The fog lay over London like gauze; a damp, chilling miasmic shroud. It swirled about the abutments of London Bridge, hovered around the towers of the gray-cold Parliament building. It touched the light-warm windows of Windsor Castle, licked the Royal gardens. It caressed the hands of Big Ben, muted the heavy tolling of the clock. It glutted the Thames and rose like steam to embrace the entire city.
Closing in about the Whitechapel section, the mist obscured the smoke-charred chimney pots of the tightly packed buildings, and wafted through the narrow, cobbled streets. The aged brick walls of the houses were shiny-dark-wet. The dim gaslights braved the night, but their flickerings were timid against the choking fog.
The clop-clatter of a horse's hooves echoed through the canyon-like streets. A rocking hansom cab lurched around a corner, the bone-weary horse running at drooped gait, the driver huddled within his heavy cloak. The metal-rimmed wheels rang out against the cobbles, and the cab rocked and swayed. Without breaking pace, the hansom cab rolled past the muted gaiety of the Red Goose, and rounded the next corner, as though fleeing the darkness of Whitechapel and the forced laughter that exploded from the bowels of the public house. The sound of the horse dwindled and left only the pitiful whinning of the hand organ and the sporadic gasps of merriment.
Before the entrance of the Red Goose, the organ grinder huddled over his machine and cranked out the tinny melody. His monkey sat atop the wooden box, swayed to the cranking motion, and industriously picked at his damp fur.
The strains of the hurdy-gurdy reached the man who stood in the shadows of an alley a half block away. His sharp eyes surveyed the empty street with satisfaction and he carefully watched the entrance of the Red Goose. He stood patiently waiting, a figure in black shadows, oblivious to the clammy fog, like a man in mourning at the side of a grave. Listening to the jerky music, he found himself humming the barrel-organ tune. Then he stopped abruptly and his brow furrowed. He remembered another time and a small boy dancing around an organ grinder and pointing excitedly at the monkey. He felt his insides harden and the rage that was in him sought to choke him. His lips moved in a silent curse and the powerful fingers of his left hand whitened under the pressure he put on the handle of the black satchel he carried.
Laughter belched from the doorway of the public house and the man's lips twisted into a snarl. He saw the door flung open, yellow light spraying the street, and watched the woman stagger out into the night.
His heavy breathing returned to normal and his hands relaxed. It was a typical reaction to him. He was always a bit tense before, but when he saw the problem and set his mind to it, everything settled down to a methodical calm.
2.
"Hello, ducks."
She had the nasal Whitechapel accent, that curse of the London poor. She swayed slightly, peering at the monkey, ignoring the mustached grinder. She lifted a gloved finger and poked the intense little animal playfully. "Ain't no night for a little fellow like you to be out."
The monkey chattered and danced, extending the tin cup in his hand. The woman smiled. She unsnapped her gaudy purse and rummaged around inside. Her hand came out holding a coin and she dropped it into the cup.
"Here, dearie ... go and buy yourself a nip."
"Thank you, Miss," the organ grinder said.
The woman's eyes flicked up, as though she were seeing the man for the first time. "It ain't for you," she said flippantly, "it's for him." She flipped her long skirt and moved away, walking carefully in the manner of a drinker, as if she were balancing a book on her head.
She laughed quietly to herself, then the laugh became a deep sigh and her face seemed to sag under the mask of make-up. Each night it's a little worse, she thought sadly. The drink don't help much, like it used to. She kept her eyes downcast, and her narrow shoulders slumped. She didn't want to be alone this night. That was the hellish part of it, going into the poor, empty room and being alone with yourself. It made you think about yourself, and she didn't like that.
The fast, striding steps of a man approached and she lifted her head quickly, pulling her shoulders back. She smiled hopefully at the man's face, but he passed on, ignoring her. The corners of her wide mouth dropped and she swallowed. A man, any man, was better than being alone in that room with nothing but the years thrown away to embrace you. She sighed again with resignation and moved on, her eyes down.
Her thoughts elsewhere, she collided with a lamppost. The purse flew from her hand and she gave a quick cry of surprise. She staggered back a step and frowned at the lamppost. Then she smiled, sure that she was unhurt, and reached out to give the post an affectionate pat. Realizing then that she was no longer holding her purse, she stopped to look for it. It was about six feet away, the contents spilled. She cursed softly and swayed towards it. She went down on one knee to gather the contents, mumbling to herself. When she found everything, she snapped the purse closed. She found it difficult to rise and she reached out a hand to the damp wall for support.
"Mary Clarke?"
The deep voice startled her and she froze in position. Her eyes glanced up, covered the elegantly clad legs that stood before her. Her breathing was constricted, as if by an oppressive fist that was lodged in her breast. Her muscles tensed and she was assailed with a trembling. She looked up at the towering dark figure and when she met the eyes she was transfixed.
"Are you Mary Clarke?"
Her head swiveled automatically, but the rest of her body was motionless.
"Where can I find Mary Clarke?"
The odd, flat quality of the voice filled her with an unknown dread. She pushed against the wall in an attempt to regain her feet, unable to speak, shaking her head. She tried to push off the fear. After all, it was only a man, and a gentleman at that. He might be the one to dispel the loneliness. Smile. They don't want a girl that don't smile. It was an effort, but she forced her face into the lines of a provocative smile. And as quickly, the smile left her. The cold eyes had suddenly flashed and the lips twisted. She opened her mouth to scream.
"Whore!" the voice snarled.
The scream reached her throat and a gloved hand stopped it there. She felt the hard wall against the back of her head. She reached up to tear the arm away, but the man was too strong and she found herself hanging on the stiff arm that pinned her throat. Her eyes bulged with the pain. Her teeth clenched and the muscles of her mouth strained. She knew that she was going to die, but some inner thing railed against the thought and her mind roared with the why. What had she done? Said? Her insides seemed to swell and press against her ribs, ballooning with a throbbing pain. Lights reeled before her eyes in a myriad of flashing colors. The hand against her throat pressed harder and her Adam's apple seemed to turn to paste.
As in drowning, the panorama of her life surged before her eyes. A flickering melodrama, in and out of focus. She wanted to cry out, to weep, but she knew only the pain and the darkness descending upon her.
Grimacing against the blood-throb behind her eyes, she stared into the now-smiling face of the man, trying to place him in the long, slow disaster of her life. She could not. Why does he hate me?
She sensed new movement. Her bulging eyes flicked to the man's right hand. She saw the knife and thought, "What an odd-looking knife."
At first it was like a pinprick that mingled with her already exploding pain, then she felt the full length of die blade probing and she gasped, knowing.
Will it be lonely there? It was her last thought.
3.
The warm calm descended over him and he felt just a bit drowsy, the way any artist or craftsman might feel at the completion of a long-anticipated task. He straightened his shoulders and breathed deeply. His eyes were shining.
Strange how they cling to life, he thought. As rotten as it is, they try to keep it. But that is the way of evil. It is a poison that insists on spreading and even when it is checked, it struggles to infect until it is flushed away.
Replacing the scalpel in his small black leather bag, he snapped the catch and started away. He walked briskly, head down, keeping to the shadows.
I will find her, he thought. I will search every corner of this city, and I will find her. His mind went back to the scene he had just left.
The crumpled, disheveled body a lifeless heap; the thick red tide slithering across the cobbles and mingling with the water of the gutter.
Mary Clarke, his mind said, over and over. You belong in that gutter. Your blood will fill the sewers and my work will be complete.
For an instant he felt close to God in that realization of his power over evil.
CHAPTER TWO
1.
O'Neil was completely aware of every movement the assistant commissioner made, but he kept his eyes off the man and trained on the report he fingered in his hands, letting the Scotland Yard official pace back and forth.
He sat behind his desk in his own office, but even this home ground was like a battlefield to him.
"I can't understand it," the assistant commissioner said, continuing his pacing, his hands behind his back. "You act as though you're after some magician."
O'Neil said nothing. He placed the report on his desk, smoothed it with his hands. October 11, 1888. There was no clue in the date. If there was a pattern to these crimes, it had nothing to do with the dates. Agnes Davis. Just another doxy, like the rest. Assailant unknown.
"...you've had all the extra men you've asked for ... the rest of London is practically naked of policemen." The assistant commissioner blustered angrily, slamming his gloves into his palm. "And you're no nearer to making an arrest than ever."
"We've made plenty of arrests, sir," O'Neil said wearily. "Dozens of them. Every lunatic and sensation-seeker in London has given himself up as the Ripper."
"Stop using that stupid name!"
"I didn't christen him, sir," O'Neil said, "though whoever did, knew what he was talking about. Have you seen any of the victims?"
"No. A body is a body, isn't it? What's the point of romanticizing the crimes."
O'Neil clenched his fists under the desk. Calm, he told himself, calm. It won't do any good to blow up. Besides, he's right. Maybe you have seen too many of the murders. Perhaps you should be more objective. Perhaps you're losing the touch, Inspector O'Neil.
"Did you know they asked another question in the House today?"
"So I heard," O'Neil said. And now we get the political angle, he muttered to himself.
"The Home Secretary is practically out of his mind. 'What's being done?' they keep asking him. He's run out of replies."
"He has my deepest sympathy."
"There's no cause to be flippant, O'Neil," the assistant commissioner snapped, whirling from his pacing.
O'Neil's heavy brows arched and he bridled with anger. His voice flared. "I'm not being flippant, sir, and I'm going to tell you something. Do you know how long it has been since I've been home? Four days. Do you know how much sleep I've had in the last forty-eight hours? Six hours ... and all in this chair." He spoke quickly, vehemently. "I've got every man at the Station working all hours God created. Most of them are ready to drop, but they'll go on just the same as I do, because they're policemen and this is their job. They'll keep going in spite of the fact that every ignorant layabout from here to Westminster has decided that the police force is lazy and incompetent, and should be dismissed. No, sir, I'm not being flippant. But you'll pardon me if I don't feel sympathy for the Home Secretary just because he's embarrassed in the House."
O'Neil's sudden outburst subdued the assistant commissioner. At the end of the tirade there was a heavy, silent pause, then the man cleared his throat.
"Yes," he said, "yes, of course." He shifted on his feet, realizing he was wrong, but unable to put it into words. He said in a lowered voice, "Well, what's the next move?"
"Every line of investigation is being followed through to its logical conclusion."
"Damn it, O'Neil, that's what you said the last time."
"And I shall very likely say it next time, too."
"But good heavens, man. I-"
A heavy knock on the office door interrupted the assistant commissioner and he turned.
"Come in," O'Neil said, glad for the interruption. The door opened and the desk sergeant stood in the opening.
"What is it?" O'Neil asked.
"Sorry, sir," the rotund, heavily mustached sergeant said, "but there's a lad outside from the Red Goose. He says there's a man in the bar there asking questions about the Ripper. The Gov'nor thinks the crowd might start getting ideas."
O'Neil lifted his bulk from the swivel chair. He was a big man who gave the mistaken impression of being slow on his feet. "The crowd at the Red Goose always gets ideas of one sort or another. I suppose I had better look into this myself." He glanced at the assistant commissioner. "You'll excuse me, sir?"
"Of course, but remember, Inspector, the police force are in particular bad odor at the moment. We're all relying on you to do something about it."
"I shall continue to do my best."
"I'm sure you will. I know you're a good man, O'Neil." He coughed away the moment of praise. "This man might be the Ripper himself, eh?"
"He might," O'Neil said, looking tired. He shrugged into his black Chesterfield and picked up his bowler. "Yes, sir, he might."
2.
Sam Lowry sensed the trouble, but he also knew it was too late to back out of it. There was something wrong with the crowd that he could not fathom. His questions had been innocent enough, but they seemed to take offense, as though he were encroaching on territory where he did not belong. He thought for a moment that it might be because he was an American. He knew Europeans often took exception to Americans on that fact alone, but even so, it didn't seem reason enough for the ugly mood of the crowd in the tavern.
Standing at the far end of the bar, he tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat while trying to judge the crowd. His glance took in the rectangular room, the few tables, the long bar backed by shelves of bottles and pewter mugs. The comely barmaid stared at him apprehensively. He brought his eyes back to the group of men facing him. He picked out the leader, a heavy, bull-necked man in a baggy worsted suit. A bow tie nestled under the roll of a second chin, and a dirty gray bowler sat squarely atop the round, fat head.
Lowry fixed his gaze on the man, and he saw the cowardice in the watery eyes that were narrow slits in pockets of fat. The lips were too loose and the man hung back while he mouthed his bravado.
"Don't pull that stuff with us, Mister," the fat man sneered. "We know what you're about."
Lowry feigned surprise. "All I asked was whether or not anyone had actually seen the Ripper."
"We know what you asked," a bearded man said. "We ain't deaf."
"What we want to know," the fat man said, "is why you asked it."
"I'm sorry, but I don't-"
"Could it be that you're interested in knowing whether anyone has seen your face? Is that it?"
Lowry's square jaw jutted and he knitted the even brows over his brown eyes, realizing suddenly what the fat man was driving at. He was genuinely startled. "You mean you think ... oh, come now, gentlemen, I only arrived from America this morning."
"So you say. Prove it."
There was something about the fat man's manner that brought out Sam Lowry's stubborn streak. He could have proved it simply by producing his wallet and the detective's badge of the New York City Police. But he didn't. He leaned back against the bar, his eyes on the fat man. "Prove it? Why should I have to prove it?"
The fat man glanced at his companions. "So he ain't gonna talk, is he." His voice dropped a key lower. "Let's give it to him, boys."
"Hold on a minute, boys," the barmaid cried with alarm, "this gent ain't done no harm."
"You keep out of this!" the fat man snapped. "All right now, lads. What're ya waiting for?"
Lowry backed off as two men moved toward him. They came solwly, carefully, edging off to either side.
"Can't you stop them?!" the barmaid screamed at the owner of the tavern who shrugged and turned away.
His back against the wall, Lowry braced himself as the two aggressors made their lunge. He spread his arms and as the men reached him, he brought his large, powerful hands over the back of their necks. He grunted and, spreading his legs for support, brought both heads together with a dull thud that echoed above the surprised growl of the watching crowd. A howl of pain came from one of the assailants and they both reeled away to the safety of their group.
Lowry crouched, waiting, warmed by the action, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.
The crowd pushed the fat man to the front. His face was blotched with anger. "A fightin' man, eh," he said, angling for time, trying to keep up the bravado. He glanced over his shoulder at the others who had drawn back, not so sure that the stranger was going to be an easy mark. "Come on," he said. "He's a foreigner, ain't he? They said the Ripper was a foreigner."
Three men leaped from the group. Lowry dodged and sent a hard right into the first one to reach him. The man went down to his knees with a grunt. Lowry whirled to take on the others, but he lost his defensive position and the pair pinned his arms and held him struggling.
A grin wrinkling his face, the fat man stepped forward. "Now, Mr. Jack the Ripper, what you got to say for yourself?"
Lowry squirmed against the unrelenting grip of the two men but said nothing. His steady gaze was on the fat man.
"We'll soon make you talk, won't we boys?" the fat man said, bolstered by the answering growl of the men at his back. His hand dipped into a pocket and when it came out it held a closed knife.
Sam Lowry saw the knife. This was not going to be just a saloon brawl. He saw a coward; a weak man with a knife. This he knew meant danger of a different sort. A coward with a weapon was like a cornered rat. He knew the man would use the knife. He watched the blade snap out from its chamber and saw the professional way in which the man held it in his palm; loose, ready for that fast, disemboweling upward sweep. The man -edged forward and Lowry forced himself to relax. He kept his eyes on the knife. It came closer, outstretched. When the man's arm dropped like a pendulum, Lowry threw his weight against the arms that held him and swung both feet off the floor. He doubled his legs, then shot them out, his hard heels slamming into the fat man's stomach.
Screaming with pain-filled rage, the fat man slammed back against the bar. He grabbed the edge for support and leaned heavily, gasping for breath. His hat had flown from the impact, and gray wisps of thin, unkempt hair stuck to his sweating forehead. He pushed himself erect and stood away from the bar, tottering slightly on his short legs. His voice was forced and trembling. "All right, friend," he said, "we'll see how cocky you are with your stomach laid open."
Lowry's mind raced, planning the next move. The fat man advanced a step. Lowry tensed, ready, then he saw the barmaid suddenly move away from the bar. She brought out a bottle from beneath the bar, swung her arm back, then flung herself up to the bar. It was a blur of movement. The bottle crashed down on the fat man's head, the glass exploding with a gush of liquor. The knife flew from the man's hand. His knees sagged and his heavy body dropped like a felled tree. The bar was silenced.
"That's enough!"
Lowry's eyes came up at the sound of the harsh voice from the doorway and relief flooded his body. Heads whirled.
"Let him go, Charley," O'Neil snapped, moving into the room. "You too, Tom."
The two men released Lowry's arms and moved away, sheepish under the glowering stare of the inspector.
"He was asking all sort of questions, Mr. O'Neil. About the Ripper, he was."
"Since when do you take the law into your own hands?" O'Neil growled.
"Sorry, Mr. O'Neil," one of them said, "but ... well ... I mean, the police ain't doing much themselves, and we-"
"That's no excuse," O'Neil snapped, fixing a hard gaze on the man. "Now clear out of here, all of you." His eyes dropped to the floor. "And take him with you." The men sidled away. Two of them gripped the fat man's heels and dragged him to the door. O'Neil stood by, waiting.
A waspish little man with blinking, shifty eyes darted from the shadows of the room and came up to Lowry. He busied himself with dusting off Lowry's coat. "Nice piece of work, Mister," he said. "The way you handled them, I mean. Nasty lot they are."
Lowry smiled down at the friendly little man. "Thank you," he said, glad that everyone in the bar was not against him.
The little man nodded his head gravely and turned to leave. He walked into the outstretched arm of the inspector.
"Give it back, Snakey," O'Neil said, flatly.
Surprise lighted the man's face. He stammered, "Give what back?"
"This is a friend of mine, Snakey."
Wide-eyed, the little man took a deep breath. "By my life, Mr. O'Neil," he gasped. "I didn't know he was a mate of yours. So help me, I'd never-"
"Just give it back."
The watch appeared, magically in the little man's hand. Lowry stared at it with recognition, and his hand flew to his empty waistcoat pocket. He held out his hand and the little man deposited the watch. "Thanks," Lowry said.
"Don't mention it, gov'ner. Anything for a friend of Mr. O'Neil's. Fine man, he is." With a last fleeting look at O'Neil, the little man turned and hustled to the door, his head shaking with consternation.
Lowry replaced the watch and leaned back against the bar. The crisis was over, but he was still a bit shaken. He looked into the stern face of the inspector.
"Well?" O'Neil said.
"Small world," Lowry said.
"Lucky for you it is."
"I seem to recall...."
"...a saloon in New York...."
"...and a certain London policeman ... "
"...with his back to the wall," O'Neil finished.
"And a certain New York policeman...." continued Lowry.
"...to the rescue. And now we're even."
"Do we always have to meet this way?"
"It has an element of surprise."
"Yes, but next time one of us might be late." The two men broke into broad smiles and gripped hands. "When did you arrive?" O'Neil asked. "This morning."
"Why didn't you come to see me?"
"I was going to, but I decided I would break this little case on the way and bring you the Ripper for a little gift."
"Very funny."
"Actually I just wanted to nose around this area and pick up some of the local color."
"You nearly became the local color."
"Red?"
"Red, blue, it all runs the same."
"I think I need a drink," Lowry said. He held up two fingers to the barmaid. The girl brought two drinks and put them on the bar.
"And thank you very much, young lady. You swing a very potent bottle."
"That's all right, sir," the girl said.
"How's your motiier, Helen?" O'Neil asked.
"Much better thank you, Mr. O'Neil." She smiled, taking the money from Lowry. She moved off down the bar.
"Nice kid," Lowry said. "I'm beginning to be glad I came." He winked over the edge of his glass and drank.
"Excuse me asking," O'Neil said, "but just why did you come?"
"To help you find the Ripper."
"And right off you become the people's prime suspect. Seriously. What are you doing in London?"
"Seriously, I've been assigned to the Ripper case. But don't worry, Mike, Scotland Yard didn't ask for the help; and I won't take full credit for solving the crimes."
"If I didn't know you well enough I'd-"
"It's true. I'm on the Ripper case, but just as an observer. We've never had anything like the Ripper in New York. It's a disturbing case and there's no assurance that it won't happen to us. Our commissioner feels it's a wise investment to see how you people handle it. We had the report that it was your case, and since I was your New York guide, they thought you wouldn't mind showing me the ropes."
"You're serious. You really want to work on this?"
"Observe."
"Sam," O'Neil said with elation, "you just might be what I need. A nice, fresh, barbaric approach."
"Thank you."
"Really, I mean it." O'Neil lifted his drink and gulped it. He shuddered, then gripped Lowry's arm and started for the door. "I've been stymied," he said. "Nothing is right about this case. But I've been thinking that perhaps I was too close to it, perhaps the solution is in front of my nose and I just can't see the forest for the trees. But you, Sam, you'll be objective. You can stand back and look ... and maybe you'll see." He still held Lowry's arm. They stood on the sidewalk before the Red Goose. His voice was charged with excitement. "You can't imagine what this case has done to the city, Sam." He waved his free hand, taking in dark, empty street. "Look at this street. Before the Ripper business started you couldn't move along here. There were stalls, barrel organs, people spilling out of the pubs. It was a happy place. Not particularly moral, but happy. And those men who attacked you in there. Apart from the one with the knife, they're just ordinary people."
"Ordinary?"
"Yes, ordinary. The two holding you. A coster and a shop assistant. And that's what the Ripper has done. He's turned Whitechapel into a graveyard. Blood. That's all anyone thinks about now. You asked a question about the Ripper and they were at your throat. I tell you, Sam, this is nothing to joke about."
"I'm sorry," Lowry said, soberly.
O'Neil released the grip on Lowry's arm and smiled. He punched him lightly on the arm. "Forget it," he said. "It's just that I'm so damn glad to get some help."
"Where do we start?"
"We start at my wife's supper table where I haven't been for days."
3.
She saw the two men in the street ahead of her and Hazel felt relief. The last four squares had been empty, absolutely silent except for the persistent rap of her own heels against the wet cobbles. It had been terrible covering that distance. The buildings all seemed to be closing in on her, and the sound of her steps seemed to grow louder and louder. And the alley openings. As she approached each one she felt her breath catch in her throat, and she imagined all sorts of wild things. Foolish, she had said to herself, foolish.
For courage, she had been saying her name over and over to herself. Hazel Townsend, Hazel Townsend. And then she had made up a rhyme. Hazel Townsend, from the East End, went a dancing, for a stipend.
But it hadn't helped. She was afraid of the street and of what she couldn't see there.
And on top of it all, she was late on the first night of the new job. And she needed the job so badly.
But now there were two men in the street and she felt a bit better, and perhaps she wouldn't be too late.
4.
Lowry and O'Neil reached the corner before they heard the sharp clack of the girl's heels. They stopped under the gaslight and turned. She would run a few steps, then walk, then run. It was just a woman in a hurry.
There was really nothing to be concerned about, but O'Neil kept his eyes on the girl as she approached. His feeling toward the approaching shadow of a girl was protective; it was a feeling that he thought ridiculous, but one that was becoming more and more of an obsession with him each time he saw a woman alone on the streets at night. He knew it wasn't a good sign, but there was nothing he could do about it.
You can't cover every street every night, he told himself. That's what you've got a police force for. But they're not doing it. They're not stopping the killings. And every night gives the Ripper a new opportunity for another murder. But you can't worry about every girl you see. Damn it, man, get a hold of yourself. Is this maniac running you into the ground?
A commotion on the far side of the street commanded his attention and he thankfully took his eyes from the girl.
Burnett's Music Hall managed to be garish in spite of the soft gaslights that illumined the entrance. Its whitewashed walls were plastered with gaudy posters. Bat-wing doors barred the entrance and, at the moment, a burly barkeep was shouldering his way to the sidewalk, a noisy drunk in his bear-like grasp.
O'Neil touched Lowry's sleeve and they moved across the street.
Standing behind the barkeep, the manager of the music hall waved his cigar and bellowed, "Next time you come in here and can't pay I'll have you fixed proper."
There was a short scuffle and the drunk was released to reel off along the street muttering to himself. The barkeep turned and pushed back through the bat wings, leaving the manager to send a parting curse after the drunk.
Still in the shadows, O'Neil turned at the sound of running, and the figure of the girl he had watched a moment ago came into view. She was a young girl, and despite the worried expression of her face, an extremely pretty one. She wore her brown hair piled atop her head, and it curled in bangs over her forehead like a crown for the large gray eyes, the small nose and the month that was just wide enough for her oval face. She was of medium height and even though she wore a heavy cloak, her breasts jutted prominently, rising and falling quickly with her breathing.
The girl ducked past O'Neil and Lowry and tried to rush past the manager of the music hall while his attention was on the staggering drunk.
"Just a minute, you!"
The girl stopped and faced the florid-faced manager, her eyes lowered guiltily.
"You're late," the manager growled.
"I'm sorry, sir." Her voice trembled, but it was still a rich voice that matched her beauty. "I-I lost my way."
"First day here and you're late. I don't know what you girls think I'm running here." He shook his head impatiently. "Well, get yourself inside and change."
O'Neil listened and watched the exchange with interest. When the girl slipped through the doorway and the manager turned to follow, he stepped from the shadows and said, "Becker."
The manager turned, startled. When he saw O'Neil his manner became affable and he stepped forward, rubbing his hands together nervously, a man anxious to please.
"Good evening, Mr. O'Neil." He glanced at Lowry. "You too, sir."
"Who was that?" O'Neil asked, his manner gruff.
"Just a drunk, Mr. O'Neil. We get them all the time, but we manage to-"
"The girl," O'Neil said, interrupting.
"Oh, the girl," the manager said, the loose flesh of his round face quivering. He ran a pudgy hand through his thinning hair. "She's new," he said. "Just starting today."
"Nothing better happen to her, Becker."
"She's a friend of yours, Mr. O'Neil?"
"I never saw her before, but I'm remembering the Turner girl."
"Really, Mr. O'Neil, you can't expect me to be reponsible for what the employees do in their time off"
"Becker, it's a wonder a worm like you manages to walk upright. Just don't plead the innocent with me. The Turner girl came to see me the day before she jumped into the river, and I know that you forced her into one of your upstairs rooms and when she finally got into trouble you ordered her out and told her to earn what she could walking the streets."
Reviewing the facts of the Mabel Turner incident aroused O'Neil's anger. While a few moments ago he had been thinking of the shadowy figure of the girl in relation to the Ripper, he now saw her faced with another threat-the flesh peddler who stood before him. His hands shot out and he bunched the lapels of the manager's tuxedo. He drew the man up until he was on his toes, his mouth slack with surprise and fright.
O'Neil spoke slowly through his teeth. "I'm going to keep an eye on that new girl, Becker. And so help me, if anything happens to her, you won't be able to get out of London fast enough. I will personally tear your filthy carcass limb from limb." He released the man's coat with a shove. And because his anger was unabated and he knew that he could go no further with the manager, he whirled and started away.
"Come on, Sam," he said to Lowry, who took one last look at the terrified manager and fell into step.
"What was that all about?" Lowry asked.
"I'm going to close him up one of these days."
On what grounds? O'Neil asked himself. You can't get a single witness against him. The customers won't complain. And most of the girls are as bad, if not worse, than he is. But there's always one like the Turner kid who ... damn it, O'Neil, get back on the track If you're going to be worrying about every girl in London who steps out of her house, you won't have time for anything else. Please remember that you're supposed to be a policeman, not a nurse.
Engrossed in thought, O'Neil led Lowry off the curb and into the path of the hansom cab that came clattering out of the darkness. But Lowry was alert. He lunged to the right, grasping O'Neil by the arm and dragging him with him. The horse went past snorting, the high wheels of the cab brushing O'Neil's coat.
"Now I owe you one again," O'Neil said.
"Let's keep it that way," Lowry said.
5.
Ann Ford, seated in the cab, noticed the two men on the sidewalk, but she gave them little attention beyond noting that they were well dressed and quite large. Her thoughts were more concerned with the scene she knew would be forthcoming with her guardian, and she was trying to plan her moves.
