Аврам Дэвидсон - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

Kane’s frown deepened. “You call this new? Look at the dust on those goblets.”

“Playing detective again, eh?” Woods shook his head. “Trouble with you, Hilary, is that you have too many hobbies.” He glanced across the Square as a chill wind heralded the coming of twilight. “Getting late — we’d better move along.”

“Not until I find out about this.”

Kane was already opening the door and Woods sighed. “The game is afoot, I suppose. All right, let’s get it over with.”

The shop-bell tinkled and the two men stepped inside. The door closed, the tinkling stopped, and they stood in the shadows and the silence.

But one of the shadows was not silent. It rose from behind the single counter in the small space before the rear wall.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said the shadow. And switched on an overhead light. It cast a dim nimbus over the countertop and gave dimension to the shadow, revealing the substance of a diminutive figure with an unremarkable face beneath a balding brow.

Kane addressed the proprietor. “Mind if we have a look?”

“Is there any special area of interest?” The proprietor gestured toward the shelves lining the wall behind him. “Books, maps, china, crystal?”

“Not really,” Kane said. “It’s just that I’m always curious about a new shop of this sort—”

The proprietor shook his head. “Begging your pardon, but it’s hardly new.”

Woods glanced at his friend with a barely suppressed smile, but Kane ignored him.

“Odd,” Kane said. “I’ve never noticed this place before.”

“Quite so. I’ve been in business a good many years, but this is a new location.”

Now it was Kane’s turn to glance quickly at Woods, and his smile was not suppressed. But Woods was already eyeing the artifacts on display, and after a moment Kane began his own inspection.

Peering at the shelving beneath the glass counter, he made a rapid inventory. He noted a boudoir lamp with a beaded fringe, a lavaliere, a tray of pearly buttons, a durbar souvenir programme, and a framed and inscribed photograph of Matilda Alice Victoria Wood aka Bella Delmare aka Marie Lloyd. There was a miscellany of old jewelry, hunting-watches, pewter mugs, napkin rings, a toy bank in the shape of a miniature Crystal Palace, and a display poster of a formidably mustached Lord Kitchener with his gloved finger extended in a gesture of imperious command.

It was, he decided, the mixture as before. Nothing unusual, and most of it — like the Kitchener poster — not even properly antique but merely outmoded. Those fans on the bottom shelf, for example, and the silk toppers, the opera glasses, the black bag in the far corner covered with what was once called “American cloth.”

Something about the phrase caused Kane to stoop and make a closer inspection. American cloth. Dusty now, but once shiny, like the tarnished silver nameplate identifying its owner. He read the inscription.

J. Ridley, MD.

Kane looked up, striving to conceal his sudden surge of excitement.

Impossible! It couldn’t be — and yet it was. Keeping his voice and gesture carefully casual, he indicated the bag to the proprietor.

“A medical kit?”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“Might I ask where you acquired it?”

The little man shrugged. “Hard to remember. In this line one picks up the odd item here and there over the years.”

“Might I have a look at it, please?”

The elderly proprietor lifted the bag to the countertop. Woods stared at it, puzzled, but Kane ignored him, his gaze intent on the nameplate below the lock. “Would you mind opening it?” he said.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a key.”

Kane reached out and pressed the lock; it was rusted, but firmly fixed. Frowning, he lifted the bag and shook it gently.

Something jiggled inside, and as he heard the click of metal against metal his elation peaked. Somehow he suppressed it as he spoke.

“How much are you asking?”

The proprietor was equally emotionless. “Not for sale.”

“But—”

“Sorry, sir. It’s against my policy to dispose of blind items. And since there’s no telling what’s inside—”

“Look, it’s only an old medical bag. I hardly imagine it contains the Crown jewels.”

In the background Woods snickered, but the proprietor ignored him. “Granted,” he said. “But one can’t be certain of the contents.” Now the little man lifted the bag and once again there was a clicking sound. “Coins, perhaps.”

“Probably just surgical instruments,” Kane said impatiently. “Why don’t you force the lock and settle the matter?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It would destroy its value.”

“What value?” Kane’s guard was down now; he knew he’d made a tactical error but he couldn’t help himself.

The proprietor smiled. “I told you the bag is not for sale.”

“Everything has its price.”

Kane’s statement was a challenge, and the proprietor’s smile broadened as he met it. “One hundred pounds.”

“A hundred pounds for that?” Woods grinned — then gaped at Kane’s response.

“Done and done.”

“But, sir—”

For answer Kane drew out his wallet and extracted five twenty-pound notes. Placing them on the countertop, he lifted the bag and moved toward the door. Woods followed hastily, turning to close the door behind him.

The proprietor gestured. “Wait — come back—”

But Kane was already hurrying down the street, clutching the black bag under his arm.

He was still clutching it half an hour later as Woods moved with him into the spacious study of Kane’s flat overlooking the verdant vista of Cadogan Square. Dappled splotches of sunlight reflected from the gleaming oilcloth as Kane set the bag on the table and carefully wiped away the film of dust with a dampened rag. He smiled triumphantly at Woods.

“Looks a bit better now, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think anything.” Woods shook his head. “A hundred pounds for an old medical kit—”

“A very old medical kit,” said Kane. “Dates back to the Eighties, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Even so, I hardly see—”

“Of course you wouldn’t! I doubt if anyone besides myself would attach much significance to the name of J. Ridley, M.D.”

“Never heard of him.”

“That’s understandable.” Kane smiled. “He preferred to call himself Jack the Ripper.”

“Jack the Ripper?”

“Surely you know the case. Whitechapel, 1888 — the savage slaying and mutilation of prostitutes by a cunning mass-murderer who taunted the police — a shadow, stalking his prey in the streets.”

Woods frowned. “But he was never caught, was he? Not even identified.”

“In that you’re mistaken. No murderer has been identified quite as frequently as Red Jack. At the time of the crimes and over the years since, a score of suspects were named. A prime candidate was the Pole, Klosowski, alias George Chapman, who killed several wives — but poison was his method and gain his motive whereas the Ripper’s victims were all penniless prostitutes who died under the knife. Another convicted murderer, Neil Cream, even openly proclaimed he was the Ripper—”

“Wouldn’t that be the answer, then?”

Kane shrugged. “Unfortunately, Cream happened to be in America at the time of the Ripper murders. Egomania prompted his false confession.” He shook his head. “Then there was John Pizer, a bookbinder known by the nickname of ‘Leather Apron’ — he was actually arrested, but quickly cleared and released. Some think the killings were the work of a Russian called Konovalov who also went by the name of Pedachenko and worked as a barber’s surgeon; supposedly he was a Tsarist secret agent who perpetrated the slayings to discredit the British police.”