“Where?” he hissed the word, “where did you hide it?” and instantly there came to him a thought. Maybe the victim had not died, but had managed to escape. If so, why had not the police paid him a visit long since? He went out onto the landing, examined the banisters, stair carpet, even the hall door. There was no sign of blood.
He was about to open the front door when he realized he was still dressed in pyjamas, and the sound of the postman mounting the steps made him scurry back to his top-floor flat. He dressed quickly, then like an unhappy ghost went out to haunt the city.
He walked all day. The sunlight burnt up the hours like a fire devouring the last frail barricade, and night was sending forth its first dark spears when sheer weariness forced him to come to rest, and enter a workman’s cafe. The table at which he sat was situated by a mirror; a long, oblong frame with its surface misty with steam, flyblown, and in some places the quick-silver had become blurred, but it still cast a reflection.
His coffee had grown cold, and the food on his plate congealed when that familiar face looked at him out of the mirror. He tried not to look into the eyes; made one futile effort to rise from his chair, then the great coldness froze him, and slowly his head came up, and then round.
The thin lips moved, and Edward did not have to read the word.
—
She was young this time, and walked with pathetic bravado along the pavement, swinging her cheap green handbag with childlike abandon, and recklessly eyeing the men who passed.
The tall young man with a white drawn face stepped out of the shadows, and the girl slowed her pace, and looked back over one shoulder.
“You a nosy?”
Her voice had a north-country accent, and her grey eyes, in that pitifully young, grossly over-made-up face, were hard. Like chips of grey flint.
“If you mean, am I a policeman, the answer is no.”
“Oh, la-de-la,” she relaxed and moved towards him, her hips swinging in what she considered to be a seductive walk. “Are you lonely, then? Looking for a friend, then?”
“I could be.”
“You look as if you need one.”
She eyed him up and down with some distaste. “You’re not down on yer luck, are you? I mean, you’ve got some of the ready? I mean, I don’t do it for peanuts.”
The young man smiled and took out his pocketbook. The girl’s eyes widened when she saw the thick wad of banknotes, and her smile flashed on like a neon sign.
“Oh, well,” she patted her Elizabeth Taylor hairdo, “looks as if this is my lucky night.”
The young man nodded gravely. “It is indeed.”
For the first time the girl betrayed signs of embarrassment.
“Look, have you got a car? Or maybe a place nearby? You see I haven’t been in Fogsville long, and me landlady ain’t a regular, if you get my meaning. She won’t stand for anything.”
“I was going to suggest you come back to my place. It’s not very far.”
She took his arm and he looked down at the bright red fingernails; the hand was small, plump, and not over clean; her false eyelashes were long, and stuck out like black spikes.
“We’ll get a taxi,” he said.
—
The flat looked like a well-furnished slaughter house. There was blood everywhere; the bedclothes were sopping wet, again there had been a futile effort at washing; the old stains on the carpet were overlaid with fresh ones; blurred red fingerprints stood out on the pale blue emulsion paint on one wall; there were even red spots on the ceiling. Another ruined suit; hung before the electric fire.
Edward stood against the door and surveyed the macabre scene with curious detachment. He was shocked to find his feeling of terrified disgust was less strong than yesterday. It was as though his senses were numb; his brain seemed to have absorbed its full capacity of horror, and now was willing to view the outrageous rationally. Terror, black dread, still smarting under the first healing skin, but it was just bearable. Tomorrow—next time—the pain would be less, and one day, perhaps when the room was a red cavern, and he paced a squelching carpet, there would be a strange peace that comes with normality.
For the second time—was it only the second time?—there was no body. At least almost no body. In the bathroom he caught a glimpse of his white, unshaven face; three long scratches curved down over one cheek. Three red lines that scarcely broke the skin, save in one place, just a little to the left of his mouth. A small fragment was embedded in the flesh. He pulled it out and stared down at that sliver of fingernail; it still retained traces of bright red lacquer, and the horror flared up, burnt away the healed scab, and gave him a brief moment of sanity.
