I've got one, thanks. Have one with me. What is it?
Usual, please, George. Let's go in next door. This wood's icy to the arse.
A fire was burning in the lounge bar; Payne carried his glass to the table that stood near it. He said:
Have you heard the news?
About the arrest? Yes.
Payne said with surprise:
Where'd you hear it?
From a police pathologist.
Starr?
No, Stein — the German doctor I know on the case. He came around this morning to follow up the business of the old man. They phoned him while he was with me.
Did they? You mean they told him the hunt was off?
Oh no. Just that the man had been arrested. Stein admitted it might be the wrong man. Why?
Well… surely it's obvious? He hasn't confessed to the murders…
Ah, then you haven't heard the latest. He's made a full confession since.
What! Confessed to what?
All the murders — except one of the women killed the other night.
Are you sure?
Quite sure. It came just before I left the office.
What did it say? Do you know the details?
Some of them. You know about the attack last night?
Yes.
Well, the police found charcoal marks on the woman's throat and hands. She was unconscious, of course. They started a fullscale murder hunt. He must have got into the dockyard somehow — down near Limehouse pier. And somebody spotted him as he tried to climb over the wall this morning. They say he's got a broken knee. He'd tried to clean the charcoal off his face, but there were still traces, and they found the sponge he'd been using in his pocket. They took him to Commercial Street police station and he denied the murders — although he admitted the attack last night. Then they took him to Scotland Yard, and he confessed the lot. So that's it!
Sorme found it difficult to conceal the cold feeling of relief that gave him a desire to laugh. He said:
So he's caught!
He's caught, Payne said.
Do they know anything about his motive?
No. But he's a bit of an idiot. Can't speak properly — has a hare lip — and he's been on probation for being involved in a robbery.
An idiot? That doesn't sound so good.
Why?
Stein told me that an idiot was arrested in the Dusseldorf case, and confessed to the murders. He wasn't the murderer.
I think the police must be fairly sure of themselves. They wouldn't announce his confession if they doubted it. Anyway, for the sake of the police I hope they've got the man.
So does everybody. But why did he wear charcoal last night? There was no sign of charcoal in the previous murders. And Stein told me they'd been after this bloke for a few weeks — he'd been jumping out of doorways and frightening women. That doesn't sound like the killer.
Payne said thoughtfully:
Perhaps you're right. That's a good point. I'll mention that to the chap who's doing the story. Anyway, why should he confess if he's not the killer?
Perhaps the police were rough with him. You said he'd got a broken knee. He wouldn't have much resistance, would he?
But the police wouldn't want him to confess if he wasn't the killer.
Sorme said, shrugging:
I don't know. It's only guesswork. I hope it's the right man. What's his name, by the way?
Oh… Bentley, Alfred Bentley. Lives in Brixton.
But he used to live in Whitechapel, Sorme said.
Did he? Are you sure?
That's what Stein told me.
I didn't know that. So he'd know the district well. Listen, Gerard, I'd better get back to the office. What's the name of this German, in case we want to contact him?
Stein. Franz Stein. And he's working with Macmurdo.
Right. Thanks a lot. I might ring you later. Let's meet for a drink.
All right. Be seeing you, Bill.
After Payne had gone, he finished his pint, staring into the fire. The excitement had been replaced by doubt. He replaced his glass on the counter, went into Fleet Street, and hailed a passing taxi.
When the taxi turned into Palace Gate, he asked the driver:
Would you mind waiting at the end of Canning Place? I shan't be long.
As he walked towards the house, he told himself he could return and dismiss the taxi if Nunne was in. He had no desire to encounter Vannet, and was afraid the taxi might attract his attention.
The area gate creaked open. The curtains behind the barred windows were drawn. He rang the bell and listened carefully. He could hear it ringing somewhere inside. There was no other sound. He rang again. After a wait of another half minute, he took an old envelope out of his pocket, scrawled a message on it and slipped it through the letterbox. Above his head, the front door opened. A man he had never seen before looked down at him. The man said:
Oh.
His head disappeared, and the front door closed again. Sorme decided to leave immediately, afraid that Vannet might appear. He felt better when the door of the taxi had closed behind him. He gave the driver his Camden Town address.
As he passed the telephone in the hall, he stopped and dialed Nunne's flat, knowing as he did so that it would be pointless. After a moment, the girl said:
I'm afraid there's still no reply, sir.
He groped through his pockets and found another four pennies. With his address book propped open on the coin box he dialed Caroline's number; a man's voice with a London accent answered.
'Old on a minute. I'll get 'er. 'Oo's it speakin'?
A moment later, Caroline's voice said:
Gerard! Hello, sweet!
Hello, pet. How are things?
Fine. What are you doing?
Nothing much. Have you heard the Whitechapel murderer's been caught?
Yes; it was on the radio just now. Isn't it exciting?
Terrific. How are you feeling?
Oh, all right, now. I've recovered.
Is anyone there with you?
No; daddy's gone upstairs.
When can you come over here again?
Not today, sweet, I'm afraid.
You doing something this evening?
No, but they don't like me to go into town on Sunday. They say I'm there too often. I could come tomorrow…
Good. Make it tomorrow night, then?
All right, darling. I'm longing to see you.
