Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper
Yours Truly, Jack the
Ripper
by Robert
Bloch
I
looked at the stage Englishman. He looked at me.
"Sir
Guy Hollis?" I asked.
"Indeed.
Have I the pleasure of addressing John Carmody, the psychiatrist?"
I
nodded. My eyes swept over the figure of my distinguished visitor. Tall, lean,
sandy-haired — with the traditional tufted mustache. And the tweeds. I
suspected a monocle concealed in a vest pocket, and wondered if he'd left his
umbrella in the outer office.
But
more than that, I wondered what the devil had impelled Sir Guy Hollis of the
British Embassy to seek out a total stranger here in Chicago.
Sir
Guy didn't help matters any as he sat down. He cleared his throat, glanced
around nervously, tapped his pipe against the side of the desk. Then he opened
his mouth.
"Mr.
Carmody," he said, "have you ever heard of — Jack the Ripper?"
"The
murderer?" I asked.
"Exactly.
The greatest monster of them all. Worse than Springheel Jack or Crippen. Jack
the Ripper. Red Jack."
"I've
heard of him," I said.
"Do
you know his history?"
"I
don't think we'll get any place swapping old wives' tales about famous crimes
of history."
He
took a deep breath.
"This
is no old wives' tale. It's a matter of life or death."
He
was so wrapped up in his obsession he even talked that way. Well — I was
willing to listen. We psychiatrists get paid for listening.
"Go
ahead," I told him. "Let's have the story."
Sir
Guy lit a cigarette and began to talk.
"London,
1888," he began. "Late summer and early fall. That was the time. Out
of nowhere came the shadowy figure of Jack the Ripper — a stalking shadow with
a knife, prowling through London's East End. Haunting the squalid dives of
Whitechapel, Spitalfields. Where he came from no one knew. But he brought
death. Death in a knife.
"Six
times that knife descended to slash the throats and bodies of London's women.
Drabs and alley sluts. August 7th was the date of the first butchery. They
found her body lying there with thirty-nine stab wounds. A ghastly murder. On
August 31st, another victim. The press became interested. The slum inhabitants
were more deeply interested still.
"Who
was this unknown killer who prowled in their midst and struck at will in the
deserted alleyways of night-town? And what was more important — when would he
strike again?
"September
8th was the date. Scotland Yard assigned special deputies. Rumors ran rampant.
The atrocious nature of the slayings was the subject for shocking speculation.
"The
killer used a knife — expertly. He cut throats and removed — certain portions —
of the bodies after death. He chose victims and settings with a fiendish
deliberation. No one saw him or heard him. But watchmen making their gray
rounds in the dawn would stumble across the hacked and horrid thing that was
the Ripper's handiwork.
"Who
was he? What was he? A mad surgeon? A butcher? An insane scientist? A
pathological degenerate escaped from an asylum? A deranged nobleman? A member
of the London police?
"Then
the poem appeared in the newspapers. The anonymous poem, designed to put a stop
to speculations — but which only aroused public interest to a further frenzy. A
mocking little stanza:
_I'm
not a butcher, I'm not a Yid
Nor
yet a foreign skipper,
But
I'm your own true loving friend,
Yours
truly — Jack the Ripper._
"And
on September 30th, two more throats were slashed open. There was silence, then,
in London for a time. Silence, and a nameless fear. When would Red Jack strike
again? They waited through October. Every figment of fog concealed his phantom
presence. Concealed it well — for nothing was learned of the Ripper's identity,
or his purpose. The drabs of London shivered in the raw wind of early November.
Shivered, and were thankful for the coming of each morning's sun.
"November
9th. They found her in her room. She lay there very quietly, limbs neatly
arranged. And beside her, with equal neatness, were laid her breasts and heart.
The Ripper had outdone himself in execution.
"Then,
panic. But needless panic. For though press, police, and populace alike waited
in sick dread, Jack the Ripper did not strike again.
