The Big Book of Jack the Ripper

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

  If I expected his thanks, I was disappointed. After reading the missive, Holmes raised cold eyes. “Would you care to hear what Mycroft writes?”

  “Indeed I would.”

  “The note reads: ‘Dear Sherlock: A bit of information has come to me, in a way I shall explain later, which will be of value to you. A man named Max Klein is the proprietor of a Whitechapel sink named The Angel and Crown. Klein, however, purchased the place only recently; some four months ago, in fact, Your brother, Mycroft.’ ”

  I was too confounded to suspect which way the wind lay. I give myself that grace, at least, because so much more can be explained only by admitting to an abysmal stupidity. At any rate, I blurted forth, “Oh, yes, Holmes. I was aware of that. I got the information from the girl with whom I talked during my visit to The Angel and Crown.”

  “Did you indeed?” asked Holmes, dangerously.

  “A redoubtable fellow, this Klein. It occurred to me that it had not taken him long to impress his personality upon the place.”

  Holmes exploded, raising his fists. “Great God in Heaven! I wade knee-deep in idiots!”

  The wind I had not suspected struck me with its blast. My mouth dropped open. I managed feebly to say, “Holmes, I do not understand.”

  “Then there is no hope for you, Watson! First, you garner the exact information that would have enabled me to solve this case, and you blithely keep it to yourself. Then, you forget to give me the note containing that same vital fact. Watson! Watson! Whose side are you on?”

  If I had been confused before, I was now completely at sea. No protest was possible; and defiance, defence of my self-esteem, was out of the question.

  But Holmes was never a man to belabour a point. “The Angel and Crown, Watson!” cried he, leaping towards the door. “No, to the morgue first! We shall present that devil with a sample of his own handiwork!”

  Ellery Hears from the Past

  The doorbell rang.

  Ellery slammed down the journal. It was undoubtedly that alcoholic blotter again. He debated answering, glanced guiltily at his typewriter, and went out into the foyer and opened the door.

  It was not Grant Ames, but a Western Union messenger. Ellery scribbled his name and read the unsigned telegram.

  WILL YOU FOR BLANK’S SAKE PLUG IN YOUR TELEPHONE QUESTION MARK AM GOING STIR CRAZY EXCLAMATION POINT

  “No answer,” Ellery said. He tipped the messenger and went straightway to obey the Inspector’s order.

  Muttering to himself, he also plugged in his shaver and plowed its snarling head through his beard. As long as he keeps phoning, he thought, he’s still in Bermuda. If I can browbeat him into just one more week…

  The revitalized phone rang. Ellery snapped the shaver off and answered. Good old Dad.

  But it was not good old Dad. It was the quavering voice of an old lady. A very old lady.

  “Mr. Queen?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have been expecting to hear from you.”

  “I must apologize,” Ellery said. “I planned to call on you, but Dr. Watson’s manuscript caught me at a most awkward time. I’m up to my ears in a manuscript of my own.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, believe me.”

  “Then you have not had the time to read it?”

  “On the contrary, it was a temptation I couldn’t resist, deadline or not. I’ve had to ration myself, though. I still have two chapters to go.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Queen, with your time so limited, I’d best wait until you have completed your own work.”

  “No—please. My problems there are solved. And I’ve looked forward to this chat.”

  The cultured old voice chuckled. “I needn’t mention that my advance order for your new mystery has been placed, as always. Or would you consider that deliberate flattery? I hope not!”

  “You’re very kind.”

  There was something under the quiet, precise diction, the restraint, the discipline, something Ellery felt sure of, possibly because he had been expecting it—a tension, as if the old lady were almost to the snapping point.

  “Were you at all troubled as to the authenticity of the manuscript, Mr. Queen?”

  “At first, frankly, when Grant brought me the manuscript, I thought it a forgery. I soon changed my mind.”

  “You must have thought my mode of delivery eccentric.”

  “Not after reading the opening chapter,” Ellery said. “I understood completely.”

  The old voice trembled. “Mr. Queen, he did not do it. He was not the Ripper!”