She gripped the metal handle to steady herself against the swaying and jolting of the hansom, and she had half a mind to tell the driver to slow down.
Then she saw the two men step off the curb and she realized that they weren't going to stop. She caught her breath and one gloved hand flew to her throat. She was helpless. She saw the taller of the two men suddenly twist away from the path of the running horse. A scream formed in her throat and caught there. The second man was jerked away and then the cab was past. She twisted in her seat to look through the side window, but it was too dark and she could see nothing.
She reached up and rapped on the hatch above her head, wanting to tell the driver to slow down.
The hatch lifted, but before she could speak the emaciated face of the driver appeared and he asked, "You did say Mercy Hospital for Women, didn't you, Miss?"
"Yes I did, driver, but I-"
"Almost there, Miss." The hatch closed.
A tight smile of chagrin crossed Anne's face, and she told herself she ought to know better than to try to get anything across to a cab driver. She looked out through the open front of the cab, across the flanks of the horse, and into the blackness of the narrow street.
The suddenly looming gates of Mercy Hospital brought her back to her small problem. The hansom came to a stop, and Anne released the doors before her. She swept her long skirts up in one hand and stepped to the ground. She fumbled in her purse a moment, then paid the driver. The cab clattered away and she went to the gate and pulled the bell cord.
As always, the first sight of Mercy Hospital filled Anne with a feeling of depression. Looming on the perimeter of the concrete courtyard, the walls of the buildings were sullen, soot-stained brick. The windows were opaque with grime, and metal grillwork covered each window, giving the place the look of a prison.
In answer to the bell, the door to the gatekeeper's lodge opened and an elderly man, wearing a jacket and cap, stepped into the courtyard and shambled to the gate with effort.
"Good evening, Hodges," Anne said.
"Evening, Ma'am," the man grunted, unlatching the tall, heavy gate and swinging it back on its creaking hinges.
Anne passed into the courtyard and the porter swung the gate closed. "Do you know where my guardian is?" Anne asked.
"Dr. Tranter is supposed to be operating about now, miss. Would you like me to tell him you're here?"
"Don't bother. I'll wait for him in the almoner's office. Thank you, Hodges."
"You're welcome, Miss."
Crossing the small courtyard towards the front entrance, Anne was suddenly confronted by Dr. Urquhart, a tall young man with a bearded, esthetic face that was now set in a scowl.
"Oh," Urquhart said with surprise, "hello, Anne. I'm looking for Dr. Tranter."
"Hodges said he was operating."
"He's supposed to be, but we can't find him."
"Perhaps he went to see an outside case."
"It must be an awfully important one to take him away when he's scheduled for the theatre." He shook his head thoughtfully. "This is the third time he's been late, and it's not like him."
"It's certain to be something important," Anne snapped defensively.
Urquhart realized suddenly that he was criticizing the senior surgeon. "I'm sure it is," he said. "It's just that we have the patient ready and I guess I'm the nervous type." He laughed lightly. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to pick him up, and I wanted to see Mrs. Bolton."
"Perhaps I'll see you later," Urquhart said hopefully.
Anne smiled at him. "I'll be in Mrs. Bolton's office. "You might tell him I'm waiting." She stepped past the young man, slightly amused by his hesitant, though constant, attentions. Inside the doorway she stopped and turned. She watched Urquhart glance toward the porter's lodge, then cross to the gate and let himself out.
That's strange, she thought. He certainly doesn't expect to find Uncle Jason in the streets. She shrugged, deciding that all medical men were difficult to understand, and walked along the dim corridor. She stopped before a door and knocked, then immediately opened it and stepped inside.
Mrs. Bolton, the almoner in charge of charity-case records, sat behind her desk, a large, matronly woman. She rose to her feet as Anne entered.
"Hello, my dear," Mrs. Bolton said cheerfully. "You shouldn't be about as late as this."
"Nonsense, Mrs. Bolton," Anne said, removing her hat. "If I'm to take over your duties I shall be here a great deal later than this."
"And that is a large if. I still don't think Dr. Tranter will allow it."
"I'm of age, Mrs. Bolton," Anne said sternly. "I have a mind of my own and I've made it up." If only she were that sure of herself with Uncle Jason. But she would be. She wanted to be useful, and helping at the hospital was an excellent way to begin. Perhaps this wasn't the time to approach him-he had been acting so strange of late-but she was adamant and certain that not even he could change her mind. However, she would be glad when the interview with him was ended.
Mrs. Bolton smiled in her motherly way. She did not understand a girl of means wanting to work. "Let me make you a nice cup of tea," she said, eager to change the subject.
CHAPTER THREE
1.
Harry Simes' head ached and the lump behind his ear was sore to the touch.
She's gonna pay for that, he growled to himself. There ain't a female alive can do a thing like that to Harry Simes and not get her come-uppance, damned it she wouldn't.
From where he stood in the dark doorway, Harry had a good view of the Red Goose. He saw die last of the customers being pushed through the doorway, heard the half-friendly complaints of the bar owner as he sent the late drinkers on their way.
Won't be long now. The girl had to come this way. He felt a slight tremor of excitement ripple through his body. His fat hand stole into his pocket and he fingered his clasp knife. She'd think twice before clobbering Harry Simes again, she would. Damn all of them. Make me a laughingstock, will she? Well, we'll see about that.
The door to the Red Goose opened, the light spreading over the sidewalk. Pulling her shawl about her, Helen, the barmaid, stepped into the street, the proprietor behind her, waiting to lock up.
"You all right walking home by yourself" the man asked.
"Of course," Helen said, her voice drifting along the street to the spot where Harry stood. It's only a little way."
"Well, good night then. See you tomorrow."
"Good night, sir," Helen said.
Harry watched the girl cross the intersection. The gaslight framed her in the mouth of the street, then she stepped to the sidewalk and was swallowed in the shadows. Her approach was marked by her footsteps. Harry waited, then he stepped from the doorway.
"Oh!"
"Just a minute."
"Simes!" the girl gasped, her hand at her throat. "Harry Simes! Good heavens, what do you mean giving a body such a start?" Her voice rose with anger. "Skulking about the streets scaring a girl out of a year's growth! What do you want?"
Harry had not expected anger. Instead of being terrified and shaking with fright, the girl was reading him out. "You hit me with a bottle," he said, and then realized that it was the wrong thing to say. It was too much like a small boy complaining. He'd had the advantage of surprise, but somehow the situation had turned on him.
"No more than you deserve," the girl snapped. "Now get out of my way and play your games with someone else."
Harry shifted his position until Helen was trapped against the wall. His hand snapped out and pulled the shawl from her head. He shouldered her against the damp bricks and his quick fingers darted to the neck of her dress.
He felt the sharp toe of her shoe dig into his shin and he gasped with the pain. "Damn wench," he growled, recoiling.
Frustrated by the turnabout, Harry pulled the knife from his pocket and snapped the blade. He held it up.
"Stop your nonsense, Harry Simes." The girl switched her long skirt and pushed him aside, ignoring the threat of the open knife.
Harry's hand dropped to his side. He stood and watched her walk away. He trembled with anger. The damn girl hadn't been frightened a bit. She had treated him like an insignificant lump of dirt. Oh, damn her! Damn them all! But he'd show them. It was all because of O'Neil. Yes, that bloody Inspector O'Neil was the one.
He flinched against the memory of his first arrest a year ago and the thirty days in Newgate where even the prisoners had heard about O'Neil's statements in the witness box. "I recommend a petty sentence for this petty thief."
Petty was he? Well, that O'Neil would get his, yes he would. And that girl, too. They'd hear from Harry Simes, they would.
Turning, Harry walked quickly to the corner. He looked back once, then passed under the light and hurried on.
2.
Helen Morris was tired and the encounter with Harry Simes had left her with a feeling of irritation.
She walked quickly along the narrow, littered street, oblivious to the darkness, the mist curling off the wet cobbles. She held her wool shawl close to her throat, and thought only that her feet and legs were tired from standing behind the bar.
It was not like her in indulge in self-pity, but her thoughts strayed to a mind-picture of her life and she saw only boredom. All evening at the Red Goose and all day with a sick mother. What did life offer a poor girl? Marriage? Who wanted a girl with an invalid mother? Lord knows, it wasn't an easy life. But then Helen chided herself for these feelings.
You're young, she told herself. You've got your health, and you've got a holiday coming up. The thought of a-short vacation cheered her, and to further brighten her thoughts she reminded herself of the plans to refurbish her room, pondering for the hundredth time on the right color for her curtains. "Mary Clarke?"
The deep voice startled her, wrenched her from her reverie. She caught her breath and a chill shook her body. She stopped walking and her head flicked about.
A tall man stepped from the darkness of a connecting alley and Helen sighed with relief. "Heavens, you startled me for a minute. I couldn't see who was speaking."
"Mary Clarke?"
For a moment she had expected more of Harry Simes' nonsense-despite her bravado she harbored a slight feeling of fear toward him. But the man before her was obviously a gentleman. He was well-dressed, a large man in a silk topper, a black cloak flowing from his shoulders. She glanced at the black medical bag in his hand, then up at his shadowed face which showed the definite signs of refinement. Certainly not a person to spend time in the Red Goose. But he had mistaken her for someone else.
"No, that's not my name," she said pleasantly. "I'm sorry." She started to move past him, but he reached out and took her arm. She looked up with surprise. "I'm sorry," she said. Sudden fright stifled her voice. She had an impulse to run. "Really-I-I must-"
The hand on her arm was released, but the fingers spread and before she could move the hand encircled her throat. Then she was jolted from the street and slammed back against the wall of the alley, a vice-like grip closing in on her gullet.
Panic engulfed her like a wave and she threshed about frantically, beating against the man's chest with her small, ineffectual fists. The man's face was close to her and his voice was a stiff-lipped snarl.
"A tramp walking the streets, dragging young men down into the gutter."
She tried to shake her head, but the pressure against her throat was too great. The man's free hand closed over the neck of her dress and with a fierce jerk the material was torn away. She struggled feebly, but his eager hand clawed at the cotton petticoat. She felt the tug and the tearing of the washworn fabric. The cool fog touched her bare shoulder. Her hand flew up to cover her breast, but her assailant knocked the hand away and his fingers began to fondle the soft, sensitive mounds of her flesh. A thin line of spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth. He stared down at the melon curve of her breast lying in the gloved palm, and in his preoccupation eased the pressure on her throat.
"My mother," she gasped, "She is-"
The man's fingers closed like a vise and she cried out in pain. He stifled the cry with new pressure on her throat and her eyes bugged, the blood pounding in her head. Despite her panic, the pain, her growing knowledge of death, she was assailed with a feeling of shame that the stranger was using her intimately.
"This is the sort of thing you like," the voice hissed. "You tempt the young men with your vile body, offering it up to them like some evil goddess."
No! Her mind screamed. No! But then the pain grew greater and she knew that she would never tell him. The cruel, caressing hand left her breast and for a moment she thought he would release her. His body twisted and she realized he was opening the black bag.
The gleam of metal flashed for an instant. The angry thrust of the man's lunge slammed her back against the wall. Pain rocketed through her and in a strange sudden clarity she felt the blade twisting in her vitals, cutting smoothly and carefully through muscle and flesh. Her muscles contracted and her legs kicked with a will of their own. She felt herself being engulfed, inundated with her own blood. She ground her teeth and closed her eyes tightly. Two words welled up in her chest and choked in her throat. "The Ripper!"
3.
He snapped the clasp of the black bag and took one last look at the crumpled body, the grim suggestion of a smile tilting the corners of his mouth.
He had purposely left a definite clue for the police to find and he knew that they would be too stupid to find it.
How ridiculous the metropolitan police were when you confronted them with a superior mind.
One less to walk the streets of London. Too bad a busy man had to take time out to do what the police should be doing-ridding the streets of such vermin. But it was pleasant work, and always there was the expectancy of finding that one. It would happen-it had to happen. Yes, that would be a rewarding night.
And in the meantime....
CHAPTER FOUR
1.
They keep telling me that it isn't anything serious. They won't tell me the truth. If it isn't serious why are they waiting for the senior surgeon? Why won't that young doctor operate? It's serious all right. I'm going to die. And isn't it funny, I really don't want to die. I thought I did, I really thought that death would be a relief. But now that I know I'm going to die I don't want to. Oh, God, why doesn't that doctor get here.
On her back, staring up at the paint-peeled ceiling of the dingy, time-worn operating room, Kitty Knowles gave full rein to her fears. She had been lying on the operating table for what-to her-seemed an eternity. The bare wooden table was hard. There was a folded blanket under her head. The room itself frightened her. It was unpleas-andy business-like-a somber, unadorned room.
When she grew tired of the ceiling, Kitty could turn her head and watch the two. nurses. They could have passed for scrub women, and they moved about with grumbling callousness, their hag faces set in scowling lines. Or she could see the instrument attendant, a hunched, pained man in a leather apron who crooned and fussed over his tray of glittering knives like a hen over her chicks. The man both fascinated and repelled her. Hawk-beaked, with a shaggy cap of hair, he had two faces. The left side seemed sleepy, the eye half-closed. The right was marred by a deep, ragged scar that ran from the eye to the chin, and pulled the face to one side and held the eye open and staring. His brow was a corrugation and his thick lower lip trembled with love as his large fingers touched the array of knives.
When he looked up and saw Kitty staring, he tried to smile, producing a lopsided leer. Kitty tore her eyes away, stared again at the ceiling.
I'm being punished, of course, she thought, her mind in a turmoil of fear and anxiety. Paul, she whispered. Paul. She closed her eyes tightly. That was all it took to bring him into sharp focus. Paul. The boyish face, the strong body, the quick smile. Why did he die? She saw again the crushed look on his face, the confusion....
"It's not true," he had said in a tortured voice filled with doubt.
And then she had tried to reach him. She had risen in the bed, the sheet falling away to reveal the smooth, full lines of shoulders and breasts, her arms extended toward him, begging. "Forgive me," she had whispered. But when her hands touched him he recoiled and his lips pulled back from his teeth. She had thrown herself upon him, burrowing her face into his stomach, clinging to his thighs, and he had shaken her off.
She opened her eyes to dispel the memory. Did I kill him? Did he really die because of me? The same thought that had raged through her mind for months, the question that was never answered. She tossed her head and whimpered.
If he had really loved me he would have accepted the things I had to do. He would have known that I wanted to change and did change. But did I really have to tell him? Did I have to tell him everything? Was I confessing or was I testing his love? Oh, dear God, I don't know. Why doesn't he come? Why doesn't the doctor come? I've sinned, yes, I've sinned, but I don't want to die.
2.
To hell with her, the man thought to himself. She gives me any sass I'll knock her on her broad ass. The picture of his wife in this position brought a smile to the man's toothless face. He chuckled to himself as he lurched along the dimly lit alley.
"Had me a pint or two, and what's it to ya?" he said aloud, laughing. "And then, whap, I let's her have it." He staggered and caught himself. "Ought to straighten these bloody streets," he said. Weaving to the other side, he reached out to the brick wall for support. He pushed off the wall and went on down the alley like a man walking on eggs. He stopped.
"Hello, what's this?"
He spread his legs and leaned forward. "Hey, you'll catch your death sleeping there, old boy." He shook his head to focus his eyes, and leaned closer. " ... or is it, old girl?" He almost fell, but steadied himself with the wall. "It is a girl. Here now, ducks, you can't be sleeping there." He chuckled lightly. "Got a load on, have ya. Here, let me give ya a hand."
Reaching down to lift the girl, he slipped. His hand hit the girl's stomach. He pushed himself up. "Sorry, ducks, I'm a bit squimy meself." There was something strange about his hand and he held it to his face. He stared at the blood. He caught his breath, and his eyes flashed back to the recumbent figure.
"Omigawd!"
3.
Dr. Urquhart entered the operating room, his expression grave. He glanced at the instrument attendant. "Any sign of Dr. Tranter yet?"
The attendant shook his head and his eyes dropped back to the instruments. Dr. Urquhart moved across to the operating table and stood over Kitty. He reached down and lifted her wrist from beneath the sheet that covered her.
Kitty opened her eyes and stared, her eyes lusterless, her lips drained of color.
"There's nothing to be afraid of, Kitty. Dr. Tranter is a very good surgeon. And your case is simple."
"Where is he?" Kitty asked, her voice listless. She had already condemned herself to death and the question was only a matter of form. But it caused the face above her to scowl, and she noted the man's nervousness.
"He-he was called out on a case. He ... uh ... he'll be here shortly."
But it won't do any good, she said to herself. My body must die, because it was with my body that I killed Paul. He wanted me pure and it was too late. I used my body to live, sold myself because it was easier than a mill. And this killed him. He fell in love with a whore and he couldn't stand it.
She turned her head at the sound of a door opening and saw a man enter. He was tall. He stopped, returning the gazes fixed upon him, then he advanced to a table and dropped his medical bag. He swung the cloak off his shoulders, dropped it, and removed his hat.
"Sorry I'm late," he said to Urquhart, as he removed his jacket, "outside case."
It's too late, Kitty said to herself. You're wasting your time. It's too late.
4.
Dr. Hillary Tranter pulled the gauze shields over his hands and up over his forearms, covering his shirtsleeves. He took the white apron from the nurse and tied it at the waist. His hands trembled slightly.
Easy, he cautioned himself, easy. But the nervousness persisted. It was always like this as he approached the operating table and it was getting worse of late. Calm yourself, he said, it's just another case.
"All ready here?"
"Yes, sir," Urquhart answered.
He knows. He can see I'm nervous. I'd better be good tonight-show him something special.
Tranter reached out for the card in Urquhart's hand. "Here, let me see." He read the card, nodding, his mind registering the facts of the preliminary diagnosis. It seemed simple enough, but you never knew for sure what you were going to find until you got inside. He reached the table and looked down at the girl.
Pretty girl. Young, frightened. Seems strong enough, though. "Knowles, isn't it?" he asked. "Yes, sir," the girl said.
"Right." Tranter handed the card back to Urquhart. "Now let's see what we can do for you." he nodded toward Urquhart who came forward with the bottle of ether and the cup-like wool device.
"Look up," Urquhart said. He placed the cup over the girl's face and began to drop the ether. "Breath deeply, Kitty. Deeply. Very deeply."
Tranter watched the girl's eyes widen with fear. He saw her breasts rise and fall under the sheet with her sharp gasps, then her breaths become longer and steadier. Her life was in his hands now. In another moment-life or death for this girl.
"She's out," he said. Urquhart straightened, took the cup and the bottle away. Tranter took one last look at the girl's face. Now! The nervousness was gone. He flipped his hand out, palm up, and it was steady. The instrument attendant, Louis Benz, slapped the large incision scalpel into the open palm. Tranter closed his fingers over the cold metal handle. He pulled back the flap of sheet to expose the soft, white flesh of the girl's abdomen. He touched the area with his fingers, then with business-like calm, he made the initial incision.
"Cut deeply, John," he said to Urquhart who was at his side. "That's the secret of surgery these days. Open them up so you can see what's inside." he made another cut. "Here's the blood, John. Start mopping. Retractor, Louis." His hands moved swiftly, probing, his eyes searching. The perspiration beaded his forehead. "Abscess," he said. "See it here, right at the base of the womb. Touchy one. Large retractor, Louis. See it, John, size of your thumb. Poisoning the whole system. Scalpel, Louis."
Easy now, Tranter, his mind whispered. This takes a steady hand. Cut that thing away without touching the wall of the womb. One false motion and....
A heavy silence hung over the room. Tranter gripped the scalpel with his two fingers. With a deft movement he cut away the abcess and removed it. He took a deep breath. "That's it. Let's get her back together."
The high-pitched wail of a man's voice raised in frenzied screaming came from beyond the window, stopping Tranter's movements. The voice bubbled drunkenly.
"Help! Help! He's done it again! The Ripper. He's done it again! Help...!"
Tranter's eyes lifted to the window, then he turned and looked at Urquhart who was staring at him. His tongue ran over his lips. He glanced back at the window, then he stiffened suddenly and barked, "Close that window! How many times do I to tell you I must have quiet when I'm operating. Close it this instant."
One of the nurses ran to do his bidding, and Tranter whirled back to the patient, his face set in grim lines.
"Let's keep this one alive," he said.
CHAPTER FIVE
1.
Sam Lowry followed in the wake of O'Neil's striding figure, infected by the inspector's urgency.
"He got another one," the uniformed policeman had said after hammering at O'Neil's door.
The late dinner in the modest O'Neil household had been particularly appealing to Lowry. A bachelor, Lowry found himself envious of the obvious signs of family order and Comfort that seemed to revolve about O'Neil. Despite the odd hour, O'Neil's wife, a fully proportioned dark-haired woman of middle age, had retreated to the kitchen to prepare the meal. A handsome woman with a ready smile, she bestowed a love on the often-absent husband that was unbound by schedules. And while they were at the table she joined them with her cup of tea and spoke of their two children and the minor affairs of the household, never mentioning the fact that the inspector had not been home for four days, carefully keeping his mind off the rigors of his work.
But their tea had been interrupted by the frantic knocking of the policeman, and now they were hurrying along a damp alley toward a cluster of men and dully winking lanterns. A familiar voice reached Lowry.
"Bloody marvelous, I'll say. The law finally gets here half an hour late."
"Hey, O'Neil, when you going to do something about this?" another voice asked.
"Move aside there," a uniformed policeman said. "Come on now, boys, let's move aside a bit. Evening, Inspector."
"Brave boys in blue," the familiar voice growled, and Sam Lowry stared once again into the malevolent face of his assailant from the Rod Goose.
The body was covered with a blanket. A silence settled over the crowd as O'Neil bent over and lifted a portion of the blanket. At a motion from O'Neil, Lowry bent and looked closely. His eyes widened and the air was withdrawn slowly through his teeth.
That, his mind said, is a knife job. Even the bully boys of the Five Points Gang never did a job like that. Terrible Terry Quinn had made quite a name for himself in 1885 when he carefully dismembered the O'Malley sisters in Manhattan's Ninth Ward, but he had never wielded a knife with such precision. The figure below him had been carefully and thoroughly disemboweled.
"Is it always like this?" Lowry asked.
"Always," O'Neil said. He lifted his head and said to the hovering policeman, "Who is she?"
"Name of Helen Morris, sir. Barmaid at the Red Goose."
Lowry started, his eyes flicked to O'Neil, then he quickly bent forward and lifted the blanket from the face.
Even in death she was still a pretty girl. Her gray eyes stared with a wistfulness, a certain soft sadness undiminished by death, that Lowry had noticed when he saw her in the bar. Her delicate mouth was just slightly twisted as if she had resigned herself to the sudden pain, or to death, or whatever it was that passed through her mind as the life was wrenched away from her. Wisps of soft blonde hair strayed across her cheeks. Except for the eyes, she might have been sleeping. Lowry dropped the blanket.
She saved my life tonight, he thought. In ten years of police work this is the first time I ever knew the murder victim, and she had to be one that performed a service for me. He felt angry, and suddenly tired, and his world was now focused upon the disheveled lifeless bundle at his feet.
"What's the verdict, Inspector? Natural causes?" The voice of the fat man said. The crowd laughed.
Lowry tensed, wanting suddenly to smash the insolent mouth that had spoken the words. He began to rise, but O'Neil touched his shoulder. "I don't know, Mike," Lowry hissed, "the poor kid was-"
"They were all poor kids, Sam," O'Neil said quietly, his fingers absorbing the anger that surged through Lowry.
The crowd was hostile, their fear in the presence of death assailing them and tugging at each man's conscience. Lying at their feet was evidence of the terrible fact that life, at best, was a precarious uncertainty. The very moment that man is sent screaming into the world, he begins to die. From the time of his first awareness he is faced with death and disintegration. Dust to dust. The fragility of the organism-to be less than the rock underfoot-assaults the ego of man; works him to futile fury against the unrelenting force that drags him slowly to his end. And worse, there are the pitfalls to hastenthis end. The misstep, the falling rock, the hurricane, the bullet, the knife. Man's life is an obstacle course on which he dodges extinction at every turn. And before the crowd was the proof. It angered them, drew their muscles taut, glazed their eyes. The fear was a nagging cancer gnawing at their innards. Wasn't there some great authority governing their life span? Resenting this authority, but unable to touch it or understand it, they vented their wrath on the symbol of authority at hand.
"Pity Old Jack don't carve up a policeman," the fat man said. "We might get some action then, eh, Mr. O'Neil?"
His anger controlled, Lowry came to his feet and glared at the fat man who returned his gaze with a taunting grin. He doesn't give a damn about the girl, Lowry thought. If anything, he seems glad she's been killed. His police mind went to work. Why not? This was the girl who brained him with the bottle. He's certainly handy with a knife. Catalogue him.
"Did you call the wagon?" O'Neil asked.
"Yes, sir," the man in uniform said.
So here you are faced with the handiwork of the Ripper on your first night in London, Lowry was thinking. And suddenly it isn't just another case to you. It has already become a bit personal.
A commotion on the perimeter of the crowd brought Lowry's head around.
"Don't be a damn fool," a commanding voice said.
"I'm sorry, you can't go through there."
"Nonsense!"
O'Neil moved forward. He recognized the adamant intruder and said, "It's all right, Constable."
The group separated and the tall, cloaked figure of a bearded man stepped into view. His eyes flashed with anger and his jaw jutted. The nostrils of his hawk-like nose seemed to flare. His high forehead was wrinkled with consternation. He moved with authority and an air of impatience.
"Evening, Sir David," O'Neil said.
"O'Neil," the newcomer barked, "have you no control over this rabble." The man did not wait or look for an answer and O'Neil simply shrugged his shoulders. The man stooped and lifted a corner of the blanket. His brow furrowed and he muttered, "Mutilation."
Annoyed by the newcomer's brusque manner and highhanded attitude toward O'Neil, Lowry said, "Admirable diagnosis."
The bearded face tilted and the eyes flashed. "Who are you?"
"This is Mr. Lowry, sir," O'Neil said in a tone of appeasement. "He's an American."
"That would account for it," the man said, brushing Lowry off. "Have the body taken to the hospital. I'll do a postmortem right away."
"The wagon has been sent for, sir," O'Neil said.
"Heavens, man, let's get this thing out of the gutter. Carry her. It's only a few hundred yards." He turned to leave, then added, "And be quick about it!" He lifted a hand and the crowd melted before him. He stormed away.
"That's telling 'em, eh?" a voice said.
"About time someone started giving some orders."
Lowry felt his blood rising again. He turned to O'Neil and asked. "Who was that?"
"Sir David Rogers," O'Neil said, "He's Director of the Mercy Hospital for Women, just around the corner from here."
"Do you have to take that sort of thing from him?"
O'Neil shrugged. "He's not so bad, really, Bark's worse than his bite. He's performed the majority of the postmortems on these girls, and that's enough to make anyone short-tempered."
"And he's important."
O'Neil smiled. "Let's just say it wouldn't prove anything to argue with him. Come on, we'll have a closer look at the body." He turned to the policeman. "Carry the body to the Mercy Hospital."
"Gonna finish the Ripper's job, O'Neil," a nasty voice queried.
"Bloody butchers'll slice her up proper."
"The common folk is just so much meat to them high and mighty!"
"No respect for the dead."
"A damned bloody shame, that. Butchering that poor thing what ain't been dead an hour."
Ignoring the threatening voices, O'Neil said, "Get her on the stretcher."
The crowd pressed in, pushing and jostling. One hand shoved against Lowry and he shouldered the man back. The move set them off and a sullen growl of anger came from their collective throat. A thin-beaked man snarled and shook his fist, another muttered, "Damned fancy toffs think we're dirt under their feet."
Sam Lowry saw the signs of mob violence, realizing that the men were reacting from fear and ignorance. They knew nothing of medicine, thought only that someone was going to relish the task of carving a female form. But behind the growing storm of disapproval was the prodding voice of the fat man.
2.
Breathing heavily, Dr. Tranter took the towel from the nurse and wiped his hands. He ran the cloth over his forehead, felt the perspiration gluing the shirt to his back. He stepped back from the table and nodded at one of the nurses. Turning away from the patient, he crossed the room to the table and turned the faucet on the gravity-fed tank, running water into a porcelain pan.