"Months
passed. A year. The immediate interest died, but not the memory. They said Jack
had skipped to America. That he had committed suicide. They said — and they
wrote. They've written ever since. Theories, hypotheses, arguments, treatises.
But to this day no one knows who Jack the Ripper was. Or why he killed. Or why
he stopped killing."
Sir
Guy was silent. Obviously he expected some comment from me.
"You
tell the story well," I remarked. "Though with a slight emotional
bias."
"I
suppose you want to know why I'm interested?" he snapped.
"Yes.
That's exactly what I'd like to know."
"Because,"
said Sir Guy Hollis, "I am on the trail of Jack the Ripper now. I think
he's here — in Chicago!"
"Say
that again."
"Jack
the Ripper is alive, in Chicago, and I'm out to find him."
He
wasn't smiling. It wasn't a joke.
"See
here," I said. "What was the date of these murders?"
"August
to November, 1888."
"1888?
But if Jack the Ripper was an able-bodied man in 1888, he'd surely be dead
today! Why look, man — if he were merely born in that year, he'd be fifty-seven
years old today!"
"Would
he?" smiled Sir Guy Hollis. "Or should I say, 'Would she?' Because
Jack the Ripper may have been a woman. Or any number of things."
"Sir
Guy," I said. "You came to the right person when you looked me up.
You definitely need the services of a psychiatrist."
"Perhaps.
Tell me, Mr. Carmody, do you think I'm crazy?"
I
looked at him and shrugged. But I had to give him a truthful answer.
"Frankly
— no."
"Then
you might listen to the reasons I believe Jack the Ripper is alive today."
"I
might."
"I've
studied these cases for thirty years. Been over the actual ground. Talked to
officials. Talked to friends and acquaintances of the poor drabs who were
killed. Visited with men and women in the neighborhood. Collected an entire
library of material touching on Jack the Ripper. Studied all the wild theories
or crazy notions.
"I
learned a little. Not much, but a little. I won't bore you with my conclusions.
But there was another branch of inquiry that yielded more fruitful return. I
have studied unsolved crimes. Murders.
"I
could show you clippings from the papers of half the world's greatest cities.
San Francisco. Shanghai. Calcutta. Omsk. Paris. Berlin. Pretoria. Cairo. Milan.
Adelaide.
"The
trail is there, the pattern. Unsolved crimes. Slashed throats of women. With
the peculiar disfigurations and removals. Yes, I've followed a trail of blood.
From New York westward across the continent. Then to the Pacific. From there to
Africa. During the World War of 1914-18 it was Europe. After that, South America.
And since 1930, the United States again. Eighty-seven such murders — and to the
trained criminologist, all bear the stigma of the Ripper's handiwork.
"Recently
there were the so-called Cleveland torso slayings. Remember? A shocking series.
And finally, two recent deaths in Chicago. Within the past six months. One out
on South Dearborn. The other somewhere up on Halsted. Same type of crime, same
technique. I tell you, there are unmistakable indications in all these affairs
— indications of the work of Jack the Ripper!"
"A
very tight theory," I said. "I'll not question your evidence at all,
or the deductions you draw. You're the criminologist, and I'll take your word
for it. Just one thing remains to be explained. A minor point, perhaps, but
worth mentioning."
"And
what is that?" asked Sir Guy.
"Just
how could a man of, let us say, eight-five years commit these crimes? For if
Jack the Ripper was around thirty in 1888 and lived, he'd be eighty-five
today."
_"Suppose
he didn't get any older?"_ whispered Sir Guy.
"What's
that?"
"Suppose
Jack the Ripper didn't grow old? Suppose he is still a young man today?
"It's
a crazy theory, I grant you," he said. "All the theories about the
Ripper are crazy. The idea that he was a doctor. Or a maniac. Or a woman. The
reasons advanced for such beliefs are flimsy enough. There's nothing to go by.
So why should my notion be any worse?"
"Because
people grow older," I reasoned with him. "Doctors, maniacs, and women
alike."
