“I have no idea, sir——” she began.
“Pray do not evade me, Madam. I must know everything.”
“There seems to be no way of keeping a secret from you!” cried Angela Osbourne. “What are you, man or devil? If Max were to get wind of this, he would surely kill me!”
“We are your friends, Madam. He will not hear it from us. How did you discover that the case had been pledged with Joseph Beck?”
“I have a friend. He comes here at the risk of his life, to talk to me and do my errands.”
“No doubt the ‘Tommy’ you expected when I knocked upon your door?”
“Please do not involve him, Mr. Holmes, I beg of you!”
“I see no reason to involve him. But I wish to know more about him.”
“Tommy helps out at times at the Montague Street Hostel.”
“You sent him there originally?”
“Yes, for news of Michael. After Max delivered him to the hostel, I slipped out one night, at great risk to myself, and posted the note you refer to. I felt I owed Michael at least that. I was sure Max would never find out, because I could see no way in which Lord Carfax might trace us, with Michael’s memory gone.”
“And the surgeon’s-case?”
“Tommy overheard Sally Young discuss with Dr. Murray the possibility of pawning it. It occurred to me that it might be a means of interesting you to turn your talents, Mr. Holmes, to the apprehension of Jack the Ripper. Again I slipped out, redeemed the case, and posted it to you.”
“Removing the post-mortem scalpel was deliberate?”
“Yes. I was sure you would understand. Then, when I heard no word of your entrance into the case, I became desperate, and I sent the missing scalpel to you.”
Holmes leaned forward, his hawk’s-face keen. “Madam, when did you decide that Max Klein is the Ripper?”
Angela Osbourne put her hands to her veil, and moaned. “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know!”
“What made you decide he was the monster?” asked Holmes, inexorably.
“The nature of the crimes! I can conceive of no one save Max as being capable of such atrocities. His maniacal temper. His dreadful rages…”
We were not destined to hear any more from Angela Osbourne. The door burst open, and Max Klein sprang into the room. His face was contorted by an unholy passion that he was just able, it appeared, to hold in leash. He had a cocked pistol in his hand.
“If either of you moves so much as a finger,” cried he, “I’ll blow you both to Hell!”
There could be little doubt that he meant it.
Ellery’s Legman’s Last Bow
The doorbell rang.
Ellery ignored it.
It rang again.
He kept reading.
A third time.
He finished the chapter.
When he finally got there, his caller had given up and left. But he had slipped a telegram under the foyer door.
BOSOM FRIEND DASH WHILE HUNTING A THORN YOUR LEGMAN FOUND A ROSE STOP HE WILL HUNT NO MORE STOP HER NAME IS RACHEL HAGER BUT A NAME CANNOT DO JUSTICE TO HER STOP SHE WENT TO THAT PARTY ONLY BECAUSE I WAS THERE COMMA A FACT THAT POPS MY BUTTONS STOP LAWFUL WEDLOCK IS NEXT STOP STOP WE PLAN CHILDREN STOP OUR JOINT LOVE TO YOU STOP
GRANT
“Thank God I’m shed of him,” said Ellery, aloud, and went back to Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER XI
Holocaust
I think that Holmes would have braved Klein’s pistol, were it not that the proprietor of The Angel and Crown was immediately followed into Mrs. Osbourne’s room by a man whom I recognised as one of the thugs who had attacked Holmes and me. Under the muzzles of two weapons, Holmes perforce held himself in check.
Max Klein’s rage became evil satisfaction.
“Tie them up,” snarled he, to his confederate. “And the man who tries to resist gets a bullet through his head.”
The thug tore the cords from the window-drapes and swiftly lashed Holmes’s hands behind his back, whilst I stood helplessly by. He thereupon treated me in like manner, going even further under Klein’s command.
“Shove our good doctor into that chair and lash his ankles to its legs.” Why Klein should have considered me a greater threat than Holmes, I did not understand. What courage I possess is thoroughly tempered, I fear, with a great desire to live out the years allotted me by the Almighty.