Tranter glanced back at the operating table. The attendants were wheeling it away. Under the anesthesia the girl was sleeping fitfully. Moving out of the light, the fine sculptured lines of her face caught the shadows and became more real, more human. The sheet rose and dipped to follow the outline of her body and Tranter was surprised to see her as more than a small square of flesh to be cut.
Rubbing his hands together under the water, he stared thoughtfully ahead. You had some anxious moments there, he thought, frowning. Luckily it wasn't a serious job. You're beginning to handle the scalpel like a hatchet.
"Will she be all right?" Urquhart asked from his side.
"Of course she will," Dr. Tranter said without looking up. "I'll have Sir David look at her next time he's in. But she'll be fine."
"Incidentally," Urquhart said, "Anne called for you earlier. She's downstairs in the almoner's office."
"Oh?" He looked up at Urquhart, then went on with his washing, carefully scrubbing his already clean hands as though they were indelibly soiled with blood.
Anne here? That's strange. She didn't say anything about coming to meet me. The thought annoyed him. Anne was becoming more difficult every day, more headstrong, insisting on acting against his wishes. He had clearly told her to stay off the streets at night.
Taking a towel from the rack, he dried his hands, turning to glance at the instrument attendant who was busily sorting the bloody instruments and putting them into a canvas bag.
"Louis," he said, "are you taking that lot off to clean them?"
The cripple raised his grotesque face from his tools and nodded. Tranter crossed to his medical bag and opened it. He reached in and lifted a slender bloodstained gauze parcel, then unraveled the gauze and held out a large, bloody scalpel.
"Clean this as well and hone it up for me. I'll pick it up tomorrow."
Tranter handed the knife to the attendant, then noticed that Urquhart was staring at the scalpel, a question on his face.
"A boil-lancing," Tranter said, "nasty job."
"With that?"
"The only one I had with me." He smiled thinly. "Like cutting a fingernail with a pair of garden shears, eh?" he said, putting the look on Urquhart's face into words.
Don't believe me, damn you. Wondering why I don't have a decent set of tools in the medical bag. Well, just keep on wondering, young man.
He turned and started for the door.
3.
Anne was trying to concentrate on what Mrs. Bolton was telling her, but her mind kept straying to the impending scene with her guardian.
"These are the patient's records," Mrs. Bolton said, riffling through the open drawer of the wooden file cabinet. "We keep them for a year, then if they haven't been-"
She was interrupted by the opening of the office door. Anne turned as Sir David Rogers burst into the room.
"Mrs. Bolton, there's a body coming into the morgue. Let Urquhart know I'm going to do a post-mortem."
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Bolton said docilely, moving away from the open file toward the open door.
"Who are you?" Sir David said to Anne.
"Anne Ford, sir. I'm Doctor-"
"You're Tranter's ward, aren't you," Sir David said without waiting for her to finish. "What are you doing messing about with this stuff?"
Anne smiled. "Mrs. Bolton is going on leave shortly, sir. I'm taking over her duties as almoner while she's away."
"Ah, yes, that's right, Admirable, yes, admirable." Seemingly preoccupied, he turned and stalked to the doorway, stepping aside as Dr. Tranter filled the opening. "Evening, Tranter. Just been talking to your ward here. Delighted she's going to be the new almoner. That's just exactly what we need around here, a pretty face for a change."
Tranter entered the room and Sir David swept past.
Anne shrank slightly under Tranter's stony glare. She said with apology, "I was going to tell you when everything was arranged."
"We'll talk about it later," he said brusquely. "Come along." He turned and left the room.
Hurt and angered by her guardian's manner, Anne bit down on her lip. He can't treat me like a child, she said to herself. He is going to realize that I am a woman, and that I have a mind of my own. She clasped the short cape over her shoulders and adjusted the hat on her head. She left the office and moved along the hall to the entrance where Tranter was waiting.
"Uncle," she said, "I-"
"We'll discuss it later."
"I would like to discuss it right now."
His look was withering. "This is hardly the place," he said. "Please try to remember the way you've been raised."
"I don't see that-"
"Later." He opened the door and she passed through the doorway ahead of him.
Stepping into the courtyard, Anne saw John Urquhart emerge from a side door and walk to the main gate. Then she saw the porter come out of his lodge and join Urquhart.
"Sir David is here, sir," the porter said. "He wants you in the morgue."
"What on earth for?"
"They're bringing in a body."
"What sort of a body?"
"A dead one."
"I know that, man, but why would Sir David want to see it tonight."
"It's a Ripper job, sir."
Anne noticed the sudden change in Urquhart's face. He scowled with displeasure. Then he shook his head, and turning, he saw Anne and Dr. Tranter.
"Sir David is going to perform another of his nocturnal post-mortems."
"So I understand," Tranter said disinterestedly. "Come along, Anne."
Anne felt the grip of his fingers on her arm and her immediate reaction was surprise at his strength. But this she attributed to his being a surgeon and the constant use of his hands. He propelled her toward the gate, but before the porter could turn the latch, a dull rumbling came from the street.
"Here they come now," the porter said.
"Well, open up," Tranter said impatiently. "I want to get away before they arrive."
"I think you ought to use the rear exit, sir," Urquhart said. "They get pretty nasty when something like this happens."
"I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, Urquhart," Tranter snapped. "And I wish you good night."
The young doctor colored under the senior surgeon's apparent insult, and Anne was suddenly shocked by Tranter's rudeness. She looked at Urquhart with apology. John is just trying to be helpful, she thought. What on earth is wrong with Uncle these days. She felt the pressure on her arm and allowed herself to be guided through the gate. Once on the street Tranter stopped and Anne let her eyes travel to the marching crowd.
Four policemen came first with the body-heavy stretcher between them. Immediately behind them were Sam Lowry and O'Neil, whom Anne regarded with a strange nicker of recognition. On the heels of the procession the mob danced and surged in the shadowy darkness, a great bulk of anger, like a swarm of disturbed bees.
"We'll never get throught that lot," Tranter said. He pulled Anne aside and the policemen passed through the gates with the body.
"Evening, Dr. Tranter."
"Good evening, Inspector," Tranter said to O'Neil. "Who is it this time? Another little drab from the streets?"
"Suppose it is?" the other man said. "What difference would that make?" There was a suppressed anger in his voice, which Anne found startiing, and she looked at him closely.
"Are the police, recruiting colonials now, Inspector?"
"This is Mr. Lowry, sir," O'Neil said. "Sam, Dr. Tranter. Mr. Lowry is an American."
"I fail to see the distinction," Dr. Tranter said.
"We had a war," Sam said, "remember?"
"Revolution, Mr. Lowry, not a war. Now will you excuse me, please."
"You're not going to try and get through that crowd, are you, sir?" O'Neil asked.
"Of course I am."
"I wouldn't advise it," Lowry said. "Especially with the young lady."
Anne felt his eyes hard upon her and a strange warm feeling spread over her. She had never experienced a gaze as openly speculative, and she marveled at the steady piercing quality of his eyes.
"I think I can do nicely without your advice, young man." Tranter said coldly, "Come on, Anne."
Anne recoiled at the first rank of the crowd, but Tranter's grip was firm, and his arrogance had a cowing effect on the men who were used to bowing before authority. The ranks split, making a path. But one man refused to budge. He stood his ground, his short, fat legs spread, his fat-jowled face sullen and belligerent. Harry Simes.
"Out of my way," Tranter snapped.
The fat man did not move. Anne felt herself surrounded. She had never experienced the open animosity of the common people and now she had the feeling that she was surrounded by wild animals. Her breath caught.
"Did you hear what I said. Move out of the way."
Anne wanted to pull back, but she was transfixed. She knew Dr. Tranter was not going to move the man by bluff. There was something about the expression on the man's face that said he was looking for trouble. She glanced behind her and her eyes met Sam Lowry's. He was watching carefully, and he seemed ready to move.
Tranter lifted his walking stick and brought it down heavily on the fat man's shoulder. "I'll teach you to respect your betters!" He lifted the sdck again and swung it, but this time Simes grabbed it as it came down. The two men wrestied for possession of the stick. Anne screamed with terror, but the sound was lost in the angry shouts of the crowd.
"Let's get them out of there!"
Anne heard the loud voice behind her. She was pressed up close to her guardian's back, but she saw the fat man take possession of the stick and heard it come down on Tranter's shoulder. He grunted in pain. Another blow followed. She began to scream. Tranter fell to one knee.
The large bulk of Inspector O'Neil was at her side. She looked up and saw Lowry dodge in front of Dr. Tranter. Lowry deflected a swipe of the stick and drove a hard right into the fat man's stomach. Simes grunted and doubled over. Interlacing his hands into a hard-knuckled club, Lowry swung up from his knees, taking Simes under the chin and snapping his head back. The gray bowler flew from Sime's head. He staggered back. One of his followers supported him and pushed him back. Lowry caught him coming forward with a short jab to the heart, then sent him reeling with a hard right to the face. Simes dropped the cane and went to his knees. The blood gushed from his nose.
"Get 'im!" a deep voice cried.
Lowry turned, but too late. A hard, lithe figure landed on his shoulders, smashing down with his fists on the back of Lowry's neck.
O'Neil leaped into the fray, pulling the young man from Lowry. He held the startled youth up by the coat lapels and coolly drove a club-like fist into his face. The man sagged and O'Neil let him drop.
In the midst of the violence, Anne stood numb and frozen with terror. This was something beyond her realm of understanding. Then Lowry was at her side, his strong arm encircling her. She leaned heavily against him and he quickly drifted backward with her. The crowd was at bay, undecided. Lowry and O'Neil were on either side of her and Tranter as they moved cautiously towards the gate.
Anne screamed as a hand grabbed her arm. Lowry chopped it down with the heel of his hand, smashing the man's arm away. The man cried out and cursed. He was tall, wide-shouldered and primed for violence. He came out of the crowd and drove a fist into Lowry's side. O'Neil pulled Anne out of the way. Lowry recovered from the blow. He weaved away from the man, feinting a left jab. Then he pulled in close and brought the heel of his shoe down on the man's arch. He gripped the fellow's coat and lifted his knee, slamming it into the crotch with a sickening jolt. He backhanded the man's head up, then chopped the edge of his open hand across his throat. The man gagged, wide-eyed, his tongue lolling. He reeled away and dropped limply to one knee.
Lowry backed away, facing the now docile mob. He came to Anne's side again. She swayed, feeling faint, and he swung her up in his arms. He carried her to the gate and through it to the courtyard. The gate clanged shut and a roar of sharp curses rose from the angry crowd.
She was still clinging to Sam Lowry. Looking up at him she suddenly knew why he had seemed familiar at first. She had caught just a glimpse of his face when her cab had flashed past him in the street, and his companion-who must have been the inspector-had pulled him back. She was about to say something about this, but she said only, "Thank you, Mr....?"
"Lowry. Sam Lowry."
His voice was deep and masculine, a voice she liked. "My name is Anne," she said. "Thank you, Mr. Lowry." She smiled and he returned the smile. It was as though they were alone in the courtyard. He had put her gently to the ground, but was still holding her arms. She enjoyed being under his steady gaze and a quick excitement rippled through her. She saw him savoring her perfume and she was reluctant to have him let her go. It was a new experience for her, but one that she liked, despite its strangeness. Her eyes took in the features of his face, liking what she saw-the steady eyes, the wide mouth and strong jaw.
"I'm beholden to you, sir," Tranter said grudgingly, stepping to her side. "Come, my dear, we will have to leave by the back."
She felt Lowry's hand slip away from her waist, but he had ignored the caustic tone of Tranter's voice and the smile was still on his face, a smile of promise.
She followed her guardian, but at the hospital entrance she turned to look back-Lowry's eyes were still upon her.
4.
Hazel Townsend was the last to leave the music hall. She was still excited. Her first night had been a success in spite of the fact she had been late.
She had been frightened at first, but once on stage, going through the familiar steps of the can-can, she knew it wasn't any different from the way her mother-laughing and sweating-had taught her the steps in their family kitchen. But even so, it had been the first time she had done it in public and it had been exciting and frightening.
Out on the dark street she paused and waited, looking to the right and left. It was so quiet. The customers were gone. The girls had left while she was still dressing, because she had been careful to remove the heavy make-up. The fog hung heavy and the gaslight at the corner was the only light. She felt the same fear that always clutched at her in the dark.
She saw the shadowy figure move away from the building across the street and start toward her. She craned her neck for recognition. A man's foot steps clacked on the cobblestones.
"Tom?" she said softly.
"Yes, ducks," a man's voice answered, a voice she knew well.
She smiled, relieved. He had come to meet her, after all. He hadn't wanted her to accept the job and she had wondered if he would come. But he had, so everything was going to be fine.
And now he stood over her, his long-jawed face somber and serious, the eyes a deep dark blue, his strong hands gripping her arms. "I been waiting," he said.
"I hoped you would."
He tilted her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips. "How'd it go?"
"Ever so good," she said. "It's not a bad job, really."
"I still don't like it."
"Oh, Tom," she said. "I don't have to do anything but dance. It's really a nice place."
"Show your bottom, you mean."
"Oh, Tom, what a thing to say."
They walked arm-in-arm along the street and it made her dizzy to be so close to him.
"It's just until you get back on the job," she said. "It's better than nothing."
"I know, ducks," he said. "It's just that I don't like the idea of you showing yourself to half of London."
"I wouldn't ever do anything," she said, hugging his arm, her eyes downcast.
"How do you know?"
"You know," she said shyly. "You were the first. I wouldn't ever do it with anyone else."
They reached the age-worn rooming house where they were known as man-and-wife. Inside, they mounted the worn, slanting stairs. And as each step carried them closer to the small room and the bed, she felt her pulse beat grow stronger as the vital well-springs of her body quickened and came alive in memory of ecstacies they had shared-ecstacies which in just a little while would be renewed and relived.
5.
They had been riding in silence, the hansom clattering and swaying.
It was Dr. Tranter who finally spoke. "I'm sorry, Anne," he said, "you saw what happened tonight with that rabble. I don't want you doing a job where you have to associate with them."
"But you don't understand, Uncle. I want to do something useful with my life."
"It's not a place for a woman."
"Mrs. Bolton's a woman."
"Mrs. Bolton is different."
"She's oidy different because she's not your ward. I'm of age now and I feel that I have certain responsibilities."
A grim smile passed over Tranter's face. "The emancipation of womanhood I've been hearing about. You've been bitten by that bug, have you?"
"Call it what you like," Anne said. "But this is something I want to do. I'd sooner do it with your blessing." She looked to him for approval, but Tranter was staring straight ahead. "Uncle," she said, "what has happened to you?"
His head snapped around and he looked at her sharply. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know," Anne said, "but these past few months you've changed. Your work at the hospital ... these people, they all meant something to you. You were-"
"Dedicated," Tranter said softly, looking away from her.
"Yes, dedicated, but somehow it's all changed. The women in the hospital-sometimes you act as though you hate them just because they're poor."
"It's not that," Tranter said soberly. "It's ... well ... life changes, that's all" For a moment Tranter seemed on the verge of unburdening himself, then his voice hardened. "I've always tried to act in the way I thought best for you," he said. "But as you say, you are of age and a determined woman. Go ahead, Anne, take the job, but without my blessing."
6.
Standing off to one side, Sam Lowry watched the surgeon with fascination.
The man leaned over the bare operating table bathed in light. He worked with intensity-his movements were fast. He had the air of the successful man, exhibiting confidence in himself with every motion.
Lowry had formed an instinctive dislike for the man on sight, but now he found himself re-evaluating his feelings. What he had taken for arrogance now seemed a normal trait of the successful who is intolerant of trivia, wanting only to spend his time and energies on the more important aspects of living-or at least, what he considered the more important.
And Lowry had to admit to himself that Sir David Rogers exhibited a thorough knowledge of his work and he did have the air of the leader about him. He gave orders and issued ultimatums as if he had always done so, as though it were his heritage.
Sir David straightened finally and looked across the table at Dr. Urquhart. "So much for that," he said. "Get rid of it, Urquhart."
Turning to Lowry and O'Neil, Sir David asked, "Are you interested in the finding of the post-mortem, gentle-men?"
"Not unless they're different," O'Neil said.
"They're not." The doctor crossed the room to the table where a pan of water was waiting for him. "Deep seated multiple abdominal incisions. Mutilations. And, as before, inflicted by someone who knew what he was doing."
Lowry's eyebrow lifted. His mind, trained to grasp for any significant clue, suddenly registered something. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "How do you mean, 'knew what he was doing'?"
Sir David was soaping his hands. He talked over his shoulder. "Hasn't the inspector told you, young man? These wounds are not the savage slashings of a maniac, they are the careful, well-defined abdominal incisions which could only be inflicted by someone with a knowledge of medicine. They show an excellent knowledge of anatomy and surgery."
"You mean he's a doctor?"
"I mean he knows something about surgery, and not just a little. He might be a doctor. On the other hand he could be a nurse or a student. But one thing is certain. He has spent time in an operating room. There just aren't any books written as yet to tell him as much as he knows."
"He must be mad," Lowry said.
Sir David turned back to his washing. O'Neil nodded towards the door and the two men left.
"That certainly narrows the field down, Mike," Lowry said.
"Yes," O'Neil said without conviction. "That's what I thought in the beginning."
7.
Kitty Knowles was deep in the nightmare of pain and guilt-ridden fears that roiled in her semi-drugged mind, whirling and sucking her towards the vortex of a giant whilrpool of terror.
Although she was still under the influence of the anesthetic, her mind had registered the fact that she was not going to die. But she hovered in a sort of purgatory, awaiting the punishment she expected and felt she deserved.
She was the only occupant of a small, four-bed ward adjacent to the operating room. Having been operated on at night, she was to sleep there until the regular daytime staff would arrive to move her to one of the larger wards. It was a square, dingy room, badly in need of paint. There was no furniture except the four austere metal beds. A small gaslight on one wall flickered through the night, shadowing the room with grotesque patterns.
Kitty opened her eyes. She saw only vague forms, seemingly mist-shrouded. Her attention centered on the gaslight and as she stared, the tiny flame seemed to grow larger and larger until it was about to engulf the room. Her fevered imagination was boundless and she saw herself in the center of a wall of flame. And beyond the flames she saw him standing watching her.
Paul, her lips said without sound. She closed her eyes to ward off the vision, but the flames still danced against her eyelids. Then, gradually, the flames died and darkness settled over her, and her delirium carried her back to the beginning....
It had been a slow night and she had left the public house earlier than usual, and glad that she was leaving alone. She felt free and clean as she moved along the dark street. It wasn't going to help her pay her rent, but she enjoyed the feeling. Then she let her mind wander to a time-worn idea. She was going to get an honest job and never again would she haunt the pubs looking for a customer to take her to bed-never again would she have to put up with making love to a stranger. But as usual, this idea carried her back to the time when she had honest jobs, working as a maid; and to that first time when she was changing the bed linen and the master of the house came into the room, locked the door and smiled at her.
"Good afternoon, Kitty," he said. He was tall, sandy-haired and mustached. His clothing was well tailored to fit his trim, muscular figure. A strange light danced in his eyes.
"Good afternoon, sir," she had said, a feeling of fright coming over her. She gripped the sheet as he came across the room. He stood over her.
"Do you like your work here, Kitty?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"And do you like me?"
"I-I don't know you, sir. You're very nice."
"You should get to know me better." He moved around behind her. She held her breath, unmoving. Then he was close to her, his hands slipping around her waist. She was afraid to push him away because he was the master, and she was accustomed to obeying authority. But she knew that this was wrong. "Please, sir," she said, without moving.
His hands crept up to cover her breasts. She trembled on the edge of panic, still undecided what to do.
"We could be good friends, Kitty," he said close to her ear. "I find you very attractive."
"Please, sir, if madam should-"
"Don't worry about anything, Kitty. There's just you and me in the house." He lowered her to the edge of the bed and slowly pushed her down. "You want to, don't you?"
"No, please, sir. I don't, I just-"
"You do like your job here, don't you?" There was the implied threat in his voice. Tears welled up in her eyes. She clenched her fists tightly, but she did not resist.
She could still feel his hands upon her now as she recalled that she had been too frightened to cry out. The others had been the same, until she had taken to the streets in disgust, feeling that if she had to use her body to make a living she would at least give up the cleaning and bed-making. But it hadn't been that easy.
Walking the street towards her small flat, her mind occupied, she had slipped and twisted her ankle. Crying out in pain, she leaned against a lamppost for support and suddenly the young man was next to her, his soft voice saying: "Let me look, I know a little about such things." It was Paul and he had helped her home-carried her up the stairs to her flat. And then he had left.
But the next evening, as she was leaving to make the early rounds of several places where men looked for girls like her, he was waiting, his smile warm and friendly, different from the knowing leers she had grown to expect.
He was a medical student. He was tall, strong, a young man who embodied everything that she had dreamed about before she had been raped by her first employer. When she was with him she was elated and happy. When she was alone she wept bitter tears for what she had become.
For two weeks she lived a precarious double life. She saw Paul early in the evening, then sent him home to his studies. And then she turned back to the saloons, and her nights were a torment of sweating, gasping strange men fondling her, using her, soiling her.
She lived at both ends of the emotional poles; ecstatically happy and deeply miserable. Paul was like a rebirth to her. He made everything that was coarse seem more so to her. He removed the veils from her eyes and she saw herself for what she was. But she had to have him. He was more than love, he was salvation. The future to her was the next time she would see him. She thought no further ahead than that.
She spent the days looking for work and during the third week she was hired as a shop assistant. Her life changed. Paul was the center of her existence and her guilt lessened as memories of strange men left her. It was perfect until Paul proposed marriage.
They were standing on the stoop before her house. It was late and Paul had kissed her. She was encircled in his arms, lost in his strength, and he had asked her.
"Kitty?"
"Ummm?"
"I want you to marry me."
She closed her eyes and a queasy feeling roiled in her stomach. Her heart pounded. His voice roiled through her head like a monotonous thunder: Marry me ... marry me ... marry me ... She had not expected this. To be with him was enough. To have him touch her. To feel the fire within when he kissed her was enough. To sense his gentle wanting. This was enough. And now this. He would have to know. The pulse leaped, throbbed in the side of her neck. She did not trust her voice to speak.
"I love you, Kitty," he said. His voice broke at the end and he pulled her close and spoke into her ear. "I know I'm just a student, but I have a small income and--"
She lifted her fingers to his lips to silence him. She turned away and opened the door. She stepped through the door. He waited. She turned back to him and extended her hand. He reached out and she gripped his fingers. "Come with me, Paul," she whispered. They went up die narrow stairs together.
Inside her flat, she closed the hall door, and came against him. "Paul, there's something-"
He bent his head and his mouth covered hers. In desperation, fearing that she might lose him, her fingers dug into his back and she clung to him with feverish anxiety. She felt she had to shock him. Her lips parted and she forced his teeth apart with her tongue. And what had begun as an attempt to shock was now a compelling desire. She felt the need for him growing in her loins. Pressing herself to him, her breasts swelling and hardening against his chest, she stepped back, pulling him with her. The edge of the bed touched the back of her knees, and she fell backwards, pulling him over.
"Kitty-"
"Don't speak." She slid her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. She rolled him over on his back. He looked up at her without moving. She sat up and deliberately began to unbutton her blouse.
There was the awkward time of undressing, a moment of timorous indecision; but her experienced hands sought him out, rekindling his passion until their wanting blossomed into a violent, convulsive entwining of arms and legs; the bedsprings groaning, crying out their lovers' tortured ecstasy.
Later, her voice too loud in the silence of the love-heavy atmosphere of the room, she told him everything about herself. And as the story unfolded, her voice faltering and fighting for strength, she felt him moving away from her. But she kept on, knowing it was sickening to him, and when she was finished, the tears ran freely, and she knew it was ended.
He said nothing and the silence was explosive. He lay stiffly beside her, staring at the ceding. He did not breathe. She hugged her knees, her head down, her hair spilling over her thighs, crying, her shoulders trembling. He took a deep breath, moved and sat up. She lifted her head and looked at him. The disappointment and shock on his face brought a sharp cry from her.
"Paul!" Her arms went out to him. He moved away from her and stood up from the bed. She dropped the sheet away from her and threw herself across the bed. She flung her arms around him, holding him. "Forgive me," she cried.
"It's not true," he whispered hoarsely, his features suddenly taut and drawn.
"Paul, Paul, don't leave me!"
He knocked her hands away from him. She buried her face in the bed and wept, unabashed. She lifted her head. He was staring at her with loathing. He looked down at his hands and then wiped them against his bare thighs as though they had touched something dirty. He backed away, his lips curled back from his teeth.
"Whore!" he whispered. "Whore!" He went to his clothing and dressed quickly. Going to the door, he stopped. He looked back at her for a long moment, then the tears came to his eyes and spilled over his face. "I love you," he said in a wretched voice. Then he turned quickly and fled from the room. She listened to the fading tattoo of his feet on the stairway.
In the morning they found him in the river.
And she was left with her guilt.
Twisting in the bed, Kitty groaned and cried out, wanting to put the image of the strong, young face away from her.
In the operating room where he was slowly running the varied scalpels over a smooth whetstone, Louis Benz heard the outcry and lifted his head. He listened for a moment, then he bent back to his work. He spit on the square stone then ran the sharp blade over the surface with loving deliberation. He heard another loud groan. He stopped and listened again. Then he straightened as much as was possible for his deformed body. He shuffled across the room, the scalpel gleaming in his hand, and peered into the small ward. He paused, listening, then he entered the ward and moved to the foot of the bed where he stood looking at the girl.
Kitty whimpered, opening her eyes. Her chloroform-hazed eyes were clearing. Her gaze ran over the room and then she saw Louis standing over her. She stared at the twisted face with horror and her eyes dropped to the scalpel which gleamed in the dancing gaslight. Her anguished mind saw him as the figure of reprisal, the executioner. He began to move around the corner of the bed. A scream built in her chest and her eyes widened. As he came closer she saw his bloodstained leather apron, the scalpel in his hand. She struggled up to one elbow and the scream burst from her throat.
Louis Benz recoiled. He held both hands out to her. A mute, he was unable to reassure her with words. He tried to smile, but his face twisted into a leering grimace.
Kitty screamed again and was answered by the heavy pound of running footsteps. Louis Benz turned. Kitty slumped back into the bed, her heart pounding. John Urquhart slammed into the room. He stopped at the bed, looked at Louis Benz, then at Kitty.
"What's going on here, Louis?"
The mute shrugged and shook his head, dumbfounded by the girl's actions.
Urquhart moved around the bed and leaned over Kitty. She felt the cool reassurance of his palm on her forehead.
"All right, Louis, attend to your work. I'll look after her. now."
Louis Benz turned and shuffled out of the room, his head wagging with confusion.
"He," Kitty gasped weakly, "he was ... he was ... "
"It's all right," Urquhart said, "Just relax." He lifted Kitty's hand and held his finger on her pulse.
Flooded with sudden relief, grateful to him for coming to her in her peril, Kitty looked up at the doctor and attempted a small smile of thanks. But the smile left her face as she noticed the cold, flat expression of the young man's eyes. He let go of her hand as though it were something distasteful. She trembled slightly and closed her eyes. When she opened them again he was gone.
The tears welled up and she suffered in her aloneness.
CHAPTER SIX
1.
It is difficult to contemplate tragedy in the light of day. The probing rays of the sun ferret out dark recesses to cleanse them of evil. The alley, the doorway, those small places that resist the feeble attempts of man to light his world and seem forlorn and heavy with impending disaster in the nether hours, are nothing more than passageways and entrances during the day.
But the mind still lurks in darkness, the mind where the sun cannot reach, and it is in the mind that murder is planned.
Despite the pleasant sun-warmth of the street and the raucous feeling of gaiety imparted by the merchants and tradesmen who gave a feeling of life to everything near them, Sam Lowry forced himself to think of death. It was difficult, but he knew the only chance anyone had of capturing the Ripper was to examine everything in terms of darkness.
He was walking toward a meeting with Mike O'Neil. It was early afternoon and he had spent the morning at police headquarters going over the file on the Ripper murders. It was a baffling, incredible tale of a methodic madman. Twenty-seven women killed in exactly the same way. The signs were obvious. The hand held at the throat, bruising the flesh with great power. The disembowling sweeps of the practiced knife hand. Not a single witness to any of the killings. That it was a man was a presumption because of the size of the finger marks on the throat.
