Holmes fixed his brother with an angry eye. “You must indeed feel that I have lost my faculties, Mycroft! It of course suggests that they are one and the same.”
On that note, we left the Diogenes Club.
Ellery’s Nemesis Investigates
The apartment bell was a carved rosebud set in ivory leaves. Grant Ames jabbed it, and the result was a girl wearing poisonous-green lounging pajamas.
“Hello, Madge. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so here I am.”
She glowed. That thinly patrician male face reminded her of a very big dollar sign. “And so you thought you’d drop in?” she said, making it sound like Einstein’s first formulation of the Theory; and she threw the door so wide it cracked against the wall.
Grant moved warily forward. “Nice little nest you’ve got here.”
“It’s just an ordinary career gal’s efficiency apartment. I combed the East Side, absolutely combed it. And finally found this. It’s sickeningly expensive, but of course one wouldn’t dare live anywhere but Upper East.”
“I didn’t know you’d gone in for a career.”
“Oh, definitely. I’m a consultant. You drink scotch, don’t you?”
It behooved a legman to follow through, Grant thought. He asked brightly, “And with whom do you consult?”
“The public relations people at the factory.”
“The one your father owns, of course.”
“Of course.”
Madge Short was a daughter of Short’s Shapel Shoes, but with three brothers and two sisters to share the eventual loot. She wagged her pert red head as she extended a scotch-and.
“And the factory is located——?”
“In Iowa.”
“You commute?”
“Silly! There’s a Park Avenue office.”
“You surprise me, dear heart. I see you in a different role.”
“As a bride?” Two outstanding young breasts lifted the poisonous green like votive offerings.
“God, no,” Grant said hurriedly. “I visualize you somewhere in the literary field.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
Grant had checked the room. There were no books in sight—no magazines, either—but that wasn’t necessarily conclusive.
“I see you as reading a great deal, chickie. A bit of a bookworm, so to speak.”
“In this day and age? Wherever would one get the time?”
“Oh, one wedges it in here and there.”
“I do read some. Sex and the Single——”
“I’m a detective bug myself. Father Brown. Bishop Cushing.” He watched narrowly for her reaction. It was like watching for a pink piglet to react.
“I like them, too.”
“With a smattering,” Grant went on cunningly, “of the philosophers—Burton, Sherlock Holmes.”
“One of the men at that party, he’s an expert on men.” Doubt was beginning to creep in. Grant quickly changed his tactics.
“That blue bikini you wore. Was it ever sharp.”
“I’m so glad you liked it, dahling. How about another scotch?”
“No, thanks,” Grant said, getting up. “Time goes bucketing by, and—well, there you are.” She was hopeless.
He collapsed behind the wheel of the Jag.
How did those fellows do it? Holmes? Even Queen?
—
Something was pressing against Ellery’s nose, smothering him. He awoke and discovered that it was the journal with which he had gone to bed. He yawned, dropped it on the floor, and sat up groggily, elbows on knees. The journal now lay between his feet, so he doubled up, head between his hands.
And began to read, southward.
CHAPTER VI
I Stalk the Ripper
The following morning, I must say, Holmes infuriated me.
When I awoke, he was up and clothed. I instantly saw, from the reddened condition of his eyes, that he had slept little; indeed, I suspected that he had been out all night. But I made no inquiry.
To my gratification, he was of a mind to talk, rather than to sink into one of his reticent moods, out of which little more than cryptic sounds ever emerged.
“Watson,” said he, without preliminary, “there is a notorious public-house in Whitechapel.”
“There are many.”
“True, but the one to which I refer, The Angel and Crown, abuses even the riotous pleasures tendered by that district. It is situated in the heart of the Ripper’s prowling-grounds, and three of the murdered prostitutes were seen on the premises shortly before their deaths. I mean to give sharp attention to The Angel and Crown. To-night I shall indulge in a little carousing there.”
“Capital, Holmes! If I may confine myself to ale——”
“Not you, my dear Watson. I still shudder at how close to death I have already led you.”
