A Study in Terror (9 page)

I was about to decline the honour, but a brutish-looking waiter standing by cried, “Gin-an'-bitters for the lady!” and ploughed towards the bar. The man was no doubt paid on the basis of the liquor the girls wheedled from their marks.

The wench dropped into the chair opposite me and laid her rather dirty hand upon mine. I withdrew mine quickly. This brought an uncertain smile to her painted lips, but her voice was cajoling as she said, “Shy, ducks? No need to be.”

“I merely dropped in for a quick pint,” said I. The adventure no longer seemed so alluring.

“Sure, luv. All the toffs drop in for quick pints. Then they just 'appen to find out what else we 'ave for sale.”

The waiter returned, slopped down the gin-and-tonic, and fumbled among the coins I had laid upon the table. I was sure he appropriated several pence too many, but I did not make an issue of it.

“Me name's Polly, luv. What's yers?”

“Hawkins,” said I, quickly. “Sam Hawkins.”

“'Awkins, is it?” she laughed. “Well, it's a bit of a change from Smythe. Yer 'eart'd bleed at 'ow many bloody Smythes come 'round.”

My reply, if indeed I had any, was cut down by an outburst in another part of the room. A dark-visaged sailor of gorilla proportions gave out a roar of rage and upset a table in his zeal to get at another patron who appeared to have offended him, a Chinese of insignificant stature. For a moment it seemed likely that the Oriental would be killed, so ferocious was the sailor's aspect.

But then another man interposed himself. He was thick-browed, with a heavy neck, and shoulders and arms like trees, although he did not match the angry sailor's proportions. The Oriental's unexpected defender smashed his fist into the sailor's solar plexus. It was a mighty blow, and the sailor's grasp could be heard all over the room as he doubled over in agony. Again the smaller man measured the giant, and again he delivered a blow, this time to the brute's jaw. The sailor's head snapped back; his eyes glazed; and, as he collapsed, his assailant was ready with a hunched shoulder, and caught the man's body like a sack of meal. His load balanced, the victor made calmly for the door, lugging the unconscious mariner as though he weighed no more than a child. He opened the door and hurled the man into the street.

“That's Max Klein,” said my doxy in awe. “Strong as a bloody ox, 'e is. Max just bought this place. 'E's owned it for about a four-month, an' 'e don't allow no bloke to get killed in it, 'e don't.”

The performance had been impressive indeed; but, at that moment, something else drew my attention. The door through which Klein had flung the sailor had scarcely closed when it was put to use by a new customer, one whom I thought I recognised. I peered through the haze to make sure my identification was correct. There was no doubt. It was Joseph Beck, the pawnbroker, moving towards a table. I made a mental note to report this fact to Holmes, and then I turned back to Polly.

“I got a nice room, luv,” said she, in a seductive tone.

“I fear I'm not interested, Madam,” said I, as kindly as I could.

“Madame, 'e says!” cried she, with indignation. “I ain't
that
old, guv'ner. I'm young enough, I promise yer. Young
an'
clean. You 'ave nothin' to fear from me.”

“But there must be someone
you
fear, Polly,” said I, observing her closely.

“Me? I don't go ter 'urt nobody.”

“I mean the Ripper.”

A whining note leaped into her voice. “Yer just tryin' to scare me! Well, I ain't afraid.” She took a gulp of her drink, eyes darting here and there. They came to focus on a point over my shoulder, and I realised that they had been directed that way during most of our conversation. I turned my head, and beheld as vicious-looking a creature as the imagination could have conjured.

He was incredibly filthy, and he had a hideous knife-scar across one cheek. This twisted his mouth in a permanent leer, and the damaged flesh around his left eye added further to his frightful aspect. I have never seen such malevolence in a human face.

“'E got Annie, the Ripper did,” Polly whispered. “'E gouged the poor little thing up good—Annie wot never 'urt a soul.”

I turned back to her. “That brute there, with the knife-scar?”

“'Oo knows?” Then she cried, “Wot's he 'ave to go and do those things for? Wot's the fun in shovin' a blade into a poor gel's belly an' cuttin' off 'er breast an' all?”

He was the man
.

