by Robert Bloch
The proprietor gestured. “Wait—come back—”
But Kane was already hurrying down the street, clutching the black bag under his arm.
He was still clutching it half an hour later as Woods moved with him into the spacious study of Kane’s flat overlooking the verdant vista of Cadogan Square. Dappled splotches of sunlight reflected from the gleaming oilcloth as Kane set the bag on the table and carefully wiped away the film of dust with a dampened rag. He smiled triumphantly at Woods.
“Looks a bit better now, don’t you think?”
“I don’t think anything.” Woods shook his head. “A hundred pounds for an old medical kit—”
“A very old medical kit,” said Kane. “Dates back to the eighties, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Even so, I hardly see—”
“Of course you wouldn’t! I doubt if anyone besides myself would attach much significance to the name of J. Ridley, M.D.”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s understandable.” Kane smiled. “He preferred to call himself Jack the Ripper.”
“Jack the Ripper?”
“Surely you know the case. Whitechapel, 1888—the savage slaying and mutilation of prostitutes by a cunning mass-murderer who taunted the police—a shadow, stalking his prey in the streets.”
Woods frowned. “But he was never caught, was he? Not even identified.”
“In that you’re mistaken. No murderer has been identified quite as frequently as Red Jack. At the time of the crimes and over the years since, a score of suspects were named. A prime candidate was the Pole, Klosowski, alias George Chapman, who killed several wives—but poison was his method and gain his motive whereas the Ripper’s victims were all penniless prostitutes who died under the knife. Another convicted murderer, Neil Cream, even openly proclaimed he was the Ripper—”
“Wouldn’t that be the answer, then?”
Kane shrugged. “Unfortunately, Cream happened to be in America at the time of the Ripper murders. Egomania prompted his false confession.” He shook his head. “Then there was John Pizer, a bookbinder known by the nickname of ‘Leather Apron’—he was actually arrested, but quickly cleared and released. Some think the killings were the work of a Russian called Konovalov who also went by the name of Pedachenko and worked as a barber’s surgeon; supposedly he was a Tsarist secret agent who perpetrated the slayings to discredit the British police.”
“Sounds pretty far-fetched if you ask me.”
“Exactly.” Kane smiled. “But there are other candidates, equally improbable. Montague John Druitt for one, a barrister of unsound mind who drowned himself in the Thames shortly after the last Ripper murder. Unfortunately, it has been established that he was living in Bournemouth, and on the days before and after the final slaying he was there, playing cricket. Then there was the Duke of Clarence—”
“Who?”
“Queen Victoria’s grandson in direct line of succession to the throne.”
“Surely you’re not serious?”
“No, but others are. It has been asserted that Clarence was a known deviate who suffered from insanity as the result of venereal infection, and that his death in 1892 was actually due to the ravages of his disease.”
“But that doesn’t prove him to be the Ripper.”
“Quite so. It hardly seems possible that he could write the letters filled with American slang and crude errors in grammar and spelling which the Ripper sent to the authorities; letters containing information which could be known only by the murderer and the police. More to the point, Clarence was in Scotland at the time of one of the killings and at Sandringham when others took place. And there are equally firm reasons for exonerating suggested suspects close to him—his friend James Stephen and his physician, Sir William Gull.”
“You’ve really studied up on this,” Woods murmured. “I’d no idea you were so keen on it.”
“And for good reason. I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself by advancing an untenable notion. I don’t believe the Ripper was a seaman, as some surmise, for there’s not a scintilla of evidence to back the theory. Nor do I think the Ripper was a slaughterhouse worker, a midwife, a man disguised as a woman, or a London bobby. And I doubt the very existence of a mysterious physician named Dr. Stanley, out to avenge himself against the woman who had infected him, or his son.”
“But there do seem to be a great number of medical men amongst the suspects,” Woods said.
“Right you are, and for good reason. Consider the nature of the crimes—the swift and skillful removal of vital organs, accomplished in the darkness of the streets under constant danger of imminent discovery. All this implies the discipline of someone versed in anatomy, someone with the cool nerves of a practising surgeon. Then too there’s the matter of escaping detection. The Ripper obviously knew the alleys and byways of the East End so thoroughly that he could slip through police cordons and patrols without discovery. But if seen, who would have a better alibi than a respectable physician, carrying a medical bag on an emergency call late at night?
“With that in mind, I set about my search, examining the rolls of London Hospital in Whitechapel Road. I went over the names of physicians and surgeons listed in the Medical Registry for that period.”
“All of them?”
“It wasn’t necessary. I knew what I was looking for—a surgeon who lived and practised in the immediate Whitechapel area. Whenever possible, I followed up with a further investigation of my suspects’ histories—researching hospital and clinic affiliations, even hobbies and background activities from medical journals, press reports, and family records. Of course, all this takes a great deal of time and patience. I must have been tilting at this windmill for a good five years before I found my man.”
Woods glanced at the nameplate on the bag. “J. Ridley, M.D.?”
