Here

by Sean Moynihan

  As he peered out past the group of attackers, he suddenly spotted a lone figure standing next to the tilted fruit cart farther out towards the front of the alley. The man looked to be about forty, was dressed in a respectable yet nondescript brown suit of a middleclass everyman, and was wearing a dark brown bowler atop his head. He was large—easily standing over six feet— and had the frame, Levine thought, of an imposing brown bear. He was clean-shaven and had a very stern look about his face—as if he were a father who had come home from work to instill a little discipline in a misbehaving, wayward son.

  Levine looked down and saw that in the stranger’s two hands were a pair of revolvers, one of which had obviously been fired just seconds before.

  “Right…now then,” the man said calmly in the slightly clipped accent of an upper crust Englishman. “Put the clubs down now, and step away from my friends, understand?

  Levine watched as the men looked at each other, and then looked at their leader, who was standing wide-eyed before the Englishman. “Who are you, pal?” the leader asked, gritting his jaw.

  “Me?” the stranger answered. “Why, I’m a man with a gun—or two guns, to be exact, and they’re both pointed at your chest. I would suggest that you heed what I say and depart. Depart quickly, or I shan’t waste my time with you and this grubby lot. I’ll shoot you where you stand like the dogs you are.”

  Levine looked at the leader, who appeared to hesitate for a moment as his minions waited for some sort of an order or command. The leader glanced again at the two revolvers in the stranger’s hands, and then very deliberately and quietly started to move off to the left in the perpendicular alley, nodding his head at his men as if to beckon them, too. The several attackers then dropped their clubs and started to move off in the same direction, with the mysterious Englishman holding his guns at the ready the whole time.

  Soon, the entire gang, including the young girl who had so deviously acted as bait, had disappeared, receding into the darkness of the alley that ran far into the distance, parallel to the street upon which Falconer and Levine had been walking just minutes before. When they were gone, Levine ran over to Falconer, who was struggling to his feet. The Englishman, meanwhile, placed his revolvers in holsters strapped to either side of his chest, and then walked over to Falconer, too.

  “Well, then,” the man said, “that was a close shave, as they say.”

  “Are you all right, detective?” Levine asked desperately. “We should get you to a hospital.”

  “No, no, I’m okay,” Falconer said as he slowly tried to stretch his tall frame up to a full standing position. Levine saw that his face was red and swollen, with blood trailing from his nose and mouth, and Falconer grimaced as he held his ribs and looked up at the man who had rescued them from an almost certain severe beating and perhaps worse fate at the hands of the pack of thugs. “Thanks for dropping by when you did,” he said to the Englishman. “Do we know you?”

  “No, you do not, I’m afraid,” the man replied. “Allow me to introduce myself under these difficult circumstances. Penwill. Charles Penwill,” he said extending his hand. “Investigator with Scotland Yard. But you can call me Charlie.”

  Falconer took Penwill’s hand and shook it, and then Levine did the same, staring incredulously at this urbane Englishman who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere to save their necks from a terrible end.

  “Mind telling us how you just happened to show up when these jackals jumped us?” Falconer asked.

  “Well, yes, it does appear rather suspicious, doesn’t it?” Penwill replied. “I could tell you that I just happened to be walking by this alley while on holiday here in America, and I heard some sort of scrum and thought I’d investigate. But you wouldn’t believe that, would you?”

  “Probably not, inspector,” Falconer replied.

  “Well, then, I suppose it’s time to come clean with you two,” Penwill said, taking out a leather wallet and opening it up to reveal a gold badge. “I am, as mentioned, an inspector with Scotland Yard, and I have for the past several weeks now been shadowing you both—not for any diabolical purpose, of course, but to see if you had come up with anything in your attempts to unmask the true killer of Ms. Brown.”

  “True killer?” Falconer asked. “So, you don’t think Ali did it, either, huh? But why would a cop from England be over here snooping around for clues concerning a murder of a prostitute on the Lower East Side of Manhattan?”