Explaining my absolute certainty is difficult. In earlier life I indulged for a time in gambling, as a young man will, and there is a feeling that comes over one on certain occasions that is not founded in reason. Instinct, a sixth sense—call it what you will—it comes, and it is impossible to ignore it.

Such a feeling came over me as I studied the creature behind us; his gaze was fixed upon the girl who sat with me, and I could see the foul slaver at the corners of his contorted mouth.

But what to do?

“Polly,” I asked, quietly, “did you ever see that man before?”

“Me, ducks? Not ever! Narsty-lookin' cove, ain't 'e?” Then, with the instability that characterises the loose woman, Polly's mood changed. Her natural recklessness, possibly re-inforced by too many drinks, came to the fore. She suddenly raised her glass.

“'Ere's luck, luv. If yer don't want me lily-white body, yer don't. But yer a good bloke, and I wish yer the best.”

“Thank you.”

“A gel's got t'make a livin', so I'll be off. Another night, maybe?”

“Perhaps.”

She arose from the table, and moved away, flaunting her hips, I watched her, anticipating that she would approach another table for another solicitation. But she did not. Instead, she scanned the room, and then moved swiftly towards the door. She had found the pickings poor that night in The Angel and Crown, I thought and was going to resort to the streets. I had scarcely begun to feel relief when the repulsive creature beyond my shoulder jumped up and set out after her. My alarm may be imagined. I could think of no other course than to touch the weapon in my pocket for reassurance, and follow the man to the street.

I was beset by a momentary blindness, having to adjust my eyesight to the darkness after the glare of the public-room. When my eyes focused, fortunately, the man was still within my view. He was skulking along, close by the wall, at the end of the street.

I was now certain that I was embarked upon a perilous course. He was the Ripper. and he was stalking the girl who had endeavoured to entice me to her room, and there was only I between her and a hideous death. I gripped my revolver convulsively.

I followed, treading on the balls of my feet like a Red Indian of the American plains. He turned the corner; and, fearful both of losing him and of finding him, I hurried after.

I rounded the corner, panting, and peered cautiously ahead. There was only one gas-lamp, which made my survey doubly difficult. I strained my eyes. But my quarry had disappeared.

Apprehension seized me. Perhaps the fiend had already dragged the poor girl into an areaway and was slashing the life from her young body. If only I had had the foresight to bring a pocket lantern! I ran forward into darkness, the profound silence of the street broken only by the sounds of my footsteps.

There was enough light to warn me that the street narrowed at the other end, coming down to a passageway. It was into this that I plunged, my heart in my mouth at what I might find.

Suddenly I heard a choked cry. I had collided with something soft. A fear-stricken voice babbled, “Mercy! Oh, pray 'ave mercy!”

It was Polly, who had been pressed against the wall in the darkness. In fear that her cries might frighten the Ripper away, I clapped my hand over her mouth and whispered into her ear.

“It's all right, Polly. You are in no danger. I am the gentleman you sat with. I followed you—”

I was struck from behind by a sudden, enormous weight, and knocked back, staggering, along the passage. But my brain still functioned. I had been outwitted by the cunning devil I had followed from The Angel and Crown. He had crept into some shadow and allowed me to pass him. Now, enraged at the prospect of being deprived of his prey, he was attacking like a jungle beast.

I answered in kind, fighting desperately, trying to pull the revolver from my pocket. It should have been in my hand; but, during my stint in her Majesty's Indian service, I had served as a surgeon, not a soldier; I had no training in hand-to-hand fighting.

I was therefore no match for the monster with whom I had come to grips. I went down under his onslaught, gratefully aware that the girl had fled. I felt his powerful hands on my throat, and I flailed out desperately with my free arm as I struggled still to clear the weapon from my pocket.

To my stupefaction, a familiar voice growled, “Now let us see what manner of beast I have flushed!” Even before a bull's lantern flashed, I became aware of my blunder. The evil-appearing creature seated behind me in the pub had been Holmes—in disguise!

“Watson!” He was as astonished as I.

“Holmes! Good heavens, man! Had I managed to get my revolver out, I might have shot you!”