“John Ridley. Jack, to his friends—if he had any.” Kane paused, thoughtful. “But that’s just the point. Ridley appears to have had no friends, and no family. An orphan, he received his degree from Edinburgh in 1878, ten years before the date of the murders. He set up private practise here in London, but there is no office address listed. Nor is there any further information to be found concerning him; it’s as though he took particular care to suppress every detail of his personal and private life. This, of course, is what roused my suspicions. For an entire decade J. Ridley lived and practised in the East End without a single mention of his name anywhere in print, except for his Registry listing. And after 1888, even that disappeared.”
“Suppose he died?”
“There’s no obituary on record.”
Woods shrugged. “Perhaps he moved, emigrated, took sick, abandoned practise?”
“Then why the secrecy? Why conceal his whereabouts? Don’t you see—it’s the very lack of such ordinary details which leads me to suspect the extraordinary.”
“But that’s not evidence. There’s no proof that your Dr. Ridley was the Ripper.”
“That’s why this is so important.” Kane indicated the bag on the tabletop. “If we knew its history, where it came from—”
As he spoke, Kane reached down and picked up a brass letter-opener from the table, then moved to the bag.
“Wait.” Woods put a restraining hand on Kane’s shoulder. “That may not be necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think the shopkeeper was lying. He knew what the bag contains—he had to, or else why did he fix such a ridiculous price? He never dreamed you’d take him up on it, of course. But there’s no need for you to force the lock any more than there was for him to do so. My guess is that he has a key.”
“You’re right.” Kane set the letter-opener down. “I should have realized, if I’d taken the time to consider his reluctance. He must have the key.” He lifted the shiny bag and turned. “Come along—let’s get back to him before the shop closes. And this time we won’t be put off by any excuses.”
Dusk had descended as Kane and his companion
hastened through the streets, and darkness was creeping across the deserted silence of Saxe-Coburg Square when they arrived.
They halted then, staring into the shadows, seeking the spot where the shop nestled between the residences looming on either side. The shadows were deeper here and they moved closer, only to stare again at the empty gap between the two buildings.
The shop was gone.
Woods blinked, then turned and gestured to Kane. “But we were here—we saw it—”
Kane didn’t reply. He was staring at the dusty, rubble-strewn surface of the space between the structures; at the weeds which sprouted from the bare ground beneath. A chill night wind echoed through the emptiness. Kane stooped and sifted a pinch of dust between his fingers. The dust was cold, like the wind that whirled the fine grains from his hand and blew them away into the darkness.
“What happened?” Woods was murmuring. “Could we both have dreamed—”
Kane stood erect, facing his friend. “This isn’t a dream,” he said, gripping the black bag.
“Then what’s the answer?”
“I don’t know.” Kane frowned thoughtfully. “But there’s only one place where we can possibly find it.”
“Where?”
“The 1888 Medical Registry lists the address of John Ridley as Number 17 Dorcas Lane.”
The cab which brought them to Dorcas Lane could not enter its narrow accessway. The dim alley beyond was silent and empty, but Kane plunged into it without hesitation, moving along the dark passage between solid rows of grimy brick. Treading over the cobblestones, it seemed to Woods that he was being led into another era, yet Kane’s progress was swift and unfaltering.
“You’ve been here before?” Woods said.
“Of course.” Kane halted before the unlighted entrance to Number 17, then knocked.
The door opened—not fully, but just enough to permit the figure behind it to peer out at them. Both glance and greeting were guarded.
“Whatcher want?”
Kane stepped into the fan of light from the partial opening. “Good evening. Remember me?”
“Yes.” The door opened wider and Woods could see the squat shadow of the middle-aged woman who nodded up at his companion. “Yer the one what rented the back vacancy last Bank ’oliday, ain’tcher?”
“Right. I was wondering if I might have it again.”
“I dunno.” The woman glanced at Woods.
“Only for a few hours.” Kane reached for his wallet. “My friend and I have a business matter to discuss.”
“Business, eh?” Woods felt the unflattering appraisal of the landlady’s beady eyes. “Cost you a fiver.”
“Here you are.”
A hand extended to grasp the note. Then the door opened fully, revealing the dingy hall and the stairs beyond.
“Mind the steps now,” the landlady said.
The stairs were steep and the woman was puffing as they reached the upper landing. She led them along the creaking corridor to the door at the rear, fumbling for the keys in her apron.
“ ’Ere we are.”
The door opened on musty darkness, scarcely dispelled by the faint illumination of the overhead fixture as she switched it on. The landlady nodded at Kane. “I don’t rent this for lodgings no more—it ain’t properly made up.”
“Quite all right.” Kane smiled, his hand on the door.
“If there’s anything you’ll be needing, best tell me now. I’ve got to run over to the neighbor for a bit—she’s been took ill.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Kane closed the door, then listened for a moment as the landlady’s footsteps receded down the hall.
“Well,” he said. “What do you think?”
Woods surveyed the shabby room with its single window framed by yellowing curtains. He noted the faded carpet with its pattern well-nigh worn away, the marred and chipped surfaces of the massive old bureau and heavy morris-chair, the brass bed covered with a much-mended spread, the ancient gas-log in the fireplace framed by a cracked marble mantelpiece, and the equally-cracked washstand fixture in the corner.
