by Mike Resnick
I know America has its rich and its poor, its leaders and its followers, but any man can, through his own sweat and skills, climb to the top of whatever heap he covets. I find England’s class system stifling, and I keep wondering where America would be if, for example, Abraham Lincoln had been forced to remain the penniless frontiersman he had been born. We have Negroes who were born into slavery who will someday hold positions of wealth and power, and while slavery is a shameful blot on our history, it was a system that men of good will and reason eventually destroyed. I see no such men attempting to bring about the necessary changes in British society.
I walk through Whitechapel, and I can envision what a handful of Americans, with American know-how and American values, could do to it in five years’ time. And yet I fear it is doomed to remain exactly what it is until the buildings finally collapse of their own decrepitude.
I have made some friends among the residents, many of whom have been extremely hospitable to an alien. (Yes, I know I was well treated by the Royal Society, but I came there with a reputation as an expert. I came to Whitechapel only as an outsider. And yet I find I prefer to rub shoulders with the common man on this side of the ocean, even as I have always done at home.)
One special friend is a day laborer (who seems to labor as infrequently as possible) named Colin Shrank, who has been my guide down the fog-shrouded streets and filthy alleys of Whitechapel. As I say, we’ve discovered no useful information, but at least I now feel I have a reasonably thorough working knowledge of the geography of the place, a knowledge I will be only too happy to expunge the moment I return to our beloved Sagamore Hill.
My best to Alice and little Ted.
Your Theodore
Roosevelt opened a letter, tossing the envelope carelessly on the bar of the Black Swan.
“Another note from your pal Hughes?” asked Shrank.
Roosevelt nodded. “He’s through asking who the Ripper is. Now he just wants to know if he’s through killing women.”
Shrank shrugged. “Could be.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “I doubt it. I think he takes too much joy in killing and disemboweling helpless women.”
“Up against a man with a knife like that, they’re all helpless,” offered Shrank.
“Not so, Colin.” Roosevelt looked around the tavern, and his gaze came to rest on Irma, the burly midwife. “The women he’s attacked have all been on the slender side. If he went after someone like Irma here, he might have a real battle on his hands.”
“I’m no prostitute!” snapped Irma indignantly. “I honor the Bible and the Commandments!”
“No offense intended,” said Roosevelt quickly. “I was just suggesting that perhaps being a prostitute is not the Ripper’s sole criterion, that maybe he goes after women he knows he can dispatch quickly.”
“Why quickly, if he’s having such a good time?” asked the bartender.
“Secrecy is his ally,” answered Roosevelt. “He can’t butcher them unless he kills them before they can scream. That means they can’t struggle for more than a second or two.”
“Ever been anything like him in America?” asked Shrank.
“Not to my knowledge. Certainly not in our cities, where such crimes would not go unnoticed and unreported.”
“They gets noticed and reported, all right,” said a woman. “Just no one cares, is all.”
Roosevelt looked out the window. “It’s starting to get dark.” He walked to the door. “Come on, Colin. It’s time to make our rounds.”
“You go alone tonight,” said Shrank, taking a drink of his ale.
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I feel fine. But I been walking those damned bloody streets with you every night since he chopped Annie Chapman. It’s been raining all day, and the wind bites right through my clothes to my bones, so I’m staying here. If you spot him, give a holler and I’ll join you.”
“Stick around, Theodore,” added the bartender. “He ain’t out there. Hell, he’s probably got his throat sliced on the waterfront.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “If I can save a single life by patrolling the streets, then I have no choice but to do it.”
“That’s the coppers’ job,” insisted Shrank.
“It’s the job of every civic-minded citizen who cares about the safety of Whitechapel,” replied Roosevelt.
“That lets you out. You ain’t no citizen.”
“Enough talk,” said Roosevelt, standing at the door, hands on hips. “You’re sure you won’t come with me?”
“I can’t even keep up with you in good weather,” said Shrank.
Roosevelt shrugged. “Well, I can’t stand here talking all night.”
He turned and walked out into the fog for another fruitless night of hunting for the Ripper.
Roosevelt felt a blunt object poking his shoulder. He sat up, swinging wildly at his unseen assailant.
“Stop, Theodore!” cried a familiar voice. “It’s me—John Hughes.”
Roosevelt swung his feet to the floor. “You’re lucky I didn’t floor you again.”
“I learned my lesson the first time,” said Hughes, displaying a broom. “The handle’s two meters long.”
“All right, I’m awake,” said Roosevelt. “Why are you here?”
“Jack the Ripper has struck again.”
“What?” yelled Roosevelt, leaping to his feet.
“You heard me.”
“What time is it?” asked Roosevelt as he threw his clothes on.
“About 3:30 in the morning.”
“It’s Sunday, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Damn! I only went to bed about half an hour ago! Where did it happen?”
“In a little court off Berner Street,” said Hughes. “And this time he was interrupted.”
“By whom?”
“We’re not sure.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Come with me, and I’ll explain.”
Roosevelt finished dressing. “Let’s go.”
