“Trepan.” McReary paled. “They don’t make ’em anymore. Forensic surgeons used it to bore holes in skulls, looking for bullets and such. It’s an autopsy kit, L.T.”
“None of these scalpels looks big enough for the murder weapon.”
“There should be a post-mortem knife in the bag.” The detective third grade spread his hands a foot apart. “About yea long. The experts figured that’s what the Ripper used.”
Zagreb rummaged further, then picked up the bag and dumped it upside-down onto the table. No such instrument made its appearance.
—
Mrs. Corbett had no idea where her son had gone to celebrate his last night as a civilian. Zagreb borrowed her phone and described Leonard Corbett from a recent photo supplied by his agitated mother, showing a bland-faced young man in his uniform. Minutes later they were driving with the two-way radio turned up full blast.
“Any cars in the vicinity of Woodward and Parsons,” crackled the dispatcher’s voice. “Suspect seen near the Paradise Theatre. Consider him armed and extremely dangerous.”
“That place draws almost as many hookers as jazz buffs,” Zagreb said.
Burke flipped on the siren and hit the gas.
The street in front of the popular swing club was a sea of department vehicles, marked and unmarked. Spotting a uniformed officer on the sidewalk holding his side arm, Zagreb rolled down the window and flashed his shield.
The patrolman skipped the preliminaries. “Someone just ducked down that alley.” He pointed with his weapon.
They left the Chrysler at the curb. At the lieutenant’s instructions, McReary and Canal circled the building on the corner to come in from the other end. Zagreb and Burke gave them two minutes, then entered from the Woodward Avenue side. All four had their weapons out.
Crossing a dark doorway, McReary glimpsed a movement in the shadows. He touched Burke’s arm. Burke nodded and leveled his revolver on the doorway as his partner entered. The deep passage was black as a shroud. He felt for the door. A hinge squeaked and it swung open at his touch.
A long hallway with a checkerboard floor showed barely in the dim light of a wall sconce. The far end was in deep shadow. He crept forward.
The man at the far end of the hall came to a locked door. He turned and pressed his back to it, holding his breath. Three yards away, visible in the lighted section, a man with a gun was approaching, wearing a dark suit and a light-colored hat. He himself was secure in the blackness, as if he were enveloped in thick fog. The man creeping his way wore shoes appropriate to someone who habitually carried a gun, but he could hear the slight squish of the rubber soles as he advanced, smell the crisp odor of spice-based aftershave. That was another advantage, his heightened senses. But he would have to move fast and strike surely; this was no tart, her brains dulled by liquor and the plague her kind had brought upon itself.
Closer now. He could almost reach out and touch the man. He drew the knife from his belt and sprang….
Suddenly the shadow at the end of the hall coagulated into something blacker, a distinct shape dressed all in dark clothing. Fabric rustled; the light behind McReary drew a bright line down a length of steel. He raised his piece and fired. Something stung his wrist, something hot splashed onto his hand. An evil stench of singed cloth filled his nostrils; the muzzle flare had set the man’s coat on fire.
He kept jerking the trigger, emptying the chamber. Something heavy piled into him. Automatically he threw his arms around it, supporting the dead man entirely.
It was only after he let go and the man slid into a heap at his feet that he realized his wrist was bleeding.
—
Daniel J. McReary entered the squad room. From habit he reached for his sidearm, intending to lay it on the desk still stacked with books, then remembered. Pending the results of the routine shooting investigation, he’d been relieved of his weapon and assigned to desk duty.
He brightened when Lieutenant Zagreb came in. Flicking the hand belonging to the bandaged wrist at the book on top of the stack, he said, “I’ve been reading.”
“What else is new?”
“It’s about the Lincoln assassination. I got interested after Mrs. Corbett told us she was related to the man who killed John Wilkes Booth. This Boston Corbett was a piece of work: born in England under Queen Victoria, with all that entails. He was so mortified after going to bed with a prostitute he castrated himself.”
Burke, cleaning his revolver at a nearby desk, dropped it on the blotter. “Holy—”
“Shit,” Canal finished. “A thing like that can make a man surly.”
“Do tell.” McReary opened the book to the page he’d marked. “Says here twenty years after he shot Booth they stuck him in a loony bin for pulling a gun in the Kansas House of Representatives, but he escaped in 1888 and was never heard from since. That’s the year the Ripper killings took place. What are the odds Corbett went back home and—?”
“You think Leonard knew about that?” Burke picked up his revolver and blew through the barrel.
“You should write a book,” Zagreb said.
“Not me. I’m through with ’em.” He slammed the volume shut and tossed it aside.
The lieutenant lifted his eyebrows. “You failed the sergeant’s exam?”
“I fell asleep.”
—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I wish to thank my friend Dale L. Walker for the Boston Corbett/Jack the Ripper theory.