  Ellery tried to soothe her distress. “It’s been so many years. Does it really matter any longer?”

  “It does, it does! Injustice always matters. Time changes many things, but not that.”

  Ellery reminded her that he had not yet finished the manuscript.

  “But you know, I feel that you know.”

  “I’m aware in which direction the finger’s pointing.”

  “And keeps pointing, to the end. But it is not true, Mr. Queen! Sherlock Holmes was wrong for once. Dr. Watson was not to blame. He merely recorded the case as it unfolded—as Mr. Holmes dictated. But Mr. Holmes failed, and did a great injustice.”

  “But the manuscript was never published——”

  “That makes no genuine difference, Mr. Queen. The verdict was known, the stain indelibly imprinted.”

  “But what can I do? No one can change yesterday.”

  “The manuscript is all I have, sir! The manuscript and that abominable lie! Sherlock Holmes was not infallible. Who is? God reserves infallibility for Himself alone. The truth must be hidden in the manuscript somewhere, Mr. Queen. I am pleading with you to find it.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you, young man. Thank you so very much.”

  With the connection safely broken, Ellery slammed down the phone and glared at it. It was a miserable invention. He was a nice guy who did good works and was kind to his father, and now this.

  He was inclined to wish a pox on the head of John Watson, M.D., and all adoring Boswells (where was his?); but then he sighed, remembering the old lady’s trembling voice, and sat down with Watson’s manuscript again.

  CHAPTER X

  The Tiger of The Angel and Crown

  “I earnestly hope, my dear fellow, that you will accept my apology.”

  These words from Holmes were the most welcome I had ever received. We were back in the street, pushing along through the fog, as there were no hansoms cruising Whitechapel that night.

  “You were totally justified, Holmes.”

  “To the contrary. I displayed a childish petulance that ill becomes a grown man. Blaming others for one’s own mistakes is indefensible. The information, which you so readily extracted from the girl Polly, I should have had the intelligence to come by long ago. You actually proved an ability to do my work far better than I have done it myself.”

  All of which was specious; but Holmes’s praise salved my pride, nonetheless.

  “I cannot accept the accolade, Holmes,” I protested. “It did not occur to me that Klein was indicated as your missing link.”

  “That,” said Holmes, still over-generous, “was because you neglected to turn your perceptions in the proper direction. We were looking for a strong man, a man brutal and remorseless. Klein, from what you told me, filled that bill; also, from what I myself observed in the pub. Others in Whitechapel would qualify as equally vicious, although it is true that the other bit of information points directly to Klein.”

  “His recent purchase of the pub? When you explain, it becomes quite simple.”

  “What happened is now predictable, with only the smallest percentage in favour of error. Klein saw an opportunity in the person of Michael Osbourne. Both Michael and, beyond all doubt, the prostitute Angela, of whom Michael became enamoured, were weak individuals, easily controlled by this cruelly dominating man. It was Klein who engineered the infamous marriage
that ruined Michael Osbourne.”

  “But to what purpose?”

  “Blackmail, Watson! The plan failed when Michael stood upon his better nature and refused his coöperation. The plot was saved by Klein only through sheer luck, I am certain. Thus he was able to extort enough money to buy The Angel and Crown, and has no doubt further feathered his noisome nest since.”

  “But so much is still unanswered, Holmes. Michael—reduced to a state of imbecility. His wife, Angela—whom, I remind you, we have yet to locate—hideously scarred.”

  “In good time, Watson, in good time.”

  My confusion was the more compounded by Holmes’s tone of confidence.

  “Their present plight, you may be sure, is the result of Klein’s rage at being thwarted by Michael’s refusal to be a party to the blackmail scheme. No doubt it was Klein who administered that brutal beating to Michael which brought on his imbecility. How Angela became disfigured is not so evident, but I suggest that she went to Michael’s defence.”

  At this moment, we walked out of the fog into a pocket of visibility, and saw the gate to the mortuary. I shuddered. “And now, Holmes, you plan to transport the body of that poor girl to The Angel and Crown?”

