The Night of the Ripper

~ TWENTY-FOUR ~

Inspector Abberline’s stomach was at it again, growling away like a dog worrying a bone.

Didn’t it ever get tired? He was tired; weary of walking, fatigued by constant questioning, exhausted from scribbling notes and writing endless reports, but somehow his stomach found the strength to churn. His stomach and his brain, revolving over the events of the past few days.

The inquests had solved nothing. Nothing that would lead to the discovery of the murderer, nothing that would stop the clamor in the press and the turmoil in the streets.

How many suspects had been arrested since the night of the double killings — arrested to save them from angry mobs that recognized the Ripper every time they saw a suspicious-looking stranger? All were investigated and all were eventually released as innocent, but this didn’t end the uproar.

How many rewards had been posted, how many petitions sent to the Prime Minister and the Queen herself? Nothing had come of that either, except more panic.

How many witnesses had offered tips which had to be checked out, wild rumors about crazy foreigners who muttered threats against prostitutes or staggered into pubs with blood on their hands? How many knives were found in the streets, only to be discarded as evidence because none of them matched medical testimony about the type of weapon used? How many false leads had he pursued? How many orders had he given to question local residents, search the premises of crowded doss-houses and deserted buildings?

Police procedure — what a farce! The whole system was hopelessly out-of-date. No wonder the murderer had slipped through their fingers. And speaking of fingers, why didn’t they adopt this Frenchie’s — Adolphe Bertillion’s — new system of fingerprinting every suspect? A chap named Spearman had been trying to interest the Home Office in the idea, but of course nobody listened. All they did was keep lists of convicted criminals. Much good that was, with the files a bloody shambles. The Home Office was nine months behind in forwarding them to Scotland Yard, and when they came the physical descriptions were no damned use to anyone. How did it help to read that a missing suspect had “a scar on his cheek”? You had to know what kind of a scar, and which cheek it was on. Could be his bloody arse-cheek for all the good it did.

He was tired, dead tired of the whole business, and that went for the meetings as well. Meetings like this one here in Robert Anderson’s office.

Abberline sighed and his stomach echoed agreement. He’d tried so long to see the new assistant commissioner, but now that he finally found himself in his presence it scarcely seemed worth the wait.

And Robert Anderson was tired too. He sat hunched over the desk, his face pale and his eyes staring blankly at the litter of documents heaped before him.

Only Sir Charles Warren maintained his customary vigor. Monocle glinting in the sunlight, he paced before the open window, a one-man parade.

“I tell you time is of the essence! The newspapers accuse us of incompetence, they call for a departmental investigation, they demand an inquiry in Parliament. Do you know what that means? It’s our blood they’re crying for now, not the killer’s!”

Anderson sighed. “We’re doing all we can. We’ve put out descriptions of the suspect and photographic reproductions of those letters. We’ve talked with scores of known prostitutes and informers. No possible source of information stands neglected. Police in other cities are cooperating. And we’ve requested the heads of every asylum in the country to furnish descriptions of violent patients who have been freed or escaped from custody at the time of the murders.”

“All you’re saying is that you’re asking questions.” Warren shook his head. “What do you intend to do — send a bloody questionnaire to everybody in London? It won’t wash!”

“I have extra constabulary posted all over the district,” Anderson said. “I’ve canceled leaves, redoubled patrols—”

“Much good that does us! We had virtually half the entire force on duty the night of the double event, but the cunning devil gave us the slip all the same.”

Common sense told Abberline to keep silent but the stirring in his stomach prompted him to speak. “Maybe he didn’t.”

Warren glared at him but Abberline continued.

“I’ve a report from one of our men in Spitalfields,” he said. “Police Constable Robert Spicer was on his beat there that night. Shortly before two o’clock he saw a prostitute named Rosy talking to a mustached man carrying a brown bag. He was well-dressed — fancy coat, high hat, gold watch and chain. He refused to give an account of himself, so Spicer took them both in to Commercial Street station. Mind you, we had eight inspectors on special duty there, and they had news of the two murders just a short time earlier. Spicer told them what he suspected but the man raised a row, said he was a doctor down from Brixton, and what right did they have to arrest a respectable physician just for standing on the pavement talking to a friend? The upshot of it was, they let him go. Let him go scot free, mind you, without even opening his bag—”

“Humbug!” Sir Charles Warren’s glare intensified. “I happen to have heard that report myself and it’s perfectly obvious what the fellow was up to. The whore said he gave her two shillings for her services and she had no complaints.” He removed his monocle, its polished surface glittering in a gesturing hand. “You know my orders. It’s up to the police to deal with those whose actions warrant suspicion. But on no account do I want them making trouble by molesting decent citizens.”

Abberline faced him now. “But how do you expect us to tell the difference unless we investigate?”

“Blast your investigations! While your men were wasting time asking questions, that murdering lunatic was running loose. Now he’s writing letters to the newspapers and cracking jokes, making the whole force look like a pack of fools. All the questions and all the patrols won’t stop him if he decides to kill again. And mark my words — he will!”

“Gentlemen—” Anderson’s interruption came quickly. “There’s no point in crying over spilt milk, or spilt blood, if I may say so. We’re here to decide upon a course of action.” He glanced at Abberline. “Sir Charles has raised an issue we cannot afford to ignore. Do you agree that the murderer may commit further crimes of this nature?”

Abberline shifted uneasily in his chair. “Hard to say. On the basis of the threats in those two letters, it’s a possibility.”

“And one we can’t afford to overlook.” Robert Anderson nodded. “Now I put it to you — in the unfortunate event that another murder can be anticipated, just what steps do you propose to prevent it?”

“I’m not giving up hope yet, sir. There are still several lines of inquiry I’ll be following up in the next few days. With any luck we may lay hands on our man before he strikes again.”

“And if you’re not successful?” Anderson pressed on without waiting for a reply. “What plans have you made to deal with the matter?”

Abberline shrugged. “It depends on circumstances. Rest assured we’ll be taking every precaution.”

“Not good enough.” Warren shook his head. “Your methods have been flat-out failures. The time has come to try a new approach. And if there is another murder we must be prepared to apprehend the killer immediately. We must locate him while he’s still in the vicinity of his crime, hunt him down before he can make another escape.”

Anderson glanced at him, frowning. “But how do you intend to do that?”

Sir Charles Warren affixed the monocle to his eye. “The same way I’d track down any animal,” he said. “I’ll use bloodhounds.”