Don Gutteridge - Governing Passion

Cobb finished dressing, went to the frontstoop, where he tipped the messenger boy, then started off westwardfor the police quarters. The snow that had come down for much ofthe early evening had stopped. There was no traffic on King Streetand the slushy, rutted roadway was now a pristine, white ribbonbetween rows of houses and shops. Fifteen minutes later found himat the City Hall on Front Street, the rear portion of which nowhoused the expanded police force. A candle flickered in thereception room as he opened the door and walked in.

“Well, Cobb, it took you long enough to gethere,” Bagshaw snapped. The room was icy cold, the fire in thestove long since gone out. “The body will be frozen stiff bynow.”

“Body?”

“That’s what I said, sir. Body. A young womanwas found an hour ago with her throat slashed from ear to ear.”

Bagshaw stamped his feet in a vain effort towarm them.

“Where?” Cobb said.

“Where else? In that cesspool known asDevil’s Acre. A couple of blocks from here, if you canimagine.”

“A prostitute?”

“I don’t know that, do I? That’s for you tofind out.”

At last, thought Cobb. He needs a detective.Cobb smiled and took a long look at the new chief in the light of asingle candle. He was tall without an ounce of flesh to give hisbones comfort. And his uniform — the one he’d worn as constable onthe Metropolitan Force — looked as if it had been painted on himwith a palette knife. It was a trim blue outfit with brass buttonsand a thick, brown belt around what little waist there was. Thestiff collar seemed to be holding the man’s head erect and pointedto the front. The head itself was too generous for the body it satupon with evident pride. The features were angular, with a juttingchin and a beaked nose some hawk might have boasted of. Underoverarching eyebrows, as bristled as any hair brush, there stoodtwo, round pop-eyes that seemed ready to hop out at any moment tosay what couldn’t be spoken by the lips and tongue. The dark brownhair was slicked back like an otter’s and aided materially in theupright posture that appeared to be a permanent aspect of hisbearing. In fact, if he were to bend at the waist too suddenly, thewhole apparatus might collapse in upon itself.

“You want me to do the investigation?” Cobbsaid evenly.

“That’s what you’ve been assigned to do bythe aldermen,” Bagshaw said. “But if the victim turns out to be aDevil’s Acre whore, you can be sure one of her cronies slit herthroat for tuppence and will never be found.”

“Has the coroner been told?”

“He left here just before you came. Wilkie iswaiting at Madame LaFrance’s brick house to show him where the bodyis. He’ll come back there and wait for you as soon as he can.”

“Who found the body?”

“Some young fellow at a nearby gambling den.He sent for a policeman, and Wilkie was nearby, sleeping probablybehind St. James.”

“I’ll go right away, sir.”

“You do that.”

“Am I to put on my Sunday suit while Iinvestigate?”

Bagshaw frowned and scrutinized Cobb for anysign of sarcasm in the remark. “That business is a lot of nonsense.I said so at the Met when they introduced it this past year. Out ofyour uniform you’ll receive no respect at all. Keep it on. Andthat’s an order.”

“Fine with me,” Cobb said, who had not beenlooking forward to working in the confined clothes of a gentleman.However, he did realize that plainclothes would soon become thebadge of the detective, and mark him off as a special member of theforce. But his uniform fit nicely, and he had grown to feel at homein it.

“I expect a written report on my desk bymid-morning,” Bagshaw said, and with that he blew the candleout.

Cobb was dismissed.

***

Cobb walked north to St. James Cathedral at Churchand King. There were half a dozen entrances to Devil’s Acre, heknew, and then nothing but a labyrinth of shanties, hovels andalleyways scattered helter-skelter across several acres of groundjust above the cathedral cemetery. Cobb went to the rear of thechurch building and came to the graveyard. He crossed it andentered a dark, snow-lit alley. The upper half of Madame LaFrance’stwo-storey house was outlined in shadow somewhere a few hundredyards ahead of him. Keeping an eye on it, he navigated the mazeadroitly enough, seeing only the occasional lamplight from thegambling dens and other places of iniquity and hearing the shoutsand sighs of men caught in the vise of their pleasures. A fewminutes later he emerged next to the brothel. It was not snowing,but the sky was still cloudy and only the eerie half-light of thesnow gave any real illumination. The lights inside the brothel werediscreet, like everything else about the establishment.

There was no sign of Wilkie, so Cobb stoodbeside the front stoop and waited. Five minutes went by before hisfellow constable emerged from the shadows to the west and greetedhim.

“You’ve seen the body?” Cobb said.

“The doctor’s there now,” Wilkie said. “Ididn’t care to look too closely, but there was a lot of blood.”

“What about the man who found it?”

“He’s warmin’ his toes at the bootlegger’s hecome from earlier. We can fetch him whenever you want.”

“Take me to the body first, then fetch him,will you?”

Without further conversation Wilkie turnedand led the way westward towards Church Street. After severalzigzags they came into an narrow alley between a row of log shacks.Just ahead, kneeling over the body was Dr. Angus Withers.

“What have we got?” Cobb said, coming up tohim.

Withers looked up. “You doing theinvestigation?” he said, not unkindly.

“That’s right. I’m gonna play detective,accordin’ to the Chief.”

“Well, we’ve got a savage murder on ourhands, I’m afraid. This young woman’s had her throat slashed.” Hedrew back the handkerchief that had been covering her face, andCobb recoiled.

“Any idea when the attack took place?”

“Hard to say. It’s damn cold out here.Everything freezes up and slows down. But no longer than a coupleof hours ago, I’d guess.”

“Any guesses as to how it might havehappened?”

“I’d say someone came up behind her and slither throat before she could blink.”

“A very pretty girl,” Cobb observed, tryingto focus on her blond curls and keep his gaze away from the gapingwound.

“If she was respectable, and she’s dressedthat way, I wonder what she was doing wandering through Devil’sAcre at night?”

“Maybe I can learn somethin’ from the fellawho found her,” Cobb said.

“I’ll fetch him,” Wilkie said, and leftquickly.

“We’ve messed up the footprints ourselves,”Cobb sighed, looking back at the rumpled snow where he, Wilkie, thecoroner and the man who found her had all walked.

“Ah,” Withers said, “but the killer did notretreat. He kept on going.” He nodded towards the west end of thealley. Faint from the fresh snowfall but still visible was a singleset of footprints.

“You’re right, doc,” Cobb said and, keepingto one side of the alley, he began following the prints. They werethree-quarters drifted in, but their outline was clear enough. Andthey were huge, surely a size twelve or larger. The killer must bea big man, perhaps six feet tall. Either that or he was the ownerof abnormally large feet. At the first turn, where the fresh snowhad not penetrated, Cobb was able to discern one, clear, fullyoutlined print. It revealed a distinctive star-shaped pattern onthe sole. Cobb committed it to memory, and would reproduce it inhis notebook as soon as he could. It might prove to be an importantclue.

Another two alleys and abrupt turns broughthim and the prints to Church Street. Here the trail went cold, forthe prints suddenly met the ruckus of the earlier foot-trafficalong the busy street. It seemed likely, however, that the killerknew the layout of Devil’s Acre. He had escaped by the shortestroute, blending into the normal flow of people and vehicles alongChurch Street.