  “Hardly, Watson,” said he, absently.

  “But you mentioned confronting Klein with his handiwork.”

  “That we shall do, I promise you.”

  Shaking my head, I followed Holmes through the mortuary into the hostel, where we found Dr. Murray ministering to the blackened eye of a man who had probably imbibed violence with his pint in some pub.

  “Is Michael Osbourne on the premises?” demanded Holmes.

  Dr. Murray was haggard. Over-work, and the thankless task of caring for the uncared-for, were taking their toll. Said he, “A short time ago, I would not have recognised that name——”

  “Please,” interrupted Holmes. “Time is paramount, Dr. Murray. I must take him away with us.”

  “To-night? Now?”

  “There have been certain developments, Doctor. Before dawn, the Ripper will have been run to earth. The account must be settled with the beast responsible for Whitechapel’s blood-bath.”

  Dr. Murray was as bewildered as I. “I do not understand. Do you mean, sir, that the Ripper is a creature of an even greater villain?”

  “In a sense. Have you seen Inspector Lestrade lately?”

  “He was here an hour ago. He is undoubtedly out in the fog somewhere.”

  “Tell him, should he return, to follow me to The Angel and Crown.”

  “But why are you taking Michael Osbourne with you?”

  “To confront his wife,” said Holmes, impatiently. “Where is he, man? We waste precious time!”

  “You will find him in the small room off this end of the mortuary. That is where he sleeps.”

  We found the imbecile there, and Holmes shook him gently awake. “Angela is waiting for you,” said he.

  There was no flicker of understanding in the vacant eyes; but, with the trust of a child, he accompanied us into the fog. It was now so thick that we depended completely upon Holmes’s hound-like senses to keep us on our course. And, so sinister was the atmosphere of London that night, I half-expected to feel the bite of a blade between my ribs at any moment.

  But my curiosity was strong. I ventured a query. “Holmes, I assume that you expect to find Angela Osbourne at The Angel and Crown.”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “But what purpose is served by facing her with Michael?”

  “The woman may be reluctant to speak. There will be a certain shock-value in suddenly confronting her with her husband.”

  “I see,” said I, although I did not, quite; and lapsed back into silence.

  At last there was the sound of a hand tapping upon wood, and I heard Holmes say, “This is it, Watson. Now we search.”

  A faintly-glowing window indicated that it was a domicile of some sort. Said I, “Was that the front door you tapped upon?”

  “It was, but we must find another. I wish to reach the upper rooms unseen.”

  We pawed along the wall and around a corner. Then a breeze stirred the fog, thinning it.

  Holmes had thought to borrow a dark lantern during our visit to the hostel, although he had not used it during our journey. It might well have brought us to the unwelcome attention of foot-pads. It now served us in good stead, outlining a rear door, apparently used for the delivery of beer-kegs and spirits. Holmes pushed the panel open and reached inside. “The hasp has been recently broken,” said he; and we went through stealthily.

  We were in a store-room. I could hear the muffled noise from the public-room, but it appeared that our presence had gone undetected. Holmes quickly found a laddered ascent to the upper storey. We climbed it with caution, crept through a trap-door, and found ourselves at the end of a dimly-lit corridor.

  “Wait here with Michael,” whispered Holmes. He soon returned. “Come!”

  We followed him to a closed door; a line of light shone upon our boot-tips. Holmes pressed us back against the wall and tapped upon the panel. There was quick movement inside. The door opened, and a female voice queried, “Tommy?”

  Holmes’s hand was in like a snake and locked over a shadowed face. “Do not scream, Madam,” said he, in a commanding whisper. “We mean you no harm. But we must speak to you.”

  Holmes warily relaxed the pressure of his hand. The woman’s voice asked, “Who are you?” in understandable fear.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes. I have brought your husband.”

  I heard a gasp. “You have brought Michael—here? In God’s name, why?”

  “It was the prudent thing to do.”

  Holmes entered the room and nodded to me to follow. Grasping Michael’s arm, I did so.