"What
about — _sorcerers?"_
"Sorcerers?"
"Necromancers.
Wizards. Practicers of Black Magic?"
"What's
the point?"
"I
studied," said Sir Guy. "I studied everything. After a while I began
to study the dates of the murders. The pattern those dates formed. The rhythm.
The solar, lunar, stellar rhythm. The sidereal aspect. The astrological
significance.
"Suppose
Jack the Ripper didn't murder for murder's sake alone? Suppose he wanted to
make — a sacrifice?"
"What
kind of a sacrifice?"
Sir
Guy shrugged. "It is said that if you offer blood to the dark gods they
grant boons. Yes, if a blood offering is made at the proper time — when the
moon and the stars are right — and with the proper ceremonies — they grant
boons. Boons of youth. Eternal youth."
"But
that's nonsense!"
"No.
That's — Jack the Ripper."
I
stood up. "A most interesting theory," I told him. "But why do
you come here and tell it to me? I'm not an authority on witchcraft. I'm not a
police official or criminologist. I'm a practicing psychiatrist. What's the
connection?"
Sir
Guy smiled.
"You
are interested, then?"
"Well,
yes. There must be some point."
"There
is. But I wished to be assured of your interest first. Now I can tell you my
plan."
"And
just what is that plan?"
Sir
Guy gave me a long look.
"John
Carmody," he said, "you and I are going to capture Jack the
Ripper."
-2-
That's
the way it happened. I've given the gist of that first interview in all its
intricate and somewhat boring detail, because I think it's important. It helps
to throw some light on Sir Guy's character and attitude. And in view of what
happened after that —
But
I'm coming to those matters.
Sir
Guy's thought was simple. It wasn't even a thought. Just a hunch.
"You
know the people here," he told me. "I've inquired. That's why I came
to you as the ideal man for my purpose. You number amongst your acquaintances
many writers, painters, poets. The so-called intelligentsia. The lunatic fringe
from the near north side.
"For
certain reasons — never mind what they are — my clues lead me to infer that
Jack the Ripper is a member of that element. He chooses to pose as an
eccentric. I've a feeling that with you to take me around and introduce me to
your set, I might hit upon the right person."
"It's
all right with me," I said. "But just how are you going to look for
him? As you say, he might be anybody, anywhere. And you have no idea what he
looks like. He might be young or old. Jack the Ripper — a Jack of all trades?
Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer — how will you
know?"
"We
shall see." Sir Guy sighed heavily. "But I must find him. At
once."
"Why
the hurry?"
Sir
Guy sighed again. "Because in two days he will kill again."
"Are
you sure?"
"Sure
as the stars. I've plotted this chart, you see. All of the murders correspond
to certain astrological rhythm patterns. If, as I suspect, he makes a blood
sacrifice to renew his youth, he must murder within two days. Notice the
pattern of his first crimes in London. August 7th. Then August 31st. September
8th. September 30th. November 9th. Intervals of 24 days, 9 days, 22 days — he
killed two this time — and then 40 days. Of course there were crimes in
between. There had to be. But they weren't discovered and pinned on him.
"At
any rate, I've worked out a pattern for him, based on all my data. And I say
that within the next two days he kills. So I must seek him out, somehow, before
then."
"And
I'm still asking you what you want me to do."
"Take
me out," said Sir Guy. "Introduce me to your friends. Take me to
parties."
"But
where do I begin? As far as I know, my artistic friends, despite their eccentricities,
are all normal people."
"So
is the Ripper. Perfectly normal. Except on certain nights." Again that
faraway look in Sir Guy's eyes. "Then he becomes an ageless pathological
monster, crouching to kill."
"All
right," I said. "All right. I'll take you."
We
made our plans. And that evening I took him over to Lester Baston's studio.
As
we ascended to the penthouse roof in the elevator I took the opportunity to
warn Sir Guy.