Sam went over the salient facts again. A man with powerful hands. A doctor or a man with medical knowledge. There seemed to be no connection between the women, except for the fact that they were all low-class, mostly prostitutes, and in a few cases, barmaids on the way home from work. There were no instances of the Ripper breaking into a house or flat to kill. He only killed a woman when she was on the street late at night. And he only killed in Whitechapel, that forlorn area along the river where the dense fog was a nightly occurrence.
How many doctors in London? Sam had checked the directory and found several hundred. If you added to this the number of students and the hundreds of male attendants and nurses, the list of probable suspects ran to the thousands. Did the killer live in Whitechapel? Not one of the doctors listed in the directory had a Whitechapel address, and it was improbable that a killer would work in his own neighborhood. But Whitechapel was notorious as a center for strolling prostitutes, and die possibility was strong that this was the reason for the area's selection as the hunting ground for the Ripper.
And that is as close as I come to it, Sam said to himself. The Ripper is a medical man with a deep hatred of loose women. Was he once diseased by a woman? A thought, but certainly not reason enough for killing twenty-seven of them. Did he fall in love with a prostitute and not know about it? Again, a thought, but even a deranged man would almost certainly kill the one girl, not a string of them. The why, the key to the man's motive, was the elusive characteristic of the case that refused to fall into place.
The next baffling characteristic was the lack of pattern to the killings. Two in one week, then none for a week, then one, then three. It seemed as though the Ripper killed as the spirit moved him-without plan. But then it could be that he roamed the streets nighdy and killed only when he found the situation perfect, the girl alone and no witnesses.
Turning a corner, Sam found himself in an open square. He picked out the rococo facade of the Justice Building on the far side of an unkempt park area, and went toward it with long strides. Once there he climbed the steps and entered through the large door. A uniformed policeman was standing in the hallway.
"I'm looking for the coroner's office," Sam said to the policeman.
"It's down to the left, sir," the officer said. "The fourth door."
"Thank you." He reached the door and opened it quietly and slipped inside. The inquest was in progress and he tiptoed toward O'Neil, taking the seat next to him.
Behind a table at the head of the room the coroner, a sober-faced officious-looking man, was talking in a stentorian voice. "With the aid of the evidence of Sir David Rogers, admirably presented as is customary, one can form a clear picture of the events that led up to the tragedy. The fiend must have seized the unfortunate girl by the throat, preventing her from making the slightest cry for assistance, and at the same time rendering her completely helpless. Then with the scalpel in his other hand he per-pertated these outrageous mutilations on the person of the deceased." He paused and flicked a glance toward the body which was on a table to his right, covered by a white sheet. "There is no other verdict," he went on, "that I can give than murder by person or persons unknown." He paused again, then looked up, and his voice became more stern. "However, before I adjourn this inquest, I would like to say this, and it is not my opinion alone; public confidence in the police force has never been as low as it is today. It seems that in their complete inability to apprehend the perpetrator of these ghastly crimes, the police are showing themselves incompetent, inadequate and inept." He lifted his gavel and brought it down. "Court is adjourned."
Sam turned toward O'Neil, but his attention was suddenly arrested by a familiar figure rising from one of the chairs at the front of the room. He stared, surprised to see her at the inquest. Anne Ford swept her long skirts around, nodded to the seated coroner and started for the door. Since she was the only woman in the room the men stood aside and let her pass, their glances both amused and curious.
"Emancipated woman," O'Neil said drily.
Sam smiled. They were the only two still seated and they rose together. "Gave you a bit of a roasting," Sam said.
"More of a basting," O'Neil said, leading the way to the door. "They've been roasting me for some time. I'm well done."
"Occupational hazards."
"Next thing, they'll be accusing me of being in cahoots with the Ripper. You'd think this was a one-man police force."
Outside, they descended the steps to the street. "Incompetent, inadequate and inept. The newspapers will love that."
"They'd say it anyway."
"Yes, and it's ruining my stomach. Every time they print something like that my wife gets so angry she burns the meat. Before this is over I might need an operation and it would be just my luck to draw the Ripper."
Sam laughed at his friend's sober jest, but his eyes were elsewhere, looking for Anne Ford. As the crowd drifted away from the front of the Justice Building he saw her standing at the curb waiting. He touched O'Neil's arm. "Just a minute," he said.
O'Neil gave him a quizzical look, then smiled when he noticed the girl.
Sam approached Anne Ford from behind and when he stood close to her he said, "Cab?"
Anne turned with surprise. Recognizing him, she said, "Oh, Mr. Lowry, how nice."
Sam tilted his hat. "May I share your hansom?"
"Certainly, when I get one." She turned and looked along the street.
"Perhaps we'll stand a better chance down the street a little." He smiled down at her, taking in her face feature by feature. Her almond-shaped eyes were brown and long-lashed, a slightly exotic contrast to her tilted nose. Her mouth was generous with just a suggestion of sensuousness to the lower lip. Rich brown hair curled over her ears and framed the oval face. Her chin was strong and gently cleft, and her neck was slender and proudly poised. She was tall and she carried herself with her shoulders back, a strong, but softly curved womanly body.
Anne noticed his careful scrutiny and she colored slightly. "All right," she said to his suggestion. She turned and started to move off.
Sam threw a backward glance to O'Neil who was smiling, then he moved in on the outside of the girl, walking close enough so that their hands and arms brushed occasionally as they walked.
"You've been to the inquest," he said.
"Didn't you see me there?"
"Why ... uh...."
"Of course you did." There was a stern tilt to her chin and Sam was amused by her sudden belligerence.
"Well, yes," he said. "But I thought ... well, it doesn't matter."
"You thought, why on earth is a girl like this interested in such things. You might even suspect me of morbidity."
Now clearly nonplused by the girl's candor, Sam h-edged. "Well, no, it's just that-"
"It's just that you think a decent girl should stay at home and mind her own business. You're as bad as my uncle. You fail to realize that this is a social problem as well as a criminal one."
"How do you mean?"
"It has become a manifestation of the class difference. If some old duchess up in Mayfair was cut up, there would be such an outcry that something would have to be done, and done quickly. Because these people are poor, and not particularly respectable, the general reaction from the-the-"
"Right side of the tracks?"
"Yes. That class of people, the ones who really control the government and could bring more pressure to bear on the police, simply feel ... good riddance to bad rubbish."
"Yes, Ma'am," Lowry said, smiling.
"You're making fun of me," Anne snapped.
"So help me, I'm not," Sam said, girding himself for the fiery retort that was about to come, then seeing a hansom cab round a corner. He lifted his arm quickly, turning away from Anne. "Cab," he shouted.
The hansom pulled up on the far side of the street and Sam took Anne's arm and led her across. He opened the door and helped her in, then he climbed in after her and settled on the seat beside her.
"How are your investigations going?" Anne asked. "Has the clever American mind brought a bright ray of hope to poor befuddled Scotland Yard?"
"Now you're making fun of me."
"So you admit that you were making fun of me."
"I admit nothing of the kind," Sam said, smiling.
"Well, I was just paying you back."
"Seriously though," Sam said, "One of the really difficult things for me on this case is that I know nothing of the city and the people. I was thinking of it as a single city, but it is actually a hundred cities, and each section is completely different. What I need is a competent guide to show me around." He looked at her. "Someone who knows both sides of the tracks and is accepted there."
Anne arched an eyebrow suspiciously. She said, with hesitation, "You think this would really help you?"
"Oh, indeed I do," Sam said, almost too quickly. "Do you know someone?"
"Well...." Anne answered, considering the idea. "I suppose I could." She paused and then added seriously. "Mr. Lowry, I'll be glad to take you around. How would that be?"
"That would be just fine. When can we start?"
"When would you like to start?"
"I really think I ought to learn as much as possible right away. I mean, in the interest of crime prevention ... how about this evening?"
"You can pick me up at my house at eight. Can you remember the address? Twenty-eight Bruton Square."
"I'll be there."
The hatch overhead opened and the face of the driver appeared. He said in his nasal twang, "You just wanting somewhere to sit or are you going somewhere?"
Sam looked across at Anne and she suppressed a giggle. He grinned. "I'm not going anywhere-how about you?"
"Tell him to take me to the hospital."
Sam opened the door and stepped down. "Thanks for the ride, Miss Ford. Until this evening." He removed his gray fedora. Lifting his head to the driver, he said, "Mercy Hospital for Women, Whitechapel." He stepped back.
Before the cab could leave, Anne appeared at the window. "Mr. Lowry," she said with a coquettish smile, "I would have been extremely disappointed if you hadn't managed to fabricate a reason for wanting to see me again." Her head disappeared and the driver snapped the reins, the horse starting off at a trot.
Sam watched her go. He replaced his hat and tugged at his gloves. What was there about the girl that fascinated him? She was extremely pretty, but he had known plenty of pretty girls, some of them far prettier. She was also intelligent, and although he had to admit that you didn't find the combination of looks and brains too often, he had known a few. No, it wasn't anything that he could see. It went a great deal deeper than that. If a man has carefully remained a bachelor for a long time it is usually because he has a certain ideal. The quality he seeks may be elusive, but he feels sure he will recognize them when he sees them. And if he is a man like Sam Lowry-self-sufficient and selective, strong and stubborn, with a clever, analytical mind-those qualities would add up to a woman who could walk alongside a man for a lifetime.
Sam scratched his head thoughtfully, frowning. That was what he saw in Anne Ford, and he wasn't certain the idea pleased him. Already he was pondering the thought that she was a cut above the average policeman's wife. But he also knew that if Anne Ford elected to be a policeman's wife, she would be a damned good one.
Hurrying across the street, Sam retraced his steps to the Justice Building where O'Neil was still waiting.
"Nice girl," O'Neil said.
"Yes. Sorry to keep you waiting."
"No trouble. Always happy to help out in the cause of true romance."
They started off along the street together and gradually Sam's thoughts left Anne Ford and returned to their mutual problem. Sam related to O'Neil what he thought about his review of the Ripper file...." so, as I see it, the real problem is to find out why the man hates prostitutes."
"You're sure it's a man?"
Sam scowled and shook his head. "Damn it all, Mike, this is a rough one. It there was only one witness. If there was a single clue, we might be able to track the thing down with some sort of method."
"But there isn't,"
"Have you tried using a plant? Have a woman walk the streets alone with a couple of policemen watching her?"
"We tried it for a week. Nothing happened. Then one night the officers lost the girl in the fog. We had a real panic until we found her. I decided it was too risky."
Sam shook his head. "You know," he said, "there's one person that intrigues me. That fat fellow I had the fight with."
"Harry Simes?"
"I don't know his name. The one in the Red Goose."
"That's Simes."
"How is it that he's always on the scene when something happens? He's a handy man with a knife, it seems. And he had reason to dislike the girl, Helen."
"He's a trouble-maker, all right," O'Neil said, "but he's not the Ripper. Believe me, I'd love to pin something good and strong on him, but he's strictly small peanuts. I had him in once on a minor charge and he hates me for it. He's the kind who would sell a woman, and he might even kill one, but he could never be the Ripper. He'd have to brag about it to someone."
"You're sure of him?"
"I checked him out twice just to make sure I was right. Sam, I've run a check on every known criminal in the city. The Ripper is a man without a record."
"There's one more thing. It has always been foggy when the Ripper attacked."
"Sam, we have fog almost every night in Whitechapel."
"So we haven't any idea when he might strike again?"
"It will be at night, Sam, that's all I know."
2.
He stood at the window staring down at the street, a fixed scowl on his face.
Turning away from the window he paced the small room. His eyes surveyed the modest furnishings of the flat, the overstuffed chair where he often sat waiting in brooding silence, the skeletal bed which was never used, the gaslights on the wall, the slightly discolored wallpaper, the books he had brought in to give the place a lived-in appearance.
He had rented this small flat in Whitechapel as a convenience, because he often needed a place to come to quickly, and a place where he could wait when the time was not right for him to go on the street. It was an additional cover for his movements. And because he did not want to arouse any suspicion in the landlady, he had to spend some time there during the day.
He stopped again at the window. She is down there somewhere, he thought. What are you doing? he said aloud. What are you thinking? Do you know that someone is searching for you? Do you know that you are marked for death? What will you say when I find you? I know your kind. You'll beg and whimper. You'll offer yourself to me like most of the others. Fool. You think you can spread your legs and engulf all of mankind? Well, not me! You contaminated the one thing I loved in this world, but you'll find me different.
Consulting his pocket watch, the man crossed the room and dropped into the chair. A slow smile passed over his face.
He had been to the inquest. He had sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs directly under the eyes of Inspector O'Neil. He had listened to the words of the coroner with satisfaction, enjoyed seeing O'Neil wince under the verbal blast.
It is like being an invisible man, he thought. I walk among them and they never see me. That's where I have the upper hand. Poor O'Neil.
He chuckled thinking of the inspector, but he wasn't fool enough to underestimate the man. He knew O'Neil's reputation, but he also knew that the reputation had not been gained by a fluke.
And now there was the American-that Lowry. As a scientist he abhorred the unknown quantity, and this was how he thought of the American. He knew nothing about Lowry, and worse, he knew nothing of American police methods. But he sensed that the man was dangerous. He had an air of dedication about him-a strong, intelligent face. The combination of O'Neil and Lowry could be a potent adversary.
He had an instinctive dislike for Lowry. He had that abhorrent knack of hurdling class barriers that was common to the Americans. It was disrespectful and, in this case, it might be a danger point.
So it might be important to intensify the search before the American had his feet on the ground. He would have to "interview" more women than usual until he found the right one. And he would have to start tonight.
Checking his watch again, he rose from the chair and prepared to leave the room.
3.
It was a good day and Hazel Townsend hummed happily to herself as she smoothed out the coverlet on the bed. She did a pirouette and stopped in the middle of the small room, her hands on her hips.
The few dishes were washed and dried and put away. A cover was over the small gas burner where she did the cooking. The place was dusted and the bed was made. She frowned at the faded curtains which whispered against the sill of the single window, but her smile returned quickly as she made a mental note to buy some new material with her first paycheck.
What a beautiful place to live, she said to herself. The most wonderful place in the world. Better than Windsor Castle.
Yesterday it had been so gloomy, what with money worries and everything. She hated to think of the scene Tom made when she told him she was going to dance at Burnett's Music Hall. But that was all right now, and he was out looking for a job, and pretty soon they could be married.
Married. She sobered at the thought. They were living together and it was wonderful, but she always had the feeling that the other people in the building, and especially the landlady, knew die truth. She looked down at the ring on her finger with a slight pang of guilt.
Did it really matter what people thought? She knew she was a good girl. Yes, she was living with a man, but she loved him and he had been the only one and would always be the only one. How could that be bad? But she would feel better when they were married just the same.
Her merriment returned quickly and she did a short dance step to the tune of the wedding march, then she dropped into a chair to rest for a bit before leaving for work.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1.
The sun-streaked sky over London grayed and then gradually darkened as night settled down over the city. The people took to their houses, settled over kitchen tables to steaming meals, like moths drawn to the gaslight. Work-tired bodies slumped in living-room chairs, spread out on sagging beds. Mothers screamed for children from kitchen doors, and the reluctant children came screaming and offered grimed ears to tired washrags. Newspapers snapped and rattled, and men belched, and dishes clattered and clanged. Husband-wife tongues lashed out with invective, venting frustrations, exhorting the devils of faded dreams. Children, the house-trapped animals, ran and crawled and jumped and rolled and cried. Time-sagged mothers bedded their progeny and leaned heavy, loose bodies over them and looked down with sad eyes and knowing that the only fountain of youth is a runny nose, and held out limp rags to make them blow hard.
Stooped old men shuffled through the streets, swinging lanterns, touching their magic wands to stiff lamp standards, leaving light behind them and creaking on like crippled fireflies.
Horses, snorting steam and rearing in traces, stormed through the streets, their drivers whip-snapping and foul-cursing, high on their perches behind the hansoms; and the clients rock and bob, eager to get there, wherever it might be.
The publicans sniff the night air, pray for the nip and the breeze that drives men inside: glad for the fishwife growling rumble of the thousand after-supper kitchens that drive good drinkers from the hearth. The girl scatters the new sawdust and gives it the first spit and takes her place behind the bar, and with both hands hikes up the heavy breasts that keep the bucko boys crowding up close, and tugs down a bit on the bosom of the dress, the better to see you with m'dear; well, a girl's got to keep her job ain't she?
Cool air caresses the warm-water river and the steam begins to rise like winter breath, swirling and dancing like a vaporous whisper.
Day-sleeping doxies emerge from their doorways, bodies still bruised from last night's love, caricature faces bravely painted; heel tap-tapping along the street on the scent of man-sweat.
The city readies for the night.
2.
Seated before her dressing table, Anne Ford regarded her reflection in the large mirror, and applied the last bit of make-up to her face. Her hair, in curls, was swept off to one side. Her satin dress was low-cut and left her shoulders exposed, and revealed the full swell of her breasts.
There was a knock at the bedroom door and she said without turning, "Tell him I'll be down in a minute."
The door opened and her uncle came into the room. He stopped inside the doorway and seeing her preparing herself for a night out, he frowned. "Tell who?" he asked.
Anne turned, and seeing who it was, she smiled. "Hello," she said, "I thought it was Perkins announcing my escort."
"And who is the lucky man this evening?"
"That American policeman. Sam Lowry. Remember, we met him at the hospital last night."
A look of astonishment crossed Dr. Tranter's face. "You're going out with him?"
"Of course," Anne said, noting the expression on her uncle's face with chagrin.
"I wish you wouldn't."
"Why on earth not?"
"Well ... I mean, you can't possibly know anything about him. I'm surprised you know his name. You meet a man for just a few minutes and-"
"I saw him again today, at the inquest."
"That's another thing. What were you doing at the inquest?"
"Were you there?" Anne asked.
"I was."
"I didn't see you."
"It doesn't matter. I saw you. The only female in the place. The way those men looked at you."
"They'll get used to women being interested in things. I think these crimes have a social bearing. I want to know more about it. I hate to bring up the fact that I'm of age, Uncle. Now what about Sam Lowry?"
Tranter lifted his hands in an imploring gesture. "He seems ... he seems so brash. Not your sort, not at all a gentleman."
"Oh, come, darling. Just because he has an accent and didn't go to Eton."
"I still wish you wouldn't go out with him."
Anne's shoulders tensed and she lifted her chin with defiance. "I'm sorry if I displease you, Uncle, but I intentionally put Mr. Lowry into the position of being forced to ask me out. I like him, and I want to see him. I believe he is a gentleman, and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."
"I know that, Anne. It's just that I don't like the idea of your going out with a ... a policeman."
"Uncle, I-" She was interrupted by; a knock at the door. "What is it?" she asked.
The voice from the hallway said, "There's a Mr. Lowry downstairs, Miss."
"Thank you, Perkins. I'll be right down."
Anne came to her feet. She lifted her purse and wrap and turned to leave. She crossed the room and stopped by Dr. Tranter. She came up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Please don't be angry with me, Uncle."
"Where are you going?"
Anne hesitated a moment, then she said, "To a concert. Chamber music. Very dull. Good night, Uncle." The rustling of her gown was like a gasp of air as she swept out of the room. She moved along the hall quickly and descended the sweeping stairway. Sam Lowry was at the bottom smiling up at her.
She tingled under the warmth of his smile, and the way his eyes covered her, practically devouring her, made her feel naked. And stranger still, she didn't mind; in fact she enjoyed having his eyes on her. The realization of this was pleasantly shocking to her. She had been undressed by men's eyes before, and it had always infuriated her. Why was he so different? She trembled at the thought of finding the answer. Since first meeting Sam Lowry and feeling his hands upon her she had known that there was some electric quality between them. More than anything else, she knew that she wanted to be near him. You're acting like a schoolgirl, she told herself, but even with this rationalization, she could not still the violent beating of her heart as she reached the final step and his hand reached out to touch hers.
"You're very prompt."
"I might say the same for you."
"I've been waiting on the corner for half an hour just so I wouldn't seem too eager."
She laughed lightly. "You Americans are very gallant."
"We're crude and ill-mannered, but we try."
"Shall we go?"
"I have a cab waiting."
"For half an hour? It will cost a fortune."
He laughed, taking her arm. As he turned her toward the door he looked up the stairway and saw Dr. Tranter standing there, his face a stony mask of displeasure. "Good evening, sir," Lowry said. Dr. Tranter turned and stalked away. Lowry raised an eyebrow. "I don't think your guardian approves of me."
"He thinks every young man is going to steal me away."
"In this case he's right."
They left the house and descended the steps to the street. The hansom was waiting and Sam opened the doors and helped her in. He climbed in after her. "Where do we start our tour?" he asked.
"Burnett's Music Hall," she said.
"Are you serious?"
"You wanted to see London, didn't you?"
"You're the guide." He tapped the driver's hatch and when it opened he said, "Burnett's Music Hall, Whitechapel."
The cab lurched away from the curb and they settled back against the leather upholstery, their shoulders touching in the narrow interior.
Although Anne did not find the close proximity discomforting, she noticed a tenseness within herself that was uncommon, and the usual light conversation seemed impossible.
"I've just about decided to marry you."
The words were clearly and carefully spoken, but Anne was still certain that she had heard wrong. She turned her head slightly and her eyes were wide. "I beg your pardon?"
"I've just about decided to marry you," Lowry repeated.
Anne's eyes met his, expecting to find a hint of merriment, but if he was joking he certainly didn't look it.
"Is this the way young men propose in America, Mr. Lowry?"
"No," he said. "And that is the only trouble. One of the troubles, anyway. There is the matter of courtship. It takes some time. That's what I mean by 'just about'. I really decided last night, but I thought I ought to wait until we're using first names."
"Sweet of you."
"And then there's the problem of never having proposed before. I'm not sure how one goes about it."
"They tell me that is something one should not become too adept at."
She realized that Lowry was carefully ignoring her attempts at sarcasm, and she further realized that he was serious, despite the fact that he was being extremely matter-of-fact.
"And," he said, "there is the matter of whether or not you would want to be a policeman's wife."
"What does a policeman's wife do?"
"She keeps a policeman's house."
"How clever of her."
"And has a policeman's children."
"Admirable. And how many does she have?"
"Five or six."
"Wonderful. And are they all brash little ill-mannered Americans?"
"Uncouth little beasts."
"What a lucky girl."
"Will you marry me?"
"Mr. Lowry-"
"Sam."
"Sam, then. I believe you are just a little mad."
"Perhaps."
"And this line of conversation is extremely presumptuous of you, and, I must say, a little foolish."
"You didn't say no."
"Really, Mr. Low ... Sam." She closed her mouth tightly and looked away. The truth was, and she realized it, that she didn't want to say no. She couldn't say yes. It was ridiculous to think of marrying someone you had known for less than two days, but his conversation had placed the idea in the forefront of her mind and she wasn't quite ready to expel it. He was different and he was certainly appealing. Also she had never felt with anyone the way she did with him.
"Anne," he said, breaking the long moment of silence.
"Yes?"
"You know, I'm really quite serious about this." His voice was suddenly different. It had lost its casual assurance, was somehow more human, more serious and wrought with genuine feeling.
She turned to him. "Sam, I know you are, but I'm sure you also know that this whole thing is impossible."
He lifted her hand and her eyes followed him as he brought it to his lips and kissed the palm. An involuntary shudder ran through her. She knew she should pull her hand away, but she didn't. He twisted toward her and she felt his hands on her shoulders. Her breath caught in her throat and her blood was racing. This wasn't happening, it just couldn't be. He pulled her forward and she came unresisting into the circle of his arms. She looked into his face hovering over her. This is impossible, her mind argued. I have never let anyone kiss me in a cab before, and certainly not someone I have just met. His lips brushed lightly over her and she closed her eyes. She felt the pressure of his mouth, the muscle-tense strength of his arms drawing her to him, and her head reeled with skyrocketing lights. She felt her arms lifting as though with a will of their own and then she was clinging to him.
Her senses returned and she pulled away. "Sam, please," she said, completely flustered. She looked quickly to his face to see the triumph there, and was confused by the look of adoration.
"Anne, I don't know quite what to say, I-"
"Don't say anything," she whispered.
"You meant that?"
Her voice was low and hoarse with emotion. "Yes."
"Then-"
"Please, Sam. I don't know what has come over me. I just don't know."
The hansom pulled to a stop before the lighted entrance of the music hall and Anne breathed with relief. "Let's enjoy our evening," she said. "Whatever it is we've found, if it is good it will last, and it can only make tonight better. But please let it grow of its own accord and don't let's talk it to death."
Sam nodded, smiling happily. "May I say just one thing?"
"What is that?"
"You are a lovely, wonderful female."
"The courtship begins."
"It does indeed." Opening the door, Sam jumped from the cab. He held up a hand and helped Anne down. He paid the driver and they crossed die narrow walk and entered the music hall.
A swirling blast of noise greeted them on the inside. It was a large, high-ceilinged room of glass chandeliers and ornate, gilded walls. It was brightly lit and the air was thick with blue-gray smoke and the heavy smells of cheap perfume and perspiration. The raised stage was at the far end and the chorus line was dancing a whirling, animated charade of rising, dipping skirts and flashing legs; a small, loud band pounding out their makeshift Parisian melody.
Taking the sign from a waiter, they fell in behind his tuxedoed back and began a weaving trek toward a corner table. But the manager of the place had seen them enter and he intercepted them between tables, flashing his oily smile.
"Ah, Mr. O'Neil's friend," the manager said, rubbing his hands together. "Good evening, Sir, Madam. Let me show you to a better table, a private room, perhaps?" He quivered with suggestion.
Anne looked at Lowry with surprise. "No," Sam said. "This will be fine."
The manager looked at Anne and she had to suppress a shudder. "Yes," the man said, "yes, of course." He scurried around the table and drew back a chair. He made a stiff bow as Anne sat down, then he straightened and snapped his finger at one of the waiters. "Champagne," he said. He turned and bowed toward Sam with a malicious smile. "On the house," he said. Sam was about to protest, but the man moved off.
"Ugh," Anne said, shivering. "He reminds me of a spider."
"Or a snake," Sam said.
"Anything that might be crawly," Anne said.
"Well, this is your tour," Sam said.
"Yes, but he's your friend. And it seems as though you've been on this tour before."
Sam laughed and leaned back in his chair. He let his eyes roam over the room. It was crowded and noisy, the tables close together. The patrons thumped the tables in time to the straining music, shuffled their feet and whistled at the dancing girls. The atmosphere was charged with a feeling of abandon, men pawing and kissing the necks of the women at their tables.
Anne watched Sam's reaction to the scene about them. She saw his eyes stop and fix on one of the tables where a rough-looking character was drinking from a raised bottle with his left hand, while his right hand was plunged down the front of his partner's dress, cupping one of her breasts. The scene was repulsive to Anne, mostly because the girl was completely unmoved by the contact and continued talking to another party at the table. Although she tried not to, Anne imagined Lowry's hands seeking her in the same manner. She felt the flush rise in her cheeks and her breasts hardened, the nipples tingling.
Oh, my God, she said to herself, what is happening to me? Do I really envy that coarse creature over there? She tore her eyes away and looked down at her hands, feeling shame. Take hold of yourself, she whispered almost aloud, you're thinking like a trollop. Her mind raced back to the hansom cab and Sam holding her. I was completely lost, she said, completely. He could have done anything he wanted with me and I would not have stopped him. I wanted him to. She closed her eyes tightly. Is this love? I never imagined I could feel this way, but I do. Am I a wanton at heart?
"Champagne," a voice said.
Anne looked up and the waiter hovered over the table. He uncorked the bottle and poured the two glasses full. Sam was smiling at her and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he know what was going on in her mind? She reached out and lifted her glass. Sam leaned over the table and his glass touched hers.
"To policemen's wives everywhere," he said.
She smiled warmly and sipped the cool wine, then suddenly she tipped the glass and gulped it.
"Hey, there," Sam said, "that stuff can go to your head."
I'll be careful," she said, laughing lightly. She put the glass down and watched him refill it. She lifted it again. "Sam," she said, "I'm very happy."
"You are?"
"Yes, very."
He stared at her with wonder. "I thought that ... that ... I mean...."
"You thought I was offended?"
