by James Carnac
In the morning, when I was taking a late breakfast, my landlady burst into the room. She was panting and the normal mauve of her complexion had changed to a pasty white.
“Oh my Lord, sir!” she said in a kind of intense whisper. And, sinking into a chair, she began thumping her chest as though with the intention of counteracting her asthmatic breathing. “Oh my Lord, sir!”
“Whatever is the matter, Mrs.—?” I enquired; and again a thrill of uneasiness ran through me.
“Another of them poor creatures was cut to bits last night, sir!” she cried.
I was puzzled; how did she know that already? The affair had been too late, I felt certain, to gain notice in the morning papers.
“The milkman’s just told me,” she went on. “And they say—but there, I can’t tell you what they say has been done to her, sir!”
She paused, while I continued to wonder at her extraordinary distress.
“But that’s not the worst, sir!” she continued. And she made stabbing motions towards the ceiling, trying to muster her breath. “He—he was out all night! And what do you think; I went to his bed-room to tidy up, and his left-off shirt and handkerchief are soaked in blood, sir! Soaked!”
I stared at my landlady, and the thought passed through my mind that my innocent-looking lodger was, perhaps, afflicted by a craving similar to my own. And that he was plagiarizing me. But I dismissed it as preposterous. The coincidence that such a fellow-worker should be living in the same house was not one to be entertained. I guessed the explanation of the blood.
“What on earth shall I do, sir?” my landlady asked. “I can never live in the same house with a homicidal lunatic!” (She had got that phrase pretty pat.) “Do you think I ought to tell a policeman? Thank Heavens I’ve got another man in the house!”
“Is he up there?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. It’s his Saturday morning off.”
“Very well,” I said, rising. “I’ll go up and look into this!” And I went up.
My fellow-lodger was taking his breakfast, and when I taxed him with committing atrocities in the East End, and wagged my finger at him reproachfully, he was first aghast then, when I had explained, highly amused. It appeared that, as I had guessed, his nose had bled badly as a result, he thought, of his unusual exertions in walking the long distance home. We both roared with laughter; he thought I was a great wag.
It was really a good joke, but my landlady could not be persuaded to see it. I think she still felt slightly suspicious that she was harbouring the “Whitechapel Murderer.”
Chapter 21
The Hanbury Street affair took place in the early morning of Saturday, September 8th, and on the Monday following I awoke to find myself famous. Until that morning I had not fully realized the amount of interest and speculation which had been aroused by the George-yard and Bucks Row cases; but on opening my usual paper on this morning I gathered that the whole nation had been working itself into a pitch of mild excitement over these in association with the assault upon Emma Smith in April. The identity of the unknown craftsman appeared to be the question of the day.
I had not been prepared for this wave of interest though reflection showed me that I should have been prepared for it; for the smug and respectable British public loves nothing so much as a mysterious murder, particularly a murder which carries with it a suggestion of eroticism. Yet I will admit that when I savoured this unlooked-for publicity I experienced a thrill.
The satisfaction derived by many persons from any kind of public notice, be it in the form of fame or notoriety, is not, perhaps, such a curious phenomenon. Most of us like to talk about ourselves; to each of us there is nobody so important as “I.” To read about that “I” in a public print, to realize that one has attributes sufficiently distinctive from other members of the common herd to warrant mention in a paper printed for the interest and entertainment of many thousands, provides a peculiar pleasure to certain types of mind. The actress gloating over the critic’s reference to her over-night performance; “Paterfamilias” chuckling over his witty letter published in the “From our Readers” column; the man pridefully clipping from the newspaper the smudgy portrait of himself appended to his testimony regarding the virtues of Somebody’s Skin Ointment—all are moved by the same kind of reaction. They are all possessed by a form of superiority complex.
