Ellery Queen - A Study in Terror

“You needn’t be sarcastic,” grumbled Lestrade.

“Nerves, man? Something seems to have you by the short hairs.”

“If you don’t know what it is, you didn’t read the paper this morning,” said Lestrade, shortly.

“As a matter of fact, I did not.”

The police officer turned to acknowledge my presence. “Dr. Watson. It has been a long time since our paths crossed.”

“Far too long, Inspector Lestrade. You are well, I trust?”

“A bit of lumbago now and again. I’ll survive.” Then he added darkly, “At least until I see this Whitechapel maniac dragged to the gallows.”

“The Ripper again?” asked Holmes, sharply.

“The very same. The fifth attack, Mr. ’Olmes. You have, of course, read about him, although I haven’t heard of you coming ’round to offer your services.”

Holmes did not parry the thrust. Instead, his eyes flicked in my direction. “We draw closer, Watson.”

“What was that?” exclaimed Lestrade.

“The fifth, you said? No doubt you mean the fifth official murder?”

“Official or not, ’Olmes―”

“What I meant was that you cannot be sure. You have found the bodies of five of the Ripper’s victims. But others may have been dismembered and thoroughly disposed of.”

“A cheerful thought,” muttered Lestrade.

“This ‘fifth’ victim. I should like to view the body.”

“Inside. Oh, this is Dr. Murray. He is in charge here.”

Dr. Murray was a cadaverous man, with a deathlike complection, and a poised manner which impressed me favourably. His attitude reflected the inner resignation one often finds in those who deal intimately with the dead. He acknowledged Lestrade’s introduction with a bow, and said, “I do officiate here, but I had rather posterity remembered me as director of the hostel next door. It affords greater opportunity for service. The poor wretches who come here are beyond aid.”

“Let’s get on with it,” interrupted Lestrade, and conducted us through a door. A strong carbolic-acid odour greeted us, an odour I had grown to know too well in her Majesty’s Indian service.

The room into which we were shown demonstrated how little is ever done to confer dignity upon the dead. It was less a room than a long, wide passageway, each inch of whose walls and ceiling was tastelessly whitewashed. One entire side consisted of a raised platform, upon which rude wooden tables jutted out at intervals. Fully half the tables were occupied by sheeted, still figures; but Lestrade led us to the far end.

There, another platform stood, with its table and sheeted morsel of humanity. This platform was slightly higher, and so placed that a sign, The Corpse for To-day , might well have seemed appropriate.

“Annie Chapman,” said Lestrade, morosely. “The latest victim of our butcher.” With that, he drew back the sheet.

Holmes was the most objective of men where crime was concerned, but a grim pity invaded his face. And I must confess that I―accustomed to death both in the bed and upon the battlefield―was sickened. The girl had been slaughtered like an animal.

To my amazement, I saw what appeared to be disappointment supplant the pity upon Holmes’s face. “The face is not scarred,” he murmured, as if in complaint.

“The Ripper does not mutilate the faces of his victims,” said Lestrade. “He confines his attentions to the more private parts of the body.”

Holmes had turned cold and analytical. He could now have been regarding a specimen in a dissection-room. He touched my arm. “Note the skill of this unholy work, Watson. It verifies what we have read in the journals. The fiend does not cut at random.”

Inspector Lestrade was scowling. “There is certainly nothing skilful in that slash across the abdomen, ’Olmes. The Ripper used a butcher’s cleaver for that one.”

“Before the abdomen was dissected, possibly with a surgeon’s scalpel,” muttered Holmes.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. “That second blow, the one to the heart. It was done by a cleaver, also.”

“The left breast was removed with consummate skill, Lestrade,” said I, with a shudder.

“The Ripper’s surgery varies. Its skill seems to depend upon the time that is available to him. In some cases there has been scarcely any, cases in which he was interrupted in his devil’s work.”

“I am compelled to alter certain superficial ideas I had formed.” Holmes appeared to be speaking to himself rather than to us. “A madman, certainly. But a clever one. Perhaps a brilliant one.”

“Then you admit, Mr. ’Olmes, that the Yard is contending with no blundering idiot?”

“Most assuredly, Lestrade. And I shall be happy to give you whatever aid my limited powers allow.”

This widened Lestrade’s eyes. He had never before heard Holmes deprecate his own talents.

The policeman searched for a suitable rejoinder, but apparently such was his astonishment that he could find none.

He recovered sufficiently, however, to voice his standard plaint. “And if you are lucky enough to apprehend the fiend―”

“I seek no credit, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “Rest assured, the Yard shall reap the glory.” He paused, then added, gloomily, “If there is any.” He turned to Dr. Murray. “I wonder if we may be permitted to inspect your hostel, Doctor?”

Dr. Murray bowed. “I should be honoured, Mr. Holmes.”

At that moment a door opened, and a pathetic figure appeared. There was much about the shuffling creature to pity, but I was struck first by the total vacancy in his eyes. The expressionless features, the sagging, partially-open mouth, bespoke an idiot. The man shuffled forward and stepped upon the platform. He cast a look of empty inquiry at Dr. Murray, who smiled as one smiles at a child.

“Ah, Pierre. You may cover the body.”

A spark of eagerness appeared on that vacuous countenance. I could not help thinking of a faithful dog given a chore by a kindly master. Then Dr. Murray gestured, and we moved away from the platform.

“I’ll be off,” said Lestrade, sniffing wrinkle-nosed at the carbolic. “If there is any information you require, Mr. ’Olmes,” said he, politely, “do not hesitate to call upon me.”

“Thank you, Lestrade,” said Holmes, with equal courtesy. The two detectives had evidently decided to call a truce until the morbid affair could be resolved―the first such truce between them, I might add, that ever I was aware of.

As we quitted the charnel-house, I glanced back and saw Pierre smoothing the sheet carefully over the body of Annie Chapman. Holmes, I noted, also glanced in the simpleton’s direction, and something kindled in his grey eyes.

“One does what one can,” said Dr. Murray, a few moments later, “but, in a city of the size of London, it is a little like trying to sweep back the sea with a broom. A sea of destitution and despair.”

We had left the morgue, and crossed a flag-stoned inner courtyard. He ushered us through another door, and into a shabby but more cheerful atmosphere. The hostel was very old. It had been built originally as a stable, a long, low, stone building with the places for the stalls still clearly marked. Again, buckets of whitewash had been used, but the eternal odour of the carbolic was here mingled with a slightly less disagreeable effluvium of medicines, steaming vegetable stew, and unbathed bodies. As the building extended onward in railway fashion, the stalls had been fashioned into larger units, double and sometimes triple their original size, and put to appropriate uses. Black-lettered cards identified them variously as dormitories for women and for men. There was a dispensary, and a clinical waiting-room with stone benches. Ahead of us, a sign read: This Way to Chapel and Dining-Hall.