Stephen Hunter - I, Ripper

Circle I did without incident, becoming random watcher as opposed to aggressive follower. I dipped into many black alleys and passageways, hoping to encounter Jack on the job, but instead came across banal business relations between the odd John and Judy and, feeling as if I had breached another’s privacy, departed forthwith. None of the rutters ever noticed me, thank heavens.

At last it was nearly eleven-thirty P.M., and the traffic had somewhat lessened. Though Judys could be seen about, and Johns as well, it was clear that even the randiest of the randy had either had his jizz festival or given up for the night. The chill had to do with this, for no man wants his backside exposed to the cruelties of the north wind; besides, it does much to convince a chuzz to remain at attention. So there I was, ambling disconsolately toward Aldgate East Station, set for rendezvous and redeployment elsewhere, when I saw him.

It was the walk, that bounding, leaping strut, still going full blast as if his internal engine were full of blazing coal, and looking neither left or right, not bothering to check behind, he took a turn into Aldgate East Station, that low structure with mansard roof and the affected symmetry to the architecture of an elegant country house. It took itself all too seriously; after all, it was merely a shed for boarding carts, not the royal court of the Sun King. But more Versailles than shed, it wore its sign, METROPOLITAN RAILWAY, rather proudly above the portico, which was overdecorated in the French Empire way, because it could be done, not because it had to be done.

I paused. I grabbed my pocket watch and saw that it was on to eleven by twenty-eight after and the night’s last train was due in two minutes. Was he dipping in to meet someone? It made no sense. No Judy would be arriving for duty by that last train, the station platform would be deserted, what could the man want except, perchance, to use the loo? I hesitated, and then my eyes lit on a moving figure as it dashed across Whitechapel Road, unimpeded because the horsedrawn traffic had become so light, and recognized by lope, style, fashion, grace, and intent Professor Dare, his tweed cloak afurl on the breeze, his slouch hat low and tight against that same breeze. He had triumphed! He had stayed on the job while poor Jeb had not been up to task! Now, that, I thought, was a hero.

He dipped into the station, unarmed, and I knew that I must get there fast to provide support and use the gun if necessary.

It took me under a minute to get to the station, and it was deserted. I raced to the bank of ticket windows and found them all closed, because there were no outgoing trains requiring tickets, and the man at the turnstile had departed, for there were, of the same reasons, no tickets to be punched. I negotiated the blockage, climbing gamely over with far less grace than ragged hurry, got to the other side, and plunged down some stairs.

Around me, gigantic steel beams buttressed the complexities of the best brick craft in the history of mankind, challenging the ages to destroy them and aware that they would win that challenge. I felt absorbed by the hush of the place and its jags of light and shadow where electrification, rare in the East End, sent a latticework of illumination across my view.

The stairs yielded to the ironwork bridge that spanned the tracks beneath, and I raced down it, amid the intricacy of strut work held stout by fist-sized rivets and baked under bright black paint. It was like being swallowed by the Industrial Revolution itself, and I could hear my footsteps echoing against the iron grid of the flooring. Echoes were everywhere, for I had entered a cavernous space, more cathedral than station, overtopped with a vault of pane glass now dark for lack of sun to penetrate it from above, sustained by yet more latticed girders, all of it heavy with the smell of combustion, for the engines ate coal like hungry monsters, belched smoke and soot and grit, which had already turned the shining structure ancient in effect, with smears of carbon accumulating on glass and polished tile far faster than the architects had calculated. I came to a vast stairway and raced down the glowing marble, to be deposited on an endless platform two feet above the tracks. It was a vast and empty space, unpopulated except by the wild disarray of shadow, and far away, at the end of the platform at the exact entrance to the tunnel through which fled or raced the mighty trains, were the two men.

It was as if they were in primitive combat, like two ancient priests set to battle for control of the cult and policy for the future: the man of science and rationality and the man of pure rage and gift for action, until he was nothing but action. Man of future, man of past. From whence we came against whence we were going. Were they about to fight? Good Christ, what would such an outcome be, the colonel’s skill and evident muscularity matched against the larger size of the other man? The colonel would have tricks, the professor size and weight. The colonel would be fast and mean, but the professor would have righteousness on his side, and although God clearly did not exist, I felt that if He did, He would step in on the side of the professor. If He did not, I would come to the professor’s aid with my trusty double-barrel, which I withdrew from its holster and positioned in my hands so that my thumb abutted both hammers and could quickly adjust them to active condition. I would in my small way speak for civilization, justice, the powerless and truly unmourned unfortunates, and all the high moral noble causes that man has fought for. That is, assuming I remembered to cock the damned thing!

I raced toward the combatants, who, I could see, were circling each other, wily antagonists caught up in the drama of whether it was best to spring or counter-spring. At that point the colonel chose a policy. It was the policy of the spring.

Like a ram, he built off the power of his thighs a lunge that carried him hard against the professor, finding that man ill prepared to meet such a charge. The professor yielded, falling backward and almost immediately setting himself, though not with much in the way of confidence, and they butted together, came apart on impact, closed again, grappled, arms flailing, feet shuffling, leverage sought, strength avoided, both at full strength bent hellaciously against the other. It was not boxing, which I had seen and admired for its science. There was no science, only strength pitted against strength, wit against wit, and in a second, the colonel used some trick to go under and around the larger man and bring him with a thud to earth. The professor took the fall with grace, rolled, and came up to face his antagonist, who had not found footing enough to pursue advantage, and the two crashed together again, all limbs flailing, hands snapping, gouging, each trying to grab something. They were too close, I saw, to unlimber classic punches, so it was all about strength of grip and the clever slipperiness of escape.

It was also horrible. Each face was gnashed in fury, and each had bared fangs, and each set of eyes was clenched into slits behind which each gauged the other, looking for weakness. I got there and heard “You insane bastard, you monster!” from the professor as he leaped and closed on the smaller man, while the colonel shimmied loose and found freedom to throw a hard punch in the midriff, which straightened the professor but did not stop him from landing his own blow flush on the man’s ear, banging the head backward.

They were so caught in their crazed intensity that they had not even recognized my presence. I flew at them, turning at the last second to deliver a cross-body impact with my shoulder and knock them both back and apart. The colonel slipped but was nimble enough to regain his footing.

I leveled the pistol at him. “Hold, sir, by God, or I’ll dispatch.”