"Baston's
a real screwball," I cautioned him. "So are his guests. Be prepared
for anything and everything."
"I
am." Sir Guy Hollis was perfectly serious. He put his hand in his trousers
pocket and pulled out a gun.
"What
the — " I began.
"If
I see him I'll be ready," Sir Guy said. He didn't smile, either.
"But
you can't go running around at a party with a loaded revolver in your pocket,
man!"
"Don't
worry, I won't behave foolishly."
I
wondered. Sir Guy Hollis was not, to my way of thinking, a normal man.
We
stepped out of the elevator, went toward Baston's apartment door.
"By
the way," I murmured, "just how do you wish to be introduced? Shall I
tell them who you are and what you are looking for?"
"I
don't care. Perhaps it would be best to be frank."
"But
don't you think that the Ripper — if by some miracle he or she is present —
will immediately get the wind up and take cover?"
"I
think the shock of the announcement that I am hunting the Ripper would provoke
some kind of betraying gesture on his part," said Sir Guy.
"It's
a fine theory. But I warn you, you're going to be in for a lot of ribbing. This
is a wild bunch."
Sir
Guy smiled.
"I'm
ready," he announced. "I have a little plan of my own. Don't be
shocked at anything I do."
I
nodded and knocked on the door.
Baston
opened it and poured out into the hall. His eyes were as red as the maraschino
cherries in his Manhattan. He teetered back and forth regarding us very
gravely. He squinted at my square-cut homburg hat and Sir Guy's mustache.
"Aha,"
he intoned. "The Walrus and the Carpenter."
I
introduced Sir Guy.
"Welcome,"
said Baston, gesturing us inside with over-elaborate courtesy. He stumbled
after us into the garish parlor.
I
stared at the crowd that moved restlessly through the fog of cigarette smoke.
It
was the shank of the evening for this mob. Every hand held a drink. Every face
held a slightly hectic flush. Over in me corner the piano was going full blast,
but the imperious strains of the _March_ from _The Love for Three Oranges_
couldn't drown out the profanity from the crap-game in the other corner.
Prokofieff
had no chance against African polo, and one set of ivories rattled louder than
the other.
Sir
Guy got a monocle-full right away. He saw LaVerne Gonnister, the poetess, hit
Hymie Kralik in the eye. He saw Hymie sit down on the floor and cry until Dick
Pool accidentally stepped on his stomach as he walked through to the lining
room for a drink.
He
heard Nadia Vilinoff, the commercial artist, tell Johnny Odcutt that she
thought his tattooing was in dreadful taste, and he saw Barclay Melton crawl
under the dining room table with Johnny Odcutt's wife.
His
zoological observations might have continued indefinitely if Lester Baston
hadn't stepped to the center of the room and called for silence by dropping a
vase on the floor.
"We
have distinguished visitors in our midst," bawled Lester, waving his empty
glass in our direction. "None other than the Walrus and the Carpenter. The
Walrus is Sir Guy Hollis, a something-or-other from the British Embassy. The
Carpenter, as you all know, is our own John Carmody, the prominent dispenser of
libido liniment."
He
turned and grabbed Sir Guy by the arm, dragging him to the middle of the
carpet. For a moment I thought Hollis might object, but a quick wink reassured
me. He was prepared for this.
"It
is our custom, Sir Guy," said Baston, loudly, "to subject our new
friends to a little cross-examination. Just a little formality at these very
formal gatherings, you understand. Are you prepared to answer questions?"
Sir
Guy nodded and grinned.
"Very
well," Baston muttered. "Friends — I give you this bundle from
Britain. Your witness."
Then
the ribbing started. I meant to listen, but at that moment Lydia Dare saw me
and dragged me off into the vestibule for one of those Darling-I-waited-for-your-call-all-day
routines.
By
the time I got rid of her and went back, the impromptu quiz session was in full
swing. From the attitude of the crowd, I gathered that Sir Guy was doing all
right for himself.
