Downtime

by James Allen

  "Simple and on the subject," he reminded me, with hardly a hint of the deserved sarcasm. The concern in his eyes said everything else.

  Grumbling what were probably obscenities for his time, Finch gave me a shove down the corridor and I gritted my teeth against the urge to take a swing at him. It wasn't just my own ass I'd be stringing up on the nearest gallows. I got my temper under control by the time we reached what looked like some sort of storage room. Wooden file drawers circled the only other furniture, a table and two chairs.

  One was already occupied by a man in a black suit bent over a notebook. He was a less impressive figure than his constable; wiry and rumpled, with unkempt graying black hair and ink-stained fingers that moved the pen with itchy speed across the paper, he didn't look tough enough to have worked his way up from the streets of Whitechapel to a desk job. At our entrance, his head jerked up, took us both in with hardly a flicker of interest and nodded at the chair before returning to his work.

  Finch gave me a none too gentle push toward the chair, then parked himself at the door. I sat down, feeling a transient amusement over the situation. I'd faced inquiries once or twice in my early years at the Bureau, until Sully'd gotten through to me that playing by my own rules was acceptable only in the most dire circumstances. Now here I was, in a world where the rules seemed to be less clearly defined, and I was still pissing people off. I had to be glad Sully was in no condition to thump me on the head. Of course I had reason to think Ezra would shortly be doing it on his behalf.

  Finally the scratch of the pen ceased and a weary sigh replaced it. Eyes a penetrating brown lifted to peruse my face, then the rest of me with an unapologetic directness. "Morgan Nash, is it?"

  "That's right. You're Pimblett?"

  "Inspector Charles Pimblett," he said with a certain sardonic quality as he sat up straighter, those eyes still picking me apart.

  I didn't know if he paid any attention to body language, but kept mine non-threatening anyway. "Mind if I ask what we're charged with?"

  Pimblett tapped his pen on the notebook as he perused it. "Abusive language. Causing a disturbance. Assault and detention of Mr. John Leeke. Oh, and possible involvement in the deaths of Annie Chapman and Mary Ann Nichols."

  "I guess just about everyone you arrest these days is charged with that last one."

  He sat back and eyed me for the longest minute before replying. "Some are, yes. Especially those who are noticeably out of place."

  If only he knew just how out of place. "So you think I don't fit in?"

  He laid the pen on the scarred table and folded his hands over his stomach. "I take it you are here on holiday?"

  I wondered how much Ezra had told him. "My original intent was a holiday, but I'll admit this case has piqued my interest."

  "Amateur detective, are we?"

  "Professional."

  "I see. With the New York police?"

  There was a note of disdain in his voice and I figured he'd worked with them before, and not amicably. "No, I'm on my own."

  "Indeed. You've come quite the distance to spend your holiday trying to crack our case. Mr. Glacenbie has vouched for your character, though the embarrassment of arrest may spur him to send you back home at his first opportunity."

  Pimblett was probably right about that. "I didn't intend to get in the way of your investigation. Mr. Leeke's behavior in the pub drew my attention and I followed him--"

  "Behavior?"

  "He was sitting alone. He had a black bag in his possession, on his lap, and he was occupied in close study of the female patrons. He accosted three of them in the fifteen minutes I observed him before following him from the pub." I felt a weird homesickness that I wasn't sitting across from Faulkner's grumpy visage, relating my report as he sucked down coffee and sighed every few minutes. In the habit of following a report with my own opinions, I couldn't stop myself from continuing. "The suspect matches the witness descriptions you have on file. I think his behavior warrants further surveillance. It's unlikely but not impossible that your killer has an accomplice, even a female one. I'd follow up all possible leads, no matter how farfetched, if I were you."

  "Hold a minute." The inspector's gaze narrowed. "You imagine a woman could do this to another woman?"

  If he was going to prevent me from investigating the murders, at least I could get it into his head to pursue leads he probably wasn't even considering. "I've seen women capable of doing some pretty nasty things to their fellow human beings, Inspector. Granted, in this case, the probability that a woman is involved is low, but if you're looking for an obviously crazed lunatic, you're limiting your chances of catching the killer. Have you ever handled this type of case before?"

