A Study in Terror (8 page)

“From which is it too difficult, my dear Watson,” interposed Mycroft, with a kindliness that irritated me, “to project the man's slovenliness to his work, and thus conjure up an irate employer?”

“An employer not only irate but unforgiving,” said Sherlock, “as evidenced by the newspaper in the bookkeeper's jacket-pocket, opened to the
Situations
column. Hence, he is unemployed.”

“But you said he would find a berth!” said I, testily, to Mycroft. “If the fellow is so inefficient, why should a new employer consider him?”

“Most would not, but many of the entries in the newspaper are marked, clearly for investigation. Such energy in seeking a new situation must eventually be rewarded.”

I threw up my hands. “I concede, as usual! But the other man's being a lamp-lighter—surely that is sheer surmise on your part?”

“A little more technical,” my friend Holmes admitted. “But observe the spot that is worn shiny on his inner right sleeve, extending upwards above the cuff.”

“An unfailing mark of the lamp-lighter,” said Mycroft.

“In extending his pole to reach the gas-globe with his flame,” explained Sherlock, “he rubs the lower end of the pole against that portion of his sleeve again and again. Really elementary, Watson.”

Before I could retort, Holmes's mood changed, and he turned from the window with a frown. “I wish our present problem were as easily solved. That is why we are here, Mycroft.”

“Give me the details,” replied his brother, with a smile. “My afternoon must not be entirely lost.”

Twenty minutes later, ensconced in easy-chairs in the Stranger's Room, we sat in silence. It was broken by Mycroft. “Your picture is well-delineated, Sherlock, so far as it goes. But surely you are capable of solving the riddle yourself.”

“I have no doubt of that, but there is little time. Preventing further outrages is urgent. Two minds are better than one. You might well discern a point that would save me a precious day or two of searching.”

“Then let us see precisely what you have. Or, rather, precisely what you do not have. Your pieces are far from complete.”

“Of course.”

“Yet you have touched a sensitive spot somewhere, as witness the swift and murderous attack upon you and Watson. Unless you wish to ascribe it to coincidence?”

“I do not!”

“Nor I.” Mycroft tugged at an ear. “Of course, it is no cerebral feat to identify the mysterious Pierre by his true name.”

“Certainly not,” replied Holmes. “He is the Duke of Shires's second son, Michael.”

“As to Michael's grievous injuries, the father may be unaware of them. But Lord Carfax certainly knows of Michael's presence at the hostel, and beyond doubt recognised his younger brother.”

“I am quite aware,” said Holmes, “that Lord Carfax has not been entirely candid.”

“He interests me. The philanthropic cloak is an admirable disguise for devilry. Lord Carfax could well have been responsible for Michael's delivery into Dr. Murray's care.”

“Also,” said Holmes, grimly, “for his injuries.”

“Possibly. But you must find other pieces, Sherlock.”

“Time, Mycroft, time! That is my problem. I must identify, quickly, the right thread in this skein, and seize upon it.”

“I think you must somehow force Carfax's hand.”

I broke in. “May I ask a question?”

“By all means, Watson. We had no intention of excluding you.”

“I can be of little help, but certainly identifying Jack the Ripper is our first concern. Therefore I ask, do you believe we have met the murderer? Is the Ripper one of the people with whom we have come in contact?”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “Do you have a candidate for that dubious honour, Watson?”

“If I were compelled to make a selection, I should name the imbecile. But I must confess that I missed badly in not postulating him as Michael Osbourne.”

“On which grounds do you condemn him?”

“Nothing tangible, I fear. But I cannot forget the
tableau
I witnessed as we were leaving the Montague Street morgue. Dr. Murray, you will recall, commanded ‘Pierre' to cover the unfortunate's corpse. There was nothing conclusive in his action, but his manner made my flesh fairly crawl. He seemed entranced by the mutilated cadaver. In smoothing out the sheet, his hands ran lovingly over the cold flesh. He appeared to be enamoured of the butchery.”