“There it is,” said Hughes as he and Roosevelt stared at the woman’s body. The head lay in a pool of blood. “He cut her throat and slashed her face, but there’s no other damage. He’d pulled her dress up and was just about to cut her belly open when he was interrupted.”
“What makes you think he was interrupted?” asked Roosevelt. “Why couldn’t he just have stopped for some other reason?”
“Because those two gentlemen”—Hughes pointed at a pair of locals who were speaking with two officers—“heard the scuffle and approached from different directions. We don’t know which one startled him—for all we know, he might have heard them both—but he suddenly took flight. They saw the body, realized what had happened, and gave chase.”
“For how long?”
Hughes shrugged. “Three or four blocks, before they knew for sure they’d lost him.”
“Did they get a glimpse of him?” persisted Roosevelt. “Any kind of description at all?”
Hughes shook his head. “But one of them, Mr. Packer, alerted us, and the body was still warm and bleeding when we found it. We couldn’t have missed him by five minutes.” He paused. “We’ve got a hundred men scouring every street and alley in Whitechapel. With a little luck we may find him.”
“May I speak to the two witnesses?” asked Roosevelt.
“Certainly.”
Hughes accompanied Roosevelt as the American approached the men. “This is Mr. Roosevelt,” he announced. “Please answer his questions as freely as you would answer mine.”
Roosevelt walked up to the taller of the two men. “I only have a couple of questions for you. The first is: how old are you?”
“34,” said the man, surprised.
“And how long have you lived in Whitechapel?”
“All my life, guv.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all you want to know?” asked the man.
“That’s all,” said Roose
velt. He turned to the smaller man. “Could you answer the same two questions, please?”
“I’m 28. Ain’t never been nowhere else.” He paused. “Well, I took the missus to the zoo oncet.”
“Thank you. I have no further questions.” He shook the smaller man’s hand, then walked back to look at the corpse again. “Have you identified her yet?”
Hughes nodded. “Elizabeth Stride. Long Liz, they called her.”
“A prostitute, of course?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time anyone saw her alive?”
“She was seen at Bricklayers Tavern just before midnight,” answered Hughes.
“With a customer?”
“Yes, but she’d already serviced him. He has an alibi for the time of the murder.”
“Which was when?”
“About 45 minutes ago.” Hughes looked off into the fog. “I wonder if he’s still out there?”
“If he is, I’m sure that—”
He was interrupted by a woman’s scream.
“Where did that come from?” demanded Hughes.
“I don’t know, sir,” said one of the policemen. “Either straight ahead or off to the left. It’s difficult to tell.”
He turned back to Roosevelt. “What do you…Theodore!!!”
But the American was already racing into the fog, gun in hand.
“Follow him!” shouted Hughes to his men.
“But—”
“He’s a hunter! I trust his instincts!”
They fell into stride behind Roosevelt, who ran through the darkness until he reached Church Passage. He leaned forward in a gunfighter’s crouch and peered into the fog.
“It came from somewhere near here,” he whispered as Hughes finally caught up with him. “Where does this thing lead?” he asked, indicating the narrow passage.
“To Mitre Street.”
“Let’s go,” said Roosevelt, moving forward silently. He traversed the passage, emerged on Mitre Street, spotted a bulky object in an open yard, and quickly ran over to it.
“Damn!” muttered Hughes as he joined the American. “Another one!”
“Post a man to watch the body and make sure no one touches anything,” said Roosevelt. “The Ripper can’t be more than a minute ahead of us.”
He trotted off down Mitre Street. The police began using their whistles to identify each other, and soon the shrill noise became almost deafening. Roosevelt had gone a short distance when he heard a faint moaning coming from a recessed doorway. He approached the source warily, gun in hand.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Thank God it’s you, sir!” said a familiar voice, and as he moved closer he realized that it was Irma, the midwife. He lit a match and saw a large bruise over her left temple.
“What happened?”
“I was coming back from Elsie Bayne’s when I heard a woman scream. Then a bloke dressed all in black run down the street and bowled me over.” She was overcome by a sudden dizziness.
“Did you see his features?”
“He had crazy eyes,” said Irma. “The kind what gives you nightmares.”
“What color were they?”
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “It’s dark.”
“How tall was he?”
“Taller than you, sir,” she replied. “Much taller. And thin. Like a skeleton, he was!”
“Was there anything, however small, that you can remember?” demanded Roosevelt. “Think hard. It’s important.”
“All I know is he wore black gloves.”
“No distinguishing marks?”
“Just the wound.”
“Wound?” said Roosevelt, pouncing on the word. “What wound?”
“On his cheek. It was dripping blood, it was.”
“Which cheek?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Please try.”
She frowned as if trying to recall, then whimpered in pain. “I don’t know, sir.” She looked down the street, where some bobbies were approaching them. “He done sliced another one, didn’t he, sir?”
The American nodded. “Not far from here.”
“These poor women!” sobbed Irma, starting to cry. “When will it stop?”
Roosevelt stood up. “You’re our only eyewitness,” he said. “The police artist may want to speak to you later.”
