Psychomania: Killer Stories

by Stephen Jones

  “Very interesting,” I commented. I’m afraid a faint hint of sarcasm crept into my voice.

  He winced, but didn’t falter in his narrative.

  “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.

  “On November the ninth they found her in her room. She lay there very quietly, limbs neatly arranged. And beside her, with equal neatness, were laid her head 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’ve got all the documents,” said Sir Guy Hollis. “I’ve made a collection of existing data and studied it.”

  I stood up. “Well,” I yawned, in mock fatigue, “I’ve enjoyed your little bedtime story a great deal, Sir Guy. It was kind of you to abandon your duties at the British Embassy to drop in on a poor psychiatrist and regale him with your anecdotes.”

  Goading him always did the trick.

  “I suppose you want to know why I’m interested?” he snapped.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’d like to know. Why are you interested?”

  “Because,” said Sir Guy Hollis, “I am on the trail of Jack the Ripper now. I think he’s here - in Chicago!”

  I sat down again. This time I did the blinking act.

  “Say that again,” I stuttered.

  “Jack the Ripper is alive, in Chicago, and I’m out to find him.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Wait - a - minute!”

  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 were 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 men and women in the neighbourhood. 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 enquiry that yielded more fruitful return. I have studied unsolved crimes. Murders.

  “I could show you clippings from the papers of half the world’s great 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 signs 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!”

  I smiled.

  “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, eighty-five years commit these crimes? For if Jack the Ripper was around thirty in 1888 and lived, he’d be eighty-five today.”

  Sir Guy Hollis was silent. I had him there. But—

  “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?”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll suppose for a moment. Then I’ll stop supposing and call for my nurse to restrain you.”

  “I’m serious,” said Sir Guy.

  “They all are,” I told him. “That’s the pity of it all, isn’t it? They know they hear voices and see demons. But we lock them up just the same.”

  It was cruel, but it got results. He rose and faced me.

  “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. Practitioners 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.”

  He was crazy. But I still listened.

  “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 Sir Guy - there’s one thing I’m interested in. 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 practising 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. Then he spoke.

  “John Carmody,”
he said, “you and I are going to capture Jack the Ripper.”

  ~ * ~

  II

  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 enquired. 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 Bohemians. 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 the seventh. Then August the thirty-first. September the eighth. September the thirtieth. November the ninth. Intervals of twenty-four days, nine days, twenty-two days - he killed two this time - and then forty 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, on evenings when the stars blaze down in the blazing patterns of death.”

  “All right,” I said. “All right. I’ll take you to parties, Sir Guy. I want to go myself, anyway. I need the drinks they’ll serve there, after listening to your kind of talk.”

  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 trouser 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.

  “You’d make a pretty good psychiatrist yourself,” I conceded. “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,” he warned me.

  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 moustache.

  “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 parlour.

  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 one 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.

  Prokofiev 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 dining 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 centre 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 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, O Walrus?”

  “I’m looking for Jack the Ripper.”

  Nobody laughed.

  Perhaps it struck them all the way it did me. I glanced at my neighbours and began to wonder.

  La Verne Gonnister. Hymie Kralik. Harmless. D
ick Pool. Nadia Vilinoff. Johnny Odcutt and his wife. Barclay Melton. Lydia Dare. All harmless.

  But that 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.