"Well, not exactly offended, but more disappointed in me after I-"
"You may be a good detective," she said, interrupting, "but you don't know about women." She smiled over the rim of the glass. "It's nice to be swept off your feet." She tilted the glass and drank slowly, enjoying the look of confusion on Sam's face.
"Do you mean that-"
"I mean I'm just happy tonight."
"Because I asked you to marry me?"
"You're not going to back out of it, are you now, Mr. Lowry?"
"Will you give me a straight answer?"
"Yes."
"Why are you happy?"
"Because you're so nice."
"I might be more able to believe that if you weren't smiling," Sam said.
"Don't you like my smile?"
Sam leaned back and spread his hands. "I give up," he said.
Anne finished the second glass of champagne and held it out to be filled again. It was having its effect on her and she was glad. More than anything she felt that she needed something to support her. The wine at least was taking away the feeling of guilt she had, and her light conversation would put Sam a bit on the cautious side. In her present frame of mind she knew she had to summon up every rule of her finishing-school background. But they never told me what to do about this, she said, and then was mildly startled that she said it to herself not with dismay, but with a sense of vivacious amusement. Sam was staring at her intently. Wouldn't he be surprised, she mused, if I should suddenly tell him I wanted him to take me to bed. Having voiced the nagging thought to herself, she was immediately sober. That, young lady, is far enough!
Sam had taken his eyes from her and he was carefully scanning the dancers on the stage. "Looking for someone?" she asked. "The new girl," Sam said.
"What new girl?" she said and suddenly knew the first pang of jealousy.
"The one on the end there. See her? The brunette. I was with O'Neil when we saw her first come to work. O'Neil warned the manager that he was going to take a paternal interest in her future welfare."
"My, what interesting hobbies you policemen have."
Sam turned to her and his face was serious. "I mean it. Seems that something happened to another girl who worked here and Mike was concerned about this one."
"That's fine, but let me tell you, Mr. Lowry, when we're married I want you sticking to crime."
Sam's eyes widened. "Anne, do you mean that you-"
"Look there," Anne said, parrying his sudden statement. "We're not the only ones crossing the tracks tonight."
Standing in the doorway near the stage were two men in immaculate evening dress. One was tall and thin, weak-chinned with a drooping mustache, a monocle over one eye. The other was short and burly.
"You know them?" Sam asked.
"The tall one is Lord Sopwith. A horrible man with a frightful reputation for debauchery and buckets of money. I don't know the other one."
Sam turned away from the two men and he leaned across the table. "Anne, back to what you said before."
"Why don't you tell me about New York," Anne said.
3.
Hazel kept time to herself, humming the tune of the can-can music under her breath. The other girls whirled and turned. She joined arms with the girl next to her. She kicked out one leg, twirled the ankle for three beats, kicked up the other leg and repeated the maneuver. The girl next to her was sweating and grunting with every kick, but she kept her smile wide. The line turned and circled, kicking their legs backwards, then they came together and bent far over, flicking their skirts to expose their frilled pants. And it was over. The girls danced off the stage.
Hazel stopped humming the song and stood in the wings letting her breath return to normal. When Margaret came offstage, Hazel fell in beside her. The tall, blonde girl was the nicest of the troupe and Hazel had singled her out as a friend.
"Whew!" Margaret exclaimed, "there must be an easier way to make the rent."
"How many more times do we go on?"
"Three more, and I don't want to think about it."
"I don't mind."
"You're not as old as I am, honey," Margaret said.
They crossed the backstage area toward the large dressing room. Margaret stopped at a signal from the manager. "What's Fatso want?" she murmured.
"You there, Maggie," the manager said, "upstairs in ten minutes."
"Oh, damn! It'd be easier dancing. Send someone else."
"Insists on you."
"Oh, fine," Margaret said, "Well, all right. Who is it?"
"Sopwith, and he has a friend with him." He nodded toward Hazel. "Show her what to do."
Margaret snapped with surprise. She looked from the manager to Hazel. "Not her," she said.
"Why not?" the man asked.
"She's only been here two days."
"So it's time she started earning her living." He turned his oily smile on Hazel who had been listening with bafflement. "You don't mind having a drink with a couple of important customers do you, dear?" he asked.
Hazel was hesitant, but it seemed like a simple request, and she said, "I don't think so."
"Of course you don't." He turned back to Margaret.
"Ten minutes," he said, then he went off, still rubbing his hands.
"God's gift to the working girl," Margaret said with sarcasm. "Come along, baby, I'll show you the facts of life."
They went down the two steps into the dressing room and pushed their way through the clutter of girls who were changing for the next number.
"Who are we going to have the drink with?" Hazel asked.
"Lord Sopwith."
"A Lord? Why on earth would a Lord want to meet me?"
"A Lord is also a man," Margaret said, "and you've got what a man likes. Come on, I'll show you what to wear."
At the end of the dressing room Margaret pulled back a curtain revealing a closet full of dresses. She glanced back at Hazel, then pulled out a white dress and handed it to her. "Out of your costume and get into this," she said."
"I could wear my own dress," Hazel said.
"Not on your life," Margaret said. "Let the management stand for the wear and tear."
Hazel did not understand, but she placed her trust in her friend's greater knowledge of the job. She reached back and unhooked her costume, pulling it down over her long legs. She stood naked, except for her long, black stockings and when she looked up she noticed Margaret looking at her with a wistful expression. "Is something wrong?"
"Yeah," Margaret said, "with me. It's been a long time since mine stood up like that." She reached out with one hand and traced the upswept curve of Hazel's full breasts. She shook her head. "Okay, get the dress on."
"I'll get my underthings," Hazel said.
"You won't need them," Margaret answered. "Just put the dress on."
"But-I-"
"Don't worry, you'll be all right."
Hazel chewed her lip worriedly. She wouldn't feel dressed, and she certainly expected that a Lord would be scandalized if he knew, but she did not want to argue with her friend, so she pulled the white dress over her head and smoothed it into place. It was extremely low-cut, exposing the swell of her breasts. She pulled it up in front.
"Here, here," Margaret said. "The management would never approve." She pulled the bosom down.
"But isn't is a little daring?"
"That's what it's supposed to be." Margaret smiled, tossing her blonde head. "Now look, we're going upstairs to entertain. It isn't a damn bit different than being out on the stage-just a little more private. These two duffers upstairs want to feel big and we smile at them and laugh with them and make them think we're having the time of our lives. That's all there is to it."
"That's all?"
"That's all, unless you want it to go a little farther, and maybe pick up an extra pound or two. But that's up to you. Ready?"
"I-I suppose."
"C'rnon, don't be so glum, They're only men."
Hazel forced herself to smile. She was filled with misgivings. This was different than dancing. Out there you had the glare of gas reflectors at the front of the stage to cut off your view of the hall, and even though you knew that everyone was watching you, you could only see the gray haze of smoke and it didn't seem so personal. And Margaret's statement about picking up an extra pound. She wasn't certain what that meant, but she could guess. She followed Margaret out of the dressing room, through the crowd of girls, running the gantlet of good-natured gibes.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Keep your legs crossed, dearie."
"Maybe he'll make you a duchess."
"Don't lie down on the job."
"You'll love that mustache."
Hazel felt that she was running the gantlet and her face reddened under the laughing taunts of the girls.
"Don't pay any attention to them," Margaret said. "They're damned jealous that they weren't picked."
They -edged through the doorway and the manager was waiting on the other side for them, two bottles of champagne in his hands. "Very nice," he said, looking at both girls, "very nice, indeed." He held the bottles out to Margaret. "Take these with you. Room four." He passed them and went into the dressing room.
"Well, here we go," Margaret said, lifting one of the bottles. "Stiff upper lip."
Hazel followed Margaret up the rear stairway and then along a carpeted hall that had doorways on either side. It was like a hotel and she was surprised to see it. Margaret stopped at a door with the number "4" in the middle She nodded at the door and Hazel reached out and knocked. The door opened immediately.
Lord Sopwith stood there, a foolish grin on his face. He stepped back and waved the girls inside.
"Evening, boys," Margaret shouted with gaiety, waving the two bottles. "Some extra ammunition."
"Wonderful!" Sopwith shouted. He took the two bottles and kicked the door closed behind him.
It was a large room. The walls were hung with drapes and several large paintings of voluptuous women in reclining poses. There were no single chairs. It was a room for couples, furnished with couches, a room where it would be difficult to continue sitting up.
"I'm Margaret and this is Hazel."
"You know me," Sopwith said, winking at Margaret, "and this is Edward Blake, very important industrialist from the North."
"I love important industrialists!" Margaret exclaimed.
"See, Eddie," Sopwith hooted, "What'd I tell you. This is going to be a party."
Edward Blake sat on a divan in the middle of the large, plush room, his bull-like body hunched forward. His lips were moist and he stared at Hazel. He held a glass of champagne in his hand and he placed it down on the table before him. "Come here, girl," he said, patting the sofa beside him. "Sit down here."
Hazel glanced quickly at Margaret. She didn't like the look of obvious lust in the man's eyes.
"Go on, dear," Margaret said, "he won't bite you."
Sopwith looked up from where he was pouring two glasses of champagne. "I wouldn't want to bet on that." He threw his head back and laughed with a high cackle that Hazel found frightening.
"Come on, sit down."
"Go on, dear, do like the gentleman says."
Hazel moved forward and sat on the edge of the sofa. She tried to smile, but the man's heavy breathing bothered her.
"A glass of champagne," Blake said.
"No thank you, sir, I don't drink."
"I don't believe it!" Sopwith chortled.
"Of course she drinks," Margaret said, catching Hazel's eye and making a sign that she should take the drink.
"If the young lady doesn't want to drink," Blake said, "she doesn't have to." He reached out and patted Hazel's knee. "I like a girl who knows her own mind."
"Thank you, sir," Hazel said. She felt relieved. He wasn't going to force her to do anything. Perhaps he was much nicer than she had imagined. After all, he was a gentleman. She relaxed and this time her smile was genuine.
"You don't have to call me sir," Blake said. "My name is Edward."
"But I don't know you."
Margaret laughed. "Isn't she a card. Always joking. Call him Edward like he says."
Hazel glanced towards Margaret and caught her disapproving glare. She looked back at Blake. "All right ... Edward."
"Eddie would be better."
"I think I like Edward."
"Suit yourself, m'dear, just so we're friends." He turned to Sopwith. "Another drink?"
"Coming up." Sopwith circled the sofa with a glass in each hand. He gave one to Blake and held the other out to Hazel. "Sure you won't have one?"
"Of course she will," Margaret said.
Rather than create a situation, Hazel said, "Well, perhaps just one." She reached out and took the long-stemmed glass in her fingers.
"Are you sure, m'dear?" Blake said with concern. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to."
"I ... I think I'd like to."
"Well, wonderful." He lifted his glass. "To a pretty girl," he said.
Hazel tipped the glass and sipped the wine.
"We'll take ours next door," Sopwith said, encircling Margaret's waist and leading her towards an adjoining door.
"Happy times!" Margaret laughed. They disappeared through the doorway. "Where have they gone?" Hazel asked. "They thought we'd like to be alone," Blake said. "But I thought this was going to be a party."
"It is, it is. But it's best that we get better acquainted. It's easier when we're alone."
"Well, I...."
"You like me, don't you?"
"You seem very ... kind."
"And I am. Where are you from, my dear?"
"London."
"Ah, yes. Well, then, another drink?" He reached back for the bottle and refilled Hazel's glass. "Drink up. It can't hurt you."
Hazel drank from the glass.
"Why don't you relax," Blake said. "Here, sit back."
Hazel moved back into the sofa. She turned her head and smiled, wishing she had something to say. Blake's gaze was full upon her and despite his gallant attitude, there was something about him that frightened her. She could only think of Tom and what he would say if he could see her. He certainly wouldn't understand, that was for sure. She wondered if she would tell him about tonight. Blake was leaning forward. He was a man in his fifties, heavy-jowled and bald. Perspiration stood out on his face and he had a habit of flicking his tongue over his lips.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.
"Oh, no."
"Good. I wouldn't want to frighten you."
"I'm not afraid."
Blake twisted slightly and his arm was on the back of the sofa. He dropped his hand lightly on Hazel's shoulder. She stiffened and he laughed. "You're a touchy one."
"I'm sorry, it's just that I've never...."
"You don't have to explain."
Hazel gulped the wine and held out the glass for more. Blake had to remove his arm from the back of the sofa to handle the bottle. Hazel lifted the glass again and when Blake's hand stole over behind her again, she drank quickly and held out the glass, smiling.
"I thought you didn't drink?"
"It's just that it's so good."
Hazel repeated the maneuver several times and then quite suddenly the room seemed to tip. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes tightly. She leaned her head back. Blake moved his right hand across her. He touched her shoulder with his fingers. Then his hand slid down inside her dress and closed over one of her breasts. For a moment Hazel imagined it was Tom's hand and her lips parted as the fingers began to massage her. A soft moan of pleasure came from her throat. But the grip tightened on her breast and she gave a sharp cry of pain, snapping upright. She tore the man's hand away.
"What are you doing?"
"I just want to touch you."
"You keep your hands off me. What do you think I...."
The door behind them slammed open and a shriek of laughter interrupted Hazel's anger. Margaret weaved into the room and Hazel stared at her with shock. Her blonde hair was wet and she was laughing uncontrollably.
"What's the matter?" Hazel exclaimed.
"Champagne! He poured champagne over my head." She continued to laugh. Lord Sopwith came up behind her with the bottle of champagne. He tilted it over her shoulder and poured the wine over her bosom. Margaret howled with mirth. She turned and staggered back against a table. Sopwith threw the bottle away. It hit the floor with a thump and rolled. Margaret was still laughing and Hazel watched, transfixed, as Sopwith came up against the blonde girl and kissed her neck, his hand pulling at the low neckline of the dress until both breasts were exposed. Margaret arched her back and Sopwith lowered his head to kiss her breasts. Then he took her by the waist and pulled her back into the adjoining room, slamming the door after them.
"Is she all right?" Hazel asked.
"Of course she is-now how about that kiss?"
Hazel's mind suddenly returned to her own problem. She turned on the sofa and Blake was hovering over her. She tried to rise, but he pushed her back.
"No," she cried, "Please, let me go."
He laughed and held her shoulders in both hands, pressing her back. "You like to play games, eh?"
"No, I mean it, please. Let me go." She struggled, but he held her down, his face close to hers. She felt his moist lips on her throat and she shuddered, twisting her body.
"Stop it!"
"I like a girl with a bit of fight."
"Stop it, I tell you!" She managed to lift a fist and she lashed out at him, striking him in the face. "Damn! What is it with you?"
"Let me go!"
"Not on your life. You can't stand me off like this. What kind of a damned trollop are you?"
"I'm not a trollop!"
"Hell, you ain't. What are you doing here if you ain't? C'mere, you wench."
Hazel swung her fist again, but he caught it on his shoulder and pushed her back. He reached one arm behind her and held her. With his free hand he grasped the bosom of her dress and tore it down. She screamed, but the sound was muted by the heavy draperies covering the walls. Then his head dropped and a wave of dizziness swept over her as she felt Blake's hot, wet lips run over her flesh and settle on the hard nipples of her exposed breasts. In her struggle she spread her legs and he took immediate advantage, pressing his knee between her thighs. She was pinned back, unable to move and gradually he began to force her down onto the sofa.
His breath was strong and revolting, and his strong hands darted over her, searching and grasping in an animal-like frenzy.
Tom! her mind screamed. She closed her eyes tightly. Tom, please take me away from this. Don't let him do this! Tom! Tom!
It was nightmarish and one part of her mind refused to accept what was happening. She was on her back and the weight of his large body was crushing her. She continued to squirm, but it only seemed to heighten his feverish ardor. His right hand pulled at the hem of her dress. He tugged, but his knee was in the way. As he shifted his leg for better leverage, she immediately closed her legs tightly, crossing her ankles. With a swift angry jerk he pulled her dress up to her waist.
Tears of shame filled Hazel's eyes and she struggled anew, knowing that she was fully exposed to him. His hand slipped between her thighs and he tried to force her legs apart. She twisted away, raking at his face with her fingernails. Blake growled an oath, slapped her soundly with his free hand, then threw himself heavily upon her, imprisoning her writhing, protesting body with his thick-muscled frame, while his mouth took its will of her lips and throat and bared shoulders and breasts.
Weary and exhausted from fighting him and nearly smothered by the oppressive mass of his greedy, seeking flesh, Hazel finally stopped struggling. She was crying, but he did not seem to notice. She felt him fumbling at his belt, then tearing at his trousers with his fingers, moving like a lumbering animal.
Her body recoiled once when his hot naked flesh pressed wantonly against hers. Then a deep anguished moan burst from her throat as she felt him enter her.
Desperately, Hazel tried to make herself believe that nothing was happening. She longed for the blessed blackness of oblivion where she would be unaware of the savage assault being made upon her. Inwardly she cried out: Tom! Tom! Don't let him take me this way!
Abruptly and shockingly, in the midst of her resignation, Hazel's body rebelled against her mind. Her senses quickened to the rhythmic thrusts and lunges of the man above her, and a tingling sensation began to spread upwards through her loins.
No! she screamed. Don't let this happen. It can't be the same with this animal. I don't want it! I don't want to feel anything!
But her nerve ends rose to the erotic stimulus of the wicked stallion-force that was possessing her and she felt herself trembling despite herself. The feeling mounted until it cried for fulfillment and she found herself pushing ardently against Blake, her buttocks grinding and rising, her taut-nippled breasts aching for harsher contact with his caressing hands. She beat her small fists against the sofa and cried aloud with remorse, but she could not cease the convulsive movements of her pleasure-bent body until she was swept high up on a hill of rising sensation that completely inundated her erotically anesthetized consciousness.
When she opened her eyes Blake was gone. She looked down along her body. She was stretched out on the sofa. The dress was still up around her waist and pulled away from her breasts. Wearily, she moved. She pulled the skirt over her legs and sat up. She adjusted the bosom and examined the tear in the soft material.
Lifting her head, Hazel looked about the room. Her eyes stopped at the fireplace and she gasped. Blake was standing there, his clothing wrinkled. She caught her breath and a spasm of revulsion and fear hit her so that her limbs were frozen into immobility. When he gave her a mocking half-admiring smile she recoiled in horror.
"You're a pretty active little piece when you put your mind to it," he said. "How much do I owe you?"
The full realization of what had happened came to her and a wave of nausea racked her body. She flung herself over the end of the sofa and retched.
"Here, here, now," Blake said, coming towards her.
"Don't touch me," Hazel screamed. She staggered to her feet and stumbled across the room, tears blinding her. She wrenched the door open and flung herself into the hallway. She ran to the stairs and rushed down them, grasping the railing for support.
At the bottom she ran into the manager, knocking him back on his heels.
"Hey! What's going on here? Where are you going?"
"Get out of my way!" she screamed. She shouldered past the fat man and ran for the stage door exit.
"Hey! Come back here, you little fool!"
Harry, the stage door attendant rose from his chair and stared at her. Hazel rushed at him and slammed him back against the wall. She ran for the door.
"Stop her, you idiot," the manager shouted at the attendant. "Bring her back before she gets the police!"
Hazel heard the quick scurry of footsteps behind her, but she was in the street and knew only that she had to get away. She could not let them take her back there. In her flight she forgot her terror of the darkness. She plunged headlong down the narrow street, her breath coming in gasps. The only evil she knew existed in the music hall. She heard the voice from behind.
"Miss, come back!" Harry's nasal squeal. "Come back, Miss, where you going?"
The voice made her run faster, her arms pumping at her sides, the heels clattering against the difficult, uneven cobbles. The fog swirled before her like arms threatening to engulf her and drag her back to the theatre. She plunged into the heavy shadowed channel of the street. Her breath was a wracking pain in her side and the terror within her was a live, choking thing. She turned her head to look back at her pursuer, and she crashed headlong into a man in the sidewalk.
"Oh!" she screamed in terror and surprise.
"Here, here," the man said, steadying her, "What's the rush?"
"Miss," Harry's voice called from behind, "Miss, come back."
"Is he after you?" The man asked with concern, holding Hazel with both hands.
"Yes," she gasped, nodding her head.
"Quick," he said, "hide here." He pulled her inside the aley opening. "Pretend you're with me."
Hazel slid into the darkness and the man covered her from view with his tall figure, shifting his black cape like a blind. She heard Harry's footsteps coming closer, but she felt safe. She looked up at the man's face, which was dimly visible. He was a handsome man, past middle age, his eyes sharp. He was smiling down at her and he winked to give her reassurance. Harry stopped at the alleyway and glanced in, but he veered back with an apologetic, "Oops, pardon me, gov'ner." He ran on.
They waited a few moments without moving, then Hazel took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, thank you," she said to her benefactor, smiling. "Thank you so much, you've been very kind."
The man did not answer and she glanced up at him. The smile was gone and his expression was wistful. "I think he's gone," the man said in his deep, soft voice.
"Yes, I'm safe now."
He was staring down at her low-cut gown and she noticed that his brow furrowed. "I'd best go now," she said. "Is your name Mary Clarke?" the man asked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1.
Sam Lowry upended the champagne bottle and placed it in the bucket. He leaned back in his chair.
"Enough education for one evening?" Anne asked.
Sam looked towards the stage where a clown in grotesque make up was going through his antics, laughing loudly at his own poor jokes. "I think so," Sam said, "the entertainment gets steadily worse."
"Better than chamber music, at least," Anne said.
"Chamber music?"
"I told Uncle we were going to listen to chamber music."
"He finds out you were here you'll be forced to marry me."
"Hmmm," Anne said. "You're giving me ideas."
"But you still won't commit yourself."
"Sam, it's too early. If I said yes you'd think I was throwing myself at you. I didn't say no."
"When will you say yes?"
"That will be something for you to think about. Now I'd like to leave."
Sam pushed back form the table and came to his feet. He came around the table taking Anne's cape from the back of one of the chairs. A sudden commotion at the door near the stage arrested his movement.
"The Ripper!" Harry shouted from the doorway, a wild expression on his face. "He done it again! The Ripper! Help, help, The Ripper's killed another one. I saw 'er, he done it, the Ripper!"
A pall of silence fell over the crowded room. The clown on the stage had stopped in the middle of a dance and he leaned forward, the painted expression on his face a caricature of shock. As suddenly as the room had quieted, it now became a turmoil of noise and motion, the women screaming, the men rushing to surround the stage-door attendant.
"Come on," Sam said, "I'll get you a cab. I want to see about this." He took Anne's arm and led her to the entrance. People rushed past them to get to Harry who was now giving a breathless explanation. They reached the sidewalk and Sam turned his head to look up the street for a hansom.
"Lowry."
Sam was standing face-to-face with Dr. Tranter. He registered surprise and glanced quickly at Anne.
"I trust you have an explanation for bringing my ward to a ... an establishment of this kind."
Sam was at a loss for words, but Anne stepped up and said quickly, "I brought him."
"I find that hard to believe," Tranter said stiffly. "It's lucky I happened to see you." He glared at Sam with loathing. "Come, my dear," he said to Anne, "I'll take you home."
Anne looked at Sam, but he knew that it would be impossible to explain the situation to Tranter and worse still to make a scene with the man, and he was also eager to see the scene of the Ripper's latest crime. He felt somehow ineffective, but he said, "You'd better go with him, Anne."
"If you say so."
Tranter looked at Sam with the slight suggestion of a sneer tilting the corner of his mouth. "I assume that you are off to join the morbid sensation seekers at the scene of the crime."
Lowry returned his gaze for a beat, but chose to ignore the obvious slur. He turned to Anne. "I've had a most enjoyable evening," he said. "Good night."
"Good night," Anne said.
Sam turned away. He couldn't really blame Tranter for getting the wrong impression, but he could not understand the man's dislike. He had never had more than half a dozen words with him and that was when he had saved him from the mob.
The crowd was pouring through the alleyway that would carry them to the rear of the music hall. Sam moved along with them, his thoughts still on Dr. Tranter. How could the man have possibly known where they were? He had been waiting for them when they came out of the place. But had he really been waiting? Or was it possible that he had merely been passing and they had run into him. If so, what was he doing in the neighborhood? He could have been at the hospital which was nearby. But then he wouldn't have been walking the streets. He would have taken a cab directly from the hospital. Sam didn't particularly like the way his mind was running, but Tranter was a doctor and he was in the area of the crime.
Sam left the alleyway and the crowd spread out over the narrow street. He saw a large group converging further ahead, with a number of lanterns outlining their dark forms.
He reached the group and pushed his way to the center, ignoring the angry mutterings of the people he had to push aside. Three policemen were trying to hold the crowd back. One of them recognized Sam and let him through the line.
The body had been covered by a policeman's ground sheet and it was a shapeless heap. Sam dropped to one knee and pulled back a corner of the black sheet. "Put your light down here a moment, would you?" he asked.
One of the policemen lowered his lantern. The girl's eyes were wide and staring with disbelief. Her hair, once piled on her head, was half-loosened and fell over the side of her face. Her throat was badly bruised. Lifting the sheet further, Sam saw that the bosom of her dress had been torn and one of her breasts was scratched. The body was still warm.
"Anyone called a doctor?" Sam asked.
"Undertaker, more like it," a voice growled from behind.
"The wagon has been sent for, sir," the policeman said.
"Inspector O'Neil?"
"He's been sent for, sir."
"Why ain't he here, then?" Another voice questioned from the crowd. "Wouldn't have happened if O'Neil wasn't sitting on his ass somewhere."
Sam straightened and regarded the crowd coolly. He was not surprised to see that Harry Simes in front of the crowd. "Never where they're wanted," Simes growled. "Spend their time picking on innocents and leaving the killers alone."
Why is he always at the scene of the crime? Sam asked himself. It just can't be a coincidence the way Mike says.
"Bloody useless lot," Simes said.
I'd like to see that knife he carries around with him, Sam thought. I'd almost wager we'll find some blood on it. He was about to make this request of one of the policemen when a voice shouted:
"Stop thief!"
Sam lifted his gaze to the rear of the crowd. He saw Louis Benz, whom he recognized as the surgery assistant from Mercy Hospital. Louis was flailing his arms and starting in pursuit of a smaller man, whom Sam also recognized as the pickpocket who had lifted his watch in the Red Goose. Snakey was running, pushing his way through the crowd. He had a black bag clutched to his chest.
"Stop the little sneak!" a voice bellowed.
Snakey whirled and ran, but one of the crowd put out a foot and tripped him up. Snakey stumbled. He spread his arms to break the fall and the black bag flew from his hands. The bag slammed into the side of a building and sprung open, the contents clattering to the pavement, a shower of brightly honed steel. Snakey clambered to his feet and kept running.
Rushing forward, Louis Benz dropped to his knees and began picking up the surgical instruments, replacing them in the bag.
"Look at him!" Simes shouted, pointing at Benz.
Louis turned his missshapen face up and stared. He held a large scalpel in his right hand.
"Jeezus! The damn bag is full of knives!" a man said.
"It's the Ripper come to see his dirty work first-hand," Simes added.
Louis Benz shook his head as though trying to clear his mind. He stared unbelieving as the men began to move in on him.
"It's old Leather Apron from the hospital."
"Will you look at them knives."
"That's what he done 'em in with!" Simes bellowed. He reached down and grasped Louis' arm, and jerked him to his feet. He shoved him back against the wall, holding a hand at his chest.
You're the Ripper, ain't you?" Simes snarled.
"He's dumb," a voice said. "He can't talk."
"You mean he won't talk," Simes said. "Well, we'll get some sound out of him. Let's rip him!"
Sam started forward. He tried to push through the surging crowd, but it was impossible. "Let him alone!" he shouted. He could see over the heads of the men, but it was too noisy for him to be heard. He saw Benz suddenly whip up his right hand. The scalpel flashed and Simes jumped back in terror. Louis darted away from the wall. He still held the knife up and the crowd fell back, momentarily stunned. They made a path for him and Louis bulled his way through. Once in the clear he began to run.
"Get him!" Simes bellowed. "That's the Ripper. Get after him." He reached down and picked up one of the surgical knives. He waved it in the air. "Give him his own medicine." He reached down again and picked up a handful of the gleaming scalpels. He handed them around quickly.
Sam turned back to the three policemen. "Can't you stop them?"
"They're too many," one of the policemen said. "They'd never listen to us."
