‘I think you pulled it out of your hat to deceive the lady into thinking Robbins is the one we’re after, and that Basil’s in the clear,’ said Ross.
‘Glad to know you’re up with me, my lad. Very refreshing. The lady, I’d say, will now let Basil know it’s safe to come home to her bosom. He’s under the surface somewhere. As soon as we get back to the Yard, arrange for the house to be watched from this evening onwards. The moment Basil’s return is reported, we’ll pay another call, this time with a search warrant, which will help us look for a very sharp knife and Flanagan’s handbag.’
‘And if there’s no such knife or handbag, guv, and he comes up with an alibi?’
‘Don’t make me fret, sunshine, tell me another Scotch joke.’
‘Under the circumstances,’ said Ross, as they stood on the corner of Medway Road, looking for a cab, ‘I don’t feel jokes are in order. Still, did you hear about the suicidal Scotsman who broke into the house next door to gas himself?’
‘Well, I’ve heard about him now,’ said Dobbs, ‘but don’t mention him again.’
They took a cab to Trafalgar Square and found a pub that provided them with a sandwich each, a glass of beer for Ross and a whisky for the Chief Inspector, who said his need for it was greater than his need for any more jokes, Scotch or otherwise.
‘Well, you’ve got your own kind of Scotch, guv,’ said Ross, ‘and that’s not a joke, that’s a world-wide medicine highly esteemed.’
‘Stop showing off,’ said Dobbs, and wondered how Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham were progressing in Whitechapel. His bet was nowhere.
Chapter Twelve
THE MAN WHO looked and spoke like a professional gentleman was again out and about at lunchtime. He approached a pub off the Strand, stopped, pushed the door open and looked in. The place offered to the eye a typical picture of polished mahogany, mirrors, glassware, an array of bottles containing whisky, gin, brandy or other spirits, and couched beer barrels. A painting of Sir Henry Irving hung on a wall, and the place was crowded with people who looked like Bohemian men and women of the theatre. The gentleman was tempted to put himself among them, but felt his ears would be dinned by the loud buzz of many voices. He let the door swing back and retraced his steps, electing for a restaurant in the Strand, which offered a different picture, one of colour and elegance. Not that he responded to colour and elegance at the moment, no, hardly at all. It was the fog-infested streets of Whitechapel at night that quickened him.
He enjoyed a quick one-course lunch, not allowing himself to be distracted in any way by the striking tableaux of beautifully dressed women seated beneath their hugely round hats. One could have said they were seated under feathered canopies. His interest in them was lukewarm, however, for he had in mind an encounter with a woman quite different from any of these, a woman whom he had chanced upon more than once in the mist and fog of Whitechapel.
He mused very pleasantly on prospects, while still warm with satisfaction at the effectiveness of last night’s swift strike. He finished his meal, paid his bill, and when he re-emerged into the Strand he was a gentleman who looked warmly handsome with well-being. The Strand was choked with horse-drawn traffic and alive with the shouts and noisy impatience of cabbies and the drivers of carts. A huge beer dray, pulled by a shaggy, strong-legged four, was impeded by a standing kerbside barrow laden with polished apples and pears. The vendor, flat-capped and aproned, had been selling to passing Saturday shop workers who fancied taking some fruit back to their places of employment for afternoon munching. He was now trying for a quick getaway push, with the driver of the dray bellowing at him. He had spotted approaching representatives of the law, two police constables. On they came, and the gentleman from the restaurant almost walked into them.
‘Ah, so sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m not looking where I’m going.’ The constables nodded in acknowledgement, then walked smartly up to the vendor to have several words with him. The gentleman stood where he was, listening.
‘It’s you again, Fruity, and right in front of my eyes,’ said one constable.
‘’Ello, ’ows yerself, officer? And yer can’t nab me, I ain’t standing’, I’m movin’, as yer can see. Fruit barrers that ain’t stationary but is movin’ with the traffic is legal. ’Ere, and something oughter be done about this traffic and the size of it. It’s near drownin’ me barrer. A barrer’s got rights on ’Er Majesty’s ’ighways, yer know.’
‘Not when it’s causing an obstruction,’ said the second constable, ‘so keep yours moving.’