“But I done told you what I know!”
“Other details may come back to you. Try to cooperate with him.”
She nodded her head while rubbing her tears away with a filthy coat sleeve, and Roosevelt turned to the nearest officer. “When she feels strong enough, take her to the nearest hospital.” He turned and walked rapidly back to the latest victim.
“He really did a job on this one, sir,” said one of the policemen, staring down at the corpse.
The woman’s throat had been slit from ear to ear. The Ripper had then opened her up from neck to groin and gutted her like a fish. Each of her internal organs lay on the ground, neatly arranged in a seemingly meaningless pattern. A piece of her apron had been cut away; the Ripper had evidently use it to wipe his knife.
“Jesus!” said another officer, staring in fascination. “I never saw anyone sliced up like this!”
“You’re the taxidermist, Theodore,” said Hughes, joining them. “Can you tell if anything’s missing?”
Roosevelt studied the organs. “A kidney, I think.”
“I’ll have the police surgeon make sure,” said Hughes. He paused. “If you’re right, then we have to ask the question: as crazy as he is, why would he steal her kidney?”
“I’d hate to know the answer to that one, sir,” said one of the policemen.
“Does anyone know who she is?” asked Roosevelt.
“If she’s got any identification on her, it’s too blood-soaked to read it,” replied Hughes. “We’ll ask around. We should know by morning.”
Roosevelt walked away from the corpse, then signaled Hughes to join him.
“What is it, Theodore?”
“I wanted to speak where we couldn’t be overheard,” replied Roosevelt. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that we can definitely eliminate Prince Eddy from the list of suspects.”
“I am, of course,” said Hughes. “But how do you know?”
“I’ve met him,” said Roosevelt. “He’s a weak man, ravaged by disease. He could barely grip my hand.”
“Are you saying he’s too weak to have killed these women?” asked Hughes, looking unconvinced.
“Anyone can kill an unsuspecting victim with a knife,” responded the American.
“Well, then?”
“Your two witnesses,” said Roosevelt. “They were 28 and 34 years old, in the prime of life. They were healthy, and neither was carrying any excess weight. And they know their way around Whitechapel.” Roosevelt paused. “How could such an ill man, especially one who doesn’t know the area, outrun them? Remember, they said they chased him for three or four blocks. The Albert Victor I met couldn’t have run for one block, let alone four.”
“Thank you, Theodore,” said Hughes, obviously relieved. “You’ve lifted an enormous burden from me.”
“Forget about him, and concentrate on what we do know,” said the American. “For example, we know that the Ripper has an intimate knowledge of Whitechapel or he couldn’t have evaded his pursuers. In fact, he evaded pursuit twice in one night, because we couldn’t have been 60 seconds behind him at the site of this murder, and he vanished like an Apache in the Arizona hills.”
“He probably ducked into a building after he bumped into the midwife,” said Hughes.
“How would he know which ones were unlocked if he didn’t know the area like the back of his hand? Whatever else he may or may not be, the Ripper is a resident of Whitechapel.”
“Blast!” muttered Hughes. “That probably clears a second suspect as well.”
“Oh?”
“A Dr. Thomas Neill Cream. But he wouldn’t know
Whitechapel any better than Prince Eddy. Furthermore, he’s quite fat. I doubt that he could have outrun anyone.”
Roosevelt stared off into the distance, frowning.
“Is something wrong, Theodore?”
“Of course something’s wrong,” said Roosevelt irritably. “That madman has butchered two more women right under our noses.” He continued looking into the fog and frowning. “And I’m missing something.”
“What?”
He frowned again. “I don’t know. But it’s something I should know, something I’m sure I’ve overlooked.”
“Can I be of any assistance?” asked Hughes.
Roosevelt remained motionless for another moment, then shrugged and shook his head.
The morgue wagon arrived, Hughes began supervising the removal of the corpse, and Roosevelt went back to his room where he replayed the events of the evening over and over in his mind, looking for the detail he had missed.
My Dearest Edith:
They identified the evening’s second victim, a poor prostitute named Catherine Eddowes. I know I said I would be coming home shortly, but I cannot leave while this fiend remains at large.
There is no question that he will strike again, but when and where is almost impossible to predict. There seems to be no pattern to his murders until after he has dispatched his victim, and then the pattern is one that I shall not distress you by describing.
There was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent the four murders, but I have the uneasy feeling that I have the ability right now to prevent any further killings, if I could but see the tree rather than the forest. I am certain I know something that might lead to his apprehension, yet I have no idea what that knowledge may be.
Ah, well, there is no need to worry you with my problems. I shall be on the first ship home after this dreadful affair has been brought to a successful conclusion, hopefully in time to make a speech or two on Ben Harrison’s behalf, and then perhaps we’ll take Alice and little Ted on a vacation to Yosemite or the Yellowstone.
Your Theodore
“Where were you last night?” demanded Roosevelt when he entered the Black Swan on the morning of October 1.
“Right here,” answered Colin Shrank. “You think I sliced them two women?”