  “Well, detective,” Penwill said, “you very well know that your papers screamed that the Ripper—our Ripper, of course—might possibly have done the deed down at your hotel on Water Street, and so let’s just say that we follow your headlines very closely across the pond, and my superiors thought it a good idea if one of us came over here and…looked into things, as they say. On the sly, of course—no one from your good city knows that I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, sure,” Falconer responded. “So, you’re investigating the East River Hotel murder as part of the Whitechapel investigation. Isn’t that something…I thought you boys had given up on the Ripper.”

  “No, no, we have certainly not,” Penwill said. “But that’s a story for later. Looks like you’ve got a blinker there,” he observed, looking at the bruised flesh that was slowly darkening around one of Falconer’s eyes. “Those bludgers sure got you good, I’m afraid. We should, as the professor said, get you some help.”

  “Yes,” Levine interjected. “Let’s get you to a hospital, detective.”

  “No, that’s not necessary,” Falconer protested. “All I need is a little ice on my head and ribs and I’ll be okay.”

  “Well,” Penwill asked, “where would you like to do that, detective?”

  “My apartment is just up in the fifties. We can go there, if you gentlemen are okay with that?”

  “Certainly, detective,” Penwill answered. “I’m happy to accompany you.”

  “Me, too,” Levine said. “Here, inspector, can you assist?”

  “Certainly,” Penwill said as he moved over to throw one of Falconer’s arms around his shoulder. “Here, detective, let’s just take it slowly, shall we? And how do you all propose that we get up to the fifties? The elevated train, is it?”

  “No,” Falconer grimaced as he tried to straighten up a little more. “Just throw me onto a passing cable car—it won’t take long.”

  “All right then,” Penwill said, “that sounds reasonable. Here we go, lads. But wait—”

  Levine watched as Penwill knelt suddenly and grabbed something on the ground. “Here you are, detective,” he said, brandishing Falconer’s Colt .45 revolver. “I believe this is yours?”

  “Thanks,” Falconer said, taking the revolver and placing it into his shoulder holster. “I almost forgot that.”

  “It’s quite a weapon, detective,” Penwill observed as the three men slowly walked out of the alley. “I believe that’s a ’78, if I’m not mistaken. The ‘Frontier,’ is it not?”

  “That would be the one, inspector,” Falconer replied. “Belonged to my father, so I’d hate to lose it.”

  “I see,” Penwill said. “You’ll have to explain to me sometime how it came into your hands.”

  “And what about you?” Falconer inquired. “You had two in your hands tonight—sounded like a big caliber to me, too.”

  “Webley British Bulldogs, detective,” Penwill answered, showing them one of the revolvers. “Forty-five caliber, small enough to hide in your pocket, but packs an astounding punch. Yes, they’ve been very good to me. Shall we shove off?”

  The men exited the alley and turned left, heading to Broadway and its passing traffic of city cable cars. Reaching an intersection, they waited for a time as Penwill told them of the circumstances of his arrival in the States.

  “Look, here’s a car coming now,” Levine interjected, looking down the long expanse of the avenue. “Let’s take it.”

  The dark, box-like cable car with the moniker, �
�BROADWAY,” painted on its front in large letters chugged slowly up the middle of the thoroughfare along its tracks to where the three men waited with, now, a few other pedestrians. When it finally came to a stop, Levine and Penwill helped Falconer gingerly up the step and over to a row of open seats, where they sat for the slow ride up to the west fifties. On the way, they said nothing, and Levine could see that some of the passengers even appeared to be drowsing in their seats at this late hour. But when he looked over at Penwill, he saw that he sat erect and silent with his eyes shifting back and forth amongst the people on board—as if he were always scanning his surrounding environment—and his hands lay just inches away from the two British Bulldogs that sat hidden at his sides.

