with sweat from the heat of the room, and his throat felt dry. For some reason, he felt no belief that Nunne would be in the Kensington flat. Nunne wouldn't be anywhere where he was known to go regularly if he was avoiding the police… The thought of the women's clothes came to him suddenly. At the time, Nunne's explanation had been inadequate. But his new suspicions provided no satisfactory hypothesis to explain them either.
In Fleet Street he turned into the bar of the first pub he saw. He ordered a pint of mild, and drank a half of it before the burning sensation went out of his throat. He grinned at the bartender, saying:
Ah, that's better.
From the next bar, someone called:
Cheerio, George!
Goodbye, Mr Payne.
Sormesaid:
Was that Bill Payne?
Yes, sir.
He hurried to the door of the pub, and saw Payne on the point of crossing the road. He called:
Hi, Bill!
The noise of traffic drowned his voice; as Payne was about to step off the pavement, he jumped forward and touched his arm. Payne said:
Hello, Gerard! What are you doing here?
Having a drink. Come and join me.
In there? Where were you? I didn't see you.
The bartender said:
You're soon back!
Payne said, grinning:
I planted my friend here to give me an excuse. What are you having, Gerard?
