A translation from the original German short story published in 1907. It is pulp fiction, a complete flight of fancy and barely relates to the actual facts of the case at all. I publish it here as a curiosity and a product of its time.
Chapter 1.
A Competition Between Two Detectives.
"It is a matter of great concern to me, dear Mr. Holmes, and I take my recourse to you, as I know of no other means of solving a mystery which grows more terrible to us daily." With these words, the Director of Police of London, Mr. Warren, received the famous detective who just entered his office.
"I only returned from Italy this morning," Holmes replied, "where I had the good fortune to solve a rather significant problem. I found your letter, Chief Inspector, and saw from it that you wished to speak to me about an urgent matter, and here I am." The two gentlemen shook hands. Then they sat down at a small table in comfortable cedar chairs.
"How long were you in Italy?" asked the Chief Inspector.
"About three months."
"Nevertheless, you will have heard of the terrible trial that has befallen London, and you will have seen from the newspapers that we detectives, by God, have not been living in paradise here."
"Ah, are you speaking of Jack the Ripper?"
"Of course I am speaking of him. All of London is talking of him, England, Europe, the world, if you will. For centuries, I would venture to say, there has been no criminal mystery that could compare with this mysterious figure. Ah, I must confess to you, Mr. Holmes, I am seriously considering relinquishing my post to the Queen and leaving it to another, younger man to deal with this ghostly vision."
"Ghostly vision," smiled the detective. "I believe we are dealing with a fellow of flesh and blood, and I do not see why it should be so difficult to put an end to this man's activities."
"To hear these words from your lips, Mr. Holmes, fills me with new hopes!" cried Mr Warren with delight, "but light yourself a cigar! Let us smoke! For the discussion will take some time, and I have already given orders not to disturb me under any circumstances."
At these words, the Chief Inspector presented Holmes with fine imports in a neat ivory box, and Holmes lit one of them. The Chief Inspector followed his example. Fine blue wisps of smoke rose above the armchairs in which these two men, who in a business capacity certainly decided the fate of London, sat facing each other.
"Since you have learned pretty much everything about Jack the Ripper, from the newspapers," Warren spoke again, "I can be brief and limit myself, so to speak, to stating the facts."
"Three months ago, then, a case was reported to us at police headquarters, which at first did not particularly excite us. In Whitechapel, on Gloucester Street, one of the most notorious scum streets in this part of town, a young woman had been found in a dark alleyway - who, as it later turned out, was a prostitute from Whitechapel, whose body had been slashed open and gruesomely mutilated."
"Mr. Hunter, the specialist detective for Whitechapel, was immediately summoned and classified the case as a lust murder. You know that there are certain criminals who kill the woman they force to make love to them. A morbid predisposition, a madness, if you will, which one should not really punish with confinement, but for which the unfortunate ones who suffer from it belong in an asylum."
"Very humane and well thought out," answered Sherlock Holmes, "I am entirely of your opinion, Mr. Warren."
"The Gloucester Street case remained pretty much shrouded in mystery," continued the chief of police, "all inquiries revealed only that a suspicious looking man was said to have been seen in the street. But no one could describe what he looked like.
Some claimed he wore a yellowish coloured overcoat. According to others, he wore no overcoat at all. A sailor was willing to swear that the man had a tangled full beard, and the proprietress of an inn just across the hall offered to swear an oath that his face had been clean shaven."
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"The prostitute was buried, the case closed, and three days later, pretty much the same thing happened in Greenwich Road. There, the wife of a helmsman, who might have been on a West Indiaman, God knows where, was killed in the same manner, a voluptuous young woman returning late from visiting a friend."
"So the duplicity of cases has been established," said Holmes smiling, "for you know that mineralogists, like doctors, are firmly against it. It is proven that if ever such a curious and interesting case occurs, it is quite always repeated on the same day ot in the very next day."
"The duplicity of cases was very soon overcome," Warren continued, "for now one thing followed another in rapid succession. In a single week, no fewer than eight young women fell victim to the mysterious criminal. The murder was always carried out in the same manner.
The victims were either snatched up in the street and slaughtered there, or dragged into a house hallway, a stable, or a barn - always to a place where the murderer could be fairly certain of being able to work undisturbed for a few minutes. And in each case, their bodies had been opened with an apparently very sharp knife in an almost, I might say, expert manner, so that death ensued immediately."
"Was not a single one of the victims able to make a statement when they were found?"
"Death had already occurred in all cases by the time the public or police arrived. But it seemed especially - it soon became clear to us - that the murderer had targeted prostitutes and loose women, who were not always to be found only in the sphere of Whitechapel or, more accurately, in the sphere of public prostitutes."
"No, several women and girls from other families also fell victim to him."
"In this regard, I must note that I had my most important detectives ascertain that all these women and girls secretly led a more or less loosely sensual lifestyle. Keep that in mind, Mr. Holmes, it is important."
"That seems important to me as well," replied Holmes. "And how many cases have been repeated in total Mr. Warren?"
"So far, within three months, 37 women and girls have perished in this way. A panicky terror has gripped the whole town. A lady or woman of respectable standing no longer dares to go out into the streets at night, even accompanied."
"But the common people have already given the murderer a name; they call him Jack the Ripper."
"But we are certainly not spared harsh accusations. The newspapers rail against the police and energetically demand that they put an end to the fiend. My appointed authority has also suggested to me that I find and apprehend Jack the Ripper, but I see no way to do so. Tell me yourself, Mr. Holmes, you are the expert of the world: can you catch a man who appears in the darkness of night like a ghost, completes the crime in a few minutes, and then vanishes without a trace?
A man who never leaves the slightest trace of himself, who always continues working according to the same method, but always reappears in different parts of the city and seems to be in league with the Devil? For one never arrives at the right time, one never hears the death cry of a victim, one never stands before the wretch disappears."
Holmes rubbed his clean shaven chin thoughtfully. "Would you permit me, Mr. Warren," he said, "to ask you some questions?"
"Of course, Mr. Holmes! Please ask away! I will give you as prompt an answer as possible."
The detective puffed in the smoke from his cigar and then let it rise in rings. He watched these smoke formations thoughtfully; they seemed to amuse him.
"You said earlier, Mr Warren," said Holmes suddenly, "that the murderer's method was always the same. Have the experts determined that the murderer always used the same instrument, in this case, always the same knife?"
"I can answer that question with a definite 'yes.' We have already consulted the most distinguished experts in London, and they have studied the case thoroughly. Some of them believe that only a butcher or butcher's apprentice could have been the murderer. Others maintain that it must be a doctor, for the cut was as skillful as in abdominal surgery."
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"Were certain body parts present on the corpses, or were they all present?"
"Some were present. But in many cases, the entrails had been torn out."
"Was any of the murders accompanied by an abduction?"
"Never. Most recently, in Montgomery Street, the wife of a rich Englishman was attacked and killed. The lady had a wallet containing 20,000 pounds sterling, and not a single banknote was missing, nor were any of the jewels she wore."
"You have, of course, deployed a whole army of detectives to catch Jack the Ripper in the act?"
"Of course, Mr. Holmes. You can imagine that all my police agents were assigned to work the case. They have guarded the streets throughout the night; a very peculiar watch has been organised; signals have been arranged; indeed, I have done even more. I have provided all the prostitutes in London with little whistles that make a peculiar sound, and I have told them: at the very moment you are attacked, do nothing but use this whistle, and help will be brought to you."
"And in a single instance was this whistle signal sounded before the crime was completed?"
"Never!" replied Mr Warren, "although some of the murdered men had this whistle with them, and it was found in their pocket or on their chest. I have further offered a reward for the capture of Jack the Ripper, and a rather substantial reward at that: one thousand pounds sterling.
I had hoped that some informer might come forward, a person who knew about the crime, and would be willing to earn the Judas prize. But so far, no one has appeared who has provided even the slightest concrete information about Jack the Ripper."
At that moment, there was a flopping sound at the door of the elegantly furnished room in police headquarters where this conversation was taking place.
"Who is disturbing me?" cried the chief of police visibly disturbed. "Did I not expressly order that I am not to speak with anyone while Mr. Holmes is with me?"
With that, the police chief strode to the door, turned the key, and opened the door. A slim, beardless, pale looking man entered. He bowed politely to the chief of police.
"Ah, it's you Murphy!" cried Warren in a mild voice. "You bring me, no doubt, important news?"
"When the chief of detectives himself is making such a fuss, then it must be something important."
"Ah, there's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective!" cried Murphy with a slight hint of mockery when he uttered the words 'famous detective.' "Allow me to shake your hand, my esteemed gentleman."
"Don't bother, Mr. Murphy!" replied Holmes with a smile. "We know how we both feel about each other. You are keen to thwart what I have orchestrated, and I, well, I must confess, Murphy, consider you a great bungler."
Murphy gave a forced laugh.
"Haha, a delightful joke!" he cried. "Mr. Holmes, you seem to have had some good success again, for you are in a good mood."
"I've been in good spirits until now," replied Holmes, "but I won't be for the rest of the day from this moment on, because I saw you, Murphy!"
"The two antipodes!" laughed Mr. Warren, "the chief detective of the London police and Sherlock Holmes, who so often gives us the best service and is our refuge when our own wisdom fails us. Don't take offence at that remark, Murphy, but it is, also, all too true. By the way, you bring me - what?"
"An alarming piece of news, Chief Constable. The 38th case is here!"
"Jack the Ripper, again?"
Murphy nodded and, looking over at Holmes, said, "Yes, that's a tough nut to crack; we'll have a hard time with it, Mr. Holmes? Help us a little? Perhaps you'll be able to catch the Ripper in the blink of an eye."