‘Course I will, bless yer lawful ’eart. Me and me missus’ll see yer at the policemen’s ball with yer lady wives for a knees-up, eh?’
‘Hoppit, Fruity.’
‘I am, ain’t I? But could yer do something about that there beer dray that’s tryin’ to climb up me back?’
‘Hoppit.’
The cocky vendor and his barrow moved on. The gentleman smiled and began a saunter, thinking about a recently published book that was an attempt to theorize on the mysteries of minds that plotted murder.
Misty darkness cut short the winter afternoon, and by four all the street lamps were alight south and north of the river. Mr Pritchard accordingly was home by five. Damned if a minute later a knock on his front door didn’t herald the arrival of Scotland Yard’s nosiest pair of flatfooters.
’Ere, what’s the game?’ he growled.
‘Game, Mr Pritchard?’ said Chief Inspector Dobbs. ‘What game?’
‘Your bleedin’ game,’ said Mr Pritchard with bruising frankness.
‘You’re trying to tell me a murder investigation is on a par with hopscotch?’ said Dobbs mildly.
‘No, course I bleedin’ ain’t,’ muttered Mr Pritchard. ‘I’m just sayin’ I ain’t in favour of you comin’ after me like this. Why ain’t yer gettin’ after the bloke that done a Ripper job on a Whitechapel female last night?’
‘We happen to be still after the person who finished off your lodger, Maureen Flanagan,’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Blimey, more questions?’ growled Mr Pritchard.
‘There are a few,’ said Dobbs.
‘Oh, all right, come in, then, but me missus ain’t goin’ to like it.’
Mrs Pritchard didn’t like it one bit, especially as the interview took place in the cold parlour in the light of a single gas mantle. The parlour was her husband’s choice, and she hoped the coldness of the room would discourage these policeman from overstaying their welcome.
Her red face blanched when the Chief Inspector opened the proceedings by informing her husband that it was now known he had definitely been out on the night of the murder. In the Borough Arms, where he was served beer.
‘It’s unfortunate for you, Mrs Pritchard, that you stated otherwise. Very unfortunate. Dear, dear, eh? What a mess.’
‘It’s a bleedin’ lie, I was ’ere all evenin’,’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘It’ll work against you, sir, and your wife, if you don’t come up with the truth,’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Oh, yer stupid man,’ said Mrs Pritchard, ‘you’ll ’ave to tell ’em now, or get yerself in real trouble.’
‘Well, sod it,’ said Mr Pritchard. ‘Well, all bloody right,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t kill Maureen, and that’s the truth to start with.’
‘Well, let’s have the rest, shall we? said Dobbs affably.
Mr Pritchard delivered himself of a large number of words. All right, yes, he had taken a fancy to Maureen, and he went up to her room that evening to see if she wanted any little odd job done, and to try his luck. He’d told his wife he was going to take up part of Miss Flanagan’s lino that was worn and replace it for her. Well, she didn’t want any odd jobs done, she was dressed for going out, and she didn’t think much of him trying his luck with her, not even for ten bob.
‘You at your age, you ought to be ashamed, a respectable woman like Flanagan,’ broke in Mrs Pritchard. ‘I’m ashamed meself.’
‘Leave it, will yer?’ said Mr Pritchard, and con
tinued.
The fact was, he took hold of Maureen, trying his luck with her a bit closer, like, and saying she had time to be nice to him before she went out, didn’t she? She kneed him in the belly and hit him with her handbag. She let him know she was a hard-working and respectable laundress, and with that she went straight downstairs and complained to his wife.
‘That’s correct, Mrs Pritchard?’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Oh, lor’, yes, she complained all right,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘Me ’usband come down ’isself and tried to make out he ’adn’t meant no ’arm, but Flanagan said she wasn’t goin’ to ’ave ’er reputation ruined by ’im. So we – well, we said she could ’ave ’er room rent-free for the next two weeks, which was worth seven bob to ’er, and I said I ’oped the bit of trouble wouldn’t go no farther. She said she’d accept that bit of recompense, like, and went back up to ’er room.’
‘What time did she go out?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Well, she was all ready to go, dressed in ’er nice winter coat and ’at, but we didn’t ’ear ’er leave. Well, we—’ Mrs Pritchard hesitated.