Then
Baston himself interjected a question that upset the apple-cart.
"And
what, may I ask, brings you to our midst tonight? What is your mission, oh
Walrus?"
"I'm
looking for Jack the Ripper."
Nobody
laughed.
Perhaps
it struck them all the way it did me. I glanced at my neighbors and began to
_wonder._
LaVerne
Gonnister. Hymie Kralik. Harmless. Dick Pool. Nadia Vilinoff. Johnny Odcutt and
his wife. Barclay Melton. Lydia Dare. All harmless.
But
what a forced smile on Dick Pool's face! And that sly, self-conscious smirk
that Barclay Melton wore!
Oh,
it was absurd, I grant you. But for the first time I saw these people in a new
light. I wondered about their lives — their secret lives beyond the scenes of
parties.
How
many of them were playing a part, concealing something?
Who
here would worship Hecate and grant that horrid goddess the dark boon of blood?
Even
Lester Baston might be masquerading.
The
mood was upon us all, for a moment. I saw questions flicker in the circle of
eyes around the room.
Sir
Guy stood there, and I could swear he was fully conscious of the situation he'd
created, and enjoyed it.
I
wondered idly just what was _really_ wrong with him. Why he had this odd
fixation concerning Jack the Ripper. Maybe he was hiding secrets, too. . . .
Baston,
as usual, broke the mood. He burlesqued it.
"The
Walrus isn't kidding, friends," he said. He slapped Sir Guy on the back
and put his arm around him as he orated. "Our English cousin is really on
the trail of the fabulous Jack the Ripper. You all remember Jack the Ripper, I
presume? Quite a cut-up in the old days, as I recall. Really had some ripping
good times when he went out on a tear.
"The
Walrus has some idea that the Ripper is still alive, probably prowling around
Chicago with a Boy Scout knife. In fact — " Baston paused impressively and
shot it out in a rasping stage whisper — "in fact, he has reason to
believe that Jack the Ripper might even be right here in our midst
tonight."
There
was the expected reaction of giggles and grins. Baston eyed Lydia Dare
reprovingly. "You girls needn't laugh," he smirked. "Jack the
Ripper might be a woman, too, you know. Sort of a Jill the Ripper."
"You
mean you actually suspect one of us?" shrieked LaVerne Gonnister,
simpering up to Sir Guy. "But that Jack the Ripper person disappeared ages
ago, didn't he? In 1888?"
"Aha!"
interrupted Baston. "How do you know so much about it, young lady? Sounds
suspicious! Watch her, Sir Guy — she may not be as young as she appears. These
lady poets have dark pasts."
The
tension was gone, the mood was shattered, and the whole thing was beginning to
degenerate into a trivial party joke. The man who had played the _March_ was
eyeing the piano with a _scherzo_ gleam in his eye that augured ill for
Prokofieff. Lydia Dare was glancing at the kitchen, waiting to make a break for
another drink.
Then
Baston caught it.
"Guess
what?" he yelled. "The Walrus has a gun."
His
embracing arm had slipped and encountered the hard outline of the gun in Sir
Guy's pocket. He snatched it out before Hollis had the opportunity to protest.
I
stared hard at Sir Guy, wondering if this thing had carried far enough. But he
flicked a wink my way and I remembered he had told me not to be alarmed.
So
I waited as Baston broached a drunken inspiration.
"Let's
play fair with our friend the Walrus," he cried. "He came all the way
from England to our party on this mission. If none of you is willing to
confess, I suggest we give him a chance to find out — the hard way."
"What's
up?" asked Johnny Odcutt.
"I'll
turn out the lights for one minute. Sir Guy can stand here with his gun. If
anyone in this room is the Ripper he can either run for it or take the
opportunity to — well, eradicate his pursuer. Fair enough?"
It
was even sillier than it sounds, but it caught the popular fancy. Sir Guy's
protests went unheard in the ensuing babble. And before I could stride over and
put in my two cents' worth, Lester Baston had reached the light switch.