As his creature did his bidding, Klein turned on Holmes. “Did you think you could walk into my place undetected, Mr. Holmes?”
Replied Holmes, quietly, “I am curious to know how our entrance was discovered.”
Klein laughed, a brutal sound. “One of my men had to roll some empty kegs out. Not spectacular, I grant you, Mr. Holmes. But I’ve got you just the same.”
“Getting me, as you phrase it,” said Holmes, “and keeping me, Klein, may be a steed of a different colour.”
It was evident to me that Holmes was attempting to gain time. But it was to no avail. Klein surveyed my bonds, found them to his liking, and said, “You will come with me, Mr. Holmes. I shall deal with you in private. And if you expect help from below, you will be disappointed. I have cleared the place; it is closed and locked.”
The thug indicated Angela Osbourne with a worried glance. “Is it safe leavin’ this cull with ’er? She might loose ’im.”
“She would not dare,” Klein laughed again. “Not if she knows what’s good for her. She still values her miserable life.”
This proved depressingly true. After Holmes and Michael Osbourne were dragged away, Angela Osbourne was impervious to all persuasion. I spoke with as urgent eloquence as I could command, but she only stared at me in despair, moaning, “Oh, I dare not, I dare not.”
Thus passed several of the longest minutes of my life, as I struggled against my bonds, telling myself that Holmes would yet save the day.
Then came the most dreadful moment of all.
The door opened.
The chair in which I sat trussed was so situated that, when I heard the panel swing inwards, I was unable to see who stood there. Angela Osbourne, however, sat in view of the doorway. I could only look in her direction for a clew.
She arose from her chair. Somehow the veil slipped aside, and I saw that hideously-scarred face clearly. Every fibre of my being shrank at the unspeakable mutilation which Klein had visited upon her; but it was made even more repulsive by the wild expression with which she regarded the intruder in the doorway. Then she spoke. “The Ripper! Oh, God in Heaven! It is Jack the Ripper!”
I confess with shame that my first reaction was relief. The man advanced within my sight, and when I beheld the slim, aristocratic figure, clad in top-hat, perfectly-fitting evening-clothes, and opera cape, I cried thankfully, “Lord Carfax! You have come providentially!”
The ghastly truth dawned upon me an instant later, when I espied the glittering knife in his hand. He glanced my way, but only for a moment, and with no sign of recognition. And I beheld the madness in that noble face, a hungry, wild-beast’s urge to destroy.
Angela Osbourne was incapable of further outcry. She sat in frozen terror as the lordly Ripper rushed upon her and in a trice tore away her upper clothing. She could only mumble a prayer before Lord Carfax plunged the weapon into her uncovered breast. His clumsy efforts at dissection are best not described; suffice it to say that they did not approach the skill of his earlier mutilations, undoubtedly because he felt pressed for time.
As the body of Angela Osbourne fell to the floor in a welter of blood, the madman seized upon one of the oil-lamps and extinguished the flame. Unscrewing the wick-holder, he proceeded to pour out the oil. His intent was all too clear. Around the room he dashed, like some demon out of Hell, leaving oil in his wake; and then out into the corridor, from whence he returned soon with an empty lamp, which he flung to the floor in a shower of glass.
And then he seized the other lamp, and with it ignited the pool of oil at his feet.
Strangely, he did not fl
ee; even at that worst moment of my life, I wondered why. As it developed, his maniacal ego proved my salvation and his destruction. As the flames mounted, following the river of oil into the corridor, he rushed at me. I closed my eyes and consigned my soul to its Maker. To my stupefaction, instead of slaying me, he slashed my bonds.
With dilated eyes, he hauled me upright and dragged me through the flames towards the nearest window. I sought to struggle with him, but with his maniac’s strength he threw me savagely against the window, and the glass shattered.
It was then that he uttered the cry that has echoed through my nightmares ever since.