‘Well what, Mrs Pritchard?’ asked Ross.
‘I was goin’ it ’ammer and tongs with Ted, givin’ ’is ears a beltin’ to learn ’im manners, and ’e was tryin’ to shut me up by hollering at me. Oh, gawd, I never thought then that we’d seen the last of Maureen Flanagan, I never thought she was lyin’ dead all night in Tooley Street.’
‘Mrs Pritchard, I want you to think very carefully before you answer my next question,’ said Dobbs.
‘Yes, all right,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘You can understand why we didn’t give yer the right answers before, we thought you might think me ’usband had ’is own back on Flanagan by waitin’ for ’er that night, and – and cuttin’ ’er throat.’
‘Which I didn’t, and that’s me oath on it,’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘Mrs Pritchard,’ said Dobbs, ‘exactly what time did your husband get back from the pub?’
‘Oh, before ten,’ said Mrs Pritchard.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, it’s gawd’s truth.’
‘And what did he look like?’
‘Eh?’
‘In what condition were his clothes?’
‘Same as always, of course – oh, yer rotten copper, yer tryin’ to make me say they were all over blood.’ Mrs Pritchard swelled up. ‘Well, they wasn’t, and you can look at all ’is clothes and mine as well, in our wardrobe, if yer want. Me ’usband might ’ave upset Flanagan, but ’e didn’t kill her. You’re worrying me something chronic, you are.’
‘I suppose this is unpleasant for all of us,’ said Dobbs.
‘Don’t make me cry me eyes out,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘it ain’t unpleasant for you like it is for me and me missus. It’s a job to you, and you ain’t goin’ to lose no sleep if you put the wind up every poor bleeder you talk to. You’ve give me missus a bloody ’ard time, you ’ave.’
‘I don’t think I did, Mr Pritchard,’ said Dobbs, ‘I think you did, from the moment you decided to try your luck with Maureen Flanagan.’
‘Leave off, will yer?’ muttered Mr Pritchard.
‘One last question,’ said Dobbs. ‘Was Miss Flanagan wearing her scarf?’
‘Yes, so she was, I remember now,’ said Mrs Pritchard.
‘I think that’s all, don’t you, Sergeant Ross?’ said Dobbs.
‘We can always come back, guv, if we’ve missed anything,’ said Ross.
‘Oh, gawd, you ain’t goin’ to come back again, are yer?’ begged Mrs Pritchard.
‘Not as things are at the moment,’ said Dobbs. ‘I don’t want to sound too much like a policeman, but the fact is straightforward stuff pays better than fairy stories. Fairy stories lead us up the garden and make me late home for my supper. Well, we’ll let you get on with yours. We’ll see ourselves out. Goodnight.’
On their way to London Bridge, with mist dampening the air over the river and the night in its first stages of poor visibility, Sergeant Ross said, ‘If Maureen Flanagan hadn’t wanted to keep up a front of respectability, Pritchard might have had some return for his ten bob.’
‘You think so?’ said Dobbs. ‘I’ve a feeling she wasn’t a ten-bob touch, particularly as she was contracted to a West End pimp.’
‘I noticed you didn’t suggest searching Pritchard’s house for a knife and a handbag, guv. You’re putting him in the clear now?’
‘Not a hundred per cent,’ said Dobbs. ‘There’s still something that doesn’t satisfy me.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I wish I knew,’ said Dobbs. ‘All I do know is that I’m beginning to suspect Maureen Flanagan was murdered this side of the river. It won’t stand up, my lad, a carrying job over a bridge to Tooley Street. Didn’t I say before that she’d have been dropped in the river?’
‘How about if her pimp brought her home, had a hell of a row with her on the way, and simply did for her somewhere? How about if he then mopped up the blood and then dumped her in Tooley Street?’
‘Why would he do that, mop up the blood and take her to Tooley Street?’ asked Dobbs, as they began to cross London Bridge. Embankment lights and dockside lights were beginning to dim in the rising mist. ‘Let’s say he did the job. It wouldn’t have mattered where Flanagan was found south of the bridge. In the West End somewhere, yes, that would have pointed a finger at him.’