"Don't
anybody move," he announced, with fake solemnity. "For one minute we
will remain in darkness — perhaps at the mercy of a killer. At the end of that
time, I'll turn up the lights again and look for bodies. Choose your partners,
ladies and gentlemen."
The
lights went out.
Somebody
giggled.
I
heard footsteps in the darkness. Mutterings.
A
hand brushed my face.
The
watch on my wrist ticked violently. But even louder, rising above it, I heard
another thumping. The beating of my heart.
Absurd.
Standing in the dark with a group of tipsy fools. And yet there was real terror
lurking here, rustling through the velvet blackness.
Jack
the Ripper prowled in darkness like this. And Jack the Ripper had a knife. Jack
the Ripper had a madman's brain and a madman's purpose.
But
Jack the Ripper was dead, dead and dust these many years — by every human law.
Only
there are no human laws when you feel yourself in the darkness, when the
darkness hides and protects and the outer mask slips off your face and you feel
something welling up within you, a brooding shapeless purpose that is brother
to the blackness.
Sir
Guy Hollis shrieked.
There
was a grisly thud.
Baston
put the lights on.
Everybody
screamed.
Sir
Guy Hollis lay sprawled on the floor in the center of the room. The gun was still
clutched in his hand.
I
glanced at the faces, marveling at the variety of expressions human beings can
assume when confronting horror.
All
the faces were present in the circle. Nobody had fled. And yet Sir Guy Hollis
lay there.
LaVerne
Gonnister was wailing and hiding her face.
"All
right."
Sir
Guy rolled over and jumped to his feet. He was smiling.
"Just
an experiment, eh? If Jack the Ripper _were_ among those present, and thought I
had been murdered, he would have betrayed himself in some way when the lights
went on and he saw me lying there.
"I
am convinced of your individual and collective innocence. Just a gentle spoof,
my friends."
Hollis
stared at the goggling Baston and the rest of them crowding in behind him.
"Shall
we leave, John?" he called to me. "It's getting late, I think."
Turning,
he headed for the closet. I followed him. Nobody said a word.
It
was a pretty dull party after that.
-3-
I
met Sir Guy the following evening as we agreed, on the corner of 29th and South
Halsted.
After
what had happened the night before, I was prepared for almost anything. But Sir
Guy seemed matter-of-fact enough as he stood huddled against a grimy doorway
and waited for me to appear.
"Boo!"
I said, jumping out suddenly. He smiled. Only the betraying gesture of his left
hand indicated that he'd instinctively reached for his gun when I startled him.
"All
ready for our wild-goose chase?" I asked.
"Yes."
He nodded. "I'm glad that you agreed to meet me without asking
questions," he told me. "It shows you trust my judgment." He
took my arm and edged me along the street slowly.
"It's
foggy tonight, John," said Sir Guy Hollis. "Like London."
I
nodded.
"Cold,
too, for November."
I
nodded again and half-shivered my agreement.
"Curious,"
mused Sir Guy. "London fog and November. The place and the time of the
Ripper murders."
I
grinned through darkness. "Let me remind you, Sir Guy, that this isn't
London, but Chicago. And it isn't November, 1888. It's over fifty years
later."
Sir
Guy returned my grin, but without mirth. "I'm not so sure, at that,"
he murmured. "Look about you. Those tangled alleys and twisted streets.
They're like the East End. Mitre Square. And surely they are as ancient as
fifty years, at least."
"You're
in the black neighborhood of South Clark Street," I said shortly.
"And why you dragged me down here I still don't know."
"It's
a hunch," Sir Guy admitted. "Just a hunch on my part, John. I want to
wander around down here. There's the same geographical conformation in these
streets as in those courts where the Ripper roamed and slew. That's where we'll
find him, John. Not in the bright lights, but down here in the darkness. The
darkness where he waits and crouches."