“I must confess,” he shouted the words, ran into his tiny hall and screamed his defiance. “I’ll give myself up. I’ll make them lock me away.”
The tall figure came out of the kitchen and moved towards him. The deep sunken eyes glared their awful anger from under the broad-brimmed hat, and the lips were stretched back in a mirthless grin.
“Never again,” Edward was whispering now, a harsh madman’s whisper, “I’ll bring the police up here. I’ll let them see it all…”
He stopped short as the gaunt head slowly moved from side to side. The voice spoke and his ears heard the word it uttered.
“Mine.”
“I’m not yours. Not—not—not…”
The words came slowly, with great effort.
“Life—I—now—walk—in—daylight.”
The teeth parted and he saw the black nothingness beyond. Then the laughter came, hollow, punctuated by silent pauses, like a faulty radio.
“Ha—ha—ha…”
He covered his ears with shaking hands, but the laughter echoed round the limitless caverns of his skull; then the figure was gone, and the laughter was his. Hollow, madman’s laughter, that the walls absorbed, the very air contained, and whose vibrations still throbbed long after he had sunk to the floor in merciful oblivion.
—
The days passed and became weeks. In the world outside questions were being asked, but without great concern, for no mutilated bodies had been found and there were many reasons why a prostitute might find it good policy to disappear.
But one person was perturbed, but for a different reason. Mr. Hulbert Jeffries stood on the landing outside Edward’s flat and gently pressed the bell push. He waited for a few moments, then pressed again. He heard a door open, then footsteps; a slow hesitant tread. A voice, muffled by the closed door, came to him; a tired, frightened voice.
“Who is it?”
“The chap from downstairs.” Hulbert was irritated by all this security. In his world a fellow never spoke from behind a closed door; in fact if he had any sense, he would never lock his door in the first place. There was no telling who you might lock out. “Can I have a word with you?”
For a while it seemed as if his request was going to be ignored, then the door reluctantly opened, and Hulbert gasped when he saw the skeleton face, the sunken eyes that flickered with a baleful light, and almost abandoned his self-imposed mission. Then he remembered what had prompted that mission, and hardened his heart.
“Sorry to bother you, ’specially if you’re feeling under the weather, but I had to speak with you.”
He paused, waiting for encouragement, but those awful eyes just stared at him, so he swallowed hastily and continued.
“I hope you’ll take this in the right spirit, but I wondered if you would quieten things down a bit. I mean when you entertain your lady friends. I know a certain amount of noise is unavoidable, but there is a limit…”
Again he waited for some response; an excuse, even possibly an explanation, however feeble. But the bloodless lips only moved and muttered something that sounded like “Sorry,” and the door began to slowly close.
“Here, wait a minute!” Hulbert’s normally placid disposition became ruffled. “That’s not the only thing. There’s all that hammering, and if you must throw things, and spill stuff over
the floor, for Pete’s sake mop up the mess. I’ve got bloody great patches all over my ceiling.”
The door jerked back, and a bony-fingered hand shot out and gripped Hulbert’s shirt front; a hollow voice croaked:
“What patches?”
“Watch it, Matey.” Hulbert gripped the slender wrist and wrenched his shirt free. “You’re asking for a punch-up. The patches on my ceiling. It’s beginning to look like the map of the world before we lost the empire. You must have knocked a couple of barrels of red port over to make a mess like that.” He sniffed suddenly. “What the hell is that bloody stink?”
The door was slammed in his face, and he was left pounding out his rage upon its unresponsive panels. After a while he went back to his own apartment muttering angrily to himself.
He looked up at his disfigured ceiling. The dark red stains were deeper towards the center; even as he watched, one swelled into a scarlet globule, it elongated, its tip became detached, then fell to a tabletop with a minute splash. Another red, glistening driblet yo-yoed down as Hulbert reached for his telephone.
