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

“Yes.” The door opened wider and Woods could see the squat shadow of the middle-aged woman who nodded up at his companion. “Yer the one what rented the back vacancy last Bank ’oliday, ain’tcher?”

“Right. I was wondering if I might have it again.”

“I dunno.” The woman glanced at Woods.

“Only for a few hours.” Kane reached for his wallet. “My friend and I have a business matter to discuss.”

“Business, eh?” Woods felt the unflattering appraisal of the landlady’s beady eyes. “Cost you a fiver.”

“Here you are.”

A hand extended to grasp the note. Then the door opened fully, revealing the dingy hall and the stairs beyond.

“Mind the steps now,” the landlady said.

The stairs were steep and the woman was puffing as they reached the upper landing. She led them along the creaking corridor to the door at the rear, fumbling for the keys in her apron.

“ ’Ere we are.”

The door opened on musty darkness, scarcely dispelled by the faint illumination of the overhead fixture as she switched it on. The landlady nodded at Kane. “I don’t rent this for lodgings no more — it ain’t properly made up.”

“Quite all right.” Kane smiled, his hand on the door.

“If there’s anything you’ll be needing, best tell me now. I’ve got to run over to the neighbor for a bit — she’s been took ill.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” Kane closed the door, then listened for a moment as the landlady’s footsteps receded down the hall.

“Well,” he said. “What do you think?”

Woods surveyed the shabby room with its single window framed by yellowing curtains. He noted the faded carpet with its pattern wellnigh worn away, the marred and chipped surfaces of the massive old bureau and heavy morris-chair, the brass bed covered with a much-mended spread, the ancient gas-log in the fireplace framed by a cracked marble mantelpiece, and the equally-cracked washstand fixture in the corner.

“I think you’re out of your mind,” Woods said. “Did I understand correctly that you’ve been here before?”

“Exactly. I came several months ago, as soon as I found the address in the Registry. I wanted a look around.”

Woods wrinkled his nose. “More to smell than there is to see.”

“Use your imagination, man! Doesn’t it mean anything to you that you’re standing in the very room once occupied by Jack the Ripper?”

Woods shook his head. “There must be a dozen rooms to let in this old barn. What makes you think this is the right one?”

“The Registry entry specified ‘rear’. And there are no rear accommodations downstairs — that’s where the kitchen is located. So this has to be the place.”

Kane gestured. “Think of it — you may be looking at the very sink where the Ripper washed away the traces of his butchery, the bed in which he slept after his dark deeds were performed! Who knows what sights this room has seen and heard — the voice crying out in a tormented nightmare—”

“Come off it, Hilary!” Woods grimaced impatiently. “It’s one thing to use your imagination, but quite another to let your imagination use you.”

“Look.” Kane pointed to the far corner of the room. “Do you see those indentations in the carpet? I noticed them when I examined this room on my previous visit. What do they suggest to you?”

Woods peered dutifully at the worn surface of the carpet, noting the four round, evenly spaced marks. “Must have been another piece of furniture in that corner. Something heavy, I’d say.”

“But what sort of furniture?”

“Well—” Woods considered. “Judging from the space, it wasn’t a sofa or chair. Could have been a cabinet, perhaps a large desk—”

“Exactly. A rolltop desk. Every doctor had one in those days.” Kane sighed. “I’d give a pretty penny to know what became of that item. It might have held the answer to all our questions.”

“After all these years? Not bloody likely.” Woods glanced away. “Didn’t find anything else, did you?”

“I’m afraid not. As you say, it’s been a long time since the Ripper stayed here.”

“I didn’t say that.” Woods shook his head. “You may be right about the desk. And no doubt the Medical Registry gives a correct address. But all it means is that this room may once have been rented by a Dr. John Ridley. You’ve already inspected it once — why bother to come back?”

“Because now I have this.” Kane placed the black bag on the bed. “And this.” He produced a pocket-knife.

“You intend to force the lock after all?”

“In the absence of a key I have no alternative.” Kane wedged the blade under the metal guard and began to pry upwards. “It’s important that the bag be opened here. Something it contains may very well be associated with this room. If we recognize the connection we might have an additional clue, a conclusive link—”

The lock snapped.

As the bag sprang open, the two men stared down at its contents — the jumble of vials and pillboxes, the clumsy old-style stethescope, the probes and tweezers, the roll of gauze. And, resting atop it, the scalpel with the steel-tipped surface encrusted with brownish stains.

They were still staring as the door opened quietly behind them and the balding, elderly little man entered the room.

“I see my guess was correct, gentlemen. You too have read the Medical Registry.” He nodded. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Kane frowned. “What do you want?”

“I’m afraid I must trouble you for my bag.”

“But it’s my property now — I bought it.”

The little man sighed. “Yes, and I was a fool to permit it. I thought putting on that price would dissuade you. How was I to know you were a collector like myself?”

“Collector?”

“Of curiosa pertaining to murder.” The little man smiled. “A pity you cannot see some of the memorabilia I’ve acquired. Not the commonplace items associated with your so-called Black Museum in Scotland Yard, but true rarities with historical significance.” He gestured. “The silver jar in which the notorious French sorceress, La Voisin, kept her poisonous ointments, the actual dirks which dispatched the unfortunate nephews of Richard III in the Tower — yes, even the poker responsible for the atrocious demise of Edward II at Berkeley Castle on the night of September 21st, 1327. I had quite a bit of trouble locating it until I realized the date was reckoned according to the old Julian calendar.”

Kane frowned impatiently. “Who are you? What happened to that shop of yours?”

“My name would mean nothing to you. As for the shop, let us say that it exists spatially and temporally as I do — when and where necessary for my purposes. By your current and limited understanding, you might call it a sort of time-machine.”

Woods shook his head. “You’re not making sense.”

“Ah, but I am, and very good sense too. How else do you think I could pursue my interests so successfully unless I were free to travel in time? It is my particular pleasure to return to certain eras in this primitive past of yours, visiting the scenes of famous and infamous crimes and locating trophies for my collection.

“The shop, of course, is just something I used as a blind for this particular mission. It’s gone now, and I shall be going too, just as soon as I retrieve my property. It happens to be the souvenir of a most unusual murder.”

“You see?” Kane nodded at Woods. “I told you this bag belonged to the Ripper!”

“Not so,” said the little man. “I already have the Ripper’s murder weapon, which I retrieved directly after the slaying of his final victim on November 9th, 1888. And I can assure you that your Dr. Ridley was not Jack the Ripper but merely and simply an eccentric surgeon—” As he spoke, he edged toward the bed.