“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 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.”
“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 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.
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 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 ste
pped 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.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 130