With Simes in the lead, the mob was running in pursuit of the fleeing Louis Benz.
"Stay with the body," Sam said. "I'll try to stop them. Let me have your truncheon." He took the short club in his hands and began to run.
Louis Benz was far ahead, but the crowd was closing in steadily and he could hear their shouts, like the angry growls of a wild animal, a massive beast bent on destruction. The terror choked him and his half-crippled body ached with every pounding step.
Harry Simes led the crowd, his short legs pumping like pistons, his breath wheezing. But there was a quarry ahead, something upon which to vent his pent-up hatreds, his frustrations, and he forced himself to greater speed.
The mob was a single-minded thing. They ran behind their lead like a pack of wolves, the knives in their hands flashing, their fingers curled over the steel, feeling the power of death in their hands.
Louis Benz led them through the streets, the sounds of running feet like a herd of hooves on the cobbles, the dark night exploding with their cries. He knew the hospital would be his refuge. Once inside the gates he would be safe. It was the place he knew, the one place where he felt safe from the taunting world, at peace among his instruments. He rounded a corner and the somber building stood before him. He crossed the small square before the gate and flung himself against the porter's bell. There was no answer from the porter's lodge, and he ran to the high iron gates and shook them frantically, grunting with frenzy.
The crowd burst into the square and come to a stop before the gates. Louis Benz turned to look at them, then he spun and shook the gates again, a pitiful cry escaping his throat. The sullen mob formed a semi-circle and began to move toward him. He turned and faced them, his back pressed against the gates.
With their prey at their mercy, the crowd fell silent and looked toward Simes with anticipation.
Louis waged his lopsided head and his scar-twisted eyes rolled in their sockets.
Simes moved slowly, the scalpel waist-high in his hand. He cocked his head and barked, "Grab the little beggar now!"
Two burly men detached themselves from the mob and rushed forward. They took Louis on either side, grabbing his arms and twisting them back until he screamed in pain. They pressed him hard aaginst the gates.
Simes came forward certain that the man was helpless. He grinned and held the knife up. "Now we'll see how you like it," he said.
Louis lashed out with a foot and Simes leaped back. But the two men holding the arms twisted them harder and after a mild struggle Louis realized the helplessness of the situation and slumped against their pressure.
Sam Lowry reached the rear of the crowd. He saw an opening to the right and dodged through. Simes was bringing his arm back for a disembowling stroke. Sam dived forward, swinging the truncheon as he moved. The club caught Simes on the wrist just as the knife arced. Simes screamed with pain and the scalpel flew into the air and rang out with a hollow twang as it landed on the stones.
The mob was stunned with surprise and Sam took advantage of the slight moment. He drove a shoulder into one of the men holding Louis Benz. The man fell back against the gate with a grunt, releasing his hold. Sam brought the truncheon down over the man's shoulders, then he did a full turn and caught the other captor as he was beginning to move. He butted the man, then swung the truncheon across his middle. A man from the crowd rushed forward. Sam dodged him and rammed the club into the man's neck, destroying the Adam's apple. The man dropped to his knees, holding his throat and gasping, his eyes popped. The first of the captors had recovered and he came for Sam in a crouch. Sam side-stepped again and laid the man flat with a clubbing behind the ear.
A dark, bearded member of the crowd came forward. He was grinning.
"Get 'im, Charlie," a voice cried out.
"I'm gonna tear your bloody heart out, Mister," the bearded man said.
Sam tensed, waiting. The man came forward, diving. Sam swung the club. It glanced off Charlie's shoulder, doing little damage. Charlie made good his tackle and Sam sprawled, the club flying from his hand.
The crowd screamed and surged forward. Sam kicked his legs free. He saw nothing but the club on the sidewalk. He rolled over and jumped after it. A foot lashed out and caught him on the side of the face. Pain exploded up through his head. His hand touched the club and he gathered it up. He rolled over. The same foot lashed out again. With a wicked lunge he cracked the club across a man's shin. The scream of pain stopped the crowd and Sam scrambled to his feet. The bearded man was getting up. Sam jumped forward and drop-kicked the man called Charlie, his nose disappearing under the blow.
Dodging away, Sam put his back to the gate with Louis Benz at his side. He faced the crowd, the truncheon ready. Simes was screaming.
"Get him! Get the bloody foreigner!"
But the mob had been stilled. Their leader was out of action and two of their biggest men were face-down on the street.
A shrill whistle brought their heads up. A police wagon clattered into the small square and the crowd had to fall back to avoid the rearing horses. A half-dozen policemen spiled out of the wagon with Mike O'Neil at their lead.
"Break it up here," O'Neil shouted. "You hear me, I said break it up!" He shouldered through the mob and stood next to Sam Lowry. "Constable, take those knives. Give them up, boys, every one of them. There's been enough nonsense here tonight."
"My wrist," screamed Simes. "He broke my wrist!"
"It'll be your head next," O'Neil shouted back. "I've had enough of you, Simes. Now get out of it before I forget I'm a policeman."
Simes backed off, then stopped, glaring. "You ain't heard the last of this."
"It better be the last," O'Neil said.
Simes whirled and pushed his way through the crowd. The others turned away and followed him, darting glances back as they moved off. Their voice was a dull muttering of discontent.
"You all right, Sam?" O'Neil asked.
"Happy to see you, is all."
"Nick-of-time O'Neil, they call me."
"I'm beginning to believe it," Sam said.
Louis Benz had slumped against the gate, weak with relief, the tears rolling over his face.
O'Neil looked through the gate where the porter was standing. "Well, open up, man," he said.
"Do you think he'll be safe in there?" Sam asked. "That mob might make another try for him."
"You have a point." O'Neil turned to Louis. "I'm afraid we'll have to take you down to the station house, Louis," he said. "You'll be safer there."
Louis was pathetically bewildered. He gestured towards the hospital, his eyes pleading.
"This will be for your own good," O'Neil said. He took the man by the arm. Louis pulled away from him. "Come along now," O'Neil said. "You might not be safe there."
Louis made a painful attempt to make himself understood, but uttered only several grunts.
"I know you would rather be in the hospital," O'Neil said, patiently, "but we want you to come with us." He kept his hand on Louis' arm and led him to the police wagon.
When Louis was inside with Sam beside him, O'Neil spoke to the driver. "Take a turn by the scene of the murder," he said.
The police wagon lurched away and took the corner, the metal-rimmed wheels screaming on the stone.
"You saw the girl?" O'Neil asked.
"Yes," Sam said. "It was the new dancer at the music hall." i
"Damn," O'Neil said softly. "Damn, damn, damn."
There was a subdued vehemence in his voice. He turned away and stared off to the front of the cab. He said nothing until the wagon came to a stop. "They still there?"
"No, sir," the driver answered. "Guess they took off."
"All right. Let's get to the station."
2.
There were two steaming mugs on the desk. The frost-paned gas lamp gave off a soft light that softened the stark white of the papers in O'Neil's hands. He fingered the papers, then dropped them on the desk. He reached out for the coffee, leaned back in his swivel chair and sipped.
"Hazel Townsend," O'Neil said, his voice weary and his tone flat. "Age nineteen. Death by multiple lacerations." His voice trailed off.
"Same as the others." Sam Lowry said."
"Except that this time he didn't have to cut through fabric. This time his hand went up her dress and he did his work with nothing to hamper the knife. A much cleaner job they tell me." He leaned forward and placed the cup down. He covered his face with his hands and worked his fingers in circles over his temples. "Sam," he said, "It's beginning to get me. Murders within shouting distance of my men and I don't even have a clue."
"They checked the girl's address?"
"A rooming house. She was living with a young man. He was about ready to leave for the music hall to meet her when my men arrived."
"But what was she doing out there on the street?" Sam asked. "The last time I saw her she was dancing in the line."
"That's something we're going to find out," O'Neil said. "It has something to do with the slimy manager of that place and I'm going to tear it out of him."
The office door opened and the desk sergeant entered. "Inspector," he said.
"O'Neil." The assistant commissioner brushed past the sergeant and strode into the room. He smiled with elation and marched straight to the desk. "I heard about it," he said. "Wonderful, man, wonderful. It is exactly what we needed right now with the pressure going against us."
Sam stared and O'Neil cocked an eyebrow.
"Just wait until you see the morning papers. Wonderful" The assistant commissioner placed his cane on the desk and removed his gloves. He turned to Sam. "And you were in on the capture. That's good. The co-operation of two great police forces. It will look good. Yes, fine." He took a turn around the room and stopped before the desk. "I called to see the Home Secretary, personally," he said. "He was delighted." There'll be a promotion in this for you, O'Neil. I'm not making any promises, mind," he added with a wink, "but there's every chance. What do you think of that, eh?"
"I'm not sure I understand," O'Neil said.
"You're modest, O'Neil. The sign of a good man. Now then, I think we'll keep the fiend here tonight, then tomorrow morning we'll move him. Have to organize it well, of course, the crowd will probably try to rob us of our prey."
"If you're talking about Louis Benz," O'Neil said, "you can't move him."
"Can't? Why not?"
"Because he hasn't been charged with anything," O'Neil said softly.
The assistant commissioner looked as though he had been slapped in the face "You're not serious," he said.
"I've put Louis Benz into protective custody, nothing more."
"Well, get down there to his cell and charge him, and I mean right away!"
"With what?"
"With murder, man. Multiple murder. He's Jack the Ripper."
"Is he?"
"Don't be coy, O'Neil." The man's voice was rising. "He's the Ripper. It's all over town. You locked him up, didn't you?"
"Protective custody, I said, sir."
A concentrated hammering at the office door and the sound of loud voices beyond cut off the Assistant Commissioner's retort. The door -edged open and the face of the desk sergeant appear. "I'm sorry, sir," the sergeant said. "It's the reporters. They're about to tear the place down."
"We want a statement, O'Neil," a voice shouted from behind the sergant.
"Get rid of them, Sergeant!" the assistant commissioner snapped.
The man was having trouble keeping his balance and holding the door in position. The newspapermen shoved and pushed.
O'Neil came to his feet and crossed the room. "Easy, boys," he called. "Take it easy. I'll handle it, Sergeant." He opened the door just enough to allow him to stand in the opening.
"What's the story, O'Neil?"
"No story as yet," O'Neil said.
"But you got the Ripper."
"Just a rumor. Louis Benz has been placed in custody, that's all."
"What kind of a statement do you call that?"
"Sorry, boys, the best I can do. We're investigating."
There was a unified grumble from the newsmen. "We've got a job to do, O'Neil," one of them said.
"And so have I, boys. You'll have word the moment something breaks. That's all I can say."
"Let us see Benz."
"Impossible. Now settle down and wait if you like, but lower the noise." He smiled. "Wouldn't want to lock anyone up for disturbing the peace."
The reporters fell back with disgruntled mumblings.
"Where's O'Neil? Oh, there you are!" Sir David Rogers had entered the front door and stood on the fringe of the ring of reporters. He waved his cane with impatience. "Stand aside!" he barked. His jaw jutted, his beard bristling. His heavy brows were lowered over his sharp eyes and his whole being seethed with rage. As the director of Mercy Hospital for Women, he was used to being obeyed.
"Who's that?" a reporter queried with raising interest, eager to leap on anything of news value.
"Didn't you hear me?" Sir David glowered at the reporters. "Out of my way." The reporters fell back under the lash of his authority. He strode through the group. "O'Neil, I want a word with you." His handsome, chiseled face was set and the close-cropped beard fairly bristied.
"Well," O'Neil said with hesitation, "I'm rather busy right now."
"And so am I," Sir David said. "And so is my staff, or at least they should be, and would be if you didn't have my best assistant locked up."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I...."
"Are you going to make me stand out here?"
"Sorry, sir." O'Neil stepped back and opened the door. Sir David passed him and marched into the room. O'Neil closed the door.
"Now what's this nonsense about Benz being in custody?" Sir David said.
It's not nonsense, sir, we-"
"Of course it's nonsense. I want him released immediately!"
The assistant commissioner turned on Sir David. "Just what right have you to come in here and-"
"Who are you?" Sir David snapped.
"This," O'Neil said, "is Assistant Commissioner Benson from the Yard."
"Good," Sir David said, still speaking in his imperious tone, "then perhaps you will tali some sense into this mutton-headed policeman. Tell him to release Benz at once!"
"I'll do nothing of the sort," the assistant commissioner said. "Just who do you think you are, barging in here and giving orders to me?"
"It's no matter who I am. I want Benz released!" Lowry and O'Neil stood back and followed the heated exchange with amusement.
"You realize," the assistant commissioner said with cold assurance, "that this Benz is Jack the Ripper."
"Ridiculous!" Sir David whirled to face O'Neil. "Is this your idea, O'Neil?"
"No, sir," O'Neil said.
"Yours then, I suppose," Sir David said, turning back to Hodges and thumping his cane on the floor. "Really, Mr. Assistant Commissioner, I think the Metropolitan Police Force is staffed by a bunch of blundering halfwits, and none so stupid as those at the top! What put this damn-fool idea into your head?"
"Benz was carrying a bag full of surgical instruments," Hodges said defensively.
Sir David cocked an eyebrow. He smirked. "Was he now. That, I suppose, makes a difference." He slipped his hand beneath his cloak and brought a fiat leather case from an inner pocket. He flipped the catch to open the case and held it out. In even rows, set in black velvet, were several surgical scalpels.
"What do you think these are?" he roared. "Toothpicks?" He snapped the case closed with one hand. "Are you going to arrest me? And while you're at it you might as well arrest the staff of every hospital in the city. All of them. Every surgeon in London will have his tools with him. There's not one Jack the Ripper, there's a hundred. You can arrest us in turns!"
The assistant commissioner started at the case in Sir David's hand. He was dumbfounded, but he pulled himself together and blustered, "Louis Benz is in protective custody. He hasn't been charged ... I ... we thought it was the only safe place for him."
"Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"I'm still not saying he isn't the Ripper."
"Then you're still being asinine! I'm going to see the Home Secretary. We'll see about this." He slid the case back into his pocket and hefted his cane. "Good night!" He turned and stalked to the door. Without looking back he opened the door and slammed it after him.
A long moment of awkward silence followed his departure. Then O'Neil asked, "Shall I go downstairs and charge Benz, sir?"
"What? Oh. Oh, no, no ... uh ... we'd better leave it for a while."
"Very good, sir. Now, if you'll pardon me, I have work to do."
"What's that?" The assistant commissioner was still smarting under Sir David's tirade and his mind was elsewhere.
"I'm still looking for Jack the Ripper," O'Neil said. "Come along, Sam."
3.
Standing, looking at the flushed, sweating face of the manager of Burnett's Music Hall, Sam felt the same revulsion he had experienced earlier in the evening.
"My life, Mr. O'Neil," the man whined, "how was I to know the poor little thing would get herself carved up by the Ripper?" He spread his hands. "You can't blame me for that, can you?"
"What was it that sent her running out into the night when she should have been on stage? I suppose I can't blame you for that, either?"
The manager moistened his lips. He ran a hand over his face nervously, and his pig eyes darted from O'Neil to Lowry and back.
"Well?" O'Neil said.
"I got to make a living, Mr. O'Neil. Any man could see that the legitimate side of the business don't pay nothing. Customers come in here, buy half a beer and sit all evening. Something's got to pay for the entertainment, and I-"
O'Neil reached out and grasped the lapels of the man's tuxedo. He twisted his fists and lifted the man up on his toes.
"The suit, Mr. O'Neil! Watch the suit!"
O'Neil spoke through his teeth. "Listen to me, you nasty little runt. You're going to starve. In the morning this place is going to be posted, shut down tight. And if you ever try to open anything else in this city I'll shut that down, too. I've had enough of your filth and you're going to suffer." He released the man and wiped his hands.
"But, Inspector, I didn't-"
"Just don't bother opening tomorrow night. Now get the stage-door attendant before I decide to take you apart."
"Mr. O'Neil, Inspector, you can't-"
"I did. Now get the man!"
"Yes, Yes, sir. He's backstage. Come along." He led the way, practically running. "You're making a mistake, Mr. O'Neil. My place is better than most."
"You'd better shut it off."
The man clamped his mouth closed. Sam followed in O'Neil's wake and they climbed onto the stage and walked into the wings. The stage-door attendant was seated in his chair puffing his pipe.
"Harry," the manager said, "this is Inspector O'Neil. He wants a word with you."
Harry came to his feet. "Pleased to meet you, sir. Guess you want to know about me finding the girl. Terrible it was, sir, blood over everything-running like water, it was."
"We want you to start at the beginning," O'Neil said. "Tell us everything that happened."
"Well, sir," Harry said, "she come running down the stairs there." He pointed, then looked quickly at the manager.
"Never mind him," Sam said. "Tell us everything."
"Well, I-"
"We need the whole story, Harry."
"All right. She was running, like I said. And crying, she was. She ran through here and knocked me out of the way. She was out the door before I took out after her."
"You followed her?" Sam asked.
"Yes. To bring her back."
"Show us," O'Neil said. "Come out on the street and go through exactly what you did."
Harry led the way to the alley, then to the narrow street. He pointed along the street. "I seen her head off into the darkness, I shouted to her, but she didn't stop. Then I couldn't see her. You know how it is here, like now, you can't see the end of the street."
"Then what did you do?"
"I went after her."
"Along this street?"
"Yes."
"Come along," O'Neil said. The three of them walked along the street. Harry stopped at the alleyway.
"I came along here, he said. "I looked in there where this couple was courting. Then I went on."
"A couple courting?" O'Neil asked. "Here, in this alley?"
"That's right, I looked in then I went on."
"This is where you discovered the body," O'Neil said.
"No, it was-" Harry paused and scratched his chin. He looked across the street, then back to the alley opening. "Wait a minute. You're right, Inspector, you're dead right. So they wasn't courting after all."
"You saw the Ripper, Harry," Sam said.
"The Rip-God!"
"What did he look like, Harry?" O'Neil had to fight to keep the excitement out of his voice.
"Well...." Harry pondered the question. "I don't know. It was dark, you know, black as the inside of a Welsh mine, it was."
"Try to remember."
"Well, now, let me think. I looked in there. Yes. Let's see. I didn't really look at him. Just a glance."
"There must have been something. His size?"
"Oh, he was a big bloke, alright. Was wearing a black cloak, and ... wait a minute. If he was the Ripper, I heard him talk."
"Talk?" O'Neil said.
"What did he say?" Sam asked.
"Well, I passed by, see, still looking for the young lady. But I figured she was gone and I stood up there a ways, just sort of looking around. Then I heard this bloke ... the Ripper ... I heard him say to the girl he was with ... Is your name ... Is your name something-or-other?"
"What was the name, Harry?"
"Oh, I don't remember that."
"You've got to remember," O'Neil snapped.
"Wait a minute, Mike," Sam said. "Harry, think carefully. Try to remember back to earlier this evening. You were standing up there and you heard this voice. Think carefully and slowly. The name. Is your name...."
"Mary, it was," Harry said gleefully. "That's was it. He said, 'Is your name Mary?"
"That's all? Sam asked, keeping his voice calm. "He must have asked a last name."
"Now wait a minute, don't be nagging me, now. Mary. That was it. Mary, Mary ... damn. Let's see. Mary ... uh ... wait a minute, now. Mary, Mary ... Clarke! That was it, I'm sure of it! Mary Clarke! Yes, that's what he asked. 'Is your name Mary Clarke?'."
"Mary Clarke," O'Neil repeated.
"You're certain?" Sam said.
"Positive," Harry said.
"Ring any bells with you, Mike," Sam asked.
"Not right off," O'Neil said. "All right, Harry, you can go now. You've been a help. And not a word of this to anyone, understand?"
"If you say so, Inspector."
"I say so. And, Harry, when the music hall is closed down tomorrow I want you to come by the station house to see me. I'll get you a new job." He reached into his pocket and brought out half a sovereign which he handed to the man. "And this is so you won't forget," he said.
"Thank you, Inspector. You're a gentiemen. Good night to you." He turned away and walked back to the music hall.
"Mary Clarke," O'Neil said. "I wonder who she is?"
"Whoever she is," Sam said, "the Ripper is looking for her, and he hasn't found her yet."
That doesn't explain why he killed all these other girls," O'Neil said.
"They could have identified him," Sam said.
O'Neil nodded. He stared into the alleyway, then turned, shaking his head. "Mary Clarke," he said.
"This is the first break, Mike," Sam said.
"And it might be a wild-goose chase."
"It's still a break. We know the Ripper is a tall man, and we know he was wearing a black cape. And he has an interest in a girl named Mary Clarke."
"We'll run it down, Sam. Right now we begin looking for Mary Clarke."
"Let's hope, for her sake, we find her first."
The two men walked to the end of the street in silence, each engrossed in his own thoughts concerning the girl in question.
Sam Lowry dug his hands deep into his pockets and moved along beside O'Neil. Who are you, Mary Clarke? he said to himself. And why does this man want to kill you? What could you possibly have done to cause the death of twenty-nine women?
The fog swirled and danced. Sam felt the chill dampness on his face. He squared his shoulders and sighed. It was going to be a long night, but beneath the feeling of weariness, he was elated. At last they had something to work on.
CHAPTER NINE
1.
"Eleven Mary Clarkes," Mike O'Neill said. He leaned back in his chair, groaned and rubbed his eyes.
Sam Lowry sat opposite the desk, his feet on the top, his chair tilted back. He began to recite: "Mary Clarke number one is a housewife in Mitchum. Number two has been on the Continent for six months. Number three is eight years old. Number four-"
"I know it by heart," O'Neil said wearily.
"Ten Mary Clarkes and no reason to connect any of them with the Ripper. Not a chance in the world that anyone would want to kill them." Sam worked his feet in his shoes. "I feel like I've walked a million miles in the past four days."
"There's still a number eleven," O'Neil said.
"Why is it that the last name on every policeman's list is the person he's looking for?" Sam asked.
"And she's the only one we can't find a trace of."
"No report from Trawley?"
"Nothing yet. He's checking the welfare rolls this morning. Let's hope."
The mid-morning sun spilled light through the window and showed the dust shifting through the gray-somber office.
Sam let his chair drop forward. He lifted his feet from the desk and stood up. He crossed the room and stood before a map of London which was tacked to the far wall. He traced the Whitechapel area with his finger. He turned away and came back to the chair. He slumped into it.
A knock on the door brought both men to attention. "Come in," O'Neil said.
The door opened and a short, sandy-haired man entered the room. "Morning, Inspector. Morning, Mr. Lowry."
"Trawley," O'Neil said. "What did you find?"
"Not quite certain, sir. I tracked down a man named Jim Clarke-regular bum, he is. He's been on and off the welfare rolls for years. At present he's off, but they say he queues up for the soup line every day in Limehouse."
"Does he have a daughter named Mary?"
"He has a daughter. That was on his record. But her name wasn't included."
"That's all you have?"
"Best I could do, sir. He's the only Clarke on the rolls."
"Good enough, Trawley." O'Neil looked across at Sam. "Well, lad, we're off to Limehouse."
2.
Sitting up in her bed in the hospital ward, Kitty Knowles was wishing that they would stop talking. Her mind was made up. She wanted to be out of this room. She glanced about at the bare white walls with distaste-the line of identical beds, the sheeted mounds of patients. The scene meant sickness to her, and she felt well enough to leave. She turned her gaze back to John Urquhart who stood at the end of the bed. He rested his elbow in the open palm of one hand and thoughtfully stroked his short-cropped black beard with thumb and forefinger.
"But Kitty," Dr. Urquhart said, "You're not well enough yet."
Kitty did not answer. She did not know why they were trying to keep her in the hospital. She had so much to make up in her life. She had to look for work.
Dr. Urquhart stroked his beard. "Anne," he said, turning to Anne Ford who sat next to Kitty on the bed, "you talk to her."
"It won't do any good," Kitty said.
"Just a few more days, Kitty," Anne said, "until you're really strong."
"No, Miss, thank you very much just the same." Kitty said. She was wearying of the conversation. "I want to go home."
Dr. Urquhart glanced at Anne Ford. He spread his hands and shrugged.
"Well, all right, Kitty," Anne said, "but I want you to promise me something."
"What?"
"That you'll let me visit you at home."
"What for?" Kitty asked. She was immediately suspicious.
"Just to see that you are getting on all right."
"I'll be all right," Kitty said. "I'd still like to visit you."
Kitty shrugged. "If you want to," she said. She knew the type of person Anne Ford was; she had certainly worked for enough of them. They want to feel they're doing something for the underprivileged, she thought. But it's always just talk. She won't visit me. It's so much easier to give in to their whims and then forget it.
Kitty looked up as the door to the ward swung back and a tall, bearded stranger entered. He was immaculately dressed and there was an air of authority about him. Anne Ford rose from the edge of the bed when she saw him, and Dr. Urquhart stiffened slightly.
"Good morning, Sir David," Urquhart said.
"Morning, Urquhart, Miss Ford." Sir David stopped at the foot of Kitty's bed. "Urquhart," he said, "you can get rid of that substitute theatre assistant. The police released Louis Benz today and he is back with us." He looked at Kitty. "Hello, my dear," he said, smiling, "you one of mine?"
"Dr. Tranter's case, sir," Urquhart said. "She's asked to be released and I've told her I did not think she was well enough yet."
"I see, and what does Tranter say?"
"He said we could not keep her against her will."
"Yes, I'm afraid he's right. If she insists on leaving we cannot stop her." He turned to Kitty. "I think you are being very foolish young lady. The doctor here knows what is best for you."
Kitty felt close to tears, but she controlled herself. There was so much that they could never understand. She felt, looking at Sir David, that he might understand. She recognized something in him, although she could not pin it down, something that reminded her of Paul. But then Paul had not been able to understand her, so why should this total stranger. "I still want to go, sir," she said.
"Very well then. You had better sign the discharge, Urquhart."
"Yes, sir."
"How is the work coming along, Miss Ford?" Sir David asked.
"Very well, thank you," Anne said.
"Fine, that's fine," He smiled down at Kitty, then turned back to Urquhart. "We have an operation in an hour," he said. He nodded and moved away, striding the length of the ward, looking this way and that, checking several cards at the foot of the beds.
Kitty watched him go. Such a fine-looking man, she thought. She glanced again at Urquhart, then tried to remember if Dr. Tranter wore a beard. No, he didn't. She wondered if Paul would have grown a beard if he had become a doctor, and what he would have looked like. Distinguished. Yes, like that Sir David. They would have borne a resemblance. Thinking again of Paul brought a choking sensation to her breast. There was so much she had to do to make up for him.
"When Dr. Urquhart signs your release," Anne Ford said, "I'll bring you your clothing."
Kitty watched them move away from her bed and leave the ward. She leaned back in the bed and closed her eyes.
3.
Sam Lowry and Mike O'Neil stood behind the trestle" table which was set up on the sidewalk. A large container sat on one end of the table and the Salvation Army workers were ladling out bowls of steaming soup to the line of destitute men. The air was cold and the line snuffled and sneezed, coughed and rubbing raw hands.
Standing next to Lowry was a tall, angular woman in the Salvation army costume. She watched the line carefully.
"I think this is him," she said. She looked toward a short seedy man wearing a grease-stained cap. He was unshaven and his eyes were red-veined and watery. He was next to the head of the line.
Lowry nodded at O'Neil. The two men moved past the end of the table and came up to the man. He glanced up at them and his eyes came alive. His tongue darted out nervously and wet his lips. He looked wary. He moved past O'Neil and Lowry and reached out for his bowl of soup. He began to move on, but O'Neil touched his sleeve gently.
"Your name Clarke?" O'Neil asked. "What if it is?" He pulled his arm back from O'Neil's hand.
"Jim Clarke?"
"Who wants to know?"
"I'm Inspector O'Neil-"
"Oh, oh." Jim Clarke dropped his bowl of soup. He spun away, about to run. Lowry lashed out with his foot and tripped him. Clarke went down to one knee. Sam grasped his arm and pulled him up.
"God help me, gov'ner, I wasn't even there," Clarke blurted, his eyes shifting from Lowry to O'Neil. "This bloke says to me did I want to make myself a couple of quid and I says not if it ain't honest ... and anyway, I wasn't there."
"Do you have a daughter named Mary Clarke?" O'Neil asked.
-"Even if I had been there I never would have-" Clarke paused, "Eh? Mary? What's my little baby daughter got to do with this?"