“And a good thing, too,” grumbled he. “Watson, you can write me down an ass.” He lifted his lithe body from me and grasped my hand to help me to my feet. Even then knowing he was my old friend, I could only marvel at the cleverness of his disguise, so different did he appear.

We had no time for further recriminations. As Holmes was pulling me erect, a scream rent the night. His hand released me instantly, and down I tumbled again. An oath erupted from his throat, one of the very few outbursts of profanity I have ever heard from him.

“I've been outdone!” he cried; and he went streaking away into the night.

As I scrambled to my feet, the female cries of terror and pain increased in volume. Suddenly they were cut off; and the sounds of a second pair of running feet were added to those of Holmes.

I must confess that I showed to little advantage in the affair. I had once been the middle-weight boxing champion of my regiment, but those days were in the long-ago, and I leaned against the brick wall, fighting nausea and dizziness. At that moment, I should not have been able to respond had our gracious Queen herself been screaming for aid.

The vertigo passed; the world righted itself; I moved shakily back, as I had come, groping my way along through the silence that had ominously fallen. I had retraced my steps some two hundred paces, when a quiet voice stopped me.

“Here, Watson.”

“I turned to my left and discovered a break in the wall.

Again, Holmes's voice: “I dropped my lantern. Will you be so kind as to search for it, Watson?”

His quiet tone was doubly chilling, in that it concealed an agonised inner struggle. I knew Holmes; he was shaken to the core.

Good fortune attended my search for the lantern. I took a single step, and bumped it with my foot. I relighted it, and staggered back from one of the most horrible scenes that has ever met my eyes.

Holmes was on his knees, back bowed, head lowered, a picture of despair.

“I have failed, Watson. I should be brought to the dock for criminal stupidity.”

I scarcely heard him, stunned as I was by the bloody sight that confronted me. Jack the Ripper had vented his obscene madness upon poor Polly. Her clothing had been torn from her body, baring fully half of it to view. A great, ragged slash had opened her abdomen, and its torn and mutilated contents were exposed like those of a butchered animal. A second savage thrust had severed her left breast almost from her body. The terrible scene swam before my eyes.

“But he had so little time! How—?”

But Holmes came alive; he sprang to his feet. “Come Watson! Follow me!”

So abruptly did he launch himself from the areaway towards the street that I was left behind. I called upon the reserves of strength each man possesses in moments of emergency, and ran, pell-mell, after him. He was well in the forefront all the way, but I did not lose him; and, when I again came close, I found him thundering upon the door of Joseph Beck's pawn-shop.

“Beck!” Holmes shouted. “Come out! I demand that you come out this instant!” His fists smote again and again upon the panel. “Open this door, or I shall smash it in!”

A rectangle of light appeared overhead. A window opened; a head was thrust out. Joseph Beck cried, “Are you mad? Who are you?”

The light from the lamp in his hand revealed a red-tasselled night-cap and a high-necked night-dress.

Holmes stood back and bellowed up at him. “Sir, I am Sherlock Holmes, and if you do not come down immediately I shall climb this wall and drag you out by your hair!”

Beck was, understandably, shaken. Holmes was still in his disguise; and to be roused out of sleep, and find such a hideous figure banging at his door in the dead of night, was certainly not an experience for which the life of a tradesman had prepared the pawnbroker.

I sought to help. “Herr Breck! You remember me, do you not?”

He gaped down at me. “You are one of the two gentlemen—?”

“And, despite his appearance, this is the other, Mr Sherlock Holmes, I promise you.”

The pawnbroker hesitated; but then he said, “Very well; I shall come down.”

Holmes paced with impatient strides until the light appeared in the shop, and the street-door opened.

“Step out here, Beck!” commanded Holmes, in a deadly voice; and, fearfully, the German obeyed. My friend's powerful hand darted out, and the man shrank back, but he was too slow. Holmes tore open the front of his nightdress, revealing a bare chest pimpled with the chill.

“What are you doing, sir?” quavered the tradesman. “I do not understand.”

“Be silent!” said Holmes, harshly; and in the light of Beck's lamp he examined the pawn-broker's chest minutely. “Where did you go, Joseph Beck, after you left the Angel and Crown?” asked Holmes, releasing his grasp.