  "I've taken on my share of murder cases."

  "I'm not talking about the sort of killer who kills once, over money or a failed marriage or one of a million reasons people come up with for taking a life. I'm talking about a different kind of person. One who isn't noticeably insane, but has a perception of the world so skewed, it drives him to kill over and over again. And there's a pattern to the evidence he leaves behind, evidence you lose when you don't protect your crime scene. Do you know how to dust for prints? I realize it's a new technique--"

  "Mr. Nash."

  The interruption cut off my lecture and I knew I'd gone too far. Pimblett had no reason to consider the ideas of a man he'd just arrested on suspicion of murder or even the ideas of a fellow investigator when that investigator was a nosy stranger from across the pond. "I'm not competing with you, Inspector. I want to catch this guy just as much as you do."

  If there was resentment and annoyance in the man's steady gaze, there was also curiosity and a reluctant interest to hear more. But it had no doubt been a long couple of months for him and he'd probably been offered more unofficial advice than any professional could stand to hear.

  "Mr. Nash, I am going to discharge you and your friend on one condition. That you leave Whitechapel and do not come back. If I see you on these streets again, I'll lock you up. For your sake as well as ours."

  I sensed he wasn't too convinced I'd listen, but he didn't know how else to scare me off. Maybe the thought of potential bad press was a factor or maybe he just didn't want to deal with me further when he had bigger fish slipping through his net. I wasn't going to push him. I was too relieved to draw the get of out jail card. "Thank you, Inspector. I'm sorry I delayed your dinner."

  My noncommittal response left him even more suspicious, but he rose and nodded at Finch. "Discharge them and find them a cab. Good-bye, Mr. Nash." The trace of a smile tugged at his lips. "And thank you for all the advice."

  "Any time, sir."

  As I followed good old Finchy out, I was aware of the anticipation in his step. He and I weren't done yet, as far as he was concerned. I didn't want to get either Ezra or myself into more trouble, but I wasn't going to be this guy's punching bag and he wasn't laying a hand on Ezra again, that was for damned sure. He waited until we were in the corridor leading to the cells before he turned and pushed me against the wall. I'd been waiting for it. I backed away and flashed him my biggest grin. It was all the encouragement he needed to throw a fist at me. I blocked it and used his momentum to roll him to the floor. A little pressure on his arm warned him to stay put.

  "We done or you want some more?"

  "Clever lad," he grunted, and to my surprise grinned up at me. "That's how it's done in America? No one's ever put me down, not like that. You're all right."

  "Spare me the flattery, Finch. I'm going to let you up and you're going to follow Pimblett's orders and let us go."

  I stepped out of his reach as he clambered to his feet. He rubbed his shoulder, the good-humored glint still in his eyes. "Show me how you did that, will you?"

  This guy didn't need any new tricks in his arsenal. His natural strength was dangerous enough. "Sorry. Goes against Bureau policy to teach self-defense to bullies."

  "I don't know how your friend come to think I killed that bl
oke. Weren't my fault he was sickly. I'm to bring in them that's stealing, whether they're poorly or not. I was doing my job and no one can say otherwise."

  "Your job is to protect and serve, not to beat up on those weaker than you just because you've been given the authority to detain people for breaking the law." I gestured impatiently for him to hurry up as reached the cell door. Ezra sat slumped on the bench, altogether still, and I jabbed Finch's arm as he fitted the key in the lock. "Come on. Get it open." Inside, I crossed the cell in two steps. "Ez?" I anxiously clamped fingers over his shoulder and he opened his eyes and blinked at me.

  "Morgan?" He yawned and sat up. "You were quick."

  He'd been sleeping. I'd been worried about him and here he was comfortably snoozing while I was being interrogated. "Well, I'm glad you were able to catch a few winks." Though I'd gone for sarcastic, I realized I meant it too much for it to sound anything but sincere. I'd put him through one hell of an evening and the purpling bruise on his cheek dissipated any exasperation. "You all right?"