—
Edward was ripping up his fitted carpet, an easy task, for most of the tacks had been removed, and those that remained slid out of their holes at the first pressure. He rolled back the carpet, tore at the underfelt, and stared at the bare boards. They bore many bruises, made by a hammer wielded by an inexperienced hand; they were also bloodstained, and in some places not quite flat, like the lid of a suitcase that has been forced down on a too full interior. Edward stood up as the tall man entered the room.
“Is this the end?”
“I fear so.” The tall man bowed his head gravely. “And it is to be regretted that our fruitful association has to terminate. But,” he smiled, or rather bared his teeth, “the vessel is, in more respects than one, full, and indeed, overflowing.”
Fear had long since died, now only curiosity remained; an unsated lust for forbidden knowledge.
“What now?”
The lean cheeks were now tinted with color, the lips full and red, the eyes bright with fully-charged life.
“Now I am replete, and the wheel has turned a full circle—almost. You alone can seal the circle, give me the power to walk abroad. Eighty years ago I suspected the truth, now I know. I too called forth a shade from the dark lands, and I gave him the seven sacrifices that are necessary, plus the ultimate.”
“Your master,” Edward asked, “he still walks the earth?”
The eyes sparkled, and the deep voice took on a joyous tone.
“He walks, they all walk, for we are legion. We sit in high places and fan discord until the guns begin to boom, and the bayonets flash. Your lovely wars are a feast, a banquet that charges us for twenty or thirty years. Once past the first barrier there is no reason why any of us should starve.”
“What is the ultimate?” Edward knew the answer but he wanted the tall man to tell him. The strong, deep voice went on.
“It is important that the seven initial sacrifices be dispatched in a special way. You were an apt pupil, although at first your tiresome conscience wanted to cover up. That futile scrubbing and washing. But,” he glanced round at the blood-spotted, in some places, blood-coated, room, “you grew out of that in time.”
He pulled his greatcoat open and lovingly selected a long bladed knife; when he looked up his smile was gentle, his voice soft, comforting.
“How said Brutus on the Plains of Philippi?”
Edward looked into those shining eyes and knew he must follow the path of knowledge to the end—and beyond.
“Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, while I do run upon it.”
“That,” whispered the tall man, “is the ultimate.”
Edward moved forward and the knife came up; the blade quivered, then was still. The lean face turned and looked back over one shoulder.
“Grip my shoulders and thrust forward. You helped me to come here, it is only right that I should assist you to go there.”
Edward gripped the powerful shoulders, then pulled with all his strength. The pain was cold fire that paralyzed his body; he sank to the floor and watched his lifeblood pouring out over the bare floor-boards.
“Have patience,” the tall man whispered, then threw wide his arms in a triumphant gesture. “Have patience; you have all eternity.”
—
They tore up the floor-boards and took away the bits and pieces. The room was stripped; the bed went to the flames, the furniture was dispersed, the wallpaper removed, but they left the overmantel mirror.
Time had no meaning, and perhaps a year passed before a new tenant took up residence in the flat; perhaps two, even five. But one evening that which had been Edward Charlton looked out of the mirror and saw that a new bed stood on the dais, a fresh carpet covered the floor, and unfamiliar furniture cluttered the room.
Night darkened the window, then the sun painted a golden bar across the carpet, and existence became a panorama of light and darkness; lamps that went on, then off, the murmur of far-off voices; the void waiting to be filled.
Tenants came, then departed, fashions changed, furniture became bizarre, strange contraptions entered the flat, but the overmantel, now a priceless antique, remained.
Young people dressed in outlandish clothes gathered before whatever had replaced Edward’s electric fire; they danced, made love, ate, drank, and finally became bored. Suddenly the words rang out, a clarion call that brought Edward floating to the mirror; he gazed out at the crowded room.
A young man with pink hair and a spotty face asked: “What did you say?”
A girl’s voice, young, fresh, impatient, repeated the long-awaited call.
“Let’s hold a seance.”