The Legacy
R. L. STEVENS
R. L. Stevens is one of numerous pseudonyms of the short story writer Edward Dentinger Hoch (1930–2008), who also wrote as Irwin Booth, Anthony Circus, Stephen Dentinger, Pat McMahon, Ellery Queen, and Mr. X. He wrote five novels, beginning with The Shattered Raven (1969), which was set at the Edgar Awards banquet and featured many thinly disguised real-life mystery writers. The Blue Movie Murders (1972), another novel, was written under the Queen pseudonym. His other three novels combined science fiction and mystery. Set in the twenty-first century, they featured Carl Crader and Earl Jazine, a pair of detectives working for the Computer Investigation Bureau who were known as the “Computer Cops.”
While his novels did not enjoy much success, Hoch was perhaps the most inventive and prolific practitioner of the pure detective story during the past half century. While never hailed as a great stylist, his mystery fiction presented old-fashioned puzzles in clear, no-nonsense prose that rarely took a false step and proved to be consistently satisfying. He produced more than nine hundred stories in his career, approximately half of them published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, beginning in 1962. In May 1973, Hoch started a remarkable run of publishing at least one story in every issue of EQMM until his death thirty-five years later—and beyond, as he had already delivered additional stories.
“The Legacy” was first published in the August 1972 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.
THE LEGACY
R. L. Stevens
“You might call it…a mission in life…passed on to each new generation by the preceding one…”
The old place looked more deteriorated than it had on my last visit, perhaps reflecting the condition of its occupant. For certainly Uncle Alpha was crumbling as surely as the stone pillars that held up the faded front porch.
The nurse, all starched and breathless, met me at the front door. “He’s kept me running today,” she said. “He’ll be glad to see you.”
“How does he feel?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Since two months ago? I think you’ll find he’s failed considerably. This isn’t the place for him, Mr. Cayhill. He belongs in a nursing home.”
I glanced sideways at her. “You mean under psychiatric care.”
“I didn’t say that. He’s quite rational much of the time.”
“Thank you, Miss Murray. I’ll speak to you about it later.”
I left her at the door and entered his room. If I’d expected to find Uncle Alpha in bed, or sitting in the great old rocking chair he used as
a throne, I was disappointed. He was on his feet, shuffling through some papers with his arthritic old fingers. He turned as I entered and motioned me to a chair by the bed.
Alpha Cayhill was my father’s older brother and with the passing years he had become my only living relative. He was a wealthy man who’d made a fortune in real estate, had divorced his first wife years ago, and had never remarried. Now, in his mid-seventies, he’d been struck down with a variety of afflictions that confined him to his house and were sapping his strength. I knew, as I had known for the past year, that any one of my bimonthly visits could be the last.
For some reason Uncle Alpha had taken a liking to me and had begun to look forward to my visits. Now, turning toward me, he said, “I thought you would never come, Charles. You’ve been neglecting an old man.”
“You’re not that old, Uncle Alpha.”
“Old enough, Charles. Old enough. Here, help me over to my chair.”
“Have you been out of the house at all? The weather’s fine.”
“I don’t get out anymore. The old legs are only good for a few steps at a time.”
“That’s too bad. Do you have everything you need? Does Nurse Murray take good care of you?”
“Oh, she’s all right,” the old man admitted grudgingly. “She’s nice to look at, anyway…” His voice trailed off and he seemed deep in thought. Finally he lifted his eyes to meet mine. “Charles, we must have a talk.”
“Certainly, Uncle. Anytime you want.”
“No, no, not anytime. Now, right now.”
I glanced at my watch. Although my evening was free I was reluctant to spend it listening to my uncle’s rambling reminiscences of better days. “Really, Uncle Alpha, I must be—”
“Our family has a legacy, Charles, a legacy to be passed from one generation to the next. This is something I’ve never told you before. In fact, I’ve never breathed it to a living soul.”
“A legacy?” I was not so well off that I could walk out on talk of money. “Don’t you have a will?”
“It is not that sort of legacy. It is, rather, a legacy of deeds.”
“Deeds? You mean—actions?”
There was something lurking in his eyes. It could have been madness or cunning, but it was there. “If it has something to do with a political action group, Uncle, I’m afraid I don’t have time for it. My business keeps me pretty well tied down, you know.”
“It’s nothing like that,” the old man assured me. A sly smile played about the corners of his mouth. “What would you say if I were to tell you I had killed somebody?”
“Killed? You mean in the war?”
He smiled. “Charles, there is so much to tell you, so much to prepare you for. You are the only one I have, so the legacy of the family must pass down to you. Whatever you make of it—a blessing or a curse—is up to you to continue.”
All I could say was, “I don’t understand you. What’s all this about killing someone?”
“Help me over to the bookcase. I have something to show you.”
He needed a hand now, because his legs were wobbly. After two heart attacks it was an effort for him to stay on his feet. I pressed my arm around his thin shoulder and guided him to the bookcase. He took down a red-leather album and clutched it to his chest. When I offered to carry it for him he hugged it even tighter.
“What is it, Uncle?”
“You might call it our family tree. Your legacy, Charles.” He opened the album from the back and I saw at once that it was filled with neatly clipped newspaper accounts. Of murders.
“What is this?”
“A mission in life, Charles. Passed on to each new generation by the preceding one. I have no son, so the legacy must be given to you.”
His eyes were glowing now, and I wondered if he might be feverish. “You mean all these killings? Are you telling me you had something to do with them?”