“See here, Holmes——”
“My mind is made up,” replied he, firmly. “I have no intention of confronting your good wife, upon her return, with the dismal news that her husband’s body may be found in the morgue.”
“I thought I gave a good account of myself!” said I, heatedly.
“You did, certainly. Without you I might myself well be occupying a pallet in Dr. Murray’s establishment. That is no justification, however, for risking your safety a second time. Perhaps whilst I am absent to-day—I have much to do—your practise could do with a little attention.”
“It is going along quite nicely, thank you. I have a working arrangement with a most able locum tenens.”
“Then might I suggest a concert, or a good book?”
“I am quite capable of occupying my time fruitfully,” said I, coldly.
“Indeed you are, Watson,” said he. “Well, I must be off! Expect me when you see me. I promise I shall put you abreast of affairs upon my return.”
With that he darted out, leaving me to steam at a temperature only a little below that of Mrs. Hudson’s tea.
My determination to defy Holmes did not form at once; but, before my morning repast was finished, it was clearly shaped. I passed the day reading a curious monograph from Holmes’s book-shelf on the possible use of bees in murder-intrigues, both by causing them to contaminate their honey, and by training them to attack a victim in a swarm. The work was anonymous, but I recognised the concise style of Holmes in the writing. Then, as darkness fell, I planned my night’s foray.
I would arrive at The Angel and Crown in the guise of a lecherous man-about-town, sure that I would not stand out, as many of London’s more hardened habitués made a practise of frequenting such places. I therefore hurried home and donned evening attire. Capping my regalia with top-hat and opera cape, I surveyed myself in the glass, and found that I cut a more dashing figure than I had dared hope. Slipping a loaded revolver into my pocket, I went out into the street, hailed a hansom, and gave The Angel and Crown as my destination.
Holmes had not yet arrived.
It was a horrible place. The long, low-ceilinged public-room was thick with eye-smarting fumes from the many oil-lamps. Clouds of tobacco smoke hung in the air, like storm-warnings. And the crude tables were crowded by as motley a collection of humanity as ever I had encountered. Evil-faced Lascars on leave from the freighters that choke the Thames; inscrutable Orientals; Swedes, and Africans, and seedy-looking Europeans; not to mention the many varieties of native Britons—all bent upon supping off the flesh-pots of the world’s largest city.
The flesh-pots were dubiously spiced with females of all ages and conditions. Most were pitiful in their physical deterioration. Only a few were attractive, younger ones who had just set foot upon the downward path.
It was one of these latter who approached me after I had found a table, had ordered a pint of stout, and sat surveying the reckless scene. She was a pretty little thing, but the wicked light in her eye, and her hard manner, indelibly marked her.
“ ’Ullo, luv. Buy a gel a gin-an’-bitters?”
I was about to decline the honou
r, but a brutish-looking waiter standing by cried, “Gin-an’-bitters for the lady!” and ploughed towards the bar. The man was no doubt paid on the basis of the liquor the girls wheedled from their marks.
The wench dropped into the chair opposite me and laid her rather dirty hand upon mine. I withdrew mine quickly. This brought an uncertain smile to her painted lips, but her voice was cajoling as she said, “Shy, ducks? No need to be.”
“I merely dropped in for a quick pint,” said I. The adventure no longer seemed so alluring.
“Sure, luv. All the toffs drop in for quick pints. Then they just ’appen to find out what else we ’ave for sale.”
The waiter returned, slopped down the gin-and-tonic, and fumbled among the coins I had laid upon the table. I was sure he appropriated several pence too many, but I did not make an issue of it.
“Me name’s Polly, luv. What’s yers?”
“Hawkins,” said I, quickly. “Sam Hawkins.”
“ ’Awkins, is it?” she laughed. “Well, it’s a bit of a change from Smythe. Yer ’eart’d bleed at ’ow many bloody Smythes come ’round.”