And I am doubtless similarly possessed, for I was thrilled when I read my newspapers on that particular morning; I was unable to enjoy the full measure of satisfaction since I could not hoard my “press-cuttings” and exhibit them negligently to friends. I could not even cut out the accounts and paste them into a scrap-book; it would have been indiscreet. Nevertheless, the thrill was there. Whether it was engendered solely by the accounts of my doings, or whether it was due to my feeling of being the sole possessor of an exciting secret—the knowledge that I alone, of all the millions of my fellows, KNEW the identity of this mysterious individual—I cannot say.
In the course of my reading I was startled to find that a police-description of the “wanted man” had been issued, based upon information supplied by someone who saw a man entering the Hanbury Street premises in the early morning of the 8th September. But my momentary uneasiness gave way to relief when I read:
Description of a man wanted who entered a passage of the house at which the murder of a prostitute was committed at 2. a.m. on September 8th. Age 37; height 5ft. 7in.; rather dark beard and moustache. Dress, dark jacket, dark vest and trousers; black scarf and black felt hat. Spoke with a foreign accent.
I knew then that the giver of the information had not seen me; the height agreed, and I was dressed in dark clothes, but I was clean shaven and I do not speak with a “foreign accent.” I was to learn later that there was no dearth of persons able to give information to the police on the matter of my identity, and I believe that such is usually the case when a notorious malefactor is “wanted”; most of my readers will be able to recall that a wealth of information was forthcoming as to the whereabouts of my late colleague, Dr. Crippen.
Wherever possible the police appear to have been diligent in acting upon information, and this is well illustrated in the matter of the unfortunate “Leather Apron.” When I first read of this man in the newspapers I supposed him to be a figment of hysterical imagination, but I learned later that he actually existed. He was a Polish Jew named Pizer and was probably a harmless individual, if an eccentric one. He was said to walk about Whitechapel wearing a leather apron and brandishing a knife; it was also said that his appearance was ferocious, that he was often soiled with blood, that he terrorized women, and so on and so forth. Such an original character was bound to arouse suspicion at that period of hysteria. The police arrested him and, in fact, produced him at the inquest on Mrs. Chapman where he was questioned by the coroner; but, of course, he was ultimately released.
Pizer was but one of many arrested at this time; if my memory serves me it was on the 9th that the great round-up of suspects commenced. On that first day alone quite a considerable number of persons were detained and questioned, and within a few days the number had swollen to several dozens. One poor neurotic even came forward and gave himself up as the author of the “atrocities,” but a little investigation soon convinced the police that he was perfectly innocent—in that connection, at least.
I chuckled at first, but presently I became slightly awed as the excitement grew more intense. I felt rather like a man who has given a push to an unattached cart standing on top of a hill; and now the cart was progressing on its way, increasing its velocity and causing the wildest consternation not only to those in its path but to mere lookers-on. And the bottom of the hill was not in sight.
Needless to say I was mainly concerned with this wave of popular feeling in estimating its bearing upon my own safety. Would the extraordinary notoriety accorded to me, as the Unknown, increase my risk of discovery? I thought the matter ove
r and decided it would not. Had I been less level-headed, I might have been overcome by panic, for it is a fearsome thought that a whole population, urged and inflamed by the unreasoning herd instinct, is thirsting for one’s blood. However, a mob must have an actual objective: a Bastille to sack, a Negro to lynch. It cannot launch itself against an abstraction, and I was little more than an abstraction. I must not confuse that which would happen to me if the outraged citizenry laid hands upon me, with the likelihood of its being able to do so. Insofar as my past exploits were concerned, since I had not been seen, had left no personal traces and had acted with an entire lack of motive (as that term is commonly understood), how could it matter whether my identity was being speculated upon by thirty-thousand policemen or ten-million amateur policemen? Clearly the numerical factor had no bearing whatever.
So much for the past; but what of the future? This was a different matter, for when it comes to watching, ten pairs of eyes are more efficient than one. They can focus between them on a larger area. If I continued my operations I should be moving in an alert, hostile country; I should be plunging into an area in which everyone was waiting and watching for me. Every window, every street corner, might harbour a lurking and enthusiastic spy. No mean achievement to get through that cordon!