"I will do my best," replied Holmes, "but let us hear, Mr. Murphy, what you bring! For you will surely permit me, Mr. Warren, to remain here and attend your conversation with Mr. Murphy?"
"Of course," said Warren, "I even ask you to listen. For you have just heard that the 38th case is here. So another murder?"
"Just according to the usual pattern," replied Murphy, "only with the difference that this time it's a very well known personality and the case will cause enormous scandal throughout London. The singer Lillian Bell was murdered tonight."
"Lillian Bell?" repeated the police chief, distraught, "the famous singer? The celebrated beauty, who was even welcome and heard at the Queen's court? Impossible!"
"Unfortunately , that is so, Mr. Warren," replied Murphy, "and the circumstances of the deed are as follows: The singer had sung at the Drury Lane Theatre last night and again enjoyed tremendous applause. She then changed in her dressing room and left the theatre with her maid to board her carriage, which was waiting and which took the singer every evening to her apartment in Oxford Street.
Otherwise, the maid always accompanied her mistress, but it has been observed that Miss Lillian, for some reason, was saying goodbye to her maid at the door and getting into the carriage alone. When the coachman arrived at the apartment with the closed carriage, he wondered why the door was not opened and why the singer did not get out.
Finally, he jumped down from the box, opened the carriage door, and recoiled in horror. On the silken upholstery of the carriage lay Lillian Bell, murdered, bestially mutilated. The police, summoned to the scene, immediately realised that this was yet another mysterious murder by Jack the Ripper."
"A desperate case!" said Warren, running his hand through his grey hair. "This will certainly cause a very unpleasant stir, and we can expect a proper press campaign. Unfortunately, I am convinced that we will be groping in the dark again this time, for I must confess, this murder is even more mysterious than all the other cases that have occurred before."
"It is," said Sherlock Holmes, who had withdrawn to a corner of the room, and slowly emerged from it. "But Mr. Murphy will surely succeed in dispelling the darkness that shrouds this matter, and I wish him luck in advance."
"Sneer all you want, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Murphy retorted venomously, "try catching the invisible villain, Jack the Ripper. Reach into the five million inhabitants and pluck out the right one!"
"I will, my friend, you can count on it, I will," Holmes replied, "and I challenge you to a little duel Mr. Murphy; do you have the courage?"
"Courage to go to hell."
"Do it then, that's the deal!" cried Holmes, extending his hand to Murphy. "Make a deal! You have often claimed that my knowledge is only piecemeal, and that I am favoured by fortune, as I always manage to find - the right trail. So then, let us both work on this mysterious case and see who succeeds first in reaching the end."
"A sort of detective race?" remarked the police chief, rubbing his hands with pleasure. "Well gentlemen, I confess that I am most happy to accept this wager and I'm even prepared to put down a price, 25 bottles of champagne, which we shall drink together on the day on which Jack the Ripper is apprehended.
For I can only benefit from having the two greatest detectives in the Kingdom, in noble competition, strive together towards the goal of ridding London of it's dreadful plague."
"I too am prepared to accept the wager," Murphy blurted out, "and I'll stake a thousand pounds sterling that I'll win it."
"A thousand pounds sterling?" asked Holmes. "All right, Murphy! I'll deposit a thousand pounds with the Bank of England before noon today, and I hope you will do the same."
The two detectives shook hands , perhaps for the first time in their lives.
"And now, gentlemen," said Holmes, reaching for his hat, "I have the honour to commend myself to you, for I do not wish to waste a single minute that I might later lack at the end. Mr. Warren, my respects. I'm going to look for Jack the Ripper."
Chapter 2.
The Undertaker.
At that moment, by the bier, which presented such an exceedingly sad sight because of the blossoming youth rested upon it in rigid formation, stood two people who were speaking in whispers about what had happened.
One of these two people was a slender blonde, strikingly handsome young man, who, however, clearly showed signs of leading a rather lively life, for he had a certain strain in his features that spoke plainly of sleepless nights. The young man's clothing was the most elegant imaginable, indeed even a little foppish.
Beside him stood a pretty young girl, about 23 years old, Lillian Bell's maid, Mig Harriette Munt, who came from a good family and had been the artist's right hand.
"Yes, it's a terrible case," said the young man, examining the seams of his impeccable black gloves. "I'm still under the impression of the horror that seized me when I heard about what happened yesterday. I was having breakfast at my club. Then I threw myself into a carriage and got here as fast as I could. My poor sister! Who would ever have thought it possible that such a terrible end would befall her?"
"I'm still completely stunned," replied Miss Harriette, and a stream of tears burst from her eyes. "Oh, if only I had gone with her when she got into the carriage last night! That terrible thing could not have happened to her. But I had asked Miss Lillian for an hour's leave, as I had an important private matter to attend to, and kind as she always was, she granted it to me immediately."
"After all, you couldn't have protected her either," said the young man, the brother of the deceased. "In fact, you can consider yourself lucky that you weren't in the carriage with them, for who knows if that wretched scoundrel, whom they call Jack the Ripper, wouldn't have simply murdered you as well."
Miss Harriette shuddered.
"And now a word in confidence, my dear Harriette," Grover Bell continued, "you were not only my sister's maid, but also her companion and closest friend. Did my sister leave behind a considerable fortune? In my estimation, she must of had at least 100,000 pounds sterling. She sang her way to enormous sums."
"You've estimated your sister's fortune quite accurately, Mr. Bell, and the money is invested in the Bank of England, I know that."
"And of course there's a will in which she named me her heir? I am, after all, her only blood relative, and although I was occasionally at odds with Lillian, on the whole we got on quite well, and I know that she loved me."
"She did, Mr.Bell, but, unfortunately you gave her much cause for discontent."
"What do you want? Lillian was a strange character. She demanded every freedom for herself, but from me she required a bourgeois life."
"Who is it?" cried Harriette at that moment, hurrying to the door. "No one ids allowed in here. Oh, my God what is that? A black figure!"
"Don't be afraid Miss Harriette," said Grover hurrying to the side of the pallid girl. "There are no ghosts, and this gentleman dressed in black will be kind enough to be brief and ask what he actually wants."
In the doorway stood a tall, thick, black figure.
Everything about him was black: the breeches that clung to his thin legs, the long coat buttoned up to his chin, which didn't even reveal the collar, the cravat around its right arm, the top hat that the man held in his hand, and the long, pointed shoes that it wore on fine, considerable large feet. In addition, the man had a strikingly pale face, with a pointed nose and black hair that lay close to his body. His hands were in black gloves.
"I beg your pardon," said the stranger in a muffled voice. "My name is Josias Wakefield, and I am the representative of the funeral company Requiescat In Pace. The news of the passing of the famous artist, Miss Lillian Bell, has deeply shaken us as well, and I have come to express our most heartfelt condolences on behalf of the company.
At the same time, I take the liberty of presenting you with our company's prospectus, from which you may see that we arrange first, second and third class funerals, whether the most lavish or the most modest, at reasonable prices. You need not worry about a thing if you entrust the entire arrangements to us. From the deathbed to the grave, we will take care of everything."
"Yes, dear friend," replied Grover Bell, "I cannot yet give you any information about my sister's funeral, as I do not know when the authorities will permit it. For the time being, there will be a judicial inspection of the body, and who knows what the coroner might deem appropriate to order."
"I suspected as much," Josias Wakefield replied, "but perhaps you would be willing to take measurements for the coffin in any case. You will have to make certain preparations anyway, and it's good if I don't bother you again."
"I have no objection," Grover replied, "we will certainly order a coffin. Come with me into the next room in the meantime, Miss Harriette. We can have our conversation there; the gentleman will probably not need much time for the measurements."
"Good Lord, such things can be done in a matter of minutes," Mr. Wakefield replied, and, with businesslike efficiency, produced a measuring tape. "Please be disturbed by this! Perhaps you could study our prospectus a little in the next room."
Even as Harriette and Grover walked away, Wakefield began to take measurements, diligently noting the results in an old notebook he had pulled out and placed beside him. Suddenly, he raised his head, peered listening towards the door behind which the two had disappeared, and swiftly and decisively threw back the blanket that had been spread over the murdered woman's body.
With a practiced eye, he examined the fatal wound, a terrible gash that ripped open the white body. Then he let the singer's lower body disappear under the blanket and raised her hands. The waxen, translucent hands still wore the precious rings which the singer had adorned herself on the last night of her life. They were rings of considerable value.
But these jewels did not seem to interest Wakefield in the least. He examined the fingernails, the finely manicured rosey nails, and whispered softly to himself: "Not a single one is broken, not in the slightest twisted. So there was no struggle between the victim and the murderer, for it is a well established fact that women and girls, when attacked, first make use of their nails."
Could it be inferred from this that Lillian Bell knew the murderer, that she had willingly given him a seat in the carriage, that she was unprepared for an attack from his side?
"Oh, what is this? continued the strange representative of the funeral company 'Requiescat In Pace' in astonishment"A hair, here - under the fingernail? It seems to have come from the murderers head of beard."
Quickly, he took a closer look. With great speed, Josias Wakefield produced a magnifying glass, placed the hair on his notebook, and examined it carefully through the sharlpy ground glass.
"Neither from the murderer's head nor his beard," he said, "but either from his wig or his false beard. This hair didn't come from a person, it was processed by a wigmaker, I can clearly see that. So - there we are,a small step forward. Jack the Ripper wears a wig, and he ties on a false beard when he goes on his bloody adventures.
Therefore, it cannot be an unintelligent man, as one might assume from the terrible nature of the murder, not a person of the class of beasts, cave dwellers, or on the lowest level of criminals. No, it is an intelligent man, but a degenerate one!"
