The Big Book of Jack the Ripper

by The Big Book of Jack the Ripper (retail) (epub)

  At these words Anisii glanced at the clock and said anxiously: “I must confess I’m more concerned about the human malice. It’s after one in the morning and he’s still not back. Thank you for the refreshments, Angelina Samsonovna; I’ll be going now. If Erast Petrovich shows up, please be sure to send for me.”

  As he walked home, Tulipov thought about what he’d heard. On Malaya Nikitskaya Street a saucy girl came dashing up to him under one of the gas lamps—a broad ribbon in her black hair, her eyes made up, her cheeks rouged.

  “Good evening to you, interesting sir. Would you care to treat a girl to a little vodka or liqueur?” She raised and lowered her painted eyebrows and whispered passionately: “And I’d be very grateful to you, handsome sir. I’d give you a time to remember for the rest of your life…”

  Tulipov felt an ache somewhere deep inside him. The streetwalker was good-looking—very good-looking, in fact. But since the last time he had given in to temptation, at Shrovetide, Anisii had renounced venal love. He felt awful afterwards, guilty. He ought to marry, but what could he do with Sonya?

  Anisii replied with paternal sternness: “You shouldn’t be wandering the streets at night. You never know, you might run into some crazy murderer with a knife.”

  But the saucy girl wasn’t bothered in the slightest. “Oh, such concern. I don’t reckon I’ll get killed. We’re watched—the boyfriend keeps an eye on us.”

  And yes, there on the other side of the street, Anisii could see a silhouette in the shade. Realising he’d been spotted, the ponce came over unhurriedly, at a slovenly stroll. He was a very stylish specimen: beaver-fur cap pulled down over the eyes, fur coat hanging dashingly open, a snow-white muffler covering half his face and white spats as well.

  He began speaking with a drawl, and a gold-capped tooth glinted in his mouth. “I beg your pardon, sir. Either take the young lady or be on your way. Don’t go wasting a working girl’s time.”

  The girl looked adoringly at her protector, and that angered Tulipov even more than her pimp’s insolence.

  “Don’t you go telling me what to do!” Anisii said angrily. “I’ll drag you down to the station in no time.”

  The ponce turned his head quickly to the left and the right, saw that the street was empty and inquired with an even slower, more menacing drawl: “You sure the dragger won’t come unstuck?”

  “Ah, so it’s like that, is it?” Anisii grabbed the rogue by his collar with one hand, and took his whistle out of his pocket with the other. There was a police constable’s post round the corner on Tverskaya Street, and it was only a stone’s throw to the gendarme station.

  “Run for it, Ineska, I’ll handle this!” the gold-toothed scoundrel said.

  The girl immediately picked up her skirts and set off as fast as her legs would carry her, and the brazen ponce said in Erast Petrovich’s voice: “Stop blowing that thing, Tulipov. You’ve deafened me.”

  The constable, Semyon Sychov, ran up, puffing and panting like a horse jangling its harness.

  The Chief held out a fifty-kopeck piece to him: “Good man, you’re a fast runner.”

  Semyon Sychov didn’t take the money from the suspicious-looking man and glanced quizzically at Anisii.

  “Yes, it’s all right, Sychov, off you go my friend,” Tulipov said in embarrassment. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  Only then did Semyon Sychov take the fifty kopecks, salute in a highly respectful manner and set off back to his post.

  “How’s Angelina—is she not sleeping?” Erast Petrovich asked, with a glance at the bright windows of the outhouse.

  “No, she’s waiting for you.”

  “In that case, if you don’t object, let’s take a walk and have a little talk.”

  “Chief, what’s this masquerade in aid of? In the note it said you were going to approach things from the other side. What ‘other side’ is that?”

  Fandorin squinted at his assistant in clear disapproval. “You’re not thinking too well, Tulipov. ‘From the other side’ means from the side of the Ripper’s victims. I assumed that the women of easy virtue that our character seems to have a particular hatred for might know something we don’t. They might have seen someone suspicious, heard something, g-guessed something. So I decided to do a bit of reconnaissance. These people aren’t going to open up to a policeman or an official, so I chose the most appropriate camouflage. I must say that I’ve enjoyed distinct success in the role of a ponce,” Erast Petrovich added modestly. “Several fallen creatures have volunteered to transfer to my protection, which has caused dissatisfaction among the competition—Slepen, Kazbek, and Zherebchik.”