‘I think we’ve got two cut-throats,’ said Ross. ‘Either Pritchard or Basil Gottfried for the Tooley Street murder, and a different bloke for the Whitechapel one. And I’d say the Whitechapel bugger did a copy-cat job.’
‘And I’d say you’re close to being correct, my lad. Well done. I’m appreciative of an assistant who’s as close as you are to being all present and correct. Well, let’s get back to the Yard and see if anything has come out of Whitechapel.’
Constable Fred Billings, along with many other uniformed men, had had a taxing day, helping CID officers in the plodding work of conducting enquiries. The people of Whitechapel were far more forthcoming than they were were normally. Normally, as soon as they found coppers at their doors, they were inclined to shut those doors with a bang before a single question could be asked. Further, their kids threw orange peel at first sight of a helmet. Some kids, who always ate whatever orange peel came their way, threw kipper skeletons or mouldy cabbages picked out of the gutters.
The general attitude of these desperately hard-up people was different today, even if many of them had recently been involved in a battle with what they saw as the uniformed army controlled by factory bosses. An unacceptable type of murder had been perpetrated last night, and they wanted the villain caught and hanged. Their answers to questions were the fanciful kind of the over-helpful.
‘Yes, I ’eard some screams, just like those of a pore woman bein’ done in.’
‘What time was this?’
‘I dunno, I was in me bed, wasn’t I? Them screams woke me up. They’d ’ave woken anyone up, includin’ Old Nick ’isself.’
‘You sure, missus? They weren’t heard by people in the house itself.’
‘Bleedin’ deaf lot, then. And when I got out of me bed and looked out of me winder, there ’e was, running, a great big bloke with a carvin’ knife.’
‘You saw him from yer window, with a carvin’ knife, missus? In the darkness and through the fog?’
‘’Orrible, ’e looked, so did ’is knife.’
Then there were those who swore the murderer had run past their doors waving a blood-stained razor, their descriptions of him varying from a crooked hunchback to a tall and bearded monster.
Fred and his colleague received no real help at all, only a large amount of wishful thinking. Similarly negative results were the lot of all the other uniformed men. For that matter, Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham fared no better during the morning and most of the afternoon. Residents who claimed to have seen a skulking figure in last night’s fog around the time in question, were all n
aturally inclined to believe they had glimpsed the coming or going of the Ripper. Inspector Davis let them know in no uncertain terms that the murder was not the work of the Ripper. The Ripper was dead. There were caustic responses to that.
‘So’s yer Aunt Fanny.’
‘Come out of ’is grave last night, did ’e, then?’
‘Well, you coppers might think ’e’s passed on to ’is friend, Old Nick, but as yer never caught ’im and didn’t know who ’e was, yer talkin’ like an ignoramus, ain’t yer?’
‘The Ripper’s dead? That’s me grandmother over there, and she’s splittin’ ’er sides.’
Inspector Davis and Sergeant Swettenham knew they were up against the problem posed by the darkness and the fog of last night, and the fact that the deed had been done inside the house, with the front door almost certainly closed. And it had been done silently, if the people in the brothel were to be believed. So far, the CID men had found no-one who’d witnessed the encounter between victim and murderer, and no-one who’d seen a man emerging from the house at the relevant time. Nor had any such possible witness come forward. Sergeant Swettenham suggested it might be worth considering the owners of the brothel house as suspects. That’s worth sweet Fanny Adams, said Inspector Davis, since Charlie Dobbs cleared them at the time.
‘And where’s the ruddy motive, eh?’ he said sourly.
‘Search me,’ said Sergeant Swettenham.
‘It’s goin’ to give the Chief Inspector grey hairs, all this belief that the Ripper’s come back,’ said Davis.
‘Nor won’t he like it if the Chief Superintendent takes over,’ said Swettenham. ‘Bit of an unlucky come-down that’ll be after last month, when he ’ad the newspapers paying ’im compliments for the way he showed the Old Bailey just how William Good had poisoned his wife.’
‘We all suffer hard luck,’ said Davis, ‘but I don’t want to suffer too much on this case meself. Come on, keep goin’.’
It was towards the end of the afternoon when they were in Underwood Street, north of Whitechapel Road, that a slatternly woman came running after them.
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