The undertaker was about to step back from the bed when he suddenly bent quickly over the corpse once more. He must have noticed something about her that aroused his utmost interest, for suddenly he opened the corpse's mouth and carefully examined its teeth. They were magnificently white teeth, which had even achieved a certain fame throughout England. For the teeth of the singer Lillian Bell had always been much admired, and when the great artist sang, the magnificent notes that poured from her throat were almost admired no more than her truly splendid dentition.
But now the undertaker seemed to be making a discovery that would probably not have been believed in England. Lillian Bell had possessed a false tooth. It was attached to a rubber plate, since at that time dental technology was not yet advanced enough to fix teeth to the old roots with posts or to perform crown, and bridge work. However, this single false tooth of the singer Lillian Bell was so artfully crafted that no one had yet suspected that the artist's delightful pearl teeth exhibited a very unfortunate deficiency.
Perhaps not even her maid was aware of this fact. Carefully, the undertaker reached into the singer's mouth and removed the plate with the false tooth. He examined it closely, and quickly produced his magnifying glass once more, he placed the rubber plate under its lense.
"Am I mistaken?" the undertaker whispered very quietly. "No, in this matter I cannot be mistaken. This fine gold coating, which the plate shows, I am certain of my case. Miss Lillian Bell - was an opium smoker. But since, in my experience, many crimes originate from the opium dens where these unfortunate souls congregate, and since this is also the only way in which Miss Bell could have come into contact with criminal elements, I will look there for my leverage. This discovery satisfies me."
With that the representative of the funeral company pushed the false tooth back into place, so no one would detect the gap between the pretty singer's teeth, then smiling, he stepped back from the bed.
At that moment, the small magnifying glass slipped from his hand and fell onto the carpet. "Oh, how clumsy I am," cried the undertaker, "my magnifying glass has rolled under the bed. I just want to quickly pull it out before the maid and the young man return."
He bent down, stretched out his lean body, then called in a low voice "Come out, good friend! Don't hide under ---- the bed any longer! You are ----
A dull murmur could be heard from behind the bed on which the corpse lay, but the next moment the undertaker reached out, grasped a human leg, and a body followed. A man had been hidden under the bed.
He was a shabbily and filthy dressed ruffian, with tangled red hair and a red beard that was now visible. Strangely enough, the man made no attempt to flee, but immediately straightened up when the undertaker gave him a little freedom and said in a low voice;
"Dear friend, don't make a fuss, I don't intend to steal here, although I did sneak in. There are quite different matters at hand, which I won't explain to you, but here, take this pound note and go on your way without giving me any further thought."
"Dearest red haired friend," replied the undertaker in a low voice, "don't imagine that I can buy anything with a pound note. I'll make a fuss, or you'll pay me ten pounds on the spot."
"Wicked fellow," the redhead blurted out, "he was about to screw me, but there's nothing to be done about it, I insist on remaining undisturbed in this house. Here, my friend, is your ten pounds, and get yourself out of here as quickly as possible. By the way, it took you a very long time to measure the body."
The undertaker calmly accepted the ten pounds, took an empty envelope from his pocket, and placed the banknotes inside. The he wrote a few words on the envelope in pencil.
"What are you doing?" What are you writing on the envelope?" asked the redhead.
"I'll gladly show you," replied the undertaker, "just look."
The few words on the envelope read; "Ten pounds for the poor of London, received today from Murphy, chief detective of the London Police."
"Goddam, you know me?" Murphy managed to exclaim in astonishment and anger. He involuntarily grasped his red wig and red beard, as if to make sure they were still on his head and face. "Goodness, how did you come to the conclusion that I ----"
"Don't bother yourself, my dear Murphy," replied the undertaker with a slight laugh. "The moment I grasped your right foot there under the bed, I knew it was you and no one else. As for your further inquiries, I wish you the best of luck. I'll gladly leave you in peace. Stay here, just lie back under the bed,sleep, wake up, do what you like, I don't want to bother you any longer. But I am pleased from the bottom of my heart that I have raised ten pounds for the poor of London in this way."
Murphy nearly burst with rage. He clenched his fists, and the words escaped his lips: "Man, devil, I know who you are. You are ----"
"Your most devoted Holmes, the detective," laughed the other, and the next moment had disappeared from the room.
Chapter 3.
In The Opium Den.
The import of opium, thar dried milky sap obtained from unripe poppy capsules, is subject to strict monitoring in all civilised nations. For it has long been known that while opium is one of the most important drugs and medicines in existence, it is also an extremely harmful poison, the abuse of which has already claimed countless lives.
Opium production is carried out in all countries with moderate rainfall, but mostly in Persia, China, and to a lesser extent Egypt. For many centuries, opium has been known as an intoxicant capable of producing the most pleasant dreams. This abuse of opium is particularly prevalent among the Chinese, in Turkey, Java, and also to a significant degree in North America and England.
Opium eaters are despised by the Turks; they are called fergatites. One must see these people to get an idea of the devastating effect this poison has on the human body after it has been consumed. These opium eaters are pale, emaciated figures with lifeless eyes and sunken cheeks covered in wrinkles; they are walking corpses.
In China and Java, opium is not eaten but smoked, and this practice has spread to America and Europe, especially to England. The spread of opium use in England dates back to the fourth decade of the last century. Since that time, there have been a large number of opium dens, mainly in London, where the most distinguished society often gathers.
But since the practice of opium smoking is associated with a certain disgrace from other society, it is carried out with the greatest secrecy, and distinguished men and women, who have succumbed to the devil of opium, sneak quite secretly, even in disguise, to those wretched dens to lie there for a night in blissful dreams, in delusions that delight them, but which are followed in the morning by a terrible sobering up.
As soon as Sherlock Holmes had discovered that Lillian Bell had been an opium smoker, he hurried home and changed his disguise. He shed the black attire of the undertaker's agent and dressed elegantly instead. He his his own hair under a wig, then glued on a black goatee, applied white makeup to his face to give it a morbid expression, and further enhanced this by applying a little grey under his eyes.
But that was not all, from a box that the detective always kept locked, he took a small flask and squirted a liquid into his eyes. He proceeded very carefully and used only a very small quantity of this liquid. For it was belladonna, a poison that can, under certain circumstances, cause blindness if used in excess. Carefully injected into the eyes, it gives them a very special, strange gleam, a glow otherwise only bestowed by fever.
"By Jove, Mr. Holmes," cried Harry Taxon, who had just entered and so suddenly saw his master before him in this disguise, "You look like a walking corpse. Or, rather, like someone suddenly struck by a terrible fever."
"Thank you, my dear boy, for telling me so," replied the famous detective with a laugh, "that's exactly how I want to look. Just look at me, you can learn something. The way I look, that's how all opium smokers look, people who have long indulged in this wretched vice. So sunken and wrinkled their cheeks appear, so unnatural their eyes, and that strange glow that burns their nostrils. those are the sure symptoms that opium is being smoked."
"And where do you intend to go in these clothes?"
"I probably won't be getting home all night," Sherlock Holmes replied, putting a revolver and a knife into his pocket. "But don't follow me, Harry, wait for me here all night, you may sleep I'll wake you if I need you."
With that, Sherlock Holmes shook his young companion's hand and then quickly left his house, for he did not want to appear in this disguise to Mrs. Bonnet. The good soul was always frightened when her master left the house with the intention of staying out all night. Especially, however, when she noticed that he had put on a disfiguring disguise, for then she knew that it was a dangerous undertaking.
Sherlock Holmes set off quickly towards the Thames. He crossed the bridge at Southwark and came to Cooley Street. It was a long but narrow alley, in which many old buildings still stood. While the windows of the houses on this street face the Thames on one side, the trains of the South Eastern Railway roll past the rear windows.
Without paying the slightest attention to the suspicious rabble filling the street, the detective strode calmly on until he came to a two story house on Cooley Street, which was undoubtedly one of the oldest in that lane and may have been inhabited as far back as the time when Cromwell had the King's head laid at his feet. Along the front of this house, on the first floor, ran a wooden gallery resting on wooden pillars.
As soon as Holmes reached the door of the house, he rang the bell, and almost immediately the door was opened. A negro in fantastic livery stepped forward to meet him and asked what he wanted.
"I wish to speak with Madame Cajana," answered Holmes, and without asking any further questions, the negro led him into a room on the ground floor, furnished with faded elegance. The gentle glow of a lamp hanging from the ceiling spilled over the faded furniture, whose yellow damask must once have been precious.
Holmes was not alone for long. After a short while, a small door opened, and in walked a European dressed woman of about 30, who, however, one could immediately tell had been born under a hot sun. Her complexion was bronze, and her hair was deep black, slightly graying at the temples.
"You wish to speak with me, sir?" asked Madame Cajana, the proprietress of the house, in poor English, "What do you want?"
"The opium ranch."
"Ah, who told you that one could smoke opium here?" replied Madame Cajana in apparent dismay. "No, sir, you have decided to be fooled by another. Just move along."
"Madame, I have not been made a fool of," replied Holmes,. "However, if you perhaps doubt that I am a habitual opium smoker, you only need to look at me. Here, the marks which every habitual opium smoker bears."
Madame Cajana removed the shade from the lamp, so that it's light fell sharply on the features of the detective. In this illumination she studied her visitor for a moment, then she said in a low voice: "Yes, sir, the marks are all there, they cannot deceive. You belong to our guild. But you know that one must be very careful, for keeping an opium den is very strictly forbidden in London, although I am on good terms with the police."
'Ah, madame," replied Holmes, "I wish it were so indeed, that is to say, I wish I were not an opium smoker. I suffer terribly and would like to wean myself off this habit for anything in the world, but I cannot, I do not have the strength. I must have opium, do you hear, Madame? I must, quickly, take me into one of the rooms, give me the poison, or I will go mad."
