The Adventures of Ethel King, the Female Nick Carter

by Jean Petithuguenin

  Yesterday, giving way to the inclination of my heart, I wanted to procure you a free passage into the other world. But I have to admit, to my very deep sorrow, that I do not find in you a love equal to my own; otherwise you certainly would not have refused such a delightful diversion. However that may be, I assure you that, like every true lover, I will not let you go, and the time will come when you will please me by making the trip to Hell, a region where your faithful fiancé must have already been waiting for you some ten years. May you not have long to wait. And to better understand, read what follows.

  I have only been in free America for some weeks, coming from Europe where dozens of your male colleagues in London, in Paris, in Berlin, in Monte Carlo and other places, have, for years, given themselves uselessly all the trouble in the world to catch me. I have consistently thumbed my nose at them and I have just crossed the ocean to observe somewhat how I will succeed in my occupation here. But now I learn from my brave and honored colleagues, that in this country where nothing is impossible, a woman, a certain Ethel King, instead of staying at home knitting stockings, has begun chasing criminals. That seems to me a bit much and that’s what immediately inspired me with a violent attraction to you, because I love strength. And then I made a bet with several of my comrades and associates that I could send you very quickly out of this world. The business has already begun. You survived yesterday morning, but I won’t stop constantly surrounding you with little loving attentions of the same kind until I succeed in making my beloved happy in spite of herself. I will begin work seriously on my task tonight and it can be questioned if you will still be in a state to read this letter when it reaches you.

  Believe in my sincere devotion until you die,

  Your Henry Alton.

  At that letter, Ethel King laughed to herself and murmured:

  “This again shows that the most unmitigated scoundrel hides a depth of stupidity, which, sooner or later, will cause his downfall. My opinion is that the famous Henry Alton, beginning tomorrow, will have occasion to think about his stupidity behind bars.”

  She had noted in the letter she had just read that Henry, after having bragged about his exploits in Europe, alerted her to the fact that he was, that same night, beginning his work. He must therefore have done something, not just by an intermediary as in the attacks directed against her, but directly, by his own hands.

  She got up and went to the telephone. She asked to speak to Chief Golding, although she knew that he wasn’t usually in his office at such an early hour.

  “Central Police Bureau, here!” someone answered her call.

  “I am Ethel King. Is Mr. Golding there? I wish to speak to him.”

  “Yes, the Chief is here. One moment!”

  Something extraordinary must have happened, or else Golding certainly would not have been at his post at such an early hour. Shortly thereafter, she heard his voice.

  “Hello, Miss King!”

  “Good morning, Mr. Golding! I just wanted to ask you if anything unusual had happened last night.”

  “Why do you ask that question?”

  “I have good reasons for supposing something must have happened.”

  “You seem to know everything, Miss King. In fact, something did happen, even something terrible, and the author of it left no trace. A horrible crime.”

  “I’m going to come to see you immediately. I think I have certain information about it that I have from the criminal himself.”

  “Thunderation! Is that possible? In any case, I’ll expect you, Miss King.”

  Ethel entered Golding’s office 30 minutes later. She already knew about the night’s event because the newspapers had put special editions for sale out on the streets recounting the horrible crime. The newspaper article they almost all printed read like this:

  This morning, at about 2 a.m., a policeman—badge number 275—found the body of an elegant lady bathed in her own blood, in Small Street. The unfortunate woman had had her throat cut with a very sharp knife and her stomach too had been cut open so that the intestines were exposed. She no longer had money or jewelry on her, which proved that robbery was the reason for the murder. The victim has already been identified. She was Mrs. Carry, the wife of Holms Carry, well known in Philadelphia as a maker of machinery. She had spent the evening at Queen’s Theater and had taken the shortest way back home on foot, as she usually did. Mr. Carry has promised a $20,000 reward to whoever discovers the murderer.