  "Yes. Are you?" Ezra slid a wary gaze in Finch's direction. "He didn't--"

  "Nah. He tried but it backfired on him." I glanced around. Finch was watching us just as warily from the cell door. "We might have a shot at getting him canned, but even if there's an IA division to turn to, it'd still be his word against a ghost's. Doubt that would hold up in court. Even in your time," I concluded ruefully.

  Ezra shook his head. "I'm too tired to decipher your slang. Perhaps after a good night's sleep."

  I gave him a gentle push ahead of me, keeping an eye on him as we passed Finch and headed out of the station. Without waiting for a cab, we headed back toward Fairclough, where I'd left my gun. The night was cold and wet and even so, I was relieved to be out in it after spending time in that dank hole of a jail. Pimblett might not be close to catching Jack, but I felt sure he was doing a hell of a lot better than I was--and with no modern technology to back him up.

  Once I'd found my gun safe where I'd left it, worry lifted from my shoulders to be replaced with weariness. I pushed back my coat and rested my hands on my hips as I surveyed the dark street, no cleaner for the rain which had been falling since early afternoon. Considering what I'd accomplished, the day would've been spent more productively in bed. "You know what my problem is?"

  "I'm to narrow it to one?"

  "Smart-ass. And to think I was worried about you."

  "Were you?" He was smiling. "I am sorry, then. Do go on."

  "My problem is I'm stuck in the nineteenth century without a damned thing at my disposal to help solve this case."

  "You're saying you're spoiled?"

  There was the way to put a brutal spin on it. "Well, yeah. I guess I am," I admitted as we turned toward Commercial and the nearest cab stand. "At home, I'd have a back-up team. I'd have a fingerprint kit and a decent camera, a lab, a car, and enough goddamned light to search for evidence in even the blackest back alley..."

  Ezra had stopped walking. He stood a few feet behind me, staring past me as if I weren't there.

  "Ezra?"

  Hat and walking stick clattered to the pavement. Alarmed, I grabbed his arm and he sagged against me. "Hjälp mig," he gasped.

  I knew enough Swedish to know he'd asked for help and, no matter who was doing the asking, I wasn't about to turn him down. "You've got to talk to me, Ezra. Tell me what's going on. What you're seeing."

  In the distance, the sound of police whistles shattered the quiet night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I wanted to follow the urgent whistles, knowing where they'd lead, but I couldn't leave Ezra behind. He'd regained his legs but not his color. "Ez? You with me? Just take it easy. Rest a minute." I laid a hand on his perspiration-sheened forehead, brushing back the disheveled hair. "Can you tell me what you saw?"

  "I didn't see anything." He hooked his fingers under his collar and a spasm of pain crossed his features. "Something came about my throat and pulled until I couldn't draw breath."

  "He's got her." I felt sick at the realization. "And he's still with her."

  "No, he's gone."

  Ezra started to walk and, aware of the tension in his rapid stride, I hurried to keep up with him. "He's gone? But--she was alive when she came to you. Wasn't she?" Jack worked fast, but not that fast.

  Ezra looked as sick as I felt. "She was fighting, searching for rescue, and I was receptive and--very near," he finished as we turned onto Berner Street and into a crowd of chattering people.

  "Son of a..." The murder was minutes old and already people were crowding into the scene. Sully would've hit the roof. "What time is it?"

  "Just after one. Morgan, reassure me that we're not courting further confinement," he beseeched as we reached a high gate leading into an alley between buildings. I looked around for Pimblett and saw no sign of him, although several constables were on the job, directing onlookers away from the body.

  "I think we're safe." For the moment, anyway. Surely Pimblett or one of the inspectors would be along to write up a briefing and send the men out to canvass the area. The police station was only a three or four-minute walk away. I didn't know how much I could investigate in that amount of time. Ezra and I could barely squeeze through the congregation of morbidly curious. Walk-throughs were apparently performed en masse around here. By the time a photographer showed up to photograph the evidence, there'd be none left.