“Carry the message, Dr. Watson!” he screamed. “Tell them that Lord Carfax is Jack the Ripper!”
With that, he thrust me through the window. Flames had caught my clothing; and I remember that, ludicrously, I slapped at them as I fell the one storey to the street. Then there was a stunning impact with the stones below, I thought I heard running footsteps, and unconsciousness mercifully gripped me.
I knew no more.
CHAPTER XII
The End of Jack the Ripper
The first face I beheld was that of Rudyard, the friend who had taken over my practice as locum tenens. I was in my room at Baker Street.
“A near thing, Watson,” said he, as he felt my pulse.
Awareness came flooding back to me. “How long have I slept, Rudyard?”
“Some twelve hours. I gave you a sedative when they carried you here.”
“My condition?”
“A most salutary one, under the circumstances. A broken ankle; a sprained wrist; burns no doubt painful, but superficial.”
“Holmes. Where is he? Has he been——?”
Rudyard gestured. There was Holmes, seated grave-faced, at the opposite side of my bed. He was pale, but appeared otherwise unharmed. Thankfulness welled up in me.
“Well, I must be off,” said Rudyard. To Holmes he said, “See that he doesn’t talk too long, Mr. Holmes.”
Rudyard departed, saying that he would be back to dress my burns, and warning me again not to tax my strength. But, even through my pain and discomfort, I could not restrain my curiosity. Holmes, I fear, was in no better case, despite his concern for my condition. So I soon found myself relating what had occurred in poor Angela Osbourne’s room after Klein had forced him from it.
Holmes nodded, but I could see that he was struggling with a decision. Finally, he said to me, “I fear, old friend, that we have gone through our last adventure together.”
“Why do you say that?” asked I, overwhelmed with dismay.
“Because your good wife will never again entrust your welfare to my bungling hands.”
“Holmes!” cried I. “I am not a child!”
He shook his head. “You must go back to sleep.”
“You know that cannot be until you tell me how you managed to escape from Klein. In a dream, after my sedation, I saw your mangled remains…”
I shuddered, and he placed his hand upon mine in a rare display of affection. “My opportunity arose when the staircase burst into flames,” said Holmes. “Klein had glutted himself with gloating over me, and he was just raising his weapon when the flames swept down. He and his henchman died in the fire as the structure went up like tinder. The Angel and Crown is now a roofless ruin.”
“But you, Holmes! How——?”
Holmes smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. “There was never a doubt but that I could slip my bonds,” said he. “You know my dexterity. All that lacked was the chance, and the fire provided it. Unhappily, I was unable to save Michael Osbourne. He seemed to welcome death, poor fellow, and resisted my efforts to drag him out; indeed, he threw himself into the flames, and I was compelled to abandon his body to save my life.”
“A blessing in disguise,” I muttered. “And that infamous beast, Jack the Ripper?”
Holmes’s grey eyes were clouded with sadness; his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere. “Lord Carfax died also. And also from choice, I am certain, like his brother.”
“Naturally. He preferred death by fiery immolation to the hangman’s noose.”
Holmes seemed elsewhere still. In the gravest of voices, he murmured, “Watson, let us respect the decision of an honourable man.”
“Honourable man! Surely you are jesting? Oh, I see. You refer to his lucid moments. And the Duke of Shires?”
Holmes’s chin was sunken upon his chest. “I am a bearer of dire news about the Duke, too. He has taken his life.”
“I see. He could not bear the awful revelation of his first son’s crimes. How did you learn this, Holmes?”
“I proceeded directly from the fire to his Berkeley Square residence. Lestrade accompanied me. We were too late. He had already had the news of Lord Carfax. Whereupon he had fallen upon the sword he kept concealed in his stick.”
“A true nobleman’s death!”
I fancied Holmes nodded; it was the merest inclination of his head. He seemed deeply depressed.
“An unsatisfactory case, Watson, most unsatisfactory,” said he. And he fell silent.
I sensed his wish to conclude the conversation, but I would not have it so. I had forgotten all about my broken ankle and the pain of my burns.
