Free Ritual in the Dark by Colin Wilson

other women?
    Same, Mason said. He smiled, like a conjurer bringing off a trick. Sorme found his dislike concentrating on the blotchy, beak-like nose.
    The Spanish girl wasn’t, Payne objected.
    She wasn’t much better, Mason said, glaring. She slept with so many men they couldn’t even check up.
    Tell me, Sorme said. Is it quite definite that they were all committed by the same man?
    Not certain, Mason said. Juanita Miller and Catherine Eddowes were both knifed. But it wasn’t the same knife. The knife was found by the body in both cases. In one case a Boy Scout’s bowie-knife, in the other a little kitchen affair. But the really surprising feature is that the murderer must have got blood on him, yet he probably returned through London in the early hours of the morning.
    Not so difficult, Payne said. London is fairly deserted then.
    Sorme said: There could be three explanations of that. He might have been a local man, and not had far to go. He might have had a car. Or he might have carried a coat over his arm which he dropped while he killed the girl, and put it on afterwards to conceal the blood.
    Oh, there are more explanations than that, Mason said. We published a letter from someone who thought he might have escaped through the sewers.
    Impossible, Payne said.
    I think so too, Mason said. But until they catch him, no one can know definitely, can they?
    His eyes rested meditatively on Sorme. He asked abruptly, as if trying to take Sorme by surprise:
    Why do you want to know?
    Sorme glanced at Payne. Payne said:
    It’s all right. He works for us.
    It’s like that, is it? Mason said.
    Not exactly. It’s just that. . . well, I’ve been drawn within their orbit, as it were.
    He turned to Mason to explain:
    The police tried to question an old man about the murders in the place where I live, and he barricaded himself in his room and set it on fire.
    Have they any idea why?
    No. I think he’s a little cracked.
    Or he might not be. . . Mason said.
    Oh, I think so.
    You could be right. But I’ll tell you one thing. The police must have a pretty good reason for announcing that they think the four murders were committed by the same man. It’s just not good policy. It centres the public interest on the idea of the Killer at Large, and then people start writing letters to The Times and asking questions in Parliament about the efficiency of the police. They must have some reason for risking it.
    What’s your theory? Payne asked.
    That they have a good idea who the man is. And they want him to feel that the net is closing. To scare him into giving himself away.
    Perhaps, Payne said.
    Can you think of any other reason?
    Payne said, shaking his head:
    If they had an idea of who he was, they’d close the net quietly. They’d watch him and wait for him to try it again. Sexual killers always try it again.
    Sorme said: This girl—the one you saw.
    The middle-aged woman, you mean? Catherine Eddowes?
    Yes. How was she killed?
    I’ve told you. Knifed.
    But how? Cut-throat, or stabbed in the heart, or what?
    They counted nearly sixty wounds.
    Mason smiled. He obviously took pleasure in Sorme’s shocked expression.
    He must be a maniac! What about the other murders?
    Mason drew deeply on his cigarette, smiling.
    Less spectacular.
    They need to be, Sorme said.
    Mason turned to Payne:
    Have you heard these rumours about Janet and Ken?
    Which one? I heard about his wife screaming at Janet over the phone.
    Sorme stood up.
    I think I’ll go, Bill. You two want to talk shop.
    OK, Gerard. I’ve got to get back in a minute anyway. We’ll probably be sending you a cheque soon.
    That’d be useful, Sorme said. He shook hands with Mason. See you soon.
    Bye-bye, Gerard.
    He stopped at the counter to pay for the meal. Outside, the noise of the pneumatic drill was deafening. He unlocked the bicycle, and wheeled it on the pavement to Fleet Street. He stood there, hesitating whether to go towards the Aldwych or Blackfriars. Finally,