I read in my newspaper that a number of public-spirited East Enders had formed themselves into “Vigilance Committees” for the purpose of patrolling the streets during the hours of darkness. I read of the supine incompetency of the police which rendered such precautions necessary; but somehow I did not quite believe in that alleged incompetency; I felt fairly certain that the police were working steadily with mole-like efficiency even if they omitted to boast about it.
However, the newspapers pointed out, in so many words, that in the matter of the Whitechapel Murderer the police were clearly broken reeds; unkind things were said about them. The Commissioner was a retired General, but even the glory of his past vocation did not save him from epithets and innuendoes of a regrettable kind. The very Home Secretary himself was not spared.
I read all this and more, for pages could be filled with an account of the wave of excitement caused by the Whitechapel Atrocities; such waves do ride over our civilization at times, though they are usually due to a war or a football match. I have neither the time nor the inclination to give a more detailed account, but I cannot refrain from touching upon the “comic relief” furnished by the bloodhounds. Bloodhounds were suggested by some bright mind as being peculiarly fitted to the task of tracking down the Whitechapel Murderer. The mere idea of employing bloodhounds in Whitechapel is funny, but the outcome was funnier still. For the grotesque idea caught on to the ignorant public mind, and the clamour for bloodhounds became insistent. In order to quieten this clamour (presumably), bloodhounds were produced; they were tried out on Tooting Common before being loosed in the Whitechapel area. But the ingenuous hounds missed this opportunity of fame by getting lost; in fact, they got lost so thoroughly that the Police Stations had to be advised before they were recovered. Very amusing.
—
But, again, what of the future? Should I take the enormously increased risk attendant upon a continuation of my operations? I hesitated; and the Voice—the mystical “X.,” again became insistent.
I say mystical, but not mysterious. He was no longer that, for I knew his personality; had I not been granted a sight of him on that dreadful night when I had parted from Julia? And that first meeting must have been something like a conventional introduction for now he seemed no longer diffident about coming forward. He was no longer a mere Voice—he was a definite, visible presence.
On several occasions X. appeared in my sitting-room. I was intrigued when this first happened, but I was not alarmed. I was also extraordinarily interested. I am not proposing to offer any explanation of this; I have my views, and the reader may form his. I only recount that which happened.
He was always clothed as I had first seen him, in tight-fitting black, and he always carried his coil of hard, black cord. He had a partiality for one special chair in my sitting-room, a deep arm-chair with a low, sagging seat. He would compose himself in this, his long, bony legs crossed, his elbows resting on the wings of the chair, and his finger-tips pressed together. His coil of rope he either hung on the back of a chair or dropped carelessly on the floor.
He was an entertaining but cynical conversationalist, and he spoke in an ordinary colloquial manner; his origin may have been mediaeval, but his speech and outlook were perfectly modern. I quite looked forward to his brief visits.
He always opened the conversation in the same manner. “I’m damned tired,” he would say, sinking into his chair. “Had a busy day.” And he would go on to tell me the details of that day. I do not think it politic to repeat any of these, for this is a weak-stomached generation.
“And when are you going to work again, young fellow?” he would say, eyeing me with a grin.
During the period when I was hesitating as to the wisdom of penetrating again to the East End, I put my doubts before him. He listened with an indulgent smile, and then waved away my objections. “Yes,” he said, “it may seem risky to you; but, you see, the point is that you will not be caught.”
“You mean, you know I shan’t be caught?” I asked, curiously.
“You—will—not—be—caught,” he repeated, slowly and distinctly, pointing a finger at me.
Was I reassured by this? I think I was. Without pursuing a matter which may strike the stolid, unimaginative reader as grotesque, I may say that my chats with X. certainly did much to decide me. I resolved to continue my operations.
Chapter 22
On Saturday, September 29th, I set out upon another expedition. My previous plan of leaving my lodgings after Mrs. D. had retired to bed had proved so successful that I repeated it; but I did not wait until such a late hour, for now that I knew the East End was an armed and watchful camp I could no longer rely upon the normal settling down of the inhabitants. The success of my exploit must now depend upon my own resource and ingenuity, and it was therefore desirable that I should allow myself time in which to spy out the land.