"By Brahma," replied Madame Cajana, "you can hardly wait. Now, my dear, calm down, in my house you will find everything you need. Do you eat or smoke opium?"
"Smoke, only smoke," replied Holmes. "Quickly, Madame, tell me what I have to pay."
"Five pounds," answered Madame Cajana, and quickly Holmes drew out his wallet and handed the woman the requested sum. With that, the formalities were over, and the owner of the opium den beckoned to her guest to follow her. She led him from the reception room through a long, dimly lit corridor to the rear of the house. Here they entered a large hall into which about ten doors opened.
Madame Cajana opened one of these doors and invited her visitor to enter. The room was long and narrow, and had only a single window, tightly closed by a blind. A wide divan rose in the room, which was evidently intended so that the opium smokers could stretch out comfortably on it. Next to the divan stood a small table with the smoking apparatus.
"Can you help yourself,sir?" she asked lighting a spirit lamp under a small container. "Or would you prefer me to stay with you until you fall asleep?"
"The latter would be preferable," answered Holmes, "for I always get into states of great excitement at the beginning, and I don't like to be alone then."
"The matter is otherwise very simple," said Madame Cajana. "As soon as the water boils, the opium is thrown in so that it dissolves in the water. Through this small apparatus, the vapour is then filtered and evaporated.
You, sir, lay your head down and take some opium with this needle shaped instrument. Then hold it to the flame and, with one or two puffs, draw the opium into your lungs. If you require a stronger dose, repeat this maneuver several times."
"All this I know, Madame," replied Holmes, walking slowly towards the door as if to block Madame Cajana's path to it. "And I didn't come here to learn from you how to become an opium smoker, but to pose you another question."
Madame Cajana turned around in surprise, for her visitor had suddenly spoken to her in a very different voice, and grew suspicious.
"Stay calm, Madame," said the detective, "as soon as you shout and summon your creatures, you are lost. I will arrest you in this trap at once. Answer my questions truthfully, and you can be assured that I will not uncover the secret of your house. I am the detective, Sherlock Holmes."
Madame Cajana staggered; she sank down on the divan in shock.
"I repeat to you once more," called Holmes, walking close behind her, "that you have nothing to fear, but you must not lie to me."
"Well, what do you want to know from me?" Madame Cajana exclaimed. "Please, don't make me unhappy. My entire fortune is in this house; I'll be ruined if....."
"You can continue your business here," replied Holmes. "It wouldn't do any good if we tried to close your place down, because ten other opium dens would immediately spring up like mushrooms. But tell me, did the singer Lillian Bell frequent your establishment?"
"Oh, my God, what do you want from me? You know that the first duty of an opium den proprietor is never to reveal the name of any of her customers."
"I ask you again, did the singer Lillian Bell frequent your house? Did she smoke opium here?" asked Holmes in a stern voice. "That she was an avid opium smoker I know; I have compelling evidence for that."
"Well then, she came and went from my house."
"Was she already at an advanced stage of opium addiction?"
"No, sir, I must assure you, I had known the singer for several months."
"Who brought her to you?"
"She came with a recommendation which I absolutely had to respect. For I swear again, Mr. Holmes, that I do not take in just anyone. You know best how timid I have been with you."
"That is true, and therefore I suspect that the recommendation the singer brought you must have been very weighty. And since I am interested in with whom Miss Lillian Bell was in contact, you probably already know from the newspapers that the unfortunate woman was murdered, I therefore absolutely must hear from you who put Miss Bell in contact with you."
Madame Cajana wrung her hands. "I see you will reveal all of my secrets and make me look terrible," she blurted out, "Mr. Holmes, I offer you 500 pounds....."
"Don't talk about money," interrupted the detective, "Do you imagine you could bribe Sherlock Holmes? If I wanted to take money for my discretion, I might already be one of the richest men in England! But no mortal can boast of having sealed my lips with cold cash. I repeat once more and for the last time! If you tell me the unreserved truth, you can continue your business undisturbed, at least I won't stop you."
"Then ask," sighed the woman, "what do you want to know?"
"What recommendation did Miss Bell bring you, who was it that drew her attention to your opium den?"
"It was the Indian doctor."
"The Indian doctor? Who is one of your countrymen," Holmes asked.
Miss Cajana shook her head. "No, we wasn't born in India, but he has always lived in my homeland, and I myself don't speak my language any better than he does."
"So, a white man?"
"Yes, a white man, a learned doctor. He has sent me many a customer, or rather, many a female customer."
'A clean doctor," Holmes blurted out, "who prescribes opium smoking like another prescribes a remedy for stomach aches. Do you know his name?"
"I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, his name is unknown to me, I only know that he is called the Indian doctor. He himself almost never comes into this house, and when he does, he neither smokes nor eats opium, but he only observes. He has the right to enter any of the rooms, for he is an influential man and has rendered me many an important service. And if I assure you that ----."
Madame Cajana stopped mid sentence, for a strange sound had penetrated the wooden partition that separated the cabinet from the adjoining one and reached her and Holmes's ears. Holmes knew that sound. It was a sweet sigh, such as that made by opium, a sigh from a drunken young woman, a sigh that seems to betray all the bliss of opium dreams.
"Who is in the next room?" asked Holmes, "a young woman no doubt?"
"You are right, but I do not know her name. Believe me, Mr. Holmes, I do not know who she is, I do not ask the name of anyone who comes to me."
"You certainly do not," said Holmes, "but I am equally certain that you send a spy after every female customer when she leaves your house at dawn, to ascertain who the person in question was. It is known that your business is sometimes connected with blackmail, which is usually very successful."
"Mr. Holmes, what do you think of me? I conduct my business fairly and honestly, and I have never been guilty of extortion. Merciful God, what was that? Did you hear it Mr. Holmes? A dreadful scream and --- yes ---"
"A wheeze!" Holmes uttered, "a wheeze such as only a dying man makes! Madame Cajana, something terrible seems to be going on behind that wall. Quickly, follow me, let's go in! Ah, again, a scream, and now ----"
There was a sound of a window rattling, a strange scraping noise,and then silence. Holmes had opened the door with lightning speed, he rushed to the door of the adjoining room and tried to open it.
"The door is locked! Quickly Madame, open it!"
The owner of the den produced a bunch of keys and searched among them , but it was taking too long. The detective therefore threw himself against the door with all of his strength, and he succeeded in breaking it open. A cry escaped his lips. There on the divan, a beautiful young woman, murdered with her throat slashed open! "Jack the Ripper, was here!" cried the detective.
Chapter 4.
The Leap Into The Rolling Train.
That was the only sound to escape the detectives lips. He paid no attention to the fact that Madame Cajana had collapsed, he only cast a quick glance at the unfortunate woman on the divan, who was lying in a pool of blood. Then with the passion of a hunter, determined not to let his prey escape this time, he set out in pursuit of the criminal.
The route Jack had taken to escape was immediately clear to Holmes. The wretch, after committing the horrific murder, had smashed the window and jumped onto the wooden gallery, which, as Holmes observed, ran not only along the front of the house, but apparently around the entire building, including the back.
The detective did not hesitate for a moment. In a flash, he swung himself through the window onto the gallery, and as he stepped onto it, he saw the murderer crouching on the parapet, hesitant to take the plunge.It was moonlit, the light of the night sky shone brightly enough to see the monster. But for the time being, Holmes could see nothing more than the figure was not too tall, a broad shouldered man, wrapped in a long, close fitting coat, maybe a raincoat, with a sports cap on his head and elegant boots on his feet.
The man's face, as he turned it to the other side, was not visible. But it seemed to Holmes that this man wore a large, dark beard. The detective absorbed all these impressions in less than a second, for he was certainly not the man to stand idly by when it came to putting out a hand to seize a criminal.
"Surrender, you monster!" cried Holmes. "Now you're at my mercy, Jack the Ripper! I an arresting you!"
Holmes rushed towards the wretch, who, as it turned out, was crouching trembling on the parapet. At that moment, however ----.
A piercing whistle sounded, then a rattle and clatter of iron wheels, which rolled lightning fast along the rails. A South Eastern Railway train appeared before him, a train that glided over the floor to ceiling brickwork that ran a few paces from the back of the house.
"What are you going to do?" roared Holmes, when he saw the criminal suddenly straighten up a little on the parapet and stood poised to leap. "Stop or I'll shoot! If I can't get you alive, I'll have you dead."
A mocking laugh rang out from Jack's mouth. The criminal suddenly sprang upwards, and before Holmes could seize him and pull him back, the unbelievable, the almost incomprehensible had happened! The dark spectre had plunged headfirst through an open compartment window of the roaring train.
Holmes stood there for a moment as if frozen. He had been after many criminals, after people who had worked with tremendous presence of mind, and had often the opportunity to observe that for a criminal in desperation, when he sees himself pursued and wants to escape, nothing is too difficult or impossible.
He had seen enough daring pranks, but this leap from the gallery parapet onto a speeding train, this leap executed with such agility and disregard, was surely the most monstrous thing he had ever the opportunity to observe.
The train disappeared into the distance. Already it was no longer visible; only light wisps of steam fluttered around Holmes, leaving him with no indication that a train had actually passed.
"My God," Holmes said to himself, "this escape almost compels me to respect the wretch. Only a man who knows full well that he is hopelessly lost if he does not risk the utmost would act like this. For this time he had escaped me, but I have seen him, and I am the only living person in London who can boast of having seen Jack the Ripper with his own eyes."