There was a pause during which the brothers evaluated my contribution. Then Mycroft said, gravely, “You have made a most pertinent point, Watson. I would only say that it is difficult, as you are aware, to interpret the actions generated by a damaged mentality. However, your instinctive revulsion may be worth more than all the logic we can muster.”

“The observation is certainly to be considered,” remarked Sherlock.

I gathered the impression, however, that neither put any great stock in my statement; that they were merely being kind.

Mycroft came ponderously to his feet. “You must gather more facts, Sherlock.”

His brother clenched his hands.

It had occurred to me that this entire episode with Mycroft was not at all like the sure-footed, self-confident Sherlock Holmes I had known. I was puzzling the matter when Mycroft, speaking quietly, said, “I believe I know the source of your confusion, Sherlock. You must banish it. You have become subjective in regard to this case.”

“I fail to comprehend,” Holmes said, a trifle coldly.

“Four of the most heinous murders of the century, and perhaps more to come. If you had entered the case sooner, you might have prevented some of these. That is what gnaws at you. The acid of guilt can dull the keenest intellect.”

Holmes had no rebuttal. He shook his head impatiently, and said, “Come, Watson, the game is afoot. We stalk a savage beast.”

“And a cunning one,” said Mycroft, in clear warning. Then he said, “Sherlock, you seek a scar-faced woman. Also, one of the key-pieces that is missing, the ill-reputed wife of Michael Osbourne. What does that suggest?”

Holmes fixed his brother with an angry eye. “You must indeed feel that I have lost my faculties, Mycroft! It of course suggests that they are one and the same.”

On that note, we left the Diogenes Club.

Ellery's Nemesis Investigates

The apartment bell was a carved rosebud set in ivory leaves. Grant Ames jabbed it, and the result was a girl wearing poisonous-green lounging pyjamas.

“Hello, Madge. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so here I am.”

She glowed. That thinly patrician male face reminded her of a very big dollar sign. “And so you thought you'd drop in?” she said, making it sound like Einstein's first formulation of the Theory; and she threw the door so wide it cracked against the wall.

Grant moved warily forward. “Nice little nest you've got here.”

“It's just an ordinary career gal's efficiency apartment. I combed the East side, absolutely combed it. And finally found this. It's sickeningly expensive, but of course one wouldn't dare live anywhere but Upper East.”

“I didn't know you'd gone in for a career.”

“Oh, definitely. I'm a consultant. You drink scotch, don't you?”

It behoved a legman to follow through, Grant thought. He asked brightly, “And with whom do you consult?”

“The public relations people at the factory.”

“The one your father owns, of course.”

“Of course.”

Madge Short was a daughter of Short's Shapely Shoes, but with three brothers and two sisters to share the eventual loot. She wagged her pert red head as she extended a scotch-and.

“And the factory is located—”

“In Iowa.”

“You commute?”

“Silly! There's a Park Avenue office.”

“You surprise me, dear heart. I see you in a different role.”

“As a bride?” Two outstanding young breasts lifted the poisonous green like votive offerings.

“God, no,” Grant said hurriedly. “I visualize you somewhere in the literary field.”

“You've got to be kidding!”

Grant had checked the room. There were no books in sight—no magazines, either—but that wasn't necessarily conclusive.

“I see you as reading a great deal, chickie. A bit of a bookworm, so to speak.”

“In this day and age? Wherever would one get the
time?
”

“Oh, one wedges it in here and there.”

“I do read some.
Sex and the Single
—”

“I'm a detective bug myself. Father Brown. Bishop Cushing.” He watched narrowly for her reaction. It was like watching for a pink piglet to react.

“I like them, too.”

“With a smattering,” Grant went on cunningly, “of the philosophers—Burton, Sherlock Holmes.”

“One of the men at that party, he's an expert on Zen.” Doubt was beginning to creep in. Grant quickly changed his tactics.

“That blue bikini you wore. Was it ever sharp?”

“I'm so glad you liked it, dahling. How about another scotch?”

“No, thanks,” Grant said, getting up. “Time goes bucketing by, and—well, there you are.” She was hopeless.

He collapsed behind the wheel of the Jag.