"Isn't
that why you brought a gun?" I asked. I was unable to keep a trace of
sarcastic nervousness from my voice. All this talk, this incessant obsession
with Jack the Ripper, got on my nerves more than I cared to admit.
"We
may need a gun," said Sir Guy, gravely. "After all, tonight is the
appointed night."
I
sighed. We wandered on through the foggy, deserted streets. Here and there a
dim light burned above a gin-mill doorway. Otherwise, all was darkness and
shadow. Deep, gaping alleyways loomed as we proceeded down a slanting
side-street.
We
crawled through that fog, alone and silent, like two tiny maggots floundering
within a shroud.
"Can't
you see there's not a soul around these streets?" I said.
"He's
bound to come," said Sir Guy. "He'll be drawn here. This is what I've
been looking for. A _genius loci._ An evil spot that attracts evil. Always,
when he slays, it's in the slums.
"You
see, that must be one of his weaknesses. He has a fascination for squalor.
Besides, the women he needs for sacrifice are more easily found in the dives
and stewpots of a great city."
"Well,
let's go into one of the dives or stewpots," I suggested. "I'm cold.
Need a drink. This damned fog gets into your bones. You Britishers can stand
it, but I like warmth and dry heat."
We
emerged from our side street and stood upon the threshold of an alley.
Through
the white clouds of mist ahead, I discerned a dim blue light, a naked bulb
dangling from a beer sign above an alley tavern.
"Let's
take a chance," I said. "I'm beginning to shiver."
"Lead
the way," said Sir Guy. I led him down the alley passage. We halted before
the door of the dive.
"What
are you waiting for?" he asked.
"Just
looking in," I told him. "This is a rough neighborhood, Sir Guy.
Never know what you're liable to run into. And I'd prefer we didn't get into
the wrong company. Some of these places resent white customers."
"Good
idea, John."
I
finished my inspection through the doorway. "Looks deserted," I
murmured. "Let's try it."
We
entered a dingy bar. A feeble light flickered above the counter and railing,
but failed to penetrate the further gloom of the back booths.
A
gigantic black lolled across the bar. He scarcely stirred as we came in, but
his eyes flicked open quite suddenly and I knew he noted our presence and was
judging us.
"Evening,"
I said.
He
took his time before replying. Still sizing us up. Then, he grinned.
"Evening,
gents. What's your pleasure?"
"Gin,"
I said. "Two gins. It's a cold night."
"That's
right, gents."
He
poured, I paid, and took the glasses over to one of the booths. We wasted no
time in emptying them.
I
went over to the bar and got the bottle. Sir Guy and I poured ourselves another
drink. The big man went back into his doze, with one wary eye half-open against
any sudden activity.
The
clock over the bar ticked on. The wind was rising outside, tearing the shroud
of fog to ragged shreds. Sir Guy and I sat in the warm booth and drank our gin.
He
began to talk, and the shadows crept up about us to listen.
He
rambled a great deal. He went over everything he'd said in the office when I
met him, just as though I hadn't heard it before. The poor devils with
obsessions are like that.
I
listened very patiently. I poured Sir Guy another drink. And another.
But
the liquor only made him more talkative. How he did run on! About ritual killings
and prolonging the life unnaturally — the whole fantastic tale came out again.
And of course, he maintained his unyielding conviction that the Ripper was
abroad tonight.
I
suppose I was guilty of goading him.
"Very
well," I said, unable to keep the impatience from my voice. "Let us
say that your theory is correct — even though we must overlook every natural
law and swallow a lot of superstition to give it any credence.
"But
let us say, for the sake of argument, that you are right. Jack the Ripper was a
man who discovered how to prolong his own life through making human sacrifices.
He did travel around the world as you believe. He is in Chicago now and he is
planning to kill. In other words, let us suppose that everything you claim is
gospel truth. So what?"
"What
do you mean, 'so what'?" said Sir Guy.