“I think you’re out of your mind,” Woods said. “Did I understand correctly that you’ve been here before?”
“Exactly. I came several months ago, as soon as I found the address in the Registry. I wanted a look around.”
Woods wrinkled his nose. “More to smell than there is to see.”
“Use your imagination, man! Doesn’t it mean anything to you that you’re standing in the very room once occupied by Jack the Ripper?”
Woods shook his head. “There must be a dozen rooms to let in this old barn. What makes you think this is the right one?”
“The Registry entry specified ‘rear.’ And there are no rear accommodations downstairs—that’s where the kitchen is located. So this has to be the place.”
Kane gestured. “Think of it—you may be looking at the very sink where the Ripper washed away the traces of his butchery, the bed in which he slept after his dark deeds were performed! Who knows what sights this room has seen and heard—the voice crying out in a tormented nightmare—”
“Come off it, Hilary!” Woods grimaced impatiently. “It’s one thing to use your imagination, but quite another to let your imagination use you.”
“Look.” Kane pointed to the far corner of the room. “Do you see those indentations in the carpet? I noticed them when I examined this room on my previous visit. What do they suggest to you?”
Woods peered dutifully at the worn surface of the carpet, noting the four round, evenly spaced marks. “Must have been another piece of furniture in that corner. Something heavy, I’d say.”
“But what sort of furniture?”
“Well—” Woods considered. “Judging from the space, it wasn’t a sofa or chair. Could have been a cabinet, perhaps a large desk—”
“Exactly. A rolltop desk. Every doctor had one in those days.” Kane sighed. “I’d give a pretty penny to know what became of that item. It might have held the answer to all our questions.”
“After all these years? Not bloody likely.” Woods glanced away. “Didn’t find anything else, did you?”
“I’m afraid not. As you say, it’s been a long time since the Ripper stayed here.”
“I didn’t say that.” Woods shook his head. “You may be right about the desk. And no doubt the Medical Registry gives a correct address. But all it means is that this room may once have been rented by a Dr. John Ridley. You’ve already inspected it once—why bother to come back?”
“Because now I have this.” Kane placed the black bag on the bed. “And this.” He produced a pocket-knife.
“You intend to force the lock after all?”
“In the absence of a key I have no alternative.” Kane wedged the blade under the metal guard and began to pry upward. “It’s important that the bag be opened here. Something it contains may very well be associated with this room. If we recognize the connection we might have an additional clue, a conclusive link—”
The lock snapped.
As the bag sprang open, the two men stared down at its contents—the jumble of vials and pillboxes, the clumsy old-style stethoscope, the probes and tweezers, the roll of gauze. And, resting atop it, the scalpel with the steel-tipped surface encrusted with brownish stains.
They were still staring as the door opened quietly behind them and the balding, elderly little man entered the room.
“I see my guess was correct, gentlemen. You too have read the Medical Registry.” He nodded. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”
Kane frowned. “What do you want?”
“I’m afraid I must trouble you for my bag.”
“But it’s my property now—I bought it.”
The little man sighed. “Yes, and I was a fool to permit it. I thought putting on that price would dissuade you. How was I to know you were a collector like myself?”
“Collector?”
“Of curiosa pertaining to murder.” The little man
smiled. “A pity you cannot see some of the memorabilia I’ve acquired. Not the commonplace items associated with your so-called Black Museum in Scotland Yard, but true rarities with historical significance.” He gestured. “The silver jar in which the notorious French sorceress, La Voisin, kept her poisonous ointments, the actual dirks which dispatched the unfortunate nephews of Richard III in the Tower—yes, even the poker responsible for the atrocious demise of Edward II at Berkeley Castle on the night of September 21st, 1327. I had quite a bit of trouble locating it until I realized the date was reckoned according to the old Julian calendar.”
Kane frowned impatiently. “Who are you? What happened to that shop of yours?”
“My name would mean nothing to you. As for the shop, let us say that it exists spatially and temporally as I do—when and where necessary for my purposes. By your current and limited understanding, you might call it a sort of time-machine.”
Woods shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”
“Ah, but I am, and very good sense too. How else do you think I could pursue my interests so successfully unless I were free to travel in time? It is my particular pleasure to return to certain eras in this primitive past of yours, visiting the scenes of famous and infamous crimes and locating trophies for my collection.
“The shop, of course, is only something I used as a blind for this particular mission. It’s gone now, and I shall be going too, just as soon as I retrieve my property. It happens to be the souvenir of a most unusual murder.”
“You see?” Kane nodded at Woods. “I told you this bag belonged to the Ripper!”
“Not so,” said the little man. “I already have the Ripper’s murder weapon, which I retrieved directly after the slaying of his final victim on November 9th, 1888. And I can assure you that your Dr. Ridley was not Jack the Ripper but merely and simply an eccentric surgeon—” As he spoke, he edged toward the bed.
“No you don’t!” Kane turned to intercept him, but he was already reaching for the bag.
“Let go of that!” Kane shouted.
The little man tried to pull away, but Kane’s hand swooped down frantically into the open bag and clawed. Then it rose, gripping the scalpel.