  Two oil-lamps were burning, and in their light I saw a woman, wearing a veil whose gauzy texture did not quite conceal a hideous scar. It was undoubtedly Angela Osbourne.

  At the sight of the imbecile—her husband—she grasped the arms of the chair in which she sat, and half-arose. But then she sank back and sat with the rigidity of a corpse, her hands gripped together.

  “He does not recognise me,” she murmured in despair.

  Michael Osbourne stood silently by me, regarding her with his empty eyes.

  “As well you know, Madam,” said Holmes. “But the time is short. You must speak. We know that Klein is responsible for both your husband’s condition and your disfigurement. Tell me about the interlude in Paris.”

  The woman wrung her hands. “I will not waste time making excuses for myself, sir. There are none. As you can perhaps see, I am not like those poor girls downstairs who fell into their shameful calling through poverty and ignorance. I am what I have become because of that beast, Max Klein.

  “You wish to know about Paris. I went there because Max had arranged an assignation for me with a wealthy French merchant. Whilst this was taking place, I met Michael Osbourne, and he was taken with me. Believe me, sir, I had no intention of shaming him; but when Max Klein arrived in Paris, he saw an opportunity to use the smitten youth for his own ends. Our marriage was the first step in his plan, and he compelled me to use my wiles. Michael and I were married, despite my tearful protestations to Max.

  “Then, with Michael safely in his clutch, Max sprang his trap. It was the most blatant blackmail, Mr. Holmes. He would acquaint the Duke of Shires with the facts, said he, and threaten to reveal his son’s wife for what I was, parading me before all the world, unless his Grace paid.”

  “But this never came about,” said Holmes, eyes gleaming.

  “No. Michael had more spine than Max had anticipated. He threatened to kill Max, even made the attempt. It was a dreadful scene! Michael stood no chance before Max’s brute strength. He felled Michael with a blow. But then Max’s temper, his sheer savagery of nature, seized him, and he administered the terrible beating that resulted in Michael’s present condition. Indeed, the beating would have ended in Michael’s death,
had I not intervened. Whereupon Max plucked a knife from the table, and rendered me as you see. His rage left him in the nick of time, averting a double murder.”

  “His beating of Michael and mutilation of you did not make him abandon his plan?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. Had it done so, I am sure Max would have left us in Paris. Instead, using the considerable sum of money he took from Michael, he brought us back to Whitechapel and purchased this public-house.”

  “That money was not gained through blackmail, then?”

  “No. The Duke of Shires was generous with Michael until he disowned him. Max stripped Michael of every penny he had. Then he imprisoned us here, in The Angel and Crown, plotting, no doubt, to go on with whatever infamous plan he had in mind.”

  “You said he brought you back to Whitechapel, Mrs. Osbourne,” said Holmes. “Is this Klein’s habitat?”

  “Oh, yes, he was born here. He knows its every street and alley. He is greatly feared in this district. There are few who dare cross him.”

  “What was his plan? Do you know?”

  “Blackmail, I am sure. But something happened to balk him; I never discovered what it was. Then Max came to me one morning, fiercely elated. He said that his fortune was made, that he needed Michael no longer, and planned to murder him. I pleaded with him. Perhaps I was able to touch off a spark of humanity in his heart; in any case, he humoured me, as he put it, and delivered Michael to Dr. Murray’s hostel, knowing his memory was gone.”

  “The good fortune that elated Klein, Mrs. Osbourne. What was its nature?”

  “I never learned. I did ask him if the Duke of Shires had agreed to pay him a large sum of money. He slapped me and told me to mind my affairs.”

  “Since that time you have been a prisoner in this place?”

  “A willing one, Mr. Holmes. Max has forbidden me to leave this room, it is true, but my mutilated face is my true gaoler.” The woman bowed her veiled head. “That is all I can tell you, sir.”

  “Not quite, Madam!”

  “What else?” said she, head rising.

  “There is the matter of the surgeon’s-case. Also, of an unsigned note informing Lord Carfax of his brother Michael’s whereabouts.”