  When Miss Ethel King arrived, Chief Inspector Golding was very upset. He had decided to put everything in motion to discover the guilty man, but he didn’t know where to begin. He had no clues at all. Therefore he was waiting with the greatest agitation for the detective, who had told him she possessed information she had from the criminal himself. He knew Ethel King well enough to know she wasn’t a woman to joke about such matters. And however strange that seemed to him, he didn’t doubt that she had some clue.

  He rushed up to her and shook her hand, saying:

  “I’m very glad you’re here, Miss King! I was eaten up with impatience because I’m convinced you’re going to shed some light on this business.”

  “Exactly, Mr. Golding,” Ethel replied, sitting down. “I’ve already told you that the criminal was kind enough to communicate certain little things to me.”

  “That seems to me hardly possible, Miss King,” the Chief of Police said.

  “It’s nonetheless true, Mr. Golding. I owe this information entirely to the fact that I’m a woman. I have told you several times that my sex has more than once, remarkably, helped me to find certain criminals because these gentlemen, the rogues, couldn’t imagine that a woman would ever risk hunting them down. Now if they learned that she had taken to the field, they would laugh and wouldn’t deign to take precautions, certain that a woman couldn’t collar them. You see, that’s what happened today.”

  “You’re probably right, and as unbelievable as your assertion had at first seemed to me, it now seems very plausible.”

  “Good! Have you already heard about the person who broke into my house last night to murder me, and that I arrested?”

  “Naturally. You pulled off a masterly maneuver. Criminals ought to tremble when taking you on, Miss King.”

  “Dame, you have to protect your skin!” the detective retorted, smiling. “Listen carefully to what I’m going to tell you, Mr. Golding,” she added in a serious tone. “The man responsible for the attack against me last night, the one who sent the dangerous bouquet you know about and the murderer of poor Mrs. Carry, are one and the same person.”

  The detective then handed him the letter signed Henry Alton, which he read with astonishment, after which he slapped his knee hard.

  “Thunderation! You’re right again, Miss King! This scoundrel must be dumb as an ox for his exploits and his luck in never being caught in Europe to have swelled him up with egotism and pride to the point that he makes fun of detectives and the police.”

  “That’s the situation, and it’s good that he’s like that,” replied Ethel, “otherwise, he would without a doubt be a little harder to catch.”

  “I’ll heartily congratulate you Miss King if you earn the $20,000 reward the husband of the victim promises. But do you have a plan at the moment? Where do you intend to begin your investigation? What’s the first thing that you’re going to do?”

  “Arrest the author of the crime!”

  “But the job doesn’t go so fast. You don’t know where he’s hidden or who he is.”

  “I can learn where he’s hidden. I believe I know who he is.”

  “You know who he is? You can’t seriously believe that signature Henry Alton is his real name?”

  Ethel threw Mr. Golding a look that wasn’t at all flattering, because the Chief flushed and mumbled some words of excuse.

  “Let’s drop that, Mr. Golding,” Ethel continued in a colder tone. “I really want to tell you who the murderer is, although in my opinion, you should have known it as soon as
you read that letter. You have certainly heard about a murderer who commits his crimes in the big European cities, principally in London, and mainly attacks well-dressed ladies. He always has the same method of operation. He starts by cutting his victim’s throat, without a doubt to keep her from crying out, and next he cuts open her stomach. That last act seems to be the result of a special perversion, so that these murders committed for theft are also sadistic murders. In London and throughout all of England, this monster is known under a name which has become a source of fear; he’s called Jack the Ripper.”

  The Chief of Police jumped up from his chair, exclaiming: “Why of course! I must have been mad not to have thought about that! Jack the Ripper is in our country! It was beginning to be too hot for him over there, and he came to our country. But I hope he won’t last long!”

  “You can be sure of it,” Ethel answered. “I certainly even count on picking him up today, and to do that, I’m asking you to give me some men.”

  “Of course, you’ll have whatever you wish, and I’ll go with them. I want to be there when this fellow is captured.”

  “Now, would you have the man arrested last night in my house brought in?”