And because this was so immensely important to Holmes, he once again visualised the image of this Ripper. Thus, a man not too tall, broad shoulders, wrapped in a long, dark coat, with a cap on his head and a goatee. And at that very moment the scoundrel had dared to leap, Holmes thought he had seen fine eyes, strangely large, glowing eyes filled with an expression of world weariness and insolence.
Quickly, Holmes approached the gallery railing and examined the spot where the criminal had been crouching. Perhaps he had dropped something there, a seemingly insignificant object that might be important. But nothing, absolutely nothing could be found. Jack the Ripper had slipped away quite smoothly and left no trace. The wretch was now perfectly safe, for who knew how far the train had taken him.
Since Holmes could not think of pursuing Jack any further, he returned to the opium den and the terrible murder. Madame Cajana had by now recovered from her swoon and her servants had all gathered. A number of young women, the negro doorkeeper, and two other servants were in the room.
"At once, all of you leave the room," cried Holmes, as he re entered it. "Madame Cajana, you alone remain here."
Astonished, the unmanned men of the opium den had their eyes on Holmes; but he stood so imperiously before them that they did not dare to disobey his command. After the curious onlookers had departed, Holmes closed the door and approached the divan on which the dreadfully murdered woman lay.
He bent over the corpse. It was a charming sweet face that he beheld, one that even death had not been able to disfigure, a girlish countenance framed by reddish gold, curly hair. The dead woman was dressed in a lace chemise, which was, of course, now stained with blood. Holmes's sharp eye immediately spotted a fine embroidery on the chemise, above this embroidery the initials of a name, and above these a crown.
"Madame Cajana, do you know the lady?"
"I don't know her," she answered, "oh God, now it's all over for me. They'll shut down my opium den now this dreadful crime has been committed here, but I swear to you, Mr. Holmes ---"
"Don't always swear, don't always protest, and speak more to the point. Answer the questions I will put to you. Is this young woman, whose age I estimate at 20, in your opium den for the first time?"
"No, she has been here four or five times."
"Recently?"
"Over the past month."
"Has she been smoking opium?" asked Holmes. "As you can see, the apparatus is cold."
"She has always only allowed herself to be led into her room and has explained that she already knows how to do everything. She has never tolerated any of us staying with her."
"She always locked the door behind her, didn't she?"
"Yes she did. Of course, she didn't know that I had keys to every door and could enter whenever I pleased."
"Did you ever enter while this unfortunate woman was here?"
"No, never. I only checked whether the opium present had diminished by morning. Otherwise, I paid her no further attention. I assumed she smoker opium, although I must say that I did not perceive the slightest sign of opium addiction in her."
Holmes suddenly turned his back on Madame Cajana, went back to the window, forced himself out onto the gallery, and looked down from it into the depths below.
"You know, Madame Cajana," he said when he had returned to the room, "that I firmly believe this unfortunate woman did not come to your house because she was an opium smoker, but rather because she was much more concerned with receiving in this room a visitor, whom she could not otherwise be seen with."
"Yes, but surely this visitor should have been seen by us! There is only one entrance to my house, and the doorkeeper, should have asked him where he was going."
"That's not all the case," he replied, "you see, the gallery is indeed 25 feet above the street, but if a person is thrown a rope or a rope ladder, he can easily climb onto the gallery and from there get through the window into this room. However, it is not to be assumed that Jack the Ripper was the expected visitor. But I am of the opinion that this Jack heard of this lady's nocturnal visitor, and he took the opportunity to murder her."
"By why would he have killed her?"
"Who knows the motives of such a monster," replied Holmes. "After all, it has been observed in all cases that Jack only kills women and girls who have given themselves over to a frivolous lifestyle. In this case, it has already been proven that she has committed a transgression, for otherwise she would not be here in your house. And now, Madame Cajana, give me the clothes of the murdered woman. She is in her shilf, so she must have taken off her clothes."
Cajana opened a small wardrobe, within were the clothes which the dead woman was wearing when she entered the opium den. This wardrobe, as Holmes determined, consisted of a modernly made dress of a dark blue colour, a matching jacket richly trimmed with dark lace, a hat with a blue feather, and two white petticoats bearing the same initials with the crown as the chemise.
These initials, however, were a capital I and a capital M, and as regards the crown, Holmes, after examining closely, determined that it was meant to represent a French count's coronet. Now Holmes proceeded to search the pockets of the dress. He found in them a purse containing some gold coins, a small case containing a mirror, a powder puff and a pocket square.
"That's no clue," Holmes said, "give me the fine shoe the dead woman was wearing."
It was a black patent leather shoe with yellow toe caps, which were very fashionable at the time. It belonged to the smallest foot imaginable. To avoid any error, Holmes compared the dead woman's small feet with the charming little shoes and concluded that the shoe must have belonged to the murdered woman.
Turning one of the shoes over to examine it, Holmes discovered a stamp burned into the sole. "Ah, that's the make of the Parisian shoe store in Howard Street," he exclaimed. "Laurin & Co. I hope to be fully informed of the dead woman's identity by morning. That reminds me, Laurin & Co is one of those shops in London that stays open all night. I'll take the shoes with me, I will know immediately the identity of the murdered woman."
"And what shall I do?" cried Madame Cajana. "Shall I notify the police?"
"Notify the police? Of course," replied Holmes, "but wait just another hour; I will most likely take care of it myself. Just lock the room and give me the key so that no one can enter. The blinds must also be closed; no alteration whatsoever may be made to the body, for it is most important that everything remain in the same condition as it is now."
Soon Holmes left the opium den.
He had tucked the shoes into the pocket of his coat, and as quickly as possible he left Cooley Street, took a cab, and drove to Howard Street. A number of larger businesses had recently made the arrangement to remain open all night long. This was more for advertising than actual sales, and the magnificent shop of Laurin & Co, the Parisian shoe store on Howard Street, was brilliantly lit when Sherlock Holmes entered. However, by no means was the full staff present, as during the day, but only a manager, and he was able to give Holmes information.
"Would you be so kind," said Holmes, after introducing himself to the French manager, "take a look at these shoes. Are they your make?"
"Without a doubt, sir."
"These shoes were purchased in your shop then?"
"They were certainly supplied by us."
"Could you perhaps tell me, sir, to whom you supplied these shoes."
"Impossible. So many shoes are sold here every day that we cannot possibly say who has ever bought a pair from us."
"It would be of the utmost importance to me, however, to ascertain for whom you made these shoes, for they were probably made to order."
"They are quite unique, indeed!" said the manager, "We don't have such a small number in stock. Miss Daisy, would you be so kind as to come here for a moment? Do you perhaps recall for whom these shoes were made?"
A saleswoman who appeared looked at the shoes scrutinisingly and said immediately; "Of course I know. This number exists only once in London, where, as is well known, there are many rich people. It is Countess Irene Malmaison who ordered the shoes, and they were delivered to her."
"Countess Malmaison?" replied Holmes, "That is, if I remember correctly, a lady belonging to the French colony of London."
"A very distinguished lady," said the manager, "who has been a customer of ours for a long time."
"Is the Countess married or ----"
"No, what do you think, she is a young girl of about nineteen or twenty."
"She was a young girl," Holmes replied, "I am afraid she is deceased."
The manager recoiled in horror.
"Murdered," siad Holmes. Then to avoid further questions, he left the elegant shoe store of Laurin & Co.
Chapter 5.
A Stiff Father's Heart.
"Please be so kind as to follow me, the Count wishes to receive you despite the unusual time." These words were spoken by a servant of Count Malmaison, to Sherlock Holmes, who had rung the bell of this distinguished west end home occupied by the French Count about midnight.
Sherlock Holmes had wiped the makeup from his face, thrown off the wig, and presented himself in his true form. The servant led him into the library, which was lit by a green draped lamp, and asked him to remain there for a few moments. After a few minutes, a side door opened,and Count Malmaison entered, despite the late hour, in impeccable dress, a truly aristocratic figure.
The Count held a visiting card in his hand, which he examined with a shake of his head: "Detective Holmes," he murmured, looking at the stranger standing before him in surprise, "so it really is you, the famous detective? I have heard many praiseworthy things about you and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Nevertheless, I must express my astonishment that you have chosen the midnight hour for your visit. Frankly, I do not quite understand what could have brought you to me."
"Count," replied Holmes, "it is a very sad matter that brings me to you, I am afraid. I beg you not to be alarmed, and to summon all of your composure. Your daughter Irene has suffered an accident."
"Irene, my daughter?" cried the Count, mortally alarmed, "but how could that be? Irene has been in her room since nine o'clock, she complained of a headache at dinner and absolutely refused to go to the opera with me. If something bad had happened to my daughter here in my house, I should have known about it before anyone else, sir. You see, there must be some substitution."
"Not at all, Count, I am afraid I am too sure of myself. But see for yourself, be so kind as to have someone check whether the Countess is in her room."
The Count rang the bell and whispered a few words to the entering valet, whereupon the latter immediately disappeared.
"What is supposed to have happened to my daughter?" the Count continued, "How could it be possible that Irene ..... ah! There you are again, well?"
When the valet had left the room, Holmes approached the grey haired old Count and said in a sympathetic tone: "My dear Count, the case is much more serious than you think. Your daughter is dead!"
"Merciful God, Irene dead? No, no, that's ---- not possible. A girl not yet twenty years old, healthy, fresh!"
"My Lord, your daughter has been murdered!" said Holmes in a hard voice.
Without hesitation, Count Malmaison collapsed into an armchair by the tables. He stared at the detective quite uncomprehendingly until at last the words came to his lips: "Murdered you say, Mr. Holmes? Oh, now I understand why you of all people are giving me this news. Irene murdered, and who, who is her murderer?"
