by Rennie Airth
He took her back to his rooms and they made love in the hot afternoon with the curtains drawn across the open window and the sounds of children at play drifting in from the street outside. Afterwards, she lay in his arms, her body warm and damp. She kissed him with open lips, tasting his salty skin.
“Don’t let me fall asleep,” she begged. He held her close and felt her heart beating against his.
The seed of our happiness.
The words came into his mind and he recalled where he had heard them. He was reminded, too, that he had a favour to ask of her.
When Madden returned to the Yard he found Sinclair sitting behind his desk, puffing at his pipe in a thoughtful manner.
“Sorry I’m late, sir.”
“That’s all right, John. There’s damn-all happening anyway.” The chief inspector watched a wreath of blue smoke curling upwards from the bowl of his briar. “I’ve just been in to see Bennett. He’s had his meeting with Parkhurst. The word from on high is ‘steady as she goes.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this inquiry stays within the Yard. Parkhurst made that plain. He doesn’t want a carnival—his word. No outside experts to be called in. Sampson’s got them running scared. We’ll have to think of something else.”
7
The hotel was in a side-street off Russell Square. Dr. Weiss was waiting at a corner table in the almost deserted lounge. The dusty leaves of a rubber plant brushed his shoulders as he rose to greet Madden. “Inspector, this is a pleasure.”
“It’s good of you to see me, Dr. Weiss.”
“I am happy to meet any friend of Helen’s.”
A gold watch-chain gleamed against the sober black of the doctor’s waistcoat. Behind a welcoming smile he cast a curious glance at his visitor. At their last meeting he had noted Madden’s dark, shadowed eyes and air of deep-rooted fatigue. He thought that any man who captured Helen Blackwell’s interest was fortunate indeed, and he wondered about their relationship.
They sat down at the table. The doctor waited while Madden signalled to a waiter and ordered drinks for them.
“All the same, I was surprised by her call. You wish to discuss the Melling Lodge murders with me? Inspector, I am not a criminologist.”
“I realize that. But this is not an official visit. In fact, I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention our meeting to anyone.”
“So!” Dr. Weiss’ brown eyes sparkled. “But I still don’t see how I can be of help.”
Madden hesitated. He was treading on unfamiliar ground. “There was something you said in your lecture the other night. It’s been on my mind ever since. You were speaking of sexual perversions and you said even the most terrible actions could be idealized by the human mind.”
“That is so.” Weiss frowned. “But I am still at a loss. From what I have read of the murders at Highfield, no sexual motive was involved.”
“No evident sexual motive.”
“I see . . . but you think otherwise?” His curiosity had sharpened.
“The truth is, we don’t know what to think. We know the murders were committed by one man. We have a rough physical description of him and we know the make of his motorcycle. But beyond that we’re in the dark. We have no idea who we’re looking for.”
The doctor’s greying eyebrows had already lifted in astonishment. “And you think I can tell you that?”
“You could give us an indication.”
“Based on the evidence?”
“It would be a guide, surely.”
“A guide, yes. But to what destination?” Weiss shook his head ruefully. “Inspector, you don’t know what you’re asking. The margin for error in such a procedure would be huge. Psychology is not an exact science.”
“I understand that.”
“I could very well point you in the wrong direction.”
“That’s a risk I’ll have to take,” Madden persisted.
The older man regarded him in silence for several seconds. A faint smile played about his lips. Finally he shrugged. “Very well then, if you insist.” He resettled himself in his chair. “Tell me about this man. As much detail as possible, please. The key lies in the details.”
Madden spoke for the next twenty minutes. He related the entire course of the investigation, omitting nothing. He described the ambush that he and Stackpole had survived in the woods above Highfield and the subsequent discovery of the dugout.
“At that point we believed we were dealing with an isolated incident. Recently, however, we have learned that he made a similiar attack on a house some months ago. The only person home was a woman and he killed her in much the same way as he killed Mrs. Fletcher.”
“In much the same way?”
“In virtually the identical manner. He cut her throat and left her body sprawled across the bed. She was in her bath and he dragged her from there to put her on the bed, just as he carried Mrs. Fletcher from the stairs. I was reminded of something someone said to me earlier, referring to Lucy Fletcher. That she had been laid out like a sacrifice.”
“You saw an element of ritual in both killings?” Dr. Weiss leaned forward. His face was a study in concentration.
Madden nodded. “That was how they appeared to me.”
“And neither woman was sexually abused in any way?”
“Correct.”
“You tested for seminal fluid?”
“Everywhere. At least in the case of Mrs. Fletcher.”
“On her body, as well as in the orifices?”
“Yes, why?”
“On the bedclothes?”
Madden frowned. “I don’t know. Is it important?”
“It might be.” Dr. Weiss seemed to notice the glass of whiskey in front of him for the first time. He took a sip of the drink. “So! These are the facts.” He looked Madden in the eye. “Let us deal with your first question—are these murders sexually motivated? To which I would answer yes. Beyond any doubt.”
“Why?” Madden was struck by the certainty of his tone.