How did those fellows do it? Holmes? Even Queen?

While something was pressing against Ellery's nose, smothering him. He awoke and discovered that it was the journal with which he had gone to bed. He yawned, dropped it on the floor, and sat up groggily, elbows on knees. The journal now lay between his feet, so he doubled up, head between his hands.

And began to read, southward.

CHAPTER VI

I STALK THE RIPPER

The following morning, I must say, Holmes infuriated me.

When I awoke, he was up and clothed. I instantly saw, from the reddened condition of his eyes, that he had slept little; indeed, I suspected that he had been out all night. But I made no inquiry.

To my gratification, he was of a mind to talk, rather than to sink into one of his reticent moods, out of which little more than cryptic sounds ever emerged.

“Watson,” said he, without preliminary, “there is a notorious public-house in Whitechapel.”

“There are many.”

“True, but the one to which I refer, The Angel and Crown, abuses even the riotous pleasures tendered by that district. It is situated in the heart of the Ripper's prowling-grounds, and three of the murdered prostitutes were seen on the premises shortly before their deaths. I mean to give sharp attention to The Angel and Crown. To-night I shall indulge in a little carousing there.”

“Capital, Holmes! If I may confine myself to ale—”

“Not you, my dear Watson. I still shudder at how close to death I have already led you.”

“See here, Holmes—”

“My mind is made up,” replied he, firmly. “I have no intention of confronting your good wife, upon her return, with the dismal news that her husband's body may be found in the morgue.”

“I thought I gave a good account of myself!” said I, heatedly.

“You did, certainly. Without you I might myself well be occupying a pallet in Dr. Murray's establishment. That is no justification, however, for risking your safety a 6econd time. Perhaps whilst I am absent to-day—I have much to do—your practice could do with a little attention.”

“It is going along quite nicely, thank you. I have a working arrangement with a most able locum tenens.”

“Then might I suggest a concert, or a good book?”

“I am quite capable of occupying my mind fruitfully,” said I, coldly.

“Indeed you are, Watson,” said he. “Well, I must be off! Expect me when you see me. I promise I shall put you abreast of affairs upon my return.”

With that he darted out, leaving me to steam at a temperature only a little below that of Mrs. Hudson's tea.

My determination to defy Holmes did not form at once; but, before my morning repast was finished, it was clearly shaped. I passed the day reading a curious monograph from Holmes's book-shelf on the possible use of bees in murder-intrigues, both by causing them to contaminate their honey, and by training them to attack a victim in a swarm. The work was anonymous, but I recognised the concise style of Holmes in the writing. Then, as darkness fell, I planned my night's foray.

I would arrive at The Angel and Crown in the guise of a lecherous man-about-town, sure that I would not stand out, as many of London's more hardened
habitués
made a practise of frequenting such places. I therefore hurried home and donned evening attire. Capping my regalia with top-hat and opera cape, I surveyed myself in the glass, and found that I cut a more dashing figure than I had dared hope. Slipping a loaded revolver into my pocket, I went out into the street, hailed a hansom, and gave The Angel and Crown as my destination.

Holmes had not yet arrived.

It was a horrible place. The long, low-ceilinged public-room was thick with eye-smarting fumes from the many oil-lamps. Clouds of tobacco smoke hung in the air, like storm-warnings. And the crude tables were crowded by as motley a collection of humanity as ever I had encountered. Evil-faced Lascars on leave from the freighters that choke the Thames; inscrutable Orientals; Swedes, and Africans, and seedy-looking Europeans; not to mention the many varieties of native Britons—all bent on supping off the flesh-pots of the world's largest city.

The flesh-pots were dubiously spiced with females of all ages and conditions. Most were pitiful in their physical deterioration. Only a few were attractive, younger ones who had just set foot upon the downward path.

It was one of these latter who approached me after I had found a table, had ordered a pint of stout, and sat surveying the reckless scene. She was a pretty little thing, but the wicked light in her eye, and her hard manner, indelibly marked her.

“'Ullo, luv. Buy a gel a gin-an'-bitters?”