  The Chief rang and gave the order to have the prisoner, John Nagaman, brought in.

  “John Nagaman is a bird we’ve been following for some time already,” he continued. “He has on his conscience several little murderous knife attacks, a few burglarized house safes, and other peccadilloes. I’m afraid he’ll never again see the sweet light of liberty.”

  The man soon appeared, escorted by two policemen. On seeing Ethel, he let out a terrible curse.

  “What do you want with me?” he asked in an angry and hostile voice.

  “I would like to ask you—if it isn’t presuming too much on your goodwill—to give us the name of the man who sent roses to Miss King yesterday and who sent you to murder her last night.”

  The prisoner laughed wickedly and threw a look full of hate at the detective.

  “I won’t say anything,” he said. “Not a word. You’ll never get his name. You’ll never catch him, and he’ll take terrible vengeance.”

  Ethel came forward a step and told him in a calm voice:

  “At least tell me how much Jack the Ripper paid you to murder me.”

  These words had the effect of a thunderbolt striking the criminal, who trembled and turned wide-eyed toward the detective and stammered:

  “You know…? You female devil!”

  “Oh! Yes, I know that and even something else,” Ethel answered. “I know that Jack the Ripper has been praised by his colleagues in America as a hero. His brilliance, I warn you, will tarnish quickly. He was told there was a female detective here. So he joked and said that in a few days Ethel King wouldn’t keep his friends from doing whatever they liked. Isn’t that right?”

  “Who…Who told you that?” stammered John Nagaman, crestfallen.

  “I have it from Jack the Ripper himself.”

  “From himself? Then he’s been caught?”

  “No, he just wrote me.”

  “Wrote? Then that’s the biggest stupidity under the sun.”

  “You said it,” the Chief laughed, giving the order to take him away.

  “And now, get your men and follow me,” said Ethel, full of confidence. “Ten men will be enough. Either I’m very mistaken or I’m going to have the pleasure of introducing you to my lover.”

  The End of a Criminal

  When they arrived at the house on Dark Street, the men crept cautiously, one by one, into the back courtyard. Ethel King had preceded them and was waiting for them in front of the shed. She posted them behind the boxes and the other litter so that none of them were visible. Everything was done with the greatest caution and without any noise.

  “Hide yourself also, Mr. Golding,” she said in a low voice. “At any moment one of those rogues may put his nose outside, even though at this early morning hour they are all sound asleep in their den. Don’t move before I give the signal—a whistle or a revolver shot. I’m going to stretch out on that pile of boxes so I can see in all directions without being seen.”

  From the position she had chosen she could in fact see everything, but she was mainly watching the shed where she was more convinced that the criminals were hiding since John Nagaman had changed expression when she had spoken to him about it.

  Two hours were spent in waiting, when Ethel, who was beginning to feel the loss of sleep, felt a strange movement in the frame of the boxes on top of which she was lying. She came to a sitting position so as to take up less space and to be less easily seen. It seemed to her that someone was pushing about some of the boxes at the base of the pile, but slowly, without any noise, inch by inch. Little by little she saw an opening appear in the wall of the courtyard. Out of it there came a bearded man.

  The man immediately began to push the pile of boxes against the opening. He must have found the pile heavier to move than usual, because he raised his head, and at the same time his eyes stared into those of the detective and into the barrel of the gun pointed at him. He was completely transfixed and incapable of uttering a sound. Ethel King jumped down lightly near him murmuring in a muted and firm voice:

  “Silence, or you’re a dead man!”

  At the same time she motioned, and the Chief with two policemen ran forward and tied up the individual without giving him time to defend himself. While they were leading him away to a secure site, Ethel said to the policemen:

  “My guess was right, as you see. Now we know the entry to the hideout. We’re going in. I’ll go first. Follow me closely to give me strong back up support.”