  "Stay here," I whispered and before he could object, I slipped around a distracted policeman and moved closer to the body lying in a pitiful heap near the building. How in the world Jack did his damage without enough light to see his hands in front of his face, I couldn't guess. Blind walls rose on either side and with the cloud cover overhead, the alley would have been pitch black when he made his move.

  Even with the police lanterns now tossing beams of light around the street, it was still damned dark. Braced for the sight of mutilations, I was startled to see the victim still fully clothed and lying curled up on her side, the only apparent injury to her throat. The thought that she might still be alive brought me to my knees and then I saw that he'd sliced through her left carotid and it appeared her windpipe as well. Blood puddled under her neck and in her hair, seeping down the gutter toward a drain.

  Apart from her bonnet lying on the ground nearby, there was no sign of struggle. I dug out my file to jot down everything I didn't think I would remember later. The absence of blood on her clothing suggested she'd already been pulled to the ground when he dragged the blade across her throat. If she'd managed to scream, whoever had interrupted Jack before he could mutilate her had been too late to save her life.

  "Morgan." A firm hand latched onto my coat and tugged.

  "You shouldn't be over here." I stood, but couldn't take my eyes off her face. It was oddly peaceful, I thought, remembering the terror in Ezra's eyes and the plea for help. I'd been just around the corner when he'd killed her. Just around the goddamned corner.

  "I'm not certain you should be here either." Ezra tugged again, gently but insistently. "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah, just fantastic." I blew out a disgusted breath, then tore my eyes from her to look into Ezra's worried face. "Sorry. Yeah, I'm all right. You?"

  He nodded. "This one, it isn't like the others."

  I noticed he was determinedly not looking down at the body. "No, he only cut her throat. But that did the trick." I sighed, putting away the file. "If this is the Ripper's work, and it appears to be, he must have been interrupted before he..." Oh damn. Damn.

  "Morgan?"

  "There were two." I turned him around and started for the street. "He killed two in one night. I even remember thinking when I read it that the guy had balls of steel to attack another woman when there were cops swarming all over the place with the news of the first murder." I wasn't thinking it so much now, having had a taste of the labyrinth of streets Jack wandered in search of victims. So many dark corners, so many vulnerable, desperate women. It was a serial killer's paradise. "W
e've got to get out of here. I don't know how soon he's going to strike, but this may be our chance to nail him."

  Ezra abruptly stopped in his tracks and grasped my arm. A glance toward the gate showed me why. Our shot at catching Jack had just dwindled to nothing. The constables had shut the gate, having rounded up for questioning everyone who had strayed into the alley for a peek at the latest victim. "How will we go?" Ezra whispered. "They've a guard on the wicket and the door into the club. I don't see another way past."

  "Wicket?" I assumed he was referring to the smaller door in the gate, where a constable stood posted to prevent anyone else from entering. Well, I'd wanted the police to start showing a little common sense in regard to preserving evidence. They'd just picked a god-awful time to start. "We can't exactly tell them to let us go because there's going to be another murder. We need..."

  What we needed appeared like a miracle through the wicket. "Inspector Pimblett," Ezra said in alarm and began to pull me in the opposite direction.

  "No, listen. This is perfect. He'll kick us out of here."

  "And straight away into manacles until they can take us to Newgate," he finished with grim certainty.

  "For what? Getting pulled in by the crowd on our way home?"

  "For being at the scene of another murder when we've already been arrested on suspicion of the first two. We shall be in the cart before we can draw breath to explain ourselves."

  "He won't--" I paused. "In what cart?"

  Ezra smiled briefly. "In trouble, I meant. You've a knife--"

  "A pocket knife wasn't used on this woman's throat, trust me. Pimblett will have no reason to hold us."

  "Something about you seems to inspire reasons to put you under lock and key. I suppose there's no escaping it now." He looked around anxiously. "I wish we could get a message to Derry. They must be worried."

  I hadn't thought of that. "Kathleen won't let him come looking for us," I said, wishing I could be sure.