“Partly through reductive reasoning. Once you exclude other motives such as revenge or, indeed, robbery, it’s difficult to imagine what else could lie behind them. But mainly because of the close similarities in the killing of Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Reynolds. The element of repetition—of ritual, as you rightly surmise—is one of the classic signs of the sexual murder. As I’m sure you’re aware, Inspector.”
“Yes, but we’re puzzled by the lack of direct evidence. To put it bluntly, why doesn’t he rape them? Or abuse them in some other way?”
Dr. Weiss cocked his head on one side. “You’ve considered the possibility that the man is impotent? That these killings are an expression of rage?”
Madden nodded. “But in that case I would expect him to demonstrate it more clearly, on the bodies of his victims. Merely cutting their throats seems insufficient.”
“I agree.” Weiss nodded crisply. “But there could be another explanation. He may feel he can’t satisfy himself directly. I mean by normal, or even abnormal, penetration.”
“Why would that be?”
“Because he thinks it’s forbidden. Taboo. That doesn’t mean he’s incapable of ejaculation. Only that he can’t bring himself to conclude the act in an orthodox manner. Then again, that may be what he is aiming at. To achieve coitus somehow.” Dr. Weiss’ fingertips played a scale on the glassed table. As though in response the sawing notes of a cello came from the next room where an orchestra had struck up. They were playing an old tune: “Just a Song at Twilight.”
“But can we be certain?” Madden felt impelled to play the devil’s advocate. “What about the wartime connection? The bayonet, the dugout, the gas mask? Isn’t it possible he’s simply deranged? That he’s reacting to something he experienced in the trenches?”
Weiss shook his head. “We must take that into account, certainly. But the seed of these crimes was planted much earlier in life. In childhood. In infancy, perhaps.”
“Can
you be sure of that?” Madden was sceptical.
“Sure?” The doctor lifted his shoulders in an eloquent gesture. “In my profession one can seldom be sure of anything. There’s a saying Freud is fond of quoting ‘The soul of man is a far country, impossible to explore.’ But with regard to human sexuality, certain facts are now, surely, beyond dispute. For one, it is established very early in childhood. For another, any damage done then is carried into adult life and magnified. About this there can be no doubt.”
Madden was paying close attention. “But if he was damaged in childhood, as you suggest, wouldn’t he have shown signs of it before now? If we accept he went through the war, he must be in his late twenties, at the very least.”
“This is something that is bothering me,” Dr. Weiss admitted wryly. “Have you checked police records before the war as well as since?”
“Yes, there’s nothing of this kind on file.”
“Then we must go deeper into speculation.” The doctor shifted in his chair. He slipped a gold watch out of his fob pocket and began to swing it to and fro like a pendulum in front of him. His brow was knitted in a frown. “Let us suppose this man conforms to a type familiar to psychiatry. Early in his life he would have shown symptoms of sexual disorientation—the infliction of pain on animals, dogs and cats, is one of the most common. With such children the first full sexual experience, I mean orgasm, is often associated with a blood ritual already developed and establishes a pattern difficult to break. We may imagine he underwent some such experience at the start of adolescence. But since he left no trace of himself as a young man, either his sexual desires were very small or he possessed an exceptional degree of willpower and was able to suppress them. Given the ferocity of his present actions, I would tend to discount the first.
“So what are we faced with?” Dr. Weiss pondered his own question. “A man of unusual self-control who has suddenly cast off his shackles and revealed his true sexual identity. For this to have occurred he is most likely to have undergone an experience—what we in our profession term a trauma—of a quite shattering kind. And now we see a very definite connection to his time in uniform. When it comes to injuries wrought to the human psyche, there is no need to look further than the experience of the common soldier in the trenches.”
Weiss paused. His sympathetic glance rested on the inspector. “I speak only as an analyst,” he said gently. “My knowledge of this is second-hand—it comes from the many patients I treat in Vienna. Yours, I suspect, is more immediate and more personal.”
Madden made no reply at first. Then he responded with a brief nod.
“So! Having established that, we can at least form a theory as to why the man you seek has begun—begun now—to commit these crimes. A theory, mind you!” Dr. Weiss raised a warning finger. “But if we accept it, we can see a possible line of inquiry emerging. What you have told me about his behaviour suggests that the link with his wartime service is more than merely causal.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t . . .” Madden didn’t understand.
“The killing of these two women derives from some experience in childhood—or so I believe.” The doctor’s features were screwed into a deep frown. “But the details overlying it—the dugout, the gas mask, the furious attack and bayoneting of the others—these seem like a refinement of the original action. An addition to it even.”
“An addition?” Madden was alert at the word. “You’re saying he might have committed a murder of this kind during the war?”
“And is now seeking to perfect the act. Yes, that is a possibility.” Dr. Weiss nodded vigorously.
“While he was in the trenches?”
“Oh, no!” Weiss shook his head with equal urgency. “The killing, if it took place, would have been quite separate from the general carnage. The woman is crucial to the act.”
“But while he was a soldier? Behind the lines, perhaps?” Madden felt a spark of excitement. “We could ask the War Office. It would be in the provost marshal’s records.”