“I killed them, Charles. I killed them all, just as our family has for more than four generations.”
I was staring at the headline on one article. It was from a Boston newspaper of a decade ago, and it read: Cambridge Woman Believed Latest Strangler Victim. My eyes scanned the account with growing apprehension, and finally I lowered the album to say, “But this is about those Boston murders—the Boston Strangler.”
“Yes.”
“The man who killed them—didn’t he confess?”
“He could only have killed two. I killed the rest.”
His voice was so calm in contrast with the fire in his eyes that it took a moment before the chill started down my back. I had almost believed him, and perhaps believing would have been preferable to the knowledge that Uncle Alpha had finally succumbed to his wild imaginings. “I don’t believe that, Uncle. You couldn’t have done anything as brutal. The Boston killings, as I remember them, were the acts of a sex criminal.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“But you would have been in your mid-sixties then.”
“Nevertheless, I killed them. I killed them because our family’s legacy had passed down to me. And that is the legacy I now pass on to you.”
“Uncle—”
“No, no, let me go on!” He flipped forward a few pages in the album. “Perhaps you wonder who it was that revealed this family secret to me. I lived in London for a time in the early nineteen-fifties, you’ll remember, and it was there I met my wife’s uncle. It was he who instructed me.”
“Instructed? You mean he killed women, too?”
Uncle Alpha nodded. “Unfortunately, he was later apprehended by the police and put to death. His name was John Christie.”
“Uncle Alpha, are you telling me that John Christie, the British mass murderer, instructed you in the killing of women?”
“Of course. How else would I have known? Our methods were different, of course. He generally used gas, while I almost always strangled my victims. But then John Christie’s own mentor—a cousin back in America—used an ax.”
My mind could not grasp his words. The man was mad, totally and completely mad, and I only wanted a way out before his madness engulfed me, too. “Don’t tell me John Christie’s cousin was Lizzie Borden,” I said, trying to make a joke of it.
“No, he was the much more successful Axeman of New Orleans, who killed a number of people—mainly Italian grocers and their wives—between 1911 and 1919. The Axeman violated the legacy by killing men as well as women, but he could be excused. John Christie told me he was mad.”
“I see,” I muttered, not knowing what else to say.
“Before the Axeman, of course, there was his father. He was the most famous of us all.”
“His father?”
“Jack the Ripper.”
“Uncle—”
“You don’t believe me? Is that it? But look—here are all the clippings!”
He turned to the front of the album and I stared at the yellowed pages from The Penny Illustrated Paper and The Times and the Reynolds News and the Daily Telegraph. Words like “Ripper” and “Whitechapel” leaped out at me. “You’ve collected these all your life?” I asked, dazed.
“My predecessors began the collection. I have only added my part. I estimate the family has killed fifty-five women in the past hundred years, with several men thrown in for good measure. All the crimes were not reported, of course.”
I got unsteadily to my feet. “I must be going, Uncle. I have a business engagement.”
“But we’ve only begun to talk! There’s so much more to discuss! Your choice of weapon, for instance. The Ripper used a knife, of course, but there’s something to be said for the other methods—the ax or gas or my own method, strangulation.”
“We’ll talk again, Uncle. I really must be going now.”
“If you must.” He leaned toward me. “Oh, you realize this is absolutely secret. I wouldn’t want a word of it getting around.”
“Of course not,” I assured him, grim-faced. We shook hands and I left.
Nurse Murray was waitin
g downstairs. “Well! That was a short visit!”
I nodded. “I’m afraid what you’ve been saying about his mental condition is no exaggeration. He needs care, and I’ll have to see that he gets it. As soon as possible.”
Nurse Murray nodded.
“He has terrible delusions. I’m afraid he’ll have to be put away somewhere,” I added.
The nurse held the door open for me. “Do something soon. He’s not getting any better.”
—
But I did not do anything soon. Or not soon enough. Three days later a detective named Yates was waiting at my office when I returned from lunch.
“Your uncle is Alpha Cayhill?”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Mr. Cayhill. We found his body this morning. He died of a heart attack sometime during the night.”
“A heart—”
The detective nodded and hurried on. “Apparently he surprised a burglar in his home and the shock was too much for his heart. The nurse who cared for him, Miss Murray, was killed by the burglar.”
“Miss Murray? Dead?”
“I’m afraid so. A horrible crime. Perhaps your uncle was trying to rescue her when his heart gave out.”
I sank into my chair. “My God! Do you have any idea who did it?”
“None whatever. We’re still searching the house for clues.” He cleared his throat. “We understand you are Mr. Cayhill’s only living relative. You’ll be handling the funeral arrangements?”
“Of course.”
The detective nodded. “I’ll be going, then. Sorry I had to bring you such bad news.”
“Tell me one thing. How was Nurse Murray killed?”
The detective frowned. “How? She was strangled.”
—
“The events I have recounted occurred in the early 1970s. You might wonder, my son, why I am telling you all this now, some twenty-five years later. If you would be so good as to hand me that red-leather album from the bookcase…”
Jack’s Little Friend
RAMSEY CAMPBELL
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 119