My reply, if indeed I had any, was cut down by an outburst in another part of the room. A dark-visaged sailor of gorilla proportions gave out a roar of rage and upset a table in his zeal to get at another patron who appeared to have offended him, a Chinese of insignificant stature. For a moment it seemed likely that the Oriental would be killed, so ferocious was the sailor’s aspect.
But then another man interposed himself. He was thick-browed, with a heavy neck, and shoulders and arms like trees, although he did not match the angry sailor’s proportions. The Oriental’s unexpected defender smashed his fist into the sailor’s solar plexus. It was a mighty blow, and the sailor’s gasp could be heard all over the room as he doubled over in agony. Again the smaller man measured the giant, and again he delivered a blow, this time to the brute’s jaw. The sailor’s head snapped back; his eyes glazed; and, as he collapsed, his assailant was ready with a hunched shoulder, and caught the man’s body like a sack of meal. His load balanced, the victor made calmly for the door, lugging the unconscious mariner as though he weighed no more than a child. He opened the door and hurled the man into the street.
“That’s Max Klein,” said my doxy in awe. “Strong as a bloody ox, ’e is. Max just bought this place. ’E’s owned it for about a four-month, an’ ’e don’t allow no bloke to get kilt in it, ’e don’t.”
The performance had been impressive indeed; but, at that moment, something else drew my attention. The door through which Klein had flung the sailor had scarcely closed when it was put to use by a new customer, one whom I thought I recognised. I peered through the haze to make sure my identification was correct. There was no doubt. It was Joseph Beck, the pawn-broker, moving towards a table. I made a mental note to report this fact to Holmes, and then I turned back to Polly.
“I got a nice room, luv,” said she, in a seductive tone.
“I fear I’m not interested, Madam,” said I, as kindly as I could.
“Madam, ’e says!” cried she, with indignation. “I ain’t that old, guv’ner. I’m young enough, I promise yer. Young an’ clean. You ’ave nothin’ to fear from me.”
“But there must be someone you fear, Polly,” said I, observing her closely.
“Me? I don’t go ter ’urt nobody.”
“I mean the Ripper.”
A whining note leaped into her voice. “Yer just tryin’ to scare me! Well, I ain’t afraid.” She took a gulp of her drink, eyes darting here and there. They came to focus on a point over my shoulder, and I realised that they had been directed that way during most of our conversation. I turned my head, and beheld as vicious-looking a creature as the imagination could have conjured.
He was incredibly filthy, and he had a hideous knife-scar across one cheek. This twisted his mouth in a permanent leer, and the damaged flesh around his left eye added further to his frightful aspect. I have never seen such malevolence in a human face.
“ ’E got Annie, the Ripper did,” Polly whispered. “ ’E gouged the poor thing up good—Annie wot never ’urt a soul.”
I turned back to her. “That brute there, with the knife-scar?”
“ ’Oo knows?” Then she cried, “Wot’s he ’ave to go and do those things for? Wot’s the fun in shovin’ a blade into a poor gel’s belly, an’ cuttin’ off ’er breast an’ all?”
He was the man.
Explaining my absolute certainty is difficult. In earlier life I indulged for a time in gambling, as a young man will, and there is a feeling that comes over one on certain occasions that is not founded in reason. Instinct, a sixth sense—call it what you will—it comes, and it is impossible to ignore it.
Such a feeling came over me as I studied the creature behind us; his gaze was fixed upon the girl who sat with me, and I could see the foul slaver at the corners of his contorted mouth.
But what to do?
“Polly,” I asked, quietly, “did you ever see that man before?”
“Me, ducks? Not ever! Narsty-lookin’ cove, ain’t ’e?” Then, with the instability that characterises the loose woman, Polly’s mood changed. Her natural recklessness, possibly re-inforced by too many drinks, came to the fore. She suddenly raised her glass.
“ ’Ere’s luck, luv. If yer don’t want me lily-white body, yer don’t. But yer a good bloke, and I wish yer the best.”