“Only if the military authorities investigated it,” Dr. Weiss cautioned. “And only if it actually occurred. Remember, Inspector this is all supposition.”
Madden smiled grimly. “To a policeman it sounds more like a lead.”
Weiss acknowledged the remark with a lift of his head. He swallowed what remained of his drink. When his eyes met Madden’s again his mood had darkened. “I find myself in an unusual position, Inspector.”
“Why is that?”
“I have to hope that everything I have said to you is wrong. That this man is not as I imagine him to be.”
“But if he is?”
“Then you should be prepared for the worst. I judge him to be a psychopath, an extreme case. One who has lost touch with reality. He does not see his victims as human beings, but as objects of gratification. Be sure, however, he is not killing at random. Those women meant something to him. Those particular women. Otherwise he would not have taken such pains to prepare himself, particularly in the case of Melling Lodge. One must assume he saw them earlier, either in their homes or in the neighbourhood, and was struck by some aspect of their appearance. Whatever it was, it brought him back.”
Dr. Weiss paused. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts.
“I can offer you only general pointers,” he went on. “By all means consider them, but don’t confuse what I say with established fact. It is likely he lives in a fantasy, and this will make it difficult to predict his actions. Take his return to Highfield, for example. A foolish decision, on the face of it. But in his own world the reasons would have seemed compelling. Perhaps he wanted a memento of Mrs. Fletcher—a piece of her jewellery. A trophy, if you will. It’s not unknown in this sort of case.” He looked hard at the inspector. “I don’t say that was the reason, mind you. I seek only to indicate the problem you face in trying to understand his behaviour.”
Madden was struck by the doctor’s sombre expression.
“Perhaps you recall my remarks the other evening regarding the sexual instinct. Here is a man in whom it has been crushed, almost extinguished, for years. This is the river of darkness I spoke of. Now that it has broken free, nothing will check it. Shame, disgust, morality—these are the normal barriers to perversions and acts of sexual desperation. But against the kind of force I see acting through this man they are helpless. He is driven by compulsion.”
“You’re saying he won’t stop killing?” Madden nodded. “We’ve been afraid of that.”
“No, I’m saying something different.” Weiss shook his head sadly. “I’m saying he can’t stop.”
8
How could you do it, John? Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you know what will happen if this gets out?” The chief inspector’s tone was anguished. He paced up and down in front of Madden’s desk. The door to the adjoining office was firmly shut. “If Sampson gets even a sniff of this he’ll go straight to the newspapers. My God—I can see the headline now! ‘Yard calls in Hun!’ ”
“Dr. Weiss is an Austrian, sir.”
“I doubt the chief superintendent will appreciate the distinction. I can assure you the newspapers won’t.” Sinclair paused in his pacing. He stared down at the inspector. “Have I said something to amuse you?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Madden sought to compose his features. “It’s just that we never used to think of them that way.”
“What way?”
“You had to come home on leave to hear people talking about Huns and wanting to hang the Kaiser. We used to call them Fritz or Jerry. And we didn’t want to hang the Kaiser. We wanted to hang the General Staff. First the Staff, then the Commissariat.”
“Never mind who you wanted to hang.” The chief inspector kept a firm grip on his outrage. It didn’t escape him that he had never heard Madden talk this way before. “You had no right to do what you did. For pity’s sake! Why didn’t you ask my permission first?”
“Because you wouldn’t have given it,” Madden said frankly.
/> “At least you had that right.”
“You would have had to say no.”
“Ah! Light begins to dawn!” Sinclair’s face cleared. “You didn’t need to ask. You already knew what I was thinking.”
“Well, yes, sir.” Madden was finally embarrassed. “I thought so.”
“Amazing! I never guessed I was so transparent. Where did you meet this Fritz?”
“At a lecture on psychiatry.”
“Where you just happened to drop in? No, please don’t tell me.” The chief inspector’s face showed pain. “I’d rather not know.”
He went to the window and stood with his hands on his hips staring down at the river. After a time he looked over his shoulders. “Well . . . ?”
Excuse me, sir, is this a new development?”
Sampson, late and out of breath, slid into his seat beside the deputy assistant commissioner.
“No, Chief Superintendent. But Mr. Sinclair has a fresh line of inquiry he wants to follow up.”
“It’s just an idea,” Sinclair explained. He and Madden sat across the table. “But since it involves going back to the War Office I felt I ought to consult Mr. Bennett.”
“The chief inspector thinks it’s possible this man might have committed offences, even similar crimes, while he was still in uniform.”
“It’s the element of repetition that bothers me.” Sinclair’s grey eyes bore a look of blameless innocence. “Given that he also carried out the assault at Bentham—and I believe he did—then he seems set in a pattern. But when did it start? There’s no peacetime record of crimes like these, but we haven’t looked at the war years in detail. And the fact that he arms and equips himself like a soldier makes me wonder if he didn’t start then. Abroad, perhaps. In France or Belgium. We need to ask the military to check their records.”
There was silence in the room. Finally Sampson spoke: “Who’ve you been talking to?” he asked.
“Sir?”
“Have you been discussing this case with anyone?”