  40

  “Here we are—almost there now,” Levine said as he and Penwill helped Falconer up the last few steps to the fourth floor of Falconer’s apartment building. Falconer handed Levine a key and the professor opened the door, leading into the front living room of the modest one-bedroom apartment. As they helped Falconer over to a chair, Levine could see several bookcases lining the walls, a couch, a few chairs, a small imitation fireplace above which was a mantle lined with framed photographs, various exotic items placed around the room that served as décor and appeared to be from other countries, and a small kitchenette off to the side with a small table and a couple of additional chairs. Through a doorway, he could see part of a bed and a small writing desk nearby with another chair.

  Levine grabbed a towel from the kitchenette, wrapped it around some ice that the men had purchased down on the street, and handed it to Falconer, who carefully took it and placed it against his head. As Levine helped Falconer into a chair, he looked over and saw Penwill standing at the mantle, scanning the framed photographs.

  “Who’s the young couple?” Penwill asked Falconer, looking at a photograph of a man and a woman posing in a studio. “Looks like this was during your great Civil War, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Yes, those are my parents right after the war broke out,” Falconer replied. “He was an officer in the New York 69th Regiment and served throughout the war. He was at Appomattox, actually, as a captain, when Lee surrendered.”

  “Ah, the 69th…the famed ‘Irish Brigade,’ correct?” Penwill asked.

  “Very good, inspector,” Falconer answered. “You know your American history.”

  “Well, I served for a time in the Queen’s service, actually,” Penwill explained. “Your war between your states was quite something to us, honestly. I’ve read much about Grant, Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and of course, Mr. Lincoln. Fascinating men, and truly an epic struggle you all had over here.”

  “Were you in the British army?” Levine asked from his chair on the opposite side of the room.

  “Indeed, yes,” Penwill replied, grabbing a cigarette from his breast pocket. “I hope you don’t mind, detective?”

  “Not at all, inspector, go right ahead,” Falconer said.

  Penwill lit his cigarette as he slowly walked around the room telling of his own history.

  “I don’t know quite how it happened, but I ended up in the 24th Foot with a bunch of Welshmen back in ’78—served for a time in Africa.”

  “Africa?” Falconer asked. “If I’m not mistaken, the 24th Regiment fought at Isandhlwana and Rorke’s Drift against the Zulus.”

  “Yes, yes, indeed, we did,” Penwill replied with a smile. “Now you’re the history expert, detective. Quite a row that was, I’m afraid—very messy. And then we served for a time in Gibraltar, India, and Burma—fascinating places, all, but bloody well hot, too. I don’t much miss it.”

  “How did you come to be with Scotland Yard, inspector?” Levine asked.

  “Well, I came home from Burma in ’86,” Penwill said, “and was mustered out. I needed a job, of course, so I thought policing the streets of London would fit in well with my skills at that point. I worked my way up to be inspector, and then the whole Whitechapel thing happened.”

  “Were you a part of the investigation?” Falconer asked.

  “Indeed, I was,” Penwill replied. “I wasn’t one of the lead men on it, of course, but I certainly had my part in it. Still do, obviously.”

  “So, you’re all still on the case, trying to find him even now, three years later,” Falconer stated.

  Penwill stopped in his tracks and turned to face the men. “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, detective. We have never given up on the trail of the Whitechapel killer. He may think that we’ve given up, but he would be very much mistaken in that assumption. We will track him down, gentlemen, until the ends of the earth if we must. That’s why I’m here, as I mentioned earlier. Your East River Hotel killer could be our boy striking again, and I intend to find out if that’s the case.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you’re probably not going to get much help from my department, inspector,” Falconer said. “They convicted the Algerian, Ali, and as far as they’re concerned, the case is closed.”

  “But you’re not convinced and you’re going it alone, detective?” Penwill inquired. “With the professor’s help, of course?”