"I
mean — so what?" I answered. "If all this is true, it still doesn't
prove that by sitting down in a dingy gin-mill on the South Side, Jack the
Ripper is going to walk in here and let you kill him, or turn him over to the
police. And come to think of it, I don't even know now just what you intend to
do with him if you ever did find him."
Sir
Guy gulped his gin. "I'd capture the bloody swine," he said.
"Capture him and turn him over to the government, together with all the
papers and documentary evidence I've collected against him over a period of
many years. I've spent a fortune investigating this affair, I tell you, a
fortune! His capture will mean the solution of hundreds of unsolved crimes, of
that I am convinced."
_In
vino veritas._ Or was all this babbling the result of too much gin? It didn't
matter. Sir Guy Hollis had another. I sat there and wondered what to do with
him. The man was rapidly working up to a climax of hysterical drunkenness.
"That's
enough," I said, putting out my hand as Sir Guy reached for the
half-emptied bottle again. "Let's call a cab and get out of here. It's
getting late and it doesn't look as though your elusive friend is going to put
in his appearance. Tomorrow, if I were you, I'd plan to turn all those papers
and documents over to the F.B.I. If you're so convinced of the truth of your
theory, they are competent to make a very thorough investigation, and find your
man."
"No."
Sir Guy was drunkenly obstinate. "No cab."
"But
let's get out of here anyway," I said, glancing at my watch. "It's
past midnight."
He
sighed, shrugged, and rose unsteadily. As he started for the door, he tugged
the gun free from his pocket.
"Here,
give me that!" I whispered. "You can't walk around the street
brandishing that thing."
I
took the gun and slipped it inside my coat. Then I got hold of his right arm
and steered him out of the door. The black man didn't look up as we departed.
We
stood shivering in the alleyway. The fog had increased. I couldn't see either
end of the alley from where we stood. It was cold. Damp. Dark. Fog or no fog, a
little wind was whispering secrets to the shadows at our backs.
Sir
Guy, despite his incapacity, still stared apprehensively at the alley, as
though he expected to see a figure approaching.
Disgust
got the better of me.
"Childish
foolishness," I snorted. "Jack the Ripper, indeed! I call this
carrying a hobby too far."
"Hobby?"
He faced me. Through the fog I could see his distorted face. "You call
this a hobby?"
"Well,
what is it?" I grumbled. "Just why else are you so interested in
tracking down this mythical killer?"
My
arm held his. But his stare held me.
"In
London," he whispered. "In 1888 . . . one of those nameless drabs the
Ripper slew . . . was my mother."
"What?"
"Later
I was recognized by my father, and legitimatized. We swore to give our lives to
find the Ripper. My father was the first to search. He died in Hollywood in
1926 — on the trail of the Ripper. They said he was stabbed by an unknown
assailant in a brawl. But I knew who that assailant was.
"So
I've taken up his work, do you see, John? I've carried on. And I, will carry on
until I do find him and kill him with my own hands."
I
believed him then. He wouldn't give up. He wasn't just a drunken babbler
anymore. He was as fanatical, as determined, as relentless as the Ripper
himself.
Tomorrow
he'd be sober. He'd continue the search. Perhaps he'd turn those papers over to
the F.B.I. Sooner or later, with such persistence — and with his motive — he'd
be successful. I'd always known he had a motive.
"Let's
go," I said, steering him down the alley.
"Wait
a minute," said Sir Guy. "Give me back my gun." He lurched a
little. "I'd feel better with the gun on me."
He
pressed me into the dark shadows of a little recess.
I
tried to shrug him off, but he was insistent.
"Let
me carry the gun, now, John," he mumbled.
"All
right," I said.
I
reached into my coat, brought my hand out.
"But
that's not a gun," he protested. "That's a knife."
"I
know."
I
bore down on him swiftly.
"John!"
he screamed.
"Never
mind the 'John,'" I whispered, raising the knife. "Just call me . . .
Jack."
http://talesofmytery.blogspot.co.id/2013/02/robert-bloch-yours-truly-jack-ripper.html
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