  Anisii was not in the least surprised by his chief’s success in the field of procuring—he was a really handsome fellow, and tricked out in full Khitrovka-Grachyovka chic too. Speaking aloud, he asked: “Did you get any results?”

  “I have a couple of things,” Fandorin replied cheerfully. “Mamselle Ineska, whose charms, I believe, did not leave you entirely indifferent, told me an amusing little story. One evening a month and a half ago, she was approached by a man who said something strange: ‘How unhappy you look. Come with me and I’ll bring you joy.’ But Ineska, being a commonsensical sort of girl, didn’t go with him, because as he came up, she saw him hide something behind his back, and that something glinted in the moonlight. And it seems a similar kind of thing happened with another girl, either Glashka or Dashka. There was even blood spilt that time, but she wasn’t killed. I’m hoping to find this Glashka-Dashka.”

  “It must be him, the Ripper!” Anisii exclaimed excitedly. “What does he look like? What does your witness say?”

  “That’s just the problem: Ineska didn’t get a look at him. The man’s face was in the shadow, and she only remembered the voice. She says it was soft, quiet and polite. Like a cat purring.”

  “And his height? His clothes?”

  “She doesn’t remember. She admits herself that she’d taken a drop too much. But she says he wasn’t a gent and he wasn’t from Khitrovka either—something in between.”

  “Aha, that’s already something,” said Anisii, and he started bending down his fingers. “Firstly, it is a man after all. Secondly, a distinctive voice. Thirdly, from the middle classes.”

  “That’s all nonsense,” the Chief said abruptly. “The killer can quite easily change clothes for his n-nocturnal adventures. And the voice is suspicious. What does ‘like a cat purring’ mean? No, we can’t completely exclude a woman.”

  Tulipov remembered Izhitsin’s reasoning. “Yes, and the place! Where did he approach her? In Khitrovka?”

  “No, Ineska’s a Grachyovka lady, and her zone of influence takes in Trubnaya Square and the surrounding areas. The man approached her on Sukharev Square.”

  “Sukharev Square fits too,” said Anisii, thinking. “That’s just ten minutes’ walk from the Tatar suburb in Vypolzovo.”

  “All right, Tulipov, stop.” The Chief himself actually stopped walking. “What has the Tatar suburb to do with all this?”

  Now it was Anisii’s turn to tell his story. He began with the most important thing—Izhitsin’s “investigative experiment.”

  Erast Petrovich listened with his eyes narrowed. He repeated one word: “Custigo?”

  “Yes, I think so. That’s what Nesvitskaya said. Or something like it. Why, what is it?”

  “Probably ‘Castigo,’ which means ‘retribution’ in Italian,” Fandorin explained. “The Sicilian police founded a s-sort of secret order that used to kill thieves, vagrants, prostitutes, and other inhabitants of society’s nether regions. The members of the organisation used to lay the blame for the killings on the local criminal communities and carry out reprisals against them. Well, it’s not a bad idea from our midwife. You could probably expect that from Izhitsin.”

  When Anisii finished telling him about the “experiment,” the Chief said gloomily: “Yes, if one of our threesome is the Ripper, it won’t be so easy to catch him—or her—now. Forew
arned is forearmed.”

  “Izhitsin said that if none of them gave themselves away during the experiment, he’d order them to be put under open surveillance.”

  “And what good is that? If there are any clues, they will be destroyed. Every maniac always has something like a collection of souvenirs of sentimental value. Maniacs, Tulipov, are a sentimental tribe. One takes a scrap of clothing from the corpse, another takes something worse. There was one barbaric murderer, who killed six women, who used to collect their navels—he had a fatal weakness for that innocent part of the body. The dried navels become the most important clue. Our own ‘surgeon’ knows his anatomy, and every time one of the internal organs is missing. I surmise that that the killer takes them away with him for his collection.”

  “Chief, are you sure the Ripper has to be a doctor?” Anisii asked, and he introduced Erast Petrovich to Izhitsin’s butcher theory, and at the same time to his incisive plan.

  “So he doesn’t believe in the English connection?” Fandorin said in surprise. “But the similarities with the London killings are obvious. No, Tulipov, this was all done by one and the same person. Why would a Moscow butcher go to England?”