“I do not see why, Holmes. The Ripper is dead.”
“Yes,” said he. “Really, Watson, you must rest now.” He made as if to rise.
“I cannot rest,” said I, artfully, “until all the pieces are in place.” He sank back with resignation. “Even I am able to follow the sequence of those last events that lead up to the fire. The maniacal Ripper, functioning from behind his philanthropic façade as Lord Carfax, did not know the identity or the whereabouts of Angela Osbourne or Max Klein. Am I correct?”
Holmes did not reply.
“When you found his lair,” I pressed on, “I am sure you knew also who he was?”
Here Holmes nodded.
“Then we went to the hostel, and although we did not see him there, he saw and heard us—that, or he came shortly thereafter and learned of The Angel and Crown from Dr. Murray, who would have had no reason to withhold the information. Lord Carfax followed us and discovered the beer-keg entrance, as we did.”
“Lord Carfax preceded us,” said Holmes, abruptly. “You will recall that we found the hasp recently broken.”
“Amended. He must have been able to move through the foggy streets more surely than we. No doubt we interrupted his stalking of Angela Osbourne, who was slated to be his next victim. He must have been lying in wait in a corridor-doorway whilst we entered Mrs. Osbourne’s room.”
Holmes did not contest this.
“Then, realising you had run him to earth, he determined to conclude his infamous career in the blaze of mad defiance that his monstrous ego dictated. His final words to me were, ‘Carry the message, Dr. Watson! Tell them that Lord Carfax is Jack the Ripper!’ Only an egomaniac would have said that.”
Holmes came to his feet with finality. “At any rate, Watson, Jack the Ripper will prowl no more. And now we have defied your doctor’s orders long enough. I insist that you sleep.”
With that, he left me.
Ellery Visits the Past
Ellery put the Watson manuscript down thoughtfully. He barely heard the click of the lock and the opening and closing of the front door.
He looked up to find his father standing in the study doorway.
“Dad!”
“Hi, son,” said the Inspector with a defiant grin. “I just couldn’t stand it down there anymore. So here I am.”
“Welcome home.”
“Then you’re not sore?”
“You stayed longer than I expected.”
The Inspector came in, scaled his hat to the sofa, and turned to regard his son with relief. It soon became concern.
“You look like hell. What’s wrong, Ellery?”
Ellery did not reply.
“How do I look?” asked his father cunningly.
“A damsite better than when
I packed you off.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t give me that. Is your story still sour?”
“No, it’s going fine. Everything’s fine.”
But the old man was not satisfied. He sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs and said, “Tell me all about it.”
Ellery shrugged. “I should never have been born the son of a cop. All right, something’s happened. An interlocking of events, past and present. The loosening of an old knot.”
“Talk English.”
“Grant Ames dropped in on me.”
“You told me that.”
“I got sucked into the manuscript. One thing led to another. And here I am.”
“I don’t get it.”
Ellery sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you all about it.”
And he talked for a long time.
“And that’s where it stands, Dad. She believes absolutely in his innocence. She’s nursed it all her life. I suppose she didn’t know what to do about it until, in her old age, she suddenly got this inspiration to drag me into it. Inspiration!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’d just made up my mind to pay her a visit when you walked in on me.”
“I should think so!” Inspector Queen got up and took the journal from Ellery’s hand. “The way I see it, son, you’ve got absolutely no choice. After all, she’s asked for it.”
Ellery got to his feet. “Why don’t you read the manuscript while I’m gone?”
“That’s just what I’m going to do.”
—
He drove north into Westchester, taking Route 22 until he came to Somers. He passed the wooden elephant at the main intersection, a reminder that Barnum & Bailey’s Circus had once wintered there. In Putnam County he thought of the Revolutionary heroes, hoping they were all in a hero’s heaven somewhere.
But these were surface thoughts. In depth he was thinking of the old lady he would find at the end of his journey. They were not pleasant thoughts.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 115