"You do have a daughter named Mary?"
Clarke narrowed his eyes. "Yes," he said. "And a sweeter kinder little thing never existed." He went on quickly. "She depends on me for support you know. You lock me up and the poor thing will starve to death."
"We're not going to lock you up," O'Neil said. "We just want to find out about your daughter."
A mixture of relief and suspicion filled Calrke's face. "That's a fact?"
"It's a fact."
"It ain't about that Houston Road? The one where I wasn't there?"
O'Neil smiled. "No," he said. "We just want to find your daughter."
"What's the little tramp done?" Clarke asked.
"That doesn't matter. Where can we find her?"
"Afraid I can't help you there, gov'ner."
"What's that supposed to mean?" O'Neil asked.
"I haven't seen that slut for nigh on ten years. Don't want to, neither. She ain't no good, Inspector. Never was." He shook his head and his tone was righteous. "Did everything I could for her, I did, but she was just bad inside. Got her jobs, but she lost 'em. When she ran out on 'er old dad she took to the streets. A regular trollop, she is. No, I don't want to know where she is, and whatever she's done I hope she gets the worst."
"But you just said-"
"Flannel, gov'ner," Clarke said with a wink and a quick smile that showed his stubs of yellowed teeth. "Just flannel."
"You've no idea where she might be?" Sam asked.
"Nope. Forgot I even had a daughter till that other fellow came around looking for her."
"What other fellow?" O'Neil asked quickly.
"A fellow looking for her. I don't know who he was. I gave him the same answer."
"What did he look like?" Sam asked.
"Look like?" Clarke pursed his lips, then he cocked his head to one side and rubbed his chin with a soiled hand. "My memory ain't so good, gov'ner. Maybe a little something might make the wheels turn better."
"You'll get a little something like ninety days if the wheels don't start whirling," O'Neil threatened.
Clarke swallowed hard. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice a rasping croak. "It was dark when I seen him, so I don't have a good picture of him. But he was tall, he was, and dressed like a swell. Wore a black cloak. And he had a beard."
"A beard?" Sam said, glancing at O'Neil. "You're sure?"
"Sure as I'm standing here, gov'ner. It was dark, but I could see the beard all right."
O'Neil nodded. "That's all you remember?"
"That's all."
"All right, Clarke," O'Neil said, "Thank you. If we find your daughter we'll let you know."
"Thanks just the same, Inspector, but you can keep her. I don't want nothing to do with her." Calrke turned and went back to the soup line.
"Sounds like our Mary Clarke." Sam said.
"A tall man, well dressed, wears a cloak, and affects a beard," O'Neil said thoughtfully.
"Could be an awful lot of men," Sam said.
"Yes, but he's also connected with the medical profession."
Walking towards the corner, the two men fell into silence. Then Sam said, "We know two men in Whitechapel who fit the description."
"I was thinking the same thing," O'Neil said. "It's a wild thought, but I'm going to put a routine check on them."
"I'd be careful about it," Sam said. "That Sir David has a temper and he's close to the Home Secretary."
"I'll put a good man on it," O'Neil said.
4.
It was dark when he left the furnished flat. He stopped in the street and pulled the dark cloak closer about his shoulders. He looked right and left. The street was deserted and the gaslight at the corner was a lonely oasis, a flickering gray-white island in the fog-glutted night. He shifted the black bag to his right hand and began to walk.
It was his custom, when he left the flat, to walk several blocks before hailing a cab. But he was careful to vary the course of his walks, knowing that any pattern to his actions could be his downfall.
Be careful of the little things, he thought. I'll never give these simple people cause for suspicion. The only pattern he allowed himself was the method with which he killed. He knew that this could be a dangerous label, but he could not resist the indulgence of flaunting the obvious in the faces of the police. It amused him to pit his superior intelligence against the vast touted force of Scotland Yard.
At times like this, when he was walking and had time to think objectively, he even toyed with the idea of writing a critique to show the infantilism of existing police methods.
Their thinking is shopworn and channeled, he thought. They examine crime in terms of motive. If a woman is attacked they immediately assume that it is for the purpose of using her physically or robbery. Any other motive leaves them baffled. Then they assume that it is the work of a maniac. It would never occur to them to look for a perfectly sane individual. And they also look for the man in flight, never conceiving the idea that the killer would be someone close to them. He smiled, enjoying the feeling of complete superiority.
He turned at the corner and walked north. A week before he had been concerned about the American, Lowry, but having seen the young man flounder as badly as O'Neil, he felt as secure as before.
His footsteps on the wet stones was a steady, ringing, clack ... clack ... clack ... clack ... and he let his mind dwell on the rhythm and presently was repeating in time, Mary ... Clarke ... Mary ... Clarke....
She dwelled in his mind night and day. In the operating room, when he held the scalpel in his hand and bent down for the initial incision, he could see her lying before him, and the knife became a live thing in his fingers, and he was constantly resisting the impulse to plunge it in to the hilt.
It had been a long time since any woman had occupied his thoughts. His wife had been the only one, and when she died in childbirth the son had taken her place, to become his object of worship.
A deep scowl made ridges across his brow and the muscles of his jaw tightened and pulled the skin taut over the bones of his face.
He turned another corner and stopped. Midway in the street was a gaslight and in its glow a man and woman were standing. The girl leaned her back against the lamppost and the man, a uniformed sailor, stood hip-shot facing her.
His breath had ceased and his muscles tensed. He relaxed and moved along slowly, keeping close to the wall. When he could hear their voices he turned into a doorway and waited.
"That's my price," the girl said.
"Hell, it must be studded with the crown jewels," the sailor said.
The girl laughed, her voice rising and falling. "You ain't in Hong Kong where it comes for a tuppence, y'know," she said.
"Ain't you got no regard for the King's services?"
"I ain't had any service from the King lately," the girl said, "but he'd pay the same as anyone else."
"You're a ruddy fresh baggage, ain't you?"
"The landlord don't take it in trade, bucko."
"Hell, what I got, you ought to be paying me," the sailor said. "Why, when I got into Singapore last time-"
"Who's Singapore?" the girl asked, her laugh lifting to a high cackle.
Listening from the doorway, the man's fury mounted. The exchange was disgusting to him. He took a deep breath, and he felt dedicated. It was his duty to rid society of such filth.
"Agh," the sailor exclaimed, "I can do better than you down at the Red Goose."
"Then don't be wasting your time here, Jack."
"I won't." The sailor took a step away and stopped. He turned back once, then shrugged and walked away. The girl watched him go until he turned the corner at the end of the street. She laughed lightly, tossed her feather boa over her shoulder and crossed the street.
He breathed easily. He set himself. He listened to the tap of her heels. She reached the sidewalk and the heeltappings seemed like shots to his eager ears. He took a deep breath and held it. The fingers of his right hand were stretched. He lifted his arm until it was outstretched at his side. The girl appeared, moving past the doorway. He could hear her breathing. His eyes focused on the white of her throat. The hand swooped and found its mark. The fingers clamped down on both sides of the slender neck. He stopped her forward motion with a jolt and throwing his full weight, he jerked her back and slammed her into the corner of the doorway, holding her tight against the throat.
Her eyes bugged with terror and surprise and she gagged under the pressure. Her arms and hands flailed at the outstretched arm to no avail. He saw the color in her face change and he eased off on the pressure slightly. She sucked air through her tortured throat.
He enjoyed this-this moment when a girl was in the shock of realizing that death was near, and hoped that it was only a matter of rape. He enjoyed toying with them.
"Are you Mary Clarke?" he asked.
The girl shook her head. He smiled at her and relaxed his hand slightly. The girl's expression changed and he knew she was relieved that it was simply a matter of mistaken identity. The instant he saw this relief in her face, he throttled her hard, slamming her head back against the wall. He chuckled, seeing the new terror show itself.
With a quick, furtive movement, he slipped his left hand inside the girl's wrap and touched her breasts. They were large and heavy. He tore away the buttons of her dress and pulled down the neckline of her petticoat until one of her breasts spilled free. He fondled her suggestively, smiling into her eyes. After a moment he took his hand away and reached down to open the black bag at his feet. He palmed a large scalpel. He slipped his hand beneath the hem of her skirt. As he did so he saw that the girl slowly began to relax. She had decided that she knew what he was after. When his fingers touched her inner thigh he stopped. Carefully he shifted the scalpel and laid the cold steel against her quivering flesh. He felt her body jerk and she began to struggle. He held her fast and slowly inched the scalpel up along her thighs until he reached the juncture of her legs. Once again he paused deliberately while he permitted the razor-sharp point of the scalpel to nick her skin. And all the while a strangely wicked smile nudged the corners of his mouth. Then with savage abruptness he tightened the grip on her throat and drove the hand that held the scalpel upward in a vicious, slashing arc-as one might gut a fish.
Let O'Neil figure this one out, he thought. This will tax all his ridiculous motive theories.
He released the girl's throat and let her collapse to the sidewalk. He wiped the scalpel on her dress and put it into the bag. His left-hand glove was covered with blood, so he removed both gloves and dropped them into the bag. He snapped it closed and lifted it. He stepped into the street and looked both ways. Then he turned to the left and walked quickly, a sudden feeling of weariness slumping his shoulders.
CHAPTER TEN
The cab moved slowly through the shabbier section of Whitechapel, the driver carefully avoiding the trash that Uttered the street.
Inside, Anne Ford gazed at the grim surroundings with a mixture of fear and revulsion. This was a far removal from the safe, orderly life she was used to, and she felt like a stranger entering a jungle. The night, the rising mist, the strong odors of rotting garbage, the mournful sounds that came from the boats on the river; all contributed to her feeling of trepidation.
In addition to this, her thoughts concerning Sam Lowry were troubled. She had lunched with him earlier in the day-the first time she had seen him since the night at Burnett's Music Hall-and she was bothered by a change in him. It seemed to her that he was probing for information about doctors on the hospital staff. At first she had decided he was harboring a grudge against her uncle because of Tranter's boorish display at Burnett's; but then she had the feeling that his curiosity went deeper and had a bearing on the Ripper murders.
Sam's obsession with the Ripper case was baffling to her. Although he had never discussed the elements of the case with her, it was obvious that he was personally involved. He exhibited a preoccupied detachment which she found disquieting. She could understand it if it were his case, but he was supposed to be an observer. She knew she was in love with Sam, and now that she had begun to sense his dedication to his work, she seriously wondered if she could be a policeman's wife. The criminal element was alien to her, something she had known only from a great distance, and now that this particular case had been telescoped for her, it worried her. The stark facts of violence had been shown to her by the mob in front of the hospital gate. She knew that men could kill and what their faces looked like with the stamp of violence upon them. It made her shudder, and looking upon the night world now, she saw it with unveiled eyes, saw the waiting, portentous monster in it.
The cab came to a stop and the hatch overhead opened. "Here we are, Miss" the driver said.
Anne opened the doors and stepped down. She opened her purse and paid the driver, then glancing about her, she said, "I want you to wait for me. I won't be long."
"Yes, Miss," the driver said, touching the brim of his hat."
Anne turned and surveyed the number of the house, then her eyes glanced over the scabrous surface of the building. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She climbed the steps and entered the front door. The inside hall was aged-yellow and dimly lit. She glanced at the number on the ground-floor-right door, then lifted her fist and knocked.
The door opened slowly and the pale, frightened face of Kitty Knowles appeared, eyes squinting against the darkness.
"Hello, Kitty," Anne said.
Kitty registered surprise and then seemed at a loss.
"Hello, Miss," she said with reluctance, holding the door so that only her face showed. "May I come in?" Anne asked.
"If you want to." Kitty stepped back, opening the door.
"Of course I want to," Anne said, walking into the small, shabby room, immediately comparing it to her own room and feeling a pang of guilt. Kitty's flat bore the scars of poverty, the yellow-papered walls that were time-brown, the single window opening onto an alley. It was a small square with the bed in one corner, a table and several hard, second-hand chairs to complete the furnishings. The floor was bare wood. "Why do you think I came around?"
"Why did you?" Kitty asked.
"To see how you are."
"I'm all right ... thank you."
"Do you need anything?"
"No, thank you...."
Anne could tell that she was unwanted here and she wished for a moment that she had not come. She recalled her uncles admonition-"Stay with your own kind, Anne. The common people will only resent you."-and it angered her slightly to see his prophecy being fulfilled. She was determined to do her job and her job of the moment was to see that this girl was given a decent chance. She quieted the fluttering in her stomach and moved about the room, forcing Kitty to be hospitable. She stopped before a vase of flowers. "Lovely flowers," she said. Her eyes strayed to the framed photograph of a young man. She picked it up. "Is this your young man?" she asked.
Kitty crossed the room with surprising speed and snatched the photo from Anne's hands. "Leave it alone," she snapped.
Anne was startled. "I-I'm sorry," she said, bewildered. "I didn't mean to upset you."
Kitty turned away. She held the photo to her bosom for a moment, her head bowed, then she placed it back on the table. Her back was turned to Anne. "I shouldn't have behaved like that," Kitty said, her voice low. "It was very rude of me, I'm sorry."
"That's all right," Anne said, resisting the impulse to go to the girl.
"He was my young man," Kitty said. There was a catch in her voice and she covered her eyes with her hand, "we were going to be married." She paused and took a deep breath. She turned to Anne. Her face was tortured and Anne marveled at the tragic beauty of the girl, the finely sculptured face that was too knowing and naive at the same time. "Do you know what I have been?" Kitty asked. When Anne did not answer, she said, "A tramp. I sold myself on the streets. Can you understand a girl doing that? No, I don't suppose you can. You didn't have a drunken father coming in at night and trying to get into your bed and then saying it was an accident because you slept in the same filthy room, or having employers force you to do whatever they wanted or be fired." She looked at the picture. "He didn't know about such things, either." She closed her eyes. "We were going to be married. I mean, he asked me to marry him. He was kind. He was the first decent man I had ever known. He didn't know about me-what I was." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I told him everything. Later ... they found his body in the river." The tears spilled over her cheeks and she brushed them away.
"Kitty, that's dreadful," Anne said. "I'm so sorry."
"It's all over now." Kitty bit her lip and swallowed. She pulled herself up straight and acted slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, miss, can I get you something? A cup of tea?"
"Let me," Anne said. She placed a hand on Kitty's arm and made her sit in a chair. "That's the kitchen?" Anne asked, pointing to a door. Kitty nodded. Anne went through the door and went to the cupboard over the sink. It was empty except for a small packet of tea and some milk. Anne frowned and shook her head. She closed the cupboard and returned to the sitting room. "Kitty," she said, "when did you last have something to eat?"
"Last evening," Kitty said, then quickly adding, "but it will be all right. I'm going out later to see a woman I know about a job."
"You won't get paid for at least a week, and you've got to eat in the meantime," Anne reminded her. "I'll enter you on the Parish register, and you'll get food from the hospital."
"I don't want any charity."
"Nonsense," Anne said. "Right now you can't afford to be that proud. You've been ill. If you don't eat you'll be back in the hospital and we would rather keep you out." She gathered up her bag and shawl. "I have a few things to do at the hospital but I'll bring you a hamper on my way home."
"I don't want you to go to any trouble," Kitty protested.
"It's part of my job," Anne said. "New let me have your birth certificate."
"What for?"
"I'll need it for the Parish register."
Kitty nodded. She rose and crossed to a highboy where she rummaged in the top drawer. She pulled out the piece of paper. "Here you are," she said, handing the certificate to Anne.
"Fine. I'll see you later this evening."
"Thank you, Miss. You're very kind."
Anne reached out and patted Kitty's arm, smiling. Then she went to the door and let herself out. She hurried down the steps to the street, intending to get back into the waiting cab.
The cab was gone. Anne looked both ways along the street. It was hardly the place where a cab would be looking for a customer. The street was deserted and dark, except for the gaslight where she stood, and one further along the street. She sighed regretfully. Pulling the shawl tightly about her, she began to walk to the right, assuming that she could find a cab when she reached a more populated street.
The mist was rising off the river. It was a swirling, damp cloud that laid over the rooftops. The moisture dripped and ran in rivulets down the sides of the aged brick houses. Fingering the cobbles, the fog wafted ankle-high in concentric eddies, then rose, undulating about her like a wind-whipped curtain.
Boat horns brayed lost-soul sounds. A cur dog barked and a cat screamed defiance. A man's voice rose in anger and a window slammed.
Silence. Anne shuddered against the cold. She walked quickly, forcing herself to ignore the shadows that loomed ominously on either side. She felt afraid, but she chided herself with reminders that she was being foolish.
Crossing a patch of dirt where the sidewalk had been torn up, she heard the footsteps behind her for the first time. She glanced back quickly, but could see nothing. The footsteps were solid, like those of a man. Anne shivered and kept walking. Now she heard her own steps clearly, her ears attuned to the sound, and like an accompaniment, she registered the distant steps that matched hers. Her fists tightened, and her pulse quickened.
Don't be ridiculous, she thought. Someone is walking on the street, nothing more. You're letting your imagination run away with you. It's just a workman returning home.
But she could not still the wild beating of her heart, the fierce tightening of her nerves. She stepped up her pace. The footsteps behind seemed to move faster.
You're imagining it, she told herself. It's the dark and the fog. You're afraid of the night, and you've been thinking too much about this Ripper business. Don't be foolish.
The gaslight was just ahead. She wanted to run to it, as though it were a refuge. She forced herself to maintain her pace. She reached the circle of dim light and passed through it. She walked on and with each step she felt the impulse to turn and run back to the light. But she kept moving. The footsteps were loud behind her. She turned her head to look back, though still hurrying on. She saw the figure of a tall man pass under the light. She saw only that he was dressed in black and wore a tall hat. His long cape whipped out and around his legs like wings and in one hand he carried a bag. He seemed to be hurrying towards her with purpose.
She turned her head. A scream rose in her throat, but she bit down on her lower lip to suppress it. Don't make a fool of yourself, she said. He isn't following you.
The street was intersected by another and she turned to the right automatically. She found herself traversing a dark alley that led to the river. She quickened her pace, listening, expecting the man's footsteps to pass on. The footsteps were still behind her. He had turned the corner.
He was following her! Despite anything she might say to the contrary, she knew he was following her.
She began to run, her breath coming in quick anguished sobs. The alley wall gave way to a high wooden wall. Anne saw a half-opened door, and without hesitation she ducked through the opening. She saw the river before her. She was standing on a small, wooden jetty. She could make out the shapes of piled barrels and crates and bales, cartage to be loaded on the ships that lay at anchor, their masts and furled sails rising above the water like spires.
Standing silent, she heard the gentle lapping of the water against the pilings and above this the heavy, running footsteps of her pursuer.
Terror clutched at her vitals. A cold hard lump lodged in her chest, constricting her breathing. She -edged out onto the jetty and slipped behind a wall of crates. The footsteps stopped. She heard a tentative shuffling before the jetty entrance. She held her breath, then let it out slowly. She covered her mouth with her hand to still any sound. The door creaked on rusted hinges. Her eyes were wide and her breasts heaved under the painful breathing.
Before she heard the man's footsteps on the boards she was aware of his presence. She could see nothing, but he made a rusding sound as his cape touched the bales, and she knew he was searching for her. His footsteps moved nearer.
Anne walked on her toes, moving away from the sound, slipping noiselessly towards the end of the jetty. She stopped, unsure of which way to go. A foot scraped close behind her and she jumped involuntarily. Her shoulder hit a bale. She felt it teeter. She reached out to steady it, but it rolled off the top of a barrel and smashed to the dock. She caught her breath and flattened herself back against a crate. There was no further sound and she held herself breathlessly, waiting, her nerves jangling. She -edged away to seek sanctuary deeper in the shadows. She turned and stared.
The scream burst from her throat. Her body froze. The dark figure of the man loomed over her. He had slipped around behind her. The scream died and she stared with horror, unable to move or speak. He dropped the black bag and gripped her shoulders.
"I thought it was you," Urquhart said, holding her tightly, looking down into her face. "I've been following you." He furrowed his brow. "You shouldn't have tried to hide."
Anne was unable to speak. She felt his hands on her shoulders and she shivered under the touch. Her eyes lingered upon his, then ran over the stern lines of his face to the fog-damp bristling beard.
A sudden flash of light brought Urquhart's head around. A figure had stepped through the doorway, a man carrying a lantern. "What's going on out here?" the man called. He lifted the lantern and moved forward. When he saw Anne and Urquhart he stopped. "Here now, how did you two get out here?"
"The door was open," Urquhart said. "Was it now? Well, that's no reason for you two to be here. I'll have to ask you both to leave."
"Of course," Urquhart said. "We'll leave right away." He took his hands from Anne's shoulders, then gripped her firmly on the upper arm and walked her towards the doorway. Anne pulled back reluctantly, her lips moving, trying to say something to the watchman. But no sound came from her lips and Urquhart took her through the doorway and into the narrow street. He swung the door behind them and it closed with a thud. He stopped and looked down at Anne who was still in a state of shock.
"Anne," Urquhart said, "what is it?" When she didn't answer, he said, "I saw you come out of that house up there. I was returning from a call. I tried to catch up with you, but you were going so fast."
"I-I was frightened," Anne whispered, her voice gradually returning, the terror ebbing away.
"Frightened? What on earth for? I-wait a minute. You didn't think that I-that I-" His voice trailed off into a short laugh. "Oh, Anne, really. Not me. Good Heavens."
"It was dark," she said listlessly. "I didn't know who it was."
"No wonder you're shaking," Urquhart said. "Come on, I'll get you back to the hospital."
He took her arm and walked her to where the alley intersected the street. She moved along beside him like a sleep-walker, her body exhausted, the remnants of terror still clinging to her mind.
When they reached a main thoroughfare, Urquhart hailed a passing cab. Anne slumped back into an upholstered corner and they covered the remaining distance to the hospital in silence. Gradually, she returned to normal and by the time the cab reached the main gate, she managed a slight smile as Urquhart handed her down.
The porter opened the gate and they crossed the courtyard and mounted the steps to the entrance. Urquhart accompanied Anne to her office door.
"Won't you come in for a cup of tea?" Anne asked.
"Thank you, Anne, no. I want to see if Sir David wants me for anything." Urquhart started to leave as Anne remembered something. "John," she said. "Would you ask the kitchen to get a hamper ready for me to take out."
"A hamper?"
"Yes, I want to take it to Kitty Knowles. That's where I was coming from."
"Of course," Urquhart said. He turned and walked off along the hall. Anne stood with her hand on the doorknob and she watched him until he turned at the end of the corridor. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
Was it really coincidence that Urquhart had seen her? Why hadn't he called out to her? You're becoming as suspicious as Sam Lowry, she told herself. But certainly not without reason. She had never known such terror. Shrugging her shoulders, she opened the door and entered the office.
She went to the desk, removing her shawl and putting it down with her purse. She sat at the desk, then got up and went to her purse. Opening it, she brought out Kitty's birth certificate. She went back to the desk and opened the side drawer, taking out an admission form for the Parish register. She placed both papers on the desk, then went to the file cabinet behind her. She thumbed the files, then pulled out the one labeled: Kitty Knowles. She went back to the desk and sat down. She lifted her pen and was about to enter a notation on the file card when she noticed something strange about the birth certificate. She pulled it to her and read it closely, then she glanced back at the file card. She smiled, shaking her head.
Just like her, she thought. A proud girl not wanting to admit to accepting any kind of charity.
Taking up the pen, Anne scratched out the name Kitty Knowles on the file card. She read the birth certificate again, then wrote over the scratched-out name: Mary Clarke.
She was blotting her writing when the office door opened and her uncle entered. Anne looked up at him. His tie and collar were loosened and his face was deeply lined. Everything about him bore the signs of intense strain.
"Hello, dear," Anne said. "What's the matter."
"Nothing," Tranter said. He sighed deeply. He came to the desk, moving like an old man. "I'm going home," he said. "Are you ready?"
"I have a few things to do, and then I have a call to make," Anne said. She looked at him with concern.
Tranter lifted the file card from Anne's desk. "Kitty Knowles," he said. "That's the girl I operated on last week, isn't it?" Anne nodded and he read, "Mary Clarke?"
"It was on her birth certificate."
Tranter studied the card a moment, then he dropped it back on the desk. "If you're not coming home," he said, "I'll get along."
The door opened again and Sir David Rogers entered. He was smiling and seemed filled with confidence. Anne was shocked at the difference between the two men. In contrast to Sir David's assurance, Tranter seemed a beaten man.
"Well," Sir David said, brightly, "Miss Riverton will be all right, eh, Tranter?"
Dr. Tranter nodded glumly. "Yes, sir, I'm sure she will."
"Of course she will." Sir David went to the desk and put down a diagnosis card. "This can go in her file when you have the time," he said to Anne.
"Sir David?" Tranter said.
"Yes?" Sir David turned back to Tranter who stood by the door.
"I-" Tranter stammered. "I'd like you to accept my resignation."
Anne caught her breath, stunned. Sir David stared with incredulity. "Resignation?" Sir David said. "What are you talking about?"
"You saw what just happened in there," Tranter said. "I gave that girl up for dead. If you hadn't arrived when you did she would have died. Even Louis Benz knew I was making a botch of the operation."
"Nonsense," Sir David said.
"Not nonsense. I lost myself completely. I couldn't think straight and my hands wouldn't work. I would have butchered her if I had gone on." Tranter's voice trailed off.
"Good heavens, man," Sir David said. "You've been under pressure here. You had a bad time, but it's all right. It's no reason to resign."
"I think it is," Tranter said. "I think I've come to the end of my work here. I would like to take a trip, visit the Continent perhaps."
Sir David nodded slowly, stroking his short-cropped beard. "I'll tell you what. You need a rest. Take a few weeks off. Then if you still want to resign, we'll talk about it again. Urquhart is developing into an excellent surgeon. He can replace you while you're gone."
Tranter hesitated a moment, then he said quietly, "Very well, sir." His hand was on the doorknob. He opened the door to leave.
Anne rose to her feet. "I'll walk to the gate with you." She crossed the room.
"And Tranter," Sir David said as they were about to leave, "you'll never come to the end of your work here. Remember that."
"Good night," Sir David said. He reached over the desk and lifted the file card.
"Good night, Sir David."
Anne tucked her hand under her uncle's arm and they walked the corridor in silence. Outside, she stopped him on the steps. "I don't understand," she said. "You never said anything about leaving."
"I've been thinking about it," Tranter said. "And you know I haven't been myself." He led the way down the steps and crossed to the porter's lodge to ring the bell.
"I feel I've accomplished everything I set out to do in this part of London." He stared away as though preoccupied. "There's nothing more for me."
"Take Sir David's advice," Anne said, pressing his arm. "A few week's rest. We could go away together."
"What about your young man-that Lowry?"
Anne noticed the tinge of bitterness in his voice when he mentioned Sam's name, and for an instant she thought she saw a flash of distaste in his eyes when he looked at her. It startled her. "Your health comes first," she said.
The porter came from his lodge and opened the gate.
"We'll see," Tranter said. "Good night, dear, don't be too late getting home."
"Good night, Uncle."
Anne watched his back as he walked away. He moved slowly, then he squared his shoulders deliberately and his stride quickened. She turned back to the hospital and the porter stopped her.
"A policeman came by with this note for you, Miss," he said. "I was about to bring it to you."
Anne took the envelope. "Thank you," she said. She glanced at it and saw her name across the front. She returned to the building and opened the envelope as she walked along the corridor. It was from Sam Lowry. Just a short message saying that he would stop by to pick her up. She was suddenly elated. So much had happened in the past hour and she longed to see him. The thought of him warmed her, then she reflected with misgivings about leaving London with her uncle.
She was about to enter her office when the door was flung open and Urquhart came hurrying out. He narrowly missed colliding with her. "I put that hamper on your desk," Urquhart said quickly.
"Thank you," Anne said. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
"Outside case," Urquhart said. "Just came up." He stepped past her and hurried down the hall.
Anne entered the office and went to her desk. She examined the contents of the hamper. It satisfied her. She picked up her shawl and pulled it over her shoulders, deciding to deliver the food to Kitty, and then to hurry back to meet Sam. She picked up the hamper and started for the door, then she stopped and went back to the desk to get the birth certificate. It wasn't where she had left it. She looked on the floor and under the desk, then checked the file thinking she might have put it away. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then shrugged and left the office.