"Pull yourself together, my Lord, and listen, the murderer is as terrible as the deed itself. Jack the Ripper has murdered the Countess!"
Count Malmaison clapped his hands to his face. "And where was the unfortunate child?" he asked, "where did this dreadful thing happen? Mr. Holmes, if it were not you who informed me,I would think that some cruel joke was being played on me, or that someone was trying to lead me to a rash act by a lie. I beg you, tell me everything, where was she?"
"In Madame Cajana's opium den, a disreputable house which your daughter had visited several times during the last few months."
At this the Count rose, pushed back the tears that welled in his eyes, and an icy calm settled over his features, a hard expression came into his eyes. "Is that so?" he stammered in a muffled voice. "My daughter has visited an opium den? Then I ---- have not lost as much as I thought ---- and I will move on with the matter. But to you, sir, I thank you for doing your duty, more than your duty, and I have brought myself into your debt."
"Repay it at once, Count, by allowing me to look around a little in your daughter's boudoir," replied Holmes, "for that is all I wish. Perhaps I will find something in there that might lead me to the killer."
"Everything is at your disposal," said the Count, "do as you please, sir. Baptist, escort this gentleman into the Countess's boudoir."
Count Malmaison staggered out through a side door, and Holmes watched the stern, harsh father, who wanted nothing more to do with his fallen daughter, with concern and pity. Holmes followed the valet, who led him through a series of splendidly furnished rooms, until he stopped in a delicately decorated chamber lined with blue silk tapestries and, turning to Holmes said: "This is the Countess's boudoir."
"Thank you, my friend," replied Holmes, "Now be so kind as to summon the lady's maid. If she refuses then bring her by force."
Holmes took in the room with a single glance. Everything here exuded luxury, good living, and frivolity; within these walls, a girl's spirit must surely be filled with frivolity.
"So he she is! She didn't want to come," cried the valet. "So I simply grabbed her by the arm and brought her here, as you ordered. I tell you sir, give her a good talking to! She's a real handful and is to blame for all this trouble!"
Miss Dolly, the maid, wept and wrung her hands. "Tell me," said the detective, "did you help your mistress sneak out of this house at night? The truth now, denying it won't help, the misfortune is already done."
"Yes, I warned her so many times, but she wouldn't listen, and then what was I supposed to do? I was her servant and had to obey."
"Very well, it would have been your duty to inform the Count of his daughter's suspicious activities. Where do you think the Countess was going when she slipped out at night?"
"To her lover," answered Dolly.
"Quite right, to her lover, and who was he?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? You're lying, you know very well."
"I mean I really don't know, I wasn't allowed to ask the young lady, but ----"
"She's lying sir, she's lying!" cried the valet, "you can count on it, she always lies. There's not a word of truth in her story, but if she doesn't tell the truth soon, then take a look at my hand, Miss Dolly! Do you want to touch it?"
"Tell that rude and indecent man to go out, and I will tell you the whole truth," Miss Dolly retorted.
"Go out!" Holmes ordered, "leave me alone with the maid for a moment."
"I you tell me, sir, I will go, but I warn you again, do not rely on her, when she opens her mouth....she lies!"
And threatening the pretty maid with his fist, the valet Baptist left, and Holmes beckoned the girl to come closer. "I draw your attention," he said, "to the fact that you yourself may be in for some unpleasantness if I denounce you. You have, in a sense, performed a pimping service, and you know that the law has a very strict sensibility for such things, my dear!"
"Oh my God, I want to tell the truth," Dolly stammered, intimidated, "Well, the young Countess --- she's been having an affair with --- I can't say it, I'm so ashamed."
"Why weren't you ashamed sooner and prevented your young mistress, who was so recently an innocent girl, from such a wretched love affair? Now shame comes too late, now it's either tell the truth or go to prison."
The detective had spoken the last words in a stern voice, and the maid was now so worn down that she confessed everything. "You're right," she cried, "you're right, just....five or six months ago the young Countess hadn't thought of such a thing. She was as beautiful and innocent as an angel. But then the Count hired an American riding instructor, because the Count also keeps riding and hunting horses, even race horses sometimes."
"What was the name of this American riding instructor?"
"Mr. Charles Lake, he's a very handsome young man," Dolly continued, "I have to give him that, and on horseback he sits like a doll, and his eyes ----"
"I'm not interested in all of that! But I would like to know how he and the young lady actually came together."
"In the simplest way in the world. The Count arranged for the young lady to have riding lessons from Mr. Lake, and that's how they got together."
"Hahaha, the old story ---- the riding instructor," Holmes muttered to himself, "a riding instructor, piano lessons, or a language teacher, always wreaks havoc in many distinguished families."
Turning to the maid, "well, in a word," said Holmes, "this Mr. Charles Lake and the Countess have been intimate with each other, it can no longer be denied."
"Do you know that these two lovers met from time to time in a certain place?"
"Oh, I know that."
"It's an opium den. I believe the proprietress is called Madame Cajana."
"Quite right," replied Holmes, "the matter was quite cleverly concocted."
"The Countess went to this Madame Cajana from time to time. She rented a room there, supposedly to smoke opium, in truth she let her lover into the room from the gallery."
"We're almost finished here, my dear. What I could hear from you, I've heard, this satisfies me. Now tell me, where is this Mr. Charles Lake to be found?"
"It is ---- the middle of the night?" asked the girl.
"Yes, now, the middle of the night," understood Holmes. "In this case, one must strike while the iron is hot, and I have no doubt that you know Mr. Lake's residence, since you must surely have often delivered love letters there."
"Mr. Lake lives only two houses away, sir. I will show you. If you....wish. Holmes nodded. "Very well, accompany me."
The girl put on a hat and they left the house. A profound silence reigned in the distinguished building, whose most beautiful inhabitant had been murdered in such a terrible way. The unhappy father, who felt far more and more deeply than he had shown to Sherlock Holmes, tried that night to come to terms with the idea that the rejected, the fallen, was not his daughter. No one suspected that in this struggle, the proud Count aged twenty years that night, and that in the process, his heart was forever broken.
Chapter 6.
On The Trail By A Word.
"Be kind enough to wake up, sir, I am Holmes, the detective. I have a very serious matter to discuss with you."
The American, Charles Lake, who had lain fast asleep in his rather quaintly furnished room, staggered about, but quickly closed his eyes. Again, he was blinded by the light of a small electric lamp.
"Hello, what's that?" he cried, he then quickly reached for a revolver that lay on his bedside table. But Holmes pushed it aside and said in a penetrating voice: "You hear, of course, that no robber or thief stands before you, but Sherlock Holmes the detective. Now get up and dress quickly. You're unlikely to get any sleep tonight, fot I have to inform you that Countess Irene Malmaison was murdered last night."
"Have you gone mad, man?" cried Lake, leaping from his bed.
"Countess Irene Malmaison," Holmes continued, "was murdered last night in Madame Cajana's opium den, in the very room where the unfortunate girl used to meet you in secret."
As if struck by lightning, Charles Lake staggered back, then with trembling hands reached for his dressing gown which lay on an armchair by his bed, shivering, he wrapped himself in it, and almost breathlessly blurted out: "I don't understand what you just said ---- I can't understand it ---- Irene murdered in that opium den ----!"
"Yes, in that opium den," Holmes interrupted. "That place is certainly not unfamiliar to you, for you yourself made the arrangements to meet your beloved there."
"And if that were the case," Charles Lake blurted out, "what do you want from me, sir, why ---- are you bothering me?"
"First of all, be careful of your language or I'll arrest you at once," the detective declared in a calm, stern voice. "They are looking for the murderer of Irene Malmaison, I might be able to cast my suspicion on you, sir."
The riding instructor immediately became calmer. "I swear to you, sir," he cried, "that I know nothing of this crime."
"You were going to be with Irene tonight in the opium den?" asked Holmes.
'Yes," replied Lake. "We had arranged to meet there."
"At what time?"
"I was to be there at ten o'clock. But I was late, and when I arrived it was half past ten."
"Well, why don't you go on?" inquired Holmes, when the American faltered in his speech. "I'll tell you why you can't. You wouldn't tell me that you were accustomed to climbing up to the gallery by a rope ladder, which the Countess herself always used to throw you.
Last night you didn't find the rope ladder, and so you left empty handed, believing the Countess had not come to the rendezvous."
"Sir, you guess, everything, or you know everything, it was exactly as you say."
"Well, then, I will also tell you what has transpired in the meantime. A man who knew of the mysterious meetings you had with the Countess has in the meantime somehow entered the room in which Irene awaited you in your place, and this man is the murderer."
Charles Lake stood as if petrified; he seemed to have truly loved the young Countess very much, for his eyes filled with tears. "Did you truly love Irene Malmaison?" asked Holmes after a short pause. "Tell me the whole truth; was it not merely sensual intoxication that brought you together with the fair maiden?"
"I truly loved her," replied Mr. Charles Lake, "but we could never have hoped to belong to one another, for the Count would have me committed to an asylum if I had approached her with the request to become his son in law."
"If you loved Countess Irene," said Holmes, "then I hope you will see every effort to bring the murderer into the hands of the police. You will at least contribute your fair share to making that happen."
"I will, by God I will. But it's incomprehensible to me why the scoundrel murdered her. Did he perhaps want to rob her?"
"Answer me, Mr. Lake," Holmes continued, "Have you ever confided to any person that you are having an affair with the Countess? Did you confide in anyone, apart from the lady's maid, who knew about it, and above all, did you tell a third person where you met the Countess and how it happened?"
"You offend me with those questions," Lake retorted indignantly. "It would have been a very wicked thing for me to betray the Countess. No, I did not do that. No one knew about it, and I emphasise that the maid knew that we met in the opium den, but not how I gained entry to the Countess's room."