  “That’s the idea, inspector,” Falconer replied, adjusting the towel of ice in his hands and then placing it against his ribs. “Our chief inspector, Byrnes, told me to knock off my snooping around and to let it go because they had their man, so I’ve been doing this on my own time. Haven’t made much progress, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, indulge me, detective—I have the time tonight, if you do,” Penwill said, sitting down in a chair. “Tell me what you have so far.”

  “Professor, you okay if I go through this for a bit?” Falconer asked Levine. “You have to be anywhere soon?”

  “Not at all—please,” Levine replied, taking off his jacket and hanging it around the back of his chair.

  Falconer then recounted his days looking into the murder of Carrie Brown after Ameer Ben Ali had been arrested—examining the murder scene high atop the East River Hotel, journeying out to Blackwell’s Island with Detective Dysert, studying the history of the Whitechapel killer, scouring the crime scene in the alleyway near the Hotel Imperial where Ms. Mallory had been abducted, finding the gold cufflink with the exotic flying dragon etched upon it—everything that Falconer could remember about his strange, quixotic mission to unearth what he felt was the truth behind the slaying of Miss Brown. Levine and Penwill sat listening closely in their seats until Falconer closed out his summation with his recounting of why they came to be in the alley where he was suddenly attacked by the gang of thugs earlier in the evening. “So that’s where we are,” Falconer concluded. “Not very solid, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, it is something, detective,” Penwill replied. “And I think you are on to something here. I think you are on to him, detective.”

  “Him?” Falconer queried. “You think I’m getting close to your actual Whitechapel killer—to Jack the Ripper?”

  “I do, detective,” Penwill answered calmly. “And why not? Miss Brown’s killing had all the hallmarks of his handiwork, and then there’s the message in the closet out on Blackwell’s—‘That’s Two’—and the attempt on Miss Mallory that began with a strangulation before she escaped. It all aligns well with our killer over in London, and as you are aware, your chief inspector pretty much well dared the Ripper to come over here and try to test him. I personally believe the Ripper has done exactly that, gentlemen, and…”

  “And what?” Falconer asked.

  “And, unfortunately,” Penwill said, “your department and the city has essentially closed out the case, throwing it all at Ali’s feet. And these subsequent attacks will be seen simply as coincidental attacks perpetrated by common ruffians whom, as you know, can be found on every street corner in a big city. Does that about sum it up?”

  “Yes, it does,” Falconer answered. “So where does that leave us, inspector?”

  “Well,” Penwill said, “we’re on our own. So, we band together—you, me, and the good professor here—and we do what we can
. We conduct our own investigation in the shadows, we let the killer think that he’s gotten away scot-free, and then try to spring our own trap on him.”

  Levine looked at Falconer, who looked back at him and shrugged.

  “Well, I’m all for it, inspector,” Falconer replied, “but I’m not sure how to go about doing that. This character has proven slippery, and he hasn’t left us much to go on. He could go after another victim at any moment anywhere in this city, and we have no idea how to stop it.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s true,” Penwill said. “So, unfortunately, I believe that it will take another victim, or maybe even more, to give us an opportunity to track him down. And I know that that’s not an appetizing thought, but it is what it is.”

  “So where are you staying?” Falconer asked, changing the subject. “How can I keep in contact with you?”

  “I’ve got a little room down at the Occidental on Bowery and Broome,” Penwill answered. “Not much to speak of, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine—not far from my station,” Falconer said. “You can communicate with me there, at the Oak Street station, and I presume I can leave messages with you at your hotel in your name?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” Penwill replied, “but please be a good chap and leave out the ‘inspector’ part, if you don’t mind—it helps me to keep a low profile, as they say.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “Meanwhile, I’ll try to get over this beating that I took tonight, and we can all agree to meet in, what—does a few days sound all right?”

  “Fine with me,” Penwill said. “Professor?”

  “Certainly,” Levine said. “Early evenings are a little better, though, because of my lectures and all.”

  “Well, that settles it then,” Penwill said, getting up from his chair. “We’ve got our own little detail now—the Ripper detail,” he added, smiling.