  “But even so, Izhitsin won’t give up his idea, especially now, after his ‘investigative experiment’ has failed. The poor butchers have been sitting in the lock-up since midnight. He’s going to keep them there till tomorrow with no water and not let them sleep. And in the morning he’s going to get serious with them.”

  It was a long time since Anisii had seen the Chief’s eyes glint so menacingly.

  “Ah, so the plan is already being implemented?” the Collegiate Counsellor hissed through his teeth. “Well then, I’ll wager you that someone else will end up without any sleep tonight. And without a job too. Let’s go, Tulipov. We’ll pay Mr. Pizhitsin a late visit. As far as I recall, he lives in a public-service apartment in the Court Department building. That’s nearby, on Vozdvizhenskaya Street. Quick march, Tulipov, forward!”

  Anisii was familiar with the two-storey building of the Court Department, where unmarried and seconded officials of the Ministry of Justice were accommodated. It was built in the British style, reddish brown in colour, with a separate entrance to each apartment.

  They knocked at the doorman’s lodge and he stuck his head out, half-asleep and half-dressed. For a long time he refused to tell his late callers the number of Court Counsellor Izhitsin’s flat—Erast Petrovich looked far too suspicious in his picturesque costume. The only thing that saved the situation was Anisii’s official cap with a cockade.

  The three of them walked up the steps leading to the requisite door. The doorman rang the bell, tugged on his cap and crossed himself. “Leontii Andreevich has a very bad temper,” he explained in a whisper. “You gentlemen take responsibility for this.”

  “We do, we do,” Erast Petrovich muttered, examining the door closely. Then he suddenly gave it a gentle push and it yielded without a sound.

  “Not locked!” the doorman gasped. “That Zinka, his maid—she’s a real dizzy one. Nothing between the ears at all! You never know: we could easily have been burglars or thieves. Nearby here in Kislovsky Lane there was a case recently…”

  “Sh-sh-sh,” Fandorin hissed at him, and raised one finger.

  The apartment seemed to have died. They could hear a clock chiming, striking the quarter-hour.

  “This is bad, Tulipov, very bad.”

  Erast Petrovich stepped into the hallway and took an electric torch out of his pocket. An excellent little item, made in America: you pressed a spring, electricity was generated inside the torch and it shot out a beam of light. Anisii wanted to buy himself one like it, but they were very expensive.

  The beam roamed across the walls, ran across the floor and stopped.

  “Oh, God in Heaven!” the doorman squeaked in a shrill voice. “Zinka!”

  In the dark room the circle of light picked out the unnaturally white face of a young woman, with motionless, staring eyes.

  “Where’s the master’s bedroom?” Fandorin asked abruptly, shaking the frozen doorman by the shoulder. “Take me there! Quickly!”

  They dashed into the drawing room, from the drawing room into the study and through the study to the bedroom that lay beyond it.

  Anybody might have thought that Tulipov had seen more than enough contorted dead faces in the last few days, but this one was more repulsive than anything he’d seen so far.

  Leontii Andreevich Izhitsin was lying in bed with his mouth wide open.

  The Court Counsellor’s eyes were bulging out so incredibly far that they made him look like a toad. The beam of yellow light rushed back and forth, briefly illuminated some dark heaps of something around the pillow and darted away. There was a smell of decay and excrement.

  The beam moved back to the terrible face. The circle of electric light narrowed and became brighter, until it illuminated only the top of the dead man’s head.

  On the forehead there was the dark imprint of a kiss.

  —

  It is astounding what miracles my skill can perform. It is hard to imagine a creature more repulsively ugly than that court official. The ugliness of his behaviour, his manners, his speech, and his revolting features was so absolute that for the first time I felt doubt gnawing at my soul: could this scum really be as beautiful on the inside as all the rest of God’s children?

  And yet I managed to make him beautiful! Of course the male structure is far from a match for the female, but anybody who saw investigator Izhitsin after the work on him was completed would have had to admit that he was much improved in his new form.

  He was lucky. It was the reward for his vim and vigour; and for making my heart ache with longing with that absurd spectacle of his. He awoke the longing—and he satisfied it.