"Nevertheless, you must have told a third person."
"I have said nothing to anyone, not a soul," assured Lake, "I give you my word on that.....no...wait," he suddenly blurted out, running his hand over his sweat covered brow, "what I have just stated is not entirely true. There was a man who knew everything, but he could not have been the murderer, no, certainly not."
"To judge that Mr. Lake, is surely my business," replied Holmes, "Tell me the name of the one you have confided in."
He paced the room, clearly struggling with himself. "Mr. Holmes," he began, in a low voice, standing before the detective, "you are a man who has surely learned many secrets over the years. You will also be accustomed to keeping secrets. I beg you, spare the memory of poor Irene at least, so that she may rest peacefully. Tell no one what I'm about to tell you."
"If your communications can be kept secret," Holmes replied, "you may be assured that I will maintain unwavering silence about them. But if the publication of your confession is absolutely necessary to catch the murderer, then, dear friend, it is my duty to speak."
"I do not believe it will be necessary. Our love had consequences. Irene was deeply unhappy about it, for her honour, her reputation, was at stake. So I decided to consult a doctor."
"Uh, a doctor," cried Holmes suddenly.
"The doctor I'm talking about is a highly respected man who doesn't usually concern himself in such matters. But I did him a favour once, over in India ----."
"In India?" interrupted Holmes, his voice a little excited, "so you've been to India, Mr. Lake?"
"I was a jockey in a large stable in Calcutta. The doctor I'm talking about had placed a substantial bet on a horse I was riding. I made sure the horse actually won, thus saving the doctor from a loss that might have cost him his entire fortune."
"Listen, that really does sound very strange. A doctor who is also a reckless gambler, don't you find that odd Mr. Lake?"
The Lake shrugged. "You find gamblers in every circle," he said, "and this doctor played the turf with a passion that was, however, extraordinary. At that time, when the race is over, he thanked me warmly and said to me: 'If I can ever be of any service to you, just come to me, I will always be of help.' I remembered this promise now, when Irene made to terrible confession to me that her honour was at stake, and since I had learned by chance that the doctor was no longer in India but now in London, and enjoyed a great reputation, I visited him and begged him to help Irene."
"What is the doctor's name?"
Charles hesitated, then said, "It's Dr Robert Fitzgerald!"
"What, Dr Robert Fitzgerald? He's a very Well known doctor, if I'm not mistaken, in the West End?"
"Quite right, just a few streets away from here, on Cromwell Road, a few blocks from the Kensington Museum, he has his own house. The doctor has made his fortune. When in India he didn't own very much, but in Calcutta he married the daughter of a very rich explorer, and since then he's been a made man.
Then he returned to England, performed some successful , sensational operations here, and since then he's been called everywhere. I believe he's even treated some members of the Royal Family."
"Quite right," replied Holmes, "I also recall reading that he was supposed to have saved a Princess of the Royal Court by an operation bordering on the miraculous. He is a very learned man, with a steady hand. So you entrust yourself to him?"
"Yes, I visited him, described my situation, my despair, and he promised to help me!"
"Did you tell him where you usually met with the Countess?"
"Yes, I did that. I had to Holmes, because Dr Fitzgerald told me he could do nothing until he had seen the patient himself. But how was he to meet Irene? She would never have agreed to see the doctor in his house, so I thought it might be best if he ---- if he perhaps ----"
"You see, there you go again crying Sherlock Holmes, and again I will tell you why. You have arranged the following with Dr Fitzgerald: He should climb the rope ladder to the gallery in your place and thus gain entry to the opium den. Then he should simply approach the Countess, explain to her that he is the doctor, she would not refuse him entry or an examination. Is it so, Mr. Lake?"
"It is so."
"It was not an accidental delay that brought you to Madame Cajana's house at half past ten, but that you wanted to give Dr Fitzgerald time with his patient."
Under the stern gaze that Holmes fixed on the young man at these words, Mr. Charles Lake was unable to reply, and silently his head fell to his chest.
"Well my friend, I thank you for your information," said Holmes, taking off his hat, "and for the rest, I will spare you as much as possible. But I hope you have not only done a good service to the memory of Countess Irne Malmaison, but that the confession you have just given me is worth much more. I confidently hope you will have contributed much to ridding London of a monster who has hitherto defied all inquiries by the justice system."
Chapter 7.
An Unhappy Marriage.
The bench rose in front of a tall bush in full bloom. The young officer jumped up and amused himself by knocking off stems of a branch of this small bush. He had entirely the air of a man waiting impatiently, in a state of nervous excitement, not knowing whether his wait would be in vain.
Suddenly, a slender, youthful female figure came up the narrow path leading to Byron Square in Hyde Park, and scarcely had the young officer caught sight of her when he briskly went to meet her.
"How happy I am, dear Ruth, that you have come," he said, stepping forward to greet her, "I was afraid that it might have become impossible for you to keep our appointment."
"That would have been the case," replied the woman in a trembling voice, "for Robert did not want to leave today, whereas he usually departs at this time of day to make a round of his patients. And when he finally departed, I thanked heaven for it and hurried to you as fast as possible."
The young officer had seized her hand and brought it to his lips. He looked around, and since he could see no one nearby, he dared to wrap his arms around his beloved and pull her passionately to his heart.
But his lips only fleetingly touched hers, for she quickly slipped from his arms. "How dare you, my dear Harry, kiss me here!" the beautiful young woman fumed. "Just imagine if someone saw this."
The young officer's bearded face expressed a certain displeasure at these words. "And even if someone were to see us, Ruth," he forced out, "this has to end sometime. Isn't the law on my side? Weren't we secretly betrothed before your father practically forced you to became the wife of Robert Fitzgerald, that man who exerts an unfathomable influence on your father? And if I kiss you now and call you my own, I'm not stealing from him, he stole you from me!"
"Oh Harry, you know I love you, but.....I am his betrothed, and I am ashamed to betray his trust like this and secretly meet with you. But ever since you returned from India, and ever since you first stood before me again to assert your prior rights, ever since I feel how deeply, how intensely I love you, and how unhappy I am because of it."
Hot tears streamed from the beautiful blonde woman's eyes as she slid down onto the bench in from of the bushes. Captain Harry Thomson took a seat beside her. He whispered to her all the sweet words that love always keeps ready, and from what he said was clearly the intention of tearing Ruth away from her husband's side and taking her for his own.
"Have you found happiness with that man?" he cried, "No, you haven't, you can't, because you never loved him, and I simply cannot understand how you can feel comfortable by his side."
A deep sigh lifted the beautiful Ruth's breast. "Perhaps another would have been happy with him," answered Ruth. "I couldn't. Oh, if you only knew Harry, how strange he is. Often he lies at my feet, worships me as if I were a deity. He begs me to love him as he loves me, hotly, intensely, passionately, and then, like a God, he locks himself in his room for days, doesn't want to see me, can't even hear my footsteps. I want to confide something in you, Harry, but for God's sake, never let this secret escape your lips; Harry, I think my husband is mad!"
"Mad?" exclaimed the young officer, taken aback. "Ah, you're mistaken, Ruth. How could such a great surgeon like him be mad?"
"Look into his eyes, and you will often see them filled with an uncanny fire; observe his movements, how restless and hasty they are. Some years ago, when he was still in India, he was bitten by a cobra, one of those terrible snakes who's bite is frequently fatal. He managed to escape death then bt immediately tying off the bitten limb, but since then he has....become a different person, and I fear the poison is in his blood."
"If that is the case, you must insist that his mental state be examined and determined. But do you have any other evidence for your assertion? The ones you have just mentioned will hardly suffice."
"Yes I have another piece of evidence, Robert secretly leaves the house every night; I know this for certain, because I have observed him. Where he goes is unknown to me, but when he returns from one of these night time excursions, he always locks himself in and sleeps until noon, even until evening."
"A doctor who leaves the house at night is nothing unusual," he said, "After all, he can also be practicing his profession at night; he can have seriously ill patients whom he must visit at night."
"That would be the only explanation," Ruth replied, "and it is even supported by the fact that almost every time he has been out at night I have found traces of blood on the pillow and the bed."
"There we have it," cried the officer, "he's coming back from an operation."
"Are operations carried out at night? I thought they were only carried out in the day."
"In urgent cases, it may be necessary to operate at night," the Captain understood. "No, my child, even that is not proof of your husband's mental illness."
"I'll give you another one, which should be more convincing," Ruth continued. "It was about two weeks ago that I awoke in the night, it might have been midnight, I crept into a room whose door led to my husbands, to listen to see if he was home yet, for he had been out secretly that night.
Through the keyhole, I saw that a light was burning in my husbands room. Suddenly the light went out, and almost at the same moment the door opened, and a wild, strange man stepped out to meet me. He was dressed like a vagabond, like one of those dreadful figures one only meets in the suburbs at night.
He had a wild moustache, his hair stood on end like bristles, and around his neck he had a coarse scarf wrapped. I just had time to step back and slip into a niche. The scoundrel passed by without seeing me, otherwise he might have killed me."
"And do you know who the scoundrel was?"
"My husband, the famous surgeon, Robert Fitzgerald."
"Impossible! What could have possibly prompted your husband to disguise himself like that?"
"I don't know, but it was him, that this was a disguise I am certain. I immediately summoned the doorkeeper and asked him if my husband had left the house tonight. The doorkeeper denied it. He did, however, inform me that my husband had had a key made for the small door leading out into the garden. However, the doctor always leaves the house through the main entrance, the man added.