  The boxes were again moved back with all necessary precaution. When the entry was opened, Ethel King went in, followed by the Chief and his men. They first had to go down some ten steps, after which they came to a door with windows which was only pushed shut and through which there was a little daylight. Ethel pushed it half open and saw in front of her a sort of square subterranean room, rather small, the kind of cellar in which crime finds asylum and protection. A smoking lamp was hanging from the ceiling and lit somewhat a counter placed in the back where bottles and glasses were lined up between food stuffs of all kinds. Four men were stretched out on the bare ground, sleeping with closed fists.

  Three of them had the dress and look of tramps; the fourth was rather elegantly dressed. In addition, his clean-shaven face was marked with the stigmata of all the vices and had, even in sleep, a ferocious and repulsive expression.

  “Be careful, now, inspector,” Ethel said in a voice as soft as a breath, pointing out the fourth sleeper. “That’s Jack the Ripper. Let me go in first. You hide behind the shade of the wall, near the door. I want it to be his dear Ethel that Jack sees when he wakes. Your men will remain outside and come in at the first signal.”

  The detective advanced on tip-toes right up to the sleeper she was interested in, while keeping an eye on the three others. There were two revolvers near Jack that Ethel picked up and placed in her pockets. She looked a moment at the sleeping criminal, who wasn’t aware of the kind of awakening he would have. Then she kicked him sharply with her foot, saying in a clear and distinct voice:

  “Ho, Mr. Henry Alton, wake up! Your lover is here and this isn’t the time to sleep. Come on! Stand up! Quickly!”

  The man, sufficiently awakened by the kick she had given him, reached out with his hand for his revolvers near him. They had disappeared. He sat up as if moved by a spring and acted as if about to jump on the detective, but the revolver she was pointing at him held him at a distance.

  “Good morning, Mr. Henry Alton, better known as Jack the Ripper,” she continued. “How are you? Did you have pleasant dreams?”

  However, the other three had awakened and gotten quickly on their feet, too surprised not to hesitate.

  “Ethel King,” one of them murmured in a frightened voice.

  Jack heard it and recoiled.

  “Ethel King,” he repeate
d automatically.

  “But of course! I’m the woman you’re so in love with! Ah! Jack, Jack the Ripper. That did me good, to get a love letter. I was eager to know its noble and generous author and I’ve come to invite you to take a little walk. When we’re outside, I’ll tell you all of my heartfelt thanks for all the splendid roses you sent me yesterday and also all my gratitude for the messenger of love who visited me last night on your behalf! While we’re waiting, let me ask you to leave in your belt the knife you’d like to draw. Be calm, or you’ll be nothing but a cadaver yourself.”

  “Oh! You think you’ve got me,” shouted the criminal, who had gotten over his surprise while she was talking. “Let’s go, boys, kill that woman! Since she risked coming among us, we’re going to celebrate my marriage to her in a way that will astonish her.”

  Just as the scoundrels raised their weapons, Inspector Golding rushed to Ethel’s side, calling his men. A confused scuffle followed. Ethel had her arm grazed by a bullet. Jack the Ripper fought like a demon, slashing right and left with his knife; he wounded four policemen before they were able to subdue him. Of his three accomplices, one was dead, the two others wounded and lying on the ground.

  No longer able to do injury, Jack threw terrible looks at Ethel King, who, without worrying about the blood flowing from the wound in her arm, stood near him, smiling.

  Ironic and triumphant, she said: “Henry Alton has lost his bet. That doesn’t matter. I believe it was a little inconsiderate of you to want to send me into the next world to better prove your love. You’re nonetheless an unusual fellow and after your death, that you’ll find, I fear, premature, your love letters will be one of the most curious ornaments of the Crime Museum.”

  The miscreant struggled in his bonds.

  “Daughter of the Devil!” he bellowed. “I’ll get revenge!”

  “I’ve already been told that, or something like it, by Mr. John Nagaman, who is now under lock and key,” Ethel answered. “Good health, Mr. Alton. I’m glad to have made the acquaintance of a man who was so attracted to me from the day he set foot on the American continent.”