The Night of the Ripper

~ FORTY-THREE ~

2111 Providence Street was a weathered two-story frame house — a raddled relic of the past, hiding from the present in a courtyard behind a crumbling wall. Overshadowed on both sides by boxlike blocks of brick flats, flanks guarded by an iron-spiked fence rail, it crouched in darkness like a beast in its lair. Over the granite chin of its doorstep the entrance gaped, an open mouth. The lightless windows set on either side above were empty eyes staring out at the night.

The beast waited as Mark moved up the courtyard walk through the fog, listening to the fading clatter of the carriage wheeling away along the street beyond. By the time he reached the doorway all was silent. Silent and dark, like the opening before him.

Perhaps the beast was dead. A dead beast, buried at the dead end of a forgotten street. There was nothing to fear from its blind eyes above, and the mouth below was toothless. But if there was life inside…

He halted on the doorstep, peering through the open entrance into the shadowy hall within. No light shone, no sound disturbed the silence. The house seemed deserted — was it possible he’d made a mistake?

But the address on the note had been plain to see, and the hand that scrawled it was unmistakable. The hand that held the pen was the hand that held the knife. The hand of the Ripper.

Mark’s eyes searched the shadows for a hint of movement. Nothing stirred in the stillness of the hall ahead.

“Eva?”

He called softly into the silence.

“Eva—”

His voice echoed through distant darkness.

Slowly, cautiously, he crossed the threshold to halt in an uncarpeted hall. The walls were bare and there was no sign of furnishing. Only the staircase rising before him, its steeply-slanting wooden steps leading up to the floor above. His eyes climbed the stairs, climbed in darkness until they found the light.

The light, fanning faintly from beneath the closed door of the upper landing—

“Eva!”

He moved forward, and now it was his feet that climbed the stairs, climbed carefully as his hand groped for support along the rickety railing. Fixing his eyes on the guiding light he reached the top of the staircase and started through the shadows toward the door beyond.

Behind him, the floorboards creaked.

Startled, he whirled quickly, but the shadow was swifter still. The shadow looming from deeper darkness behind him, its left hand clutching a sliver of light.

Not a light — merely a reflection from beneath the doorway. And the sliver was the blade of a knife.

The knife stabbed out, slashing at his throat.

Mark swerved as it came down, razoring empty air. The broad blade swept within inches of his neck, and the shadowy hand that held it rose again.

He tried to grasp the upturned wrist, but the shadow swirled and the knife descended, ripping through the fabric of his coat collar.

The blade tore free and Mark fell back, pressing against the hard surface of the door. Too late he turned: the knife was rising once more and this time there was no escape.

Mark felt a rush of air as the steel swooped forward; there was barely an instant to crouch beneath the thrust. With a thud the blade buried itself in the wood of the door-panel above his head.

Shadowy hands tugged frantically at the hilt of the imbedded blade but Mark rose upright, desperation driving his clenched fists into yielding flesh. The shadow had substance. It gasped in pain, then grunted as Mark hammered against the unseen outline of bulging body and bloblike head. The shadow panted, clawing for his wrists. As its face bobbed forward Mark struck out with all his force, feeling the crunch of bone. Blindly the shadow reeled back to the edge of the staircase — back, and over.

As it fell, one hand shot out to grip the rail-post. The weakened wood gave way with a crash, and the railing smashed down upon the shadow as it tumbled; tumbled and fell, then sprawled still amid the welter of woodwork on the landing below.

Dazed, Mark descended, moving slowly, then halted on the lower steps to stare down at the huddled form buried by the debris.

It was a shadow no longer. Silhouetted against dim light from the entryway lay the body of a man, his head twisted at a grotesque angle.

He was obviously dead; there was no mistaking the fact. And as Mark stared, there was no mistaking the face.

Alexander Pedachenko, lying lifeless on the floor at the base of the landing.

But where was Eva?

Mark turned, glancing towards the light glimmering under the door at the top of the stairs.

He started up slowly but his pace quickened as he realized the sounds of struggle hadn’t aroused the occupant of the lighted room beyond the door. Which meant—

Mark shook his head, dismissing the thought. But it persisted, speeding his ascent and staying with him as he reached the upper landing and hurried to the door.

When he grasped the knob and found it fixed, thought gave way to panic. The door was locked.

The door was locked, like the door of Number Thirteen in Miller’s Court. Mark remembered what they’d found behind that door — remembered the Ripper’s victim and what he’d done to her.

“Eva!”

His shout shattered silence, but there was no answer. The answer lay behind the door, and it must be shattered now.

He slammed into it with his shoulder, bracing himself against the blow. To his surprise the worn wood gave way, splitting the upper panel as the imbedded knife loosened and fell unheeded to the floor. Now he aimed his knee at the surface beside the lock. The metal hasps which held it broke free.

Again he grasped the knob, and this time the door swung open.

The door swung open, but Mark’s eyes were shut. For a moment he stood there, not daring to look, not wanting to see. The vision came unbidden behind closed lids; the vision of Mary Jane Kelly, or what remained of her, lying on the bed.

But he had to look now, had to see.

He gazed into the light, gazed at the cluttered room by the light of an oil lamp on the night table. On the far wall, an open window, with a bed beneath.

Eva was lying on the bed—