When he had dried himself he felt better. His hair, which he had allowed the water to soak, dripped on his shoulders and down his neck. He rubbed it vigorously with the towel, then combed it. He went downstairs again, carrying the pyjama jacket.
His door was now closed. In the room, both the policemen were sitting without their coats and jackets. The old man lay on the bed, moaning gently. The two men looked at him and smiled when he came in. One commented:
Blimey, I thought we’d had it that time, didn’t you, Jack?
The one called Jack glanced at the bed, saying:
Stupid old bastard. What’s he have to do that for?
The other one looked at Sorme; he said:
Thanks for the help.
Not at all. Are you arresting him?
No. We just wanted to ask him a few questions.
Their faces and hands were grimy; both were still sweating. Sorme asked: Can I offer you a drink?
I’ll say you can! the policeman called Jack said.
What of? the other asked.
Wine or beer?
Beer for me.
And me.
He opened a quart of light ale, and poured into two glasses and a china mug. He drank his own down in one long draught. He pushed the bottle towards them, saying:
Help yourselves.
Thanks. We will.
Where’s Carlotte—the German girl?
Phoning the ambulance.
The girl came back into the room as he spoke.
They will be here soon. How is he?
The man called Jack shrugged:
Can’t tell at his age. He’s not badly burned, but there’s the shock. . .
The old man was lying on the bed, his eyes open, breathing heavily. He began to groan. Sorme said:
I’ll go and dress, if you don’t mind.
He took a pair of neatly folded trousers from the drawer, and a shirt and tie. Both policemen refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle; they ignored the old man.
The girl came out of the room after him. She said:
You can wait in my room if you like. The ambulance should be here soon.
He was about to refuse, then changed his mind:
Thank you. Where is it?
I’ll show you.
She went down the stairs ahead of him. He asked her:
What do you make of it all? What’s it all about?
I don’t know, I know no more than you.
For some reason, he had expected a dismal room, but her living-room was large and comfortably furnished. The floor was carpeted. She switched on a tall reading lamp that stood by the settee; it diffused a pink, warm light. An electric fire, set in the wall, was burning. Left alone, he dressed and combed his hair, then looked through the volumes on the bookshelf; they were mostly in German. He noted that her bed in the corner of the room was a wide divan, thinking automatically: Big enough for two; then thought: No, never wise to have a mistress in the house; she can watch you too closely. Nevertheless, he looked with interest through the photographs on the sideboard, and noted no young men among them. There were two family groups, and a picture of the girl, looking about ten years younger, with her arm round the waist of a fair-haired girl; they were both dressed in Bavarian costume.
The door behind him opened. He had expected the girl, but it was the policeman called Jack who came in.
Ah. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?
Of course. What about?
Would you mind just sitting down?
He produced a notebook and a ballpoint pen; Sorme sat on the settee.
Now, let’s see. You’ve only been here since Saturday, so I don’t expect you know much about the old boy?
Nothing at all, I’m afraid.
But you went up to his room last night?
Only for a few moments.
I see. You didn’t get any idea of any papers he kept in there, did you? Something he might want to burn?
I’m afraid not, I wasn’t in there for more than a minute and a half.
The man said, sighing:
I. . . see. Ah well. Would you mind describing what happened last night?
Sorme gave an account of his interview with the old man, repeating, as well as he could remember, everything that was said. The policeman interrupted him only once, to ask:
Did
His door was now closed. In the room, both the policemen were sitting without their coats and jackets. The old man lay on the bed, moaning gently. The two men looked at him and smiled when he came in. One commented:
Blimey, I thought we’d had it that time, didn’t you, Jack?
The one called Jack glanced at the bed, saying:
Stupid old bastard. What’s he have to do that for?
The other one looked at Sorme; he said:
Thanks for the help.
Not at all. Are you arresting him?
No. We just wanted to ask him a few questions.
Their faces and hands were grimy; both were still sweating. Sorme asked: Can I offer you a drink?
I’ll say you can! the policeman called Jack said.
What of? the other asked.
Wine or beer?
Beer for me.
And me.
He opened a quart of light ale, and poured into two glasses and a china mug. He drank his own down in one long draught. He pushed the bottle towards them, saying:
Help yourselves.
Thanks. We will.
Where’s Carlotte—the German girl?
Phoning the ambulance.
The girl came back into the room as he spoke.
They will be here soon. How is he?
The man called Jack shrugged:
Can’t tell at his age. He’s not badly burned, but there’s the shock. . .
The old man was lying on the bed, his eyes open, breathing heavily. He began to groan. Sorme said:
I’ll go and dress, if you don’t mind.
He took a pair of neatly folded trousers from the drawer, and a shirt and tie. Both policemen refilled their glasses, emptying the bottle; they ignored the old man.
The girl came out of the room after him. She said:
You can wait in my room if you like. The ambulance should be here soon.
He was about to refuse, then changed his mind:
Thank you. Where is it?
I’ll show you.
She went down the stairs ahead of him. He asked her:
What do you make of it all? What’s it all about?
I don’t know, I know no more than you.
For some reason, he had expected a dismal room, but her living-room was large and comfortably furnished. The floor was carpeted. She switched on a tall reading lamp that stood by the settee; it diffused a pink, warm light. An electric fire, set in the wall, was burning. Left alone, he dressed and combed his hair, then looked through the volumes on the bookshelf; they were mostly in German. He noted that her bed in the corner of the room was a wide divan, thinking automatically: Big enough for two; then thought: No, never wise to have a mistress in the house; she can watch you too closely. Nevertheless, he looked with interest through the photographs on the sideboard, and noted no young men among them. There were two family groups, and a picture of the girl, looking about ten years younger, with her arm round the waist of a fair-haired girl; they were both dressed in Bavarian costume.
The door behind him opened. He had expected the girl, but it was the policeman called Jack who came in.
Ah. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?
Of course. What about?
Would you mind just sitting down?
He produced a notebook and a ballpoint pen; Sorme sat on the settee.
Now, let’s see. You’ve only been here since Saturday, so I don’t expect you know much about the old boy?
Nothing at all, I’m afraid.
But you went up to his room last night?
Only for a few moments.
I see. You didn’t get any idea of any papers he kept in there, did you? Something he might want to burn?
I’m afraid not, I wasn’t in there for more than a minute and a half.
The man said, sighing:
I. . . see. Ah well. Would you mind describing what happened last night?
Sorme gave an account of his interview with the old man, repeating, as well as he could remember, everything that was said. The policeman interrupted him only once, to ask:
Did
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