Thereupon I went into my husbands room and searched it very thoroughly. There I discovered a fringe of the large scarf that the rascal has worn around his neck, lying on the carpet. Not the slightest thing had been stolen from the room. Everything was in perfect order; only on my husbands table stood a standing mirror, which I had never seen before, proof that Fitzgerald had made that remarkable disguise in front of that mirror."
The Captain shook his head in disbelief. "I suspect, my child, you were mistaken in this matter, it wasn't a rascal in disguise in your house, but a real one. He may have intended to steal, but for some reason he was unable to carry out his plan and had to leave the house empty handed. Hahaha, how they would laugh in London if they heard that the great surgeon Robert Fitzgerald put on a disguise at night that made him look like a burglar."
"I can only tell you what I have seen," said Ruth a little irritated. "Oh, I'm very unhappy Harry, and truly, I no longer have the strength to go on living like this. Unfortunately, my father is also in India now, taking care of his business, and won't be back for another year. Who knows what will have become of me by then, perhaps I won't even be alive."
There's only one solution," replied the Captain, "leave your husband and come to me."
"To you Harry? Oh, how I wish I could! How happy I would be to live by your side, but the world would point its finger at me, despise me, call me a dishonourable woman!"
"Won't you visit my mother and talk things out to her? You know how much she loves you," said Captain Thomson.
"Your good mother, I too love her dearly, yes, I would like to see her again, but Fitzgerald is very jealous, and I am almost never allowed to leave the house without a companion. But I cannot confide in him that I am going to your mother's, for Fitzgerald knows that I loved you before and will not even hear your name."
"Nevertheless, I beg you to come," pleaded the Captain, "let us spend an hour undisturbed. Do not refuse my request, beloved Ruth."
'If I come," exclaimed Ruth, "it must be done very secretly. Tomorrow evening Fitzgerald will give a lecture at the Medical Society. He will leave the house at eight o'clock in the evening, I'll get a carriage right away and have it take me to the corner of Euver Street. Where do you live, anyway?"
"Where the poor people live," he laughed, "still on Walworth Street. It's not a very pleasant area, but my mother owns a small house there with a garden, and the old woman wouldn't trade her home for any other, even better a finer one.
"So tomorrow evening between nine and ten o'clock I'll be at your place, then we can stay together, and at eleven you'll escort me back home, or rather, to the vicinity of the house. That seems quite safe to me, since Fitzgerald probably won't return home until after midnight."
The young officer couldn't resist embracing his sweetheart, pulling her to his heart, and thanking her with hot kisses for her promise.
"But now I must go," cried Ruth, rising to her feet. "Join me for a walk through Hyde Park."
The two lovers rose, the officer offered Ruth his arm, and, after she had made sure with a quick glance that no eavesdropper or observer could see them, she placed her arm in his, and nestling tenderly against his side, she strode along with him.
Then there was a movement in the bushes, and slowly a tall, gaunt figure emerged from them. "Truly," exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, "Lovers are always careless, and I heard every word. It was indeed a devilishly good idea to follow the trail of Dr Fitzgerald's wife for the past few days, wherever she turned.
If one wants to uncover a man's secrets, one must follow his trail. And what important things I heard today! This conversation cannot be bought with gold! And tomorrow evening, Mrs. Ruth Fitzgerald will visit the mother of the man she loves; she will wander to Walworth Street. Well then, I will venture the most daring thing, to solve the riddle that hangs over London like a dull spell. I dare, yes, dare, for he who dares wins!
Chapter 8.
The Pleasant Sir.
"Number 37," called the servant, who, in Dr Fitzgerald's anteroom, was responsible for ensuring that patients entered the famous physician's consulting room precisely according to the number they received upon entering the house. "You have been kept waiting a long time, dear friend, and you are fortunate to be the last to be admitted today." These words of the servant were addressed to a modest looking man who resembled a true philistine.
He wore a long grey coat with old fashioned buttons, and a matching waistcoat and trousers. His boots were certainly clumsy, and the walking stick he carried was probably an heirloom from his grandfather.
"Yes, I'm afraid there's nothing to be done," he replied to the servant. "When you consult such a famous doctor, you have to be a little patient. So I may go in? Thank you."
The stranger smoothed his short blonde beard, ran his hand over his greying blonde hair, which fell to his shoulders and who's appearance made him look a little puritan. Then he went to the door, knocked, and followed the "come in" that echoed from within.
Doctor Fitzgerald was sitting at his desk. He didn't even turn his head when the door swung open, but seemed engrossed in the study of a book. "Excuse me, Doctor," said the blonde man, clearing his throat slightly.
Doctor Fitzgerald started upright, as if waking from a dream. He turned his head. An interesting, pale face, with large dark eyes, completely beardless, with two deep wrinkles above the base of the nose, The Doctor had curly hair swept back, which made his thoughtful brow appear even higher. "Uh, anyone else?" he called. "I thought I was done for this afternoon. Come closer, what are you suffering from?"
"Doctor," whispered the man, "I didn't come to you as a patient. but I am only ever to speak for sufferers."
Doctor Fitzgerald blurted out rather sharply, "Go away, I have no time for other business."
"I would very much like to talk to you, Doctor, there is something on my mind. I am an honest man and cannot bear the thought of another honest man being so brazenly cheated."
"What are you babbling on about? Who is being cheated?"
"You, Doctor, by your own wife." He gestured with his hand.
The Doctor was ready to forcefully eject the man from his house. But, the stranger added a name to his message, the Doctor's self assured demeanor suddenly changed.
"Captain Harry Thomson," whispered the stranger.
The Doctor flinched as if struck by a lightning bolt, his eyes widened eerily, and his lips twitched as if a thunderstorm were approaching, as if this was the first ominous flash of lightning.
"What did you say? What name did you mention? How do you know that name?" he asked in a state of extreme agitation.
"From Hyde Park."
"I don't understand you."
"You will understand me better in a moment, Doctor, if you will allow me to speak calmly. I am a good soul and ask for nothing in return for the service I render you, but, you know, I am outraged, morally outraged, and that is what compels me to pay you a visit."
"Be brief," cried Fitzgerald in a muffled voice, "and above all speak softly. I don't want anyone outside to hear this. No one is safe from any hustler, listen to no one! Even in my own house I'm being spied on; there's a spy behind every wall."
"That must be a very uncomfortable house," understood the stranger, "Well, it's none of my business, and I'm inclined to believe that you're being spied on, Doctor, by your wife, Mrs. Ruth, Doctor, how wicked women are!"
"Yes, they're wicked, very wicked," Fitzgerald exclaimed. "so wicked that they should be wiped off the face of the earth, all of them. at least the snakes must be crushed, yes, the snakes, sir, which have always been the servants of Eve's daughters."
"Very good, very true, Doctor," cried the stranger, "the snake has already driven us out of paradise. But now listen to me Doctor, I will try to speak softly. Come a little closer, please, because the story is like this:
"My name is Patrick Connor and I used to be a soap maker. I made some money in that business, and when I had enough, I said to myself, now I want to enjoy life, and since then I've lived off the pensions. I live very comfortably, very well, I get up when I like and then usually take a walk in Hyde Park.
This was also the case yesterday, and when it was getting late, I went for a stroll in Hyde Park. Then I got a little tired, and I thought to myself, sit down by a bush and doze off for a bit. So I found a bench near Lord Byron's statue, I didn't sit on it, I sat in the bush so that if I did doze off thieves wouldn't be able to see me and I wouldn't get robbed.
As I sat there almost asleep, I heard voices. It was a young officer and a very elegant lady talking right in front of the bench."
"A young officer with an elegant lady?" the Doctor exclaimed. "Go on, go on, sir, you are unbearable in your verbosity."
"I thought to myself," the blonde man said, "you'll hear what those two have to say to each other; because, you know, Doctor, a loving couple like that can be quite amusing at times. They speak quite differently from other sensible people, and I like to hear that, I like it very much. But as I listened to them, I had misgivings.
It was a married woman named Ruth, who was having a rendezvous with a young officer on the bench, and she was telling of her husband, whom she had married in India, but only because her father had practically forced her into the marriage, and that she didn't love him, but another, an officer, who had always been her dearest, and whom she couldn't forget, and now that he had come back from India, she wanted to know even less about her husband."
If an impartial listener had listened to this agreeable gentleman's tale, he might well have gotten the impression that it was foolish chatter, empty gossip, but on Doctor Fitzgerald this seemingly foolish talk made a deep, indeed, even a terrible impression. The Doctors features contorted, his hands ruffled his curly hair.
"And just imagine, Doctor," the traitor concluded, "the woman on the bench, that was your Ruth, and the Captain was Harry Thomson, he lives on Walworth Street."
"It is him," groaned the Doctor, "I've long suspected that my wife was cheating on me. And behind my back they meet in Hyde Park, and I loved her and she loved him only, never, never anyone else."
"Not at all, she never loved the other man in the slightest," cried Mr. Connor, smiling. "You know, Doctor, he's invisible to her, except that she lives under the same roof as him and that she lets him take care of her needs. But the officer, well, you should have seen how she kissed him, and what pain it was when they had to part."
"Be silent," Fitzgerald forced out, "be silent, I don't want to hear you any longer, But, no, no, tell me everything," he added, "I want, I must know everything."
"Well, I don't have much more to report, only that they finally agreed to be alone together for an hour, undisturbed."
"Heaven and hell, undisturbed?"
"Yes, yes, undisturbed. Well, you know, Doctor, what that means for lovers. They prefer to be undisturbed because they always have very important things to say to each other, and so your wife promised the Captain that she would come to his mother's house on Walworth Street tomorrow evening between nine and ten o'clock. The mother probably won't bother them too much, she's certainly an old woman