  I am no longer angry with him; he is forgiven. Even if because of him I have had to bury the trifles that were dear to my heart—the flasks in which I kept the precious mementoes that reminded me of my supreme moments of happiness. The alcohol has been emptied out of the flasks, and now all my mementoes will rot. But there is nothing to be done. It had become dangerous to keep them. The police are circling round me like a flock of crows.

  It’s an ugly job—sniffing things out, tracking people down. And the people who do it are exceptionally ugly. As if they deliberately choose that kind: with stupid faces and piggy eyes and crimson necks, and Adam’s apples that stick out, and protruding ears.

  No, that is perhaps unjust. There is one who is ugly to look at, but not entirely beyond redemption. I believe he is even rather likeable.

  He has a hard life.

  I ought to help the young man. Do another good deed.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Stenographic Report

  Good Friday, 7 April

  “…dissatisfaction and alarm. The sovereign is extremely concerned about the terrible, unprecedented atrocities that are being committed in the old capital. The cancellation of the Emperor’s visit for the Easter service in the Kremlin is a quite extraordinary event. His Majesty has expressed particular dissatisfaction at the attempt made by the Moscow administration to conceal from the sovereign the series of murders, which, as it now appears, has been going on for many weeks. Even as I was leaving St. Petersburg yesterday evening in order to carry out my investigation, the latest and most monstrous killing of all took place. The killing of the official of the Public Prosecutor’s Office who was leading the investigation is an unprecedented occurrence for the entire Russian Empire. And the blood-chilling circumstances of this atrocity throw down a challenge to the very foundations of the legal order. Gentlemen, my cup of patience is overflowing. Foreseeing His Majesty’s legitimate indignation, I take the following decision of my own volition and by virtue of the power invested in me…”

  The rain of words was heavy, slow, intimidating. The speaker surveyed the faces of those present gravely—the tense faces of the Muscovites and the stern faces of those from St. Petersburg.
<
br />   On the overcast morning of Good Friday an emergency meeting was taking place in Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi’s study, in the presence of the Minister of Internal Affairs, Count Tolstoy, and members of his retinue, who had only just arrived from the capital.

  This Orthodox champion of the fight against revolutionary devilment had a face that was yellow and puffy; the unhealthy skin sagged in lifeless folds below the cold, piercing eyes; but the voice seemed to be forged of steel—inexorable and imperious.

  “…by the power I possess as minister, I hereby dismiss Major-General Yurovsky from his position as the High Police Master of Moscow,” the Count rapped out, and a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan ran through the top brass of the Moscow police.

  “I cannot dismiss the district Public Prosecutor, who serves under the Ministry of Justice; however, I do emphatically recommend His Excellency to submit his resignation immediately, without waiting to be dismissed by compulsion…”

  Public Prosecutor Kozlyatnikov turned white and moved his lips soundlessly, and his assistants squirmed on their chairs.

  “As for you, Vladmir Andreevich,” the minister said, staring steadily at the Governor-General, who was listening to the menacing speech with his eyebrows knitted together and his hand cupped to his ear, “of course, I dare not give you any advice, but I am authorised to inform you that the sovereign expresses his dissatisfaction with the state of affairs in the city entrusted to your care. I am aware that in connection with your imminent sixtieth anniversary of service at officer’s rank, His Highness was intending to award you the highest order of the Russian Empire and present you with a diamond casket decorated with the monogram of the Emperor’s name. Well, Your Excellency, the decree has been left unsigned. And when His Majesty is informed of the outrageous crime that was perpetrated last night…”

  The Count made a rhetorical pause and total silence fell in the study. The Muscovites froze, because the cold breeze of the end of a Great Age had blown through the room. For almost a quarter of a century the old capital had been governed by Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi; the entire cut of Moscow public-service life had long ago been adjusted to fit His Excellency’s shoulders, to suit his grasp, which was firm yet did not constrain the comforts of life. And now it looked as if the old warhorse’s end was near. The High Police Master and the Public Prosecutor dismissed from their posts without the sanction of the Governor-General of Moscow! Nothing of the kind had ever happened before. It was a sure sign that Vladimir Andreevich himself was spending his final days, or even hours, on his high seat. The toppling of the giant could not help but be reflected in the lives and careers of those present, and therefore the difference between the expressions on the faces of the Muscovites and those on the faces of the Petersburgians became even more marked.