She had to wait in the courtyard while the porter found her a cab. She gave the driver the address and leaned back in the seat. When they finally arrived at Kitty's house, Anne told the driver to wait, refusing to pay him until the end of the return trip. She had no intention of repeating her earlier walk. She climbed the steps and entered the building. When she knocked at Kitty's door there was no answer. She waited, then tried the door. It was off the latch and she pushed it open. The room was in semidarkness, a dim light filtering through the window. She closed the door after her and walked to the table. She put the hamper down, then her eye fell on the birth certificate. It was lying on the table. Anne frowned and lifted the paper. She studied it a moment and then put it down.
The gloved hand came from behind. She saw the movement from the corner of her eye. It slammed across her mouth, stifling her sudden cry. Another arm encircled her, holding her fast. She struggled desperately, trying to see who held her, knowing only that it was a man. Her assailant bundled her across the room, holding her fast. He took her to the kitchen door and hurled her inside. She sprawled on the floor, and before she could turn to look, the door slammed shut on her. Then heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock.
Coming to her feet, she stood and stared at the locked door with perplexity. She had obviously surprised a burglar, and now she wondered how she was going to get out of the kitchen. There was no rear entrance and no windows. She would simply have to wait until Kitty returned. She felt anger replacing her sudden fear. The man had handled her gently enough, as though he had concern for her, but she was annoyed at being frightened and then locked away.
She found a straight-backed chair and sat down to wait. Strange place for a burglar to be working. She remembered the birth certificate, forgotten in her panic. How had it gotten there? She knew that it had been on her desk. Her eyes widened and her heartbeat began to race. She shrank back against the chair. Sam's questions concerning the hospital staff came back to her and although she did not know the identity of the man waiting in the other room, his more popular title exploded across her mind.
She caught her breath and gripped the edge of the small kitchen table. She fought down the urge to scream and whispered softly, "Sam, oh please, please, Sam"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1.
Kitty knew the streets too well for the dark, misted thoroughfares to hold any fear for her. She walked along slowly to ease the slight pain of the incision from her operation. She was elated and she hummed softly to herself. She had applied for a position as a shop clerk and had been accepted to begin work in the morning. There were many things to do in preparation for the day's work and she was eager to be home. Everything seemed to be going right for a change. Anne Ford had been the first indication-a surprise to Kitty who had not expected her to call.
When she reached her house, she mounted the few steps, holding to the metal railing. She entered the hall and let herself into the flat. Crossing to the gas jet, she turned it up. She removed her hat and dropped it into a chair. Then she saw the hamper on the table. "Oh," she said with surprise. She looked around to see if there was any other sign of Anne Ford. She uttered a short cry of surprise when she saw the tall figure of the man standing in the shadows. He stepped into the light.
"Oh," she said with relief, recognizing him. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here."
"Are you Mary Clarke?"
His icy stare sent a chill through Kitty. "Yes," she said.
"You knew my son rather well." His voice was flat and his gray eyes were lusterless, like the filmed eyes of a snake.
Kitty's eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth. "You're-you're Paul's father?" She spoke in a whisper. "I was."
Kitty felt dizzy and she swayed on her feet, backing away and grasping the table for support. She had experienced a hundred nightmares of this meeting, but she never knew it would be like this. She felt ill, but she managed to find her voice. "What do you want with me?" she asked.
"I've been searching for you ever since you killed him."
"I-I didn't-didn't kill him." There was doubt in her voice and she wanted to drop to her knees and plead for forgiveness.
"You killed him," he said inexorably. "Just as surely as if you had pushed him into the river with your hands." He spoke in a deadly monotone and his voice carried through the room like the tolling of a bell. "He was going to be a doctor, you know-a great doctor. Then he met you, a common little street drab, a scraping from the gutter, someone who wasn't fit to wipe his shoes." He paused and took a deep breath. "He was everything I had in this world and you destroyed him."
"I didn't mean to."
"You killed him."
"It wasn't entirely my fault. He was overprotected, not strong enough. If you hadn't spoiled him-"
Lunging forward, his arm lashed out and he slammed Kitty's head back. "Don't talk to me like that, you trash. I've been looking a long time for you, Mary Clarke, a long time." He smiled slightly. "But it hasn't been fruitless. I've managed to rid the earth of a number of your kind, sluts who drag clean young men down-" His grin broadened, but the eyes were cold and steady.
Kitty gasped suddenly. She -edged away and seemed to shrink within herself. She made a dash for the door, but he got there first and barred the way. She backed across the room. He moved toward his bag, watching her. He stooped to open the bag and he brought out a large scalpel. "You know who you're dealing with, don't you?" he queried, holding the knife up to the light so that the sharp, shining blade seemed to be winking at her.
Kitty opened her mouth and her scream filled the room. Anne Ford hammered at the kitchen door, shouting, "Kitty-Kitty!"
He was oblivious to the sounds and he came forward slowly, slightly crouched, a cautious hunter. There was no place for the quarry to hide.
2.
Sam Lowry rang the bell before the hospital gate. The porter came from his lodge and unlocked the gate, swinging it back.
"Good evening," Sam said. "Is Miss Ford working?"
"She left for a moment, sir," the porter said. "She said to tell you to wait for her, that she was delivering a hamper of food to Kitty Knowles."
"Thank you." Sam crossed the courtyard and entered the building. The corridor was deserted and he walked to Anne's office and let himself in. He thumbed his hat back on his head and sat in her chair, tilting it back. He rummaged for a cigarette, lit it, and smoked, staring at the ceiling. He glanced at his watch, then tilted forward and leaned across the desk. He toyed with a letter opener, then he lifted the file card from her blotter. He read it and his brow raised. He whistled softly. Kitty Knowles: Mary Clarke.
The chair fell to the floor as he lunged to his feet. He slammed out of the office and ran down the hall. In the courtyard he hammered at the porter's door until the man appeared.
"What is it?"
"Where's Dr. Urquhart?"
"How should I know? I let them out the gate. I didn't ask him where he was going."
"Tranter? Where is he? And Sir David Rogers?"
"I don't know. They've all left."
"How long ago?" Sam asked.
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it was ... oh...."
"Was it the same time as Miss Ford? Which one left the time she did?"
"Uh ... well ... I guess they all did. First Tranter, then Sir David, then Urquhart. What's up, anyway?"
"Never mind. Let me out."
The porter shuffled to the gate and unlocked it. He swung it open and Sam ran through. He paused, looking for a cab, but there was none in sight and he turned to the left and began to run.
3.
Kitty collided with the table. Her heart beat rapidly and her breath came in small, quick gasps. "Please," she whispered. "Please, don't."
"I have to, can't you see that?" the Ripper said.
"No, please. I loved Paul. I didn't want to hurt him."
"You have to die. All of your kind has to die."
Kitty dodged away and put a chair between them. But he came on. She circled the room. She heard Anne hammering at the kitchen door. The light glinted off the key which was in the lock. She made a dash for the door, her fingers grasping the key and trying to turn it.
He pounced upon her, dragging her away from the door, his left arm around her neck, the right hand holding the scalpel before her eyes. Her screams rose to a frenzied cacophony.
Anne was hammering on the kitchen door and there was the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside.
"What's going on in there?" A man's voice bellowed. "We're trying to sleep upstairs."
He tightened his grip on Kitty's throat. The screams gurgled and died. He pulled her across the room. Against the far wall was Kitty's bed. He pushed her towards it.
"Hey, in there," the man's voice said from outside. "You all right?"
"Kitty!" Anne Ford screamed from the kitchen. "Kitty, answer me!"
He spun her quickly and flung her down onto the bed. She gasped for breath to fill her aching lungs. Then she screamed again, long and hard. He clamped his hand down on her throat and pressed until the scream became a dissonant squeal and then a rasping, pitiful croak.
"Hey, Miss, what's going on?" The man on the outside hammered the door.
The Ripper felt her body relaxing under his grasp and he eased off just enough to keep her alive. He placed the scalpel down on the bed. With his free hand he tore her white blouse open, exposing the taut curve of her breasts. He tugged at the belt holding the skirt. When it wouldn't come away easily, he lifted the scalpel and cut it. He slashed the skirt, then dropped the knife and tore it away with his hand.
Her lush, naked body was bared to him. He gazed down at her with loathing. "This is what you used against him," he said. His eyes flashed with anger and his lips twisted. "Vessels of evil," he said. He took the knife up in his hand and held it before her.
"When I open you up," he said, "the filth within you will pour out like the refuse of the sewers."
Kitty twisted and kicked her legs. She clawed at his arm, but he held her fast and her strength was ebbing too quickly to fight him.
More voices joined the man in the hall. "What's happening?" A female said.
"Damned if I know," a man said. "Lot of bloody screaming."
"Don't hear nothing now."
"Probably just giving her the business," a man said.
"Damn!" the female said, "if he can get a howl like that out of her I better have him talk to my old man." The woman snickered and the men laughed.
"Kitty!" Anne Ford screamed, hammering the door. "Kitty, are you all right?"
"Listen to that," a man in the hall said. "I tell you there's something wrong in there."
"Run and get a bobbie," another voice said.
Cocking his head to listen to the voices, the Ripper narrowed his eyes. Time was running short. He looked down at Kitty and she was immobile under his grasp. He wanted to do this slowly, a job worthy of his surgical brilliance, but the commotion in "the hallway was growing. He growled and plunged the knife into her breast.
Her body arched and recoiled, leaping under the convulsive contractions of the torn nerves. A look of surprise fixed itself on her face as the shock subsided and the immediate pain was numbed. He jerked the knife free and the blood bubbled up and ran through the valley of her breasts, spreading over the flat plane of her stomach. Her nerves jumped and the deep red blood fingered out and ran over her waist. He lifted his arm and brought the knife down again. A final breath whooshed from her mouth, followed by the blood that ran over her lips and down her face, forming a pool in the hollow of her neck. He slashed at her once more, then straightened and stood over her. Then his head turned towards the doorway and the sounds beyond. He had to hurry. He crossed the room and turned the key in the kitchen door.
4.
When she realized the man in the other room was the Ripper, Anne Ford had braced the straight-backed chair under the doorknob. She had no idea what he might have in mind for her.
She could hear voices in the hallway, and it was maddening to know that help was so close.
The man's conversation with Kitty had stunned her. His voice had been familiar, and although she wasn't positive of the identification because the voice had been overwrought and tense with emotion, she felt that she knew who it was. This, in itself, was a shock.
When the key scraped in the lock, she backed off against the far kitchen wall and began to scream. The door moved tentatively against the chair and stopped.
She knew Kitty was dead. There could be no other reason for the silence in the other room except the man pushing against the door. She was trapped in the small room. Panic overwhelmed her. She felt it in the stiffening of her stomach muscles, the tight constriction of her chest and throat. She stared at the moving door and then she could no longer scream. It was as though her vocal cords were paralyzed with fear. She gripped her hands together until the fingernails dug into the flesh. The chair scraped back, then held. The door opened slightly.
The man grunted and snarled. He kicked the door. He threw his shoulder against it. The chair creaked.
"Anne!"
She heard Lowry's familiar voice muted by the distance and the locked doors. "Sam!" she screamed, the constriction in her throat loosened. "Sam! Help!"
The pressure against the door stopped. She heard a fast scurry of feet, the sound of a window being thrown up. She jerked the chair away from the door and flung it open. She stood in the doorway. She caught a glimpse of the man's back as he disappeared through the window and dropped to the alleyway.
"Anne" Sam Lowry crashed through the locked front doorway, tearing the portal from its hinges. He fell into the room. Seeing the body on the bed, he stopped. "Anne," he whispered.
"I'm here, Sam," Anne said from the doorway. She was swaying unsteadily on her feet.
Sam ran to her and she fell into his arms, the terror releasing itself in wracking sobs. "He was here," she gasped. "He...." She looked up and stared at the bed. "Oh, my God!"
The soft light of the gas lamp played across Kitty's body. Her clothing hung in rags about her. The wet blood gleamed and contrasted with the white of her nude body.
Anne buried her face against Sam's chest. Her body trembled and he held her tightly. "You're all right," he said.
"Sam, it was horrible."
"I know, but you'll be all right." His eyes strayed to open window, then to the black bag still sitting on the floor by the bed.
"What's going on here?" A uniformed policeman, summoned by the neighbors, stood in the doorway. When he recognized Sam Lowry he said, "Oh, Inspector O'Neil's friend. Sorry, I had a report that-"
"Come in, Constable," Sam said. He nodded towards the bed. "There's been a murder."
The policeman stepped into the light. He looked at the bed and his breath came in a whistle. "Gawd!" he exclaimed.
"I want you to take care of Miss Ford," Sam said. "She's had a bad shock."
"Yes sir."
Anne clung to him. "I have to go after him, Anne," Sam said.
"Go to Mercy Hospital," Anne said.
Sam's brow raised and he stared down at her. She told him her suspicions. "I'm sure it was his voice," she said, her shoulders sagging. "And to think that he was even going to kill me." She closed her eyes. Sam moved her across the room and handed her over to the policeman.
"Contact O'Neil as fast as you can," Sam said. "Tell him to get to Mercy Hospital." He turned and ran through the door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1.
It was a mess, a complete botch. The Ripper was angry with himself. I was too impatient, he said. I should have waited for a better time, but seeing her name on that card did something to me.
He ran along the street, grateful for the darkness. He could go to the flat, but that might not do. He needed an alibi and the hospital offered the best possibility.
In his haste, he had left the medical bag in the room. That was a mistake, but he could cover it up. It was, after all, just another bag similar to hundreds. His own bag, embossed with his initials was at the hospital. He was disheveled. He had lost his hat on the street. He cursed himself. Use your head now, he said. They can't prove anything against you. Keep calm and you can make fools of them.
Anne might have recognized his voice, but she hadn't seen him, and it would be the word of a hysterical girl against his. Another few minutes and he would have taken care of that.
He recalled Sam Lowry's shouts and thinking of the man's voice grated against his mind. Damned meddler, he snarled. He knew his original distaste for the crude American was well founded.
He rounded a corner full tilt, and kept running. His feet hammered against the sidewalk. The perspiration stood on his high forehead and his gray hair was wild. He felt a stitch of pain in his side and he clutched it with his hand.
He reached the small square before the hospital. He ran to the gates and rattied them. He went to the bell and pushed it. Going back to the gates, he gripped the iron bars and shook them with impatience.
The porter came from his lodge. "Here, here, what's the rush?" His eyes blinked recognition and he swallowed, blustering, "Oh, sorry, sir, I didn't know it was you. Thought you left for the night, sir." He unlocked the gate and pulled it back. He stood aside to let the doctor through, then his eyes dropped and he exclaimed, "Good heavens, sir, you're covered with blood!"
Another witness. He had almost forgotten that the porter could tell the police the time he had arrived back at the hospital. And the porter was the only one who had seen him leave. His hand slipped beneath the cloak and brought the scalpel from the pocket where he had dropped it. He shouldered against the porter and brought the knife up from the knee. He felt it slide into soft flesh and stop against bone. He tore it up and out.
The porter coughed once and clutched his stomach, unable to realize what had happened. He staggered. His mouth opened to say something, then closed soundlessly. His knees buckled and he collapsed, still holding his bowels, the blood trickling through his clenched fingers.
A side door opened. Ducking away, the Ripper slipped into the shadows, and then bounded up the steps to the entrance. He turned and saw Urquhart cross the courtyard and stoop over the porter. Certain that he still hadn't been seen, he slipped into the corridor, slipping off his cape and jacket as he hurried along.
2.
Sam Lowry reached the hospital gates while Urquhart was still kneeling over the body of the porter.
"What's happened," Lowry said, trying to catch his breath.
Urquhart looked up and shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said. "Someone stabbed the porter."
Sam kneeled over the body. "He's still bleeding."
"It must have just happened," Urquhart said. "Who on earth would want to-?"
"The Ripper," Sam said.
Urquhart looked up quickly, his mouth open in surprise. "The Ripper? But why would he-?"
"Listen," Sam said, interrupting, "I'm going to need some help. We have to prove that he's the Ripper and it won't be easy." He looked up toward the hospital building, then back at Urquhart. He explained quickly what he wanted the young surgeon to do.
"I can't believe it," Urquhart said. "Why I've worked with him for-"
"You'll believe it," Sam said. "But we have to hurry. Can you set this up in a few minutes."
"Of course, but-"
"Don't question it," Sam said. "If you'll do what I asked you'll see for yourself." He stood erect. "O'Neil should be along here any minute. You know what to do?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Good." Sam took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He walked to the entrance and climbed the steps. Inside, he hurried along the corridor to the end, then he turned and went down the stairway to the basement.
Stopping in the corridor outside the morgue, Sam waited to give Urquhart time to move the body of the porter. He glanced at his watch, then, satisfied that the time was correct, he moved to the closed door. He touched the knob and found it was sticky. He took his hand away and looked at his palm. It was covered with blood. He took out his handkerchief and wiped it away, then he gripped the knob and opened the door. He stepped inside.
A single reflector lamp poured light over the postmortem table and the still, white body lying there. Engrossed in his work, Sir David did not look up. He made a deft incision and inserted a retractor.
"Good evening, sir," Sam said, standing inside the door.
"Eh?" Sir David looked up, squinting from under the light to see who was standing in the shadows. Lowry moved down into the room. "What do you want?" Sir David said with irritation.
"You're working rather late, aren't you?" Sam said.
"I think that's obvious," Sir David snapped. "Although I don't see that it is any of your business. What are you doing here?"
"I have reason to believe that Jack the Ripper is here in the hospital."
"Nonsense," Sir David snorted. "Really, Mr. Lowry, the games that you policemen play."
"The gate porter was attacked a few minutes ago."
"Why should that lead you to believe the Ripper is in the building. It's ridiculous! And I thought the Ripper confined his attacks to women."
"He did attack and kill a woman earlier," Sam said. "Only this time he was forced to leave in a hurry." Sam had carried the medical bag from Kitty's room. He lifted it and held it up. "He left this behind."
Sir David glanced at the bag, then his hand swooped down and he picked a similar bag from the floor. It bore his initials in gold. "Just like my bag, eh, Mr. Lowry. You people certainly leap to conclusions. Why don't you arrest every doctor in London and get it over with?" He shook his head. "Now you'll have to go. I've been working here all evening and I want to get this finished and get home."
The man's composure was disconcerting. Sam was about to say something more when O'Neil came into the room.
"Evening, Sir David," O'Neil said. He came up and stood at Sam's left.
"Really, Inspector," Sir David exploded. "This is a mortuary, not a public art gallery."
"I'm sorry, sir," O'Neil said, "but I came to see you about the porter."
"Mr. Lowry has already informed me. The porter was murdered by some ruffian, and now, I suppose, the hospital will be swarming with policemen who could be better employed elsewhere."
"I didn't say he was murdered, Sir David," Sam said evenly, "I said he was attacked."
Sir David bridled with annoyance. "You implied it then," he snapped.
"They've moved him to the operating theatre," O'Neil said. "Dr. Urquhart thinks he can be saved if you will operate."
Sir David scowled. "I-I can't," he stammered. "I've got to finish this post-mortem."
"I think you'd better come up to the theatre, sir," O'Neil said, his voice soft, but firm.
"Are you telling me what to do, Inspector?"
"Yes, sir, I am."
"Impertinence! Gross impertinence!"
"Call it what you like, sir. I'm only interested in saving the life of this man. You're a doctor, surely you want the same thing."
Sir David hesitated, but there was nothing more he could say against the operation. He put down his scalpel and picked up a towel to wipe his hands. "I'll see what I can do," he said.
"Thank you, sir," O'Neil said.
Sir David removed his bloodstained apron and took a clean one from a shelf. He took it out and tied it to his waist. He was about to change the gauze sleeve shields when O'Neil said, "We're in a hurry, sir."
"Yes, well, I guess these will be all right." He came away from the table and led the way to the corridor and the lift. He entered the lift and Lowry followed close behind. O'Neil stepped in, closing the outside doors after him, then the inner door.
O'Neil grasped the rope operating the weight balance and gave it a hard pull. The lift climbed slowly, O'Neil pulling the rope to keep it moving. Sam watched Sir David, noticing that the sweat was breaking out on his forehead. They passed the ground level and when they reached the second floor O'Neil stopped the lift and pulled the door open.
O'Neil stepped out and Lowry followed him. Sir David hesitated in the entrance. Straight ahead was the corridor and the open doors of the operating room. Under the large reflector lamp was the operating table and the sheet-covered patient. Two nurses stood to one side. Louis Benz was waiting, the instrument tray before him. Urquhart was leaning over the patient. Two uniformed policemen stood in front of the doors.
Sir David did not move from the elevator. He stared at the tableau before him, sweating profusely.
"Sir David, please...." O'Neil said.
Sir David wet his lips. Then he drew himself up and stepped from the elevator. Regaining his composure, he snapped, "This hospital is becoming like Piccadilly Circus! I'll look at this man, but I must be alone, is that clear?"
"Perfectly clear, Sir David," O'Neil said. He turned towards the operating room and asked in a loud voice, "How is he, Dr. Urquhart?"
Urquhart looked up. "He's regaining consciousness slowly ," Urquhart said. He leaned low over the operating table. "It's all right, Hodges," he said. "Sir David is here to look after you."
Sir David stopped. He stared wildly from side to side. He whirled suddenly and leaped back into the lift. He slammed the doors and jerked the rope, sending the car plummeting down.
"This is it, Sam!" O'Neil shouted. "Get to the ground floor. Constable, give a whistle to alert the men on the outside." O'Neil ran to the wall and kicked the emergency-stop lever for the lift. Lowry was already running for the stairs. The shrill police whistle echoed through the halls.
3.
The lift ground to a stop just before reaching the first floor level. Sir David cursed. There was enough room for him to kick out and open the doors. He stooped and swung down the corridor. He heard running feet, the shouts of the men above him, the alerting police whistle. There was a three-foot opening beneath the elevator. He crawled through, under the car, hanging from the floor's edge. He let go and dropped into the shaft, landing with a jolt at the basement level.
He crouched back into a dark corner of the shaft. His teeth were tightly clenched. He had twisted his ankle in the fall and the pain shot up his leg. He eased the weight off the leg.
The running feet stopped at the door above him. Looking up he could see the legs of O'Neil and Lowry.
"I didn't stop it fast enough," O'Neil said. "He had enough room to get out."
"Damn!"
"Alert the men at the exits," O'Neil said.
"You take the front," Lowry said. "I'll take the back."
Sir David heard the sound of running feet, but he didn't move. He waited until there was no sound, then he -edged carefully to the doors leading to the passage outside the morgue. Once inside the morgue he could make his escape. Because of the nature of the work done there, an oversize sewer opening had been necessitated, something only he would know. It was large enough to crawl through, and it opened into the large and intricate sewer system under the city. He would be miles away within the hour.
He opened the door a crack, then quickly pulled it closed. He grimaced. A uniformed policeman was stationed in the passage.
The policeman was smoking a cigarette against orders and when he heard the slight noise of the door being closed, he turned and looked around guiltily. He saw nothing, but he decided to butt the cigarette. He rubbed it against the bar on the elevator door, and as an afterthought, he pulled the bar down, locking the door.
Sir David heard the bar slip into place, but wasn't certain just what the noise was. He crouched, waiting, then he heard the policeman walk away and start up the stairs. He smiled to himself, congratulating the police on then usual stupidity. His mind was racing ahead, planning his escape. It was too bad about the porter. He was certain that he had killed him. Trust a stupid fool like that to have iron guts, he growled. But now that the hand was played, he felt certain that he could easily outwit Scotiand Yard. They would expect him to make a run for it. They would cover his home. Then they would begin inquiries to find out if a man had rented a flat within the week. He felt like laughing. He had his furnished flat, had been in residence for months and had a sizeable bank account in another name. He thought of all the hours spent in that grim room, and congratulated himself on his foresight.
The passageway was quiet so he went to the doors. He tried them and they did not move. A slight nervousness settled in his stomach. He pushed the doors harder, then realized that they were locked. He looked up towards the next floor. It wasn't too bad. He could climb the rope. But he would have to wait until he was certain that the corridor had been cleared.
He leaned back against the wall and the lift began to rise. He followed the progress of the car, staring at the heavy-beamed wooden bottom. The car stopped at the second floor. He heard the sound of wheels clattering on the wooden floor of the lift.
The elevator shaft amplified the sounds. He heard the footsteps of two men entering the lift. They had wheeled the body of the porter onto the lift. The doors slammed closed. He heard the voices clearly.
"Why we didn't take him to the morgue in the first place is something I don't understand," a voice said.
"Poor old Fred," another voice answered. "Even I could see he was dead before he hit the ground."
The ropes jerked and the counterweight began to operate. The car started down.
Sir David straightened. He looked up at the descending elevator, then he flung himself against the doors to the passagway. They did not move. He hammered at the doors.
He looked up. The lift was moving down towards him, its bulk filling the shaft like a huge press. His eyes widened with fear and the panic caught in his chest. He beat at the doors with his fists and kicked with his feet.
The lift rumbled downward. He flung himself against the ropes, gripping them to stop the car, but there was too much weight for him and the rope burned the skin from his hands.
"Stop it!" he screamed. "Stop it!"
Unabated, the lift continued its downward trip. He heard the amplified voices of the two attendants. "You hear something?"
"Somebody shouting."
"Stop it! Help! Stop the lift!" His voice was frantic, a wild, high-pitched screaming.
The heavy car was three feet above him. He reached up to stop it with his hands. He touched the heavy beams. "Stop it" It pressed him to his knees. He screamed, dropping on his back, his muscles bulging against the force of the descending car. It was like pitting the strength of an ant against a mountain.
The lift came down steadily, inexorably down ... down ... down ... settiing with a cushion-soft thump.
"Jesus Christ!" One of the attendants shouted as the thick, gelatinous red substance oozed up through the cracks in the floor of the lift and spread out around his feet.
4.
Moving across the courtyard, Sam Lowry glanced at the hospital attendant who was scrubbing the place where the porter had fallen. He tightened his grip on Anne Ford's arm, and guided her through the gate to the street.
Police vans were waiting at the sidewalk and a number of uniformed policemen passed between them and the hospital. A crowd was gathering.
"What's up now, Inspector? That Louis Benz slicing up the patients in their beds?" a familiar voice said from the edge of the growing crowd.
Sam turned and saw Harry Simes standing there, his ugly face set in grim lines, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Sam looked at Mike O'Neil and smiled. "Your friend," he said.
"Like a toothache," O'Neil said.
The three of them walked a short distance from the entrance where they might hail a cab. Anne was deep in thought, and she said finally, "But you don't know for sure."
"We know," Sam said. "You said yourself that it was his voice you heard at Kitty's."
"But we'll never prove it," O'Neil said, shaking his head. "The most infamous murderer since Bluebeard, and the file will always be marked unsolved."
"And he'll go down in the books as a brilliant surgeon who met an untimely accidental death," Sam said.
"And I'll probably get blamed for it," O'Neil said. "Look, there's a cab."
Sam stepped into the street and lifted his arms. The driver reined his horse and the cab stopped before them.
Anne held her hand out to O'Neil. "Good night, Inspector," she said.
"Good night, Miss Ford," O'Neil said. "Good night, Sam." He shook Lowry's hand.
Sam handed Anne up into the cab and gave her address to the driver. He climbed in after her and settled back in the seat, pulling the hansom's doors closed. The driver flipped his reins and the horse started off at a trot.
Anne sighed and put her head down on Sam's shoulder. "I think I've aged twenty years," she said.
"You don't look it," Sam said, taking her hand in his.
"You are getting gallant, sir."
Sam smiled. He leaned over. Tilting her chin with his hand, he kissed her gently. Her arms came around him and she pulled him down to her. When she pulled her head away she said soberly, "Sam, do you know what I was most afraid of when I was in that kitchen?"
"What?"
"That I wasn't going to have a chance to have your children."
Sam looked at her in surprise, then he smiled again. "We can certainly take care of that," he said.
Anne planted both hands on his chest. "After we're married, Sam," she said, smiling coyly. "I'm terribly old-fashioned."
"When will that be?"
She shifted her hands behind his neck and pulled his head down to her again. "Soon," she said through her deep, ardent kiss, "Very soon."
