Ritual in the Dark (38 page)

All right. Second, why choose Whitechapel, where he’s more likely to get caught every time he commits a crime? Why not move around London? And, third, why on earth should it be Austin, with several million other people living in London?

Glasp looked at him steadily.

You don’t want it to be Austin, do you?

Sorme shrugged.

I don’t know. I like Austin, but that wouldn’t stop me from looking the facts in the face if they really pointed to him.

Glasp said: Anyway, you needn’t worry. I wouldn’t give him away to the police, even if I knew he did them.

No?

Anyway, you can bet they’ve got an eye on him now. If he’s suspected of this Hamburg murder, he’s a natural suspect for Whitechapel.

I suppose so. I don’t understand the way these things work.

You don’t understand sadism, anyway, do you?

Sorme asked curiously:

What makes you say that?

You’re not the type.

No? What type am I?

Glasp said, shrugging:

You’re like me. Not particularly interested in sex.

Blimey! Do you really think so?

Glasp grinned.

You think you are. But you’re not. Try to understand what I mean. Austin’s a sensualist. He’s not a man of ideas. Nothing really interests him but what he can see and touch.

Oh, I dunno. I wouldn’t say he has no ideas.

He hasn’t. Perhaps he makes an effort because he’s talking to you. If he ever got really used to you, he’d stop making the effort.

Yes, but. . . there’s a kind of innocence about Austin. You don’t understand.

Oh yes I do. There’s a kind of innocence about sensuality. It doesn’t have to leer and drool. But it just doesn’t get off the ground. The most sensual man I ever knew was a collector of knives and daggers. He wrote several monographs on the subject—known as the leading authority of Europe. Not an idea in his head, but the most amazing collection of facts about daggers.

Sorme said dubiously:

I see what you mean.

He was feeling vaguely hungry. From the cupboard he took a half loaf of bread, some Spanish onions, and a polythene bag containing Gruyere cheese. He said:

Help yourself if you’re hungry.

He cut an irregular chunk of bread from the side of the loaf and plastered butter on it. Glasp said:

That’s a good idea.

As he sawed at the loaf, he said:

Don’t get the wrong ideas about Austin. He’s no soul-mate. He’s all right, but if you get entangled with him, he’ll suffocate you.

I know that. But I think you misjudge him. He misjudges you too.

Does he? What does he say about me?

Sorme hesitated, calculating the effect of complete frankness; a desire to provoke a reaction urged him to speak. He said casually:

Oh, he thinks you have some. . . sexual peculiarities.

Naturally, Glasp said contemptuously. He’d have to.

Sorme said, laughing:

Oh, I agree. They always want to pin it on other people. . .

What does he think. . . I’m addicted to? Men, boys or animals?

Neither. Little girls.

The effect was greater than he had anticipated. Glasp laid down the knife on the plate, staring incredulously.

He what?

Sorme ignored his excitement; he said:

Oh, you know what it’s like. . .

He said that? Tell me exactly what he said.

As he spoke, Sorme heard someone outside his door; for a moment, he expected to see Nunne’s face; then the key turned in the next room, and he heard the Frenchman open his own door. His heart pounding, he said quickly:

Oh, to do Austin justice, he was only reporting something he’d heard.

Are you sure?

Quite sure. Two Americans thought they’d known you in London several years ago. But after all, it might easily have been someone else. Or they might have said it for effect.

Glasp said slowly:

Well I’ll be damned!

He emptied his beer glass, and refilled it; then sat hunched forward in the chair, staring into the fire. Something in the crouched tenseness of his body made Sorme aware that he was experiencing an inner upheaval that he was unwilling to show. Sorme’s heart was still beating heavily from the noise outside the door. He said:

Look. Why don’t we skip the subject? I’m sorry I told you.

But didn’t he say any more than that?

Nothing.

Glasp said slowly:

These bloody queers amaze me.

Why?

They’re interested in nothing but personalities. If I’d painted the greatest portrait since Rembrandt, it wouldn’t interest him unless he thought I’d had an affair with the sitter.

This time, Sorme made no effort to contradict him. He glanced at his watch, wondering if he could suggest going out. The thought of Nunne arriving soddenly worried him. He said lightly:

I don’t see why you let it bother you. I only told you to amuse you. I don’t take Austin seriously.

Glasp looked at him, frowning.

But why did he say it? Where did he get the idea? You didn’t tell him about that picture of a girl in my room?

No.

He felt acutely uncomfortable; he had seen the picture of the girl while Glasp was out of the room, and found the idea of lying about it disagreeable. He said:

I’ve told you, anyway. He got the idea from two Americans. I can vouch for it. I’ve m