“Thank you.”
“A gel’s got t’make a livin’, so I’ll be off. Another night, maybe?”
“Perhaps.”
She arose from the table, and moved away, flaunting her hips. I watched her, anticipating that she would approach another table for another solicitation. But she did not. Instead, she scanned the room, and then moved swiftly towards the door. She had found the pickings poor that night in The Angel and Crown, I thought, and was going to resort to the streets. I had scarcely begun to feel relief when the repulsive creature beyond my shoulder jumped up and set out after her. My alarm may be imagined. I could think of no other course than to touch the weapon in my pocket for reassurance, and follow the man to the street.
I was beset by a momentary blindness, having to adjust my eyesight to the darkness after the glare of the public-room. When my eyes focussed, fortunately, the man was still within my view. He was skulking along, close by the wall, at the end of the street.
I was now certain that I was embarked upon a perilous course. He was the Ripper, and he was stalking the girl who had endeavoured to entice me to her room, and there was only I between her and a hideous death. I gripped my revolver convulsively.
I followed, treading on the balls of my feet like a Red Indian of the American plains. He turned the corner; and, fearful both of losing him and of finding him, I hurried after.
I rounded the corner, panting, and peered cautiously ahead. There was only one gas-lamp, which made my survey doubly difficult. I strained my eyes. But my quarry had disappeared.
Apprehension seized me. Perhaps the fiend had already dragged the poor girl into an areaway and was slashing the life from her young body. If only I had had the foresight to bring a pocket lantern! I ran forward into darkness, the profound silence of the street broken only by the sounds of my footsteps.
There was enough light to warn me that the street narrowed at the other end, coming down to a passage-way. It was into this that I plunged, my heart in my mouth at what I might find.
Suddenly I heard a choked cry. I had collided with something soft. A fear-stricken voice babbled, “Mercy! Oh, pray, ’ave mercy!”
It was Polly, who had been pressed against the wall in the darkness. In fear that her cries might frighten the Ripper away, I clapped my hand over her mouth and whispered into her ear.
“It’s all right, Polly. You are in no danger. I am the gentleman you sat with. I followed you——”
I was struck from behind by a sudden, enormous weight, and knocked back, staggering, along the passage. But my brain still functi
oned. I had been out-witted by the cunning devil I had followed from The Angel and Crown. He had crept into some shadow and allowed me to pass him. Now, enraged at the prospect of being deprived of his prey, he was attacking like a jungle beast.
I answered in kind, fighting desperately, trying to pull the revolver from my pocket. It should have been in my hand; but, during my stint in her Majesty’s Indian service, I had served as a surgeon, not a soldier; I had no training in hand-to-hand fighting.
I was therefore no match for the monster with whom I had come to grips. I went down under his onslaught, gratefully aware that the girl had fled. I felt his powerful hands upon my throat, and I flailed out desperately with my free arm as I struggled still to clear the weapon from my pocket.
To my stupefaction, a familiar voice growled, “Now let us see what manner of beast I have flushed!” Even before a bull’s-eye lantern flashed, I became aware of my blunder. The evil-appearing creature seated behind me in the pub had been Holmes—in disguise!
“Watson!” He was as astonished as I.
“Holmes! Good heavens, man! Had I managed to get my revolver out, I might have shot you!”
“And a good thing, too,” grumbled he. “Watson, you can write me down an ass.” He lifted his lithe body from me and grasped my hand to help me to my feet. Even then, knowing he was my old friend, I could only marvel at the cleverness of his disguise, so different did he appear.
We had no time for further recriminations. As Holmes was pulling me erect, a scream rent the night. His hand released me instantly, and down I tumbled again. An oath erupted from his throat, one of the very few outbursts of profanity I have ever heard from him.
“I’ve been outdone!” he cried; and he went streaking away into the night.
As I scrambled to my feet, the female cries of terror and pain increased in volume. Suddenly they were cut off; and the sounds of a second pair of running feet were added to those of Holmes.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 110