I left home just before eleven, for my landlady went early to her room and my fellow-lodger was passing the week-end with some friends.
I soon perceived that the newspaper reports of the watchful activity in Whitechapel were greatly exaggerated. There certainly seemed to be more police about, but I saw no one who seemed likely to be a member of the Vigilance Committees; at least there were no indications of an organized patrolling of the streets. There seemed, in fact, to be fewer people about than usual; possibly the menace of the Unknown had developed a discretion which had urged many to remain indoors.
I met the woman whose name I afterward learned was Mrs. Stride near a fruit stall in Berners Street. She accosted me in the usual terms and then suggested that I should buy her some grapes. I was not, at that early hour, actually looking for my subject; nevertheless, acting upon impulse, I stopped and spoke to her. And we moved over to the fruit stall where I bought half a pound of grapes.
I caught the stall-keeper’s eye upon me as he passed the paper bag over to me. It was not a suspicious, but a contemplative eye; yet it sent a sudden pang of uneasiness through me. I knew that I had been stupidly reckless in courting his notice. The woman at my side was certainly impossible as a subject; she and I had been seen together.
We walked away down the street together, she munching from the bag she held, I pacing thoughtfully at her side. I did not regard her as a possible subject, but it occurred to me that if I had to walk the streets for long, I was no more conspicuous with her than I should have been as a solitary prowler.
The memory of that early evening is somewhat hazy; I cannot recall exactly where we went, but I recollect our sitting under an archway while the woman talked in a rambling way of her affairs. She spoke with a foreign accent which I was, at the time, una
ble to identify; I thought she was probably a Dane, though it turned out afterward that she was a Scandinavian. She told me, amongst other things, that she had had two children, both of whom had been drowned in the Princess Alice disaster. I listened sympathetically to her discourse; I felt sympathetic, for she struck me as being extraordinarily miserable. And I think it was this realization which decided me to ignore my earlier pang of nervousness at the fruiterer’s glance, and to make this woman my subject. Here was clearly one who had nothing to hope for from life.
I abruptly rose to my feet. “Come along,” I said, “it’s cold here.” This might be the woman but it was certainly not the place. Several people had passed while we had been sitting there, and although we were in shadow and I had no fear of subsequent recognition, the risk of operating there was too great for me to take. The woman must lead me to a better spot.
She struggled to her feet, still clutching her paper bag with the remnant of the grapes, and we resumed our walk.
Presently we found ourselves again in Berner Street; the woman looked hastily around the deserted street and then turned suddenly into an alley, motioning me to follow. I did so and saw in the semi-obscurity a large gate. I paused momentarily as I caught sight of this, for there was something more. Leaning negligently against the gate was the black figure of X. As our eyes met, he pulled himself upright and made a grotesque, scraping bow, motioning towards the half-open gateway as he did so. Then he vanished into the black aperture. The woman appeared to have seen nothing; she took my sleeve and drew me beyond the gate into a dark yard.
At a spot near the gateway she sank down against a grimy wall and a rustling of the paper bag informed me that she was finishing her grapes. I sat down beside her and watched curiously as she ate the fruit, crunching the skin and spitting the seeds on to the ground around her. The sight and the attendant sounds suddenly aroused in me a rush of irritation; deliberately I rose to my feet. The woman paused in her eating and looked up at me in surprise, a grape held half-way to her mouth. Before she had time to guess my purpose I bent down and grasped her by the throat. Her eyes widened so that a rim of white surrounded the pupils; her mouth slopped open, disclosing a mass of half-chewed grapes and, dropping the paper bag, she clutched my wrist. Then her staring eyes shifted from my face to my right hand groping in my breast-pocket. I tightened my hold as I felt the muscles of her throat writhing beneath my hand in an effort to scream; then I pulled out my scalpel and plunged it into her neck. She collapsed and sank to the ground as I released my grip.