A Punishment to Fit the Crimes
RICHARD A. GORDON
Trying to follow the names used by Richard Alexander Steuart Gordon (1947–2009) on his various works is a complex maze indeed. His first story, “A Light in the Sky” (1965), was released as by Richard A. Gordon, but the hilarious Doctor series was being published with another author’s pseudonymous byline of Richard Gordon. To avoid confusion, he was asked to switch it and chose Alex Stuart, but again, fears of confusion with another author’s pseudonymous historical novels, issued as by Alex Stuart, forced a change, so he adopted Alex R. Stuart and, finally, Stuart Gordon, under which name most of his novels were published.
The Scottish-born author wrote mainly science fiction in his early career, notably Time Story (1972), in which a criminal attempts to escape capture via time travel; the five novels in the Bikers series about motorcycle gangs of monsters that terrorize Great Britain: The Bikers (1971), The Outlaws (1972), The Last Trip (1972), The Bike from Hell (1973), and The Devils’ Rider (1973); three dystopian novels set in a postapocalyptic world: One-Eye (1973), Two-Eyes (1974), and Three-Eyes (1975); and Fire in the Abyss (1983), another time-travel novel in which a sixteenth-century sailor travels to a doomed twentieth century where he is incarcerated after an attempt to learn useful secrets from the past. Many of Gordon’s fictional works rely on historical facts to give verisimilitude to his created stories. Later in his career, he wrote travel guides to Scotland and books about paranormal occurrences, myths, legends, and miracles.
“A Punishment to Fit the Crimes” was first published in The Fiend in You, edited by Charles Beaumont (New York, Ballantine, 1962).
A PUNISHMENT TO FIT THE CRIMES
Richard A. Gordon
“Oyez! Oyez! The court is now in session!” chanted the red-robed figure with ritual solemnity in the nearly empty chamber. He was powerfully built, handsome, and lithe in his movements before the shadowed dock except that he favored one leg ever so slightly. His judicial wig, perfectly expressive of the dignity of his person and position, stood just a little away from his forehead as if displaced by a pair of short, unobtrusive horns, which, as a matter of fact, it was.
“This court will hear no plea of innocent,” he continued, “and will render no verdict of not
guilty. However, the Accused is an Englishman and must have a trial. I am the prosecutor; I am the judge; and I am the jury. I will pronounce sentence and carry it out in due course. It would be inappropriate for me to say, ‘May God have mercy on his soul.’
“Before I proceed to the calling of the first witness, I should like to comment on the promptness and dispatch with which the prisoner has been brought to the bar. The crimes of which he is accused were committed a mere seventy-odd years ago, and, of course, he has been in our possession for even less time than that. Nevertheless, his processing has been completed; those who were accessories after the fact are in our hands; and there is no need to extradite any of the witnesses against him because they too are in our jurisdiction. We take pride in the fact that no one in any way connected with this case has escaped us. The whole affair is much more neatly tied up than usual, and we are ready to proceed.
“I call the first witness.” The dim shape of a woman appeared in the box. “You have been chosen from among many who have knowledge of these crimes and whose testimony would be essentially the same as yours. We will not waste our time on the others; the weight of your evidence will be multiplied by the number of those whose stories can differ from yours only in their names and ages. Our case rests on you; you know what is required of you and can imagine the consequences if it is not forthcoming.
“Doyousolemnlysweartotellthetruththewholetruthandnothingbutthetruth, so help you?”
“I do.”
“Your name, calling, and address?”
“My name was Annie Chapman. My trade was streetwalker, and I plied that trade in the stinking, teeming alleys of the lowest part of London. My price was what I could get—a few farthings, sixpence, perhaps a shilling. I had no fixed address.
“Annie Chapman—even now, more than seventy years later, my name is remembered. It is true that in life I was ragged and filthy, diseased, drunken, always hungry, always cold, often abused. It is true that I was scorned by the respectable women of the neighborhood, mocked by their children, and cheated by their men, but how many of them are remembered after seventy years? You see, on the night of September Eighth, 1888, in Hanbury Street, Whitechapel, when I was forty-seven years old, the Defendant slit my throat, sliced open my abdomen, and made off with one of my ovaries and three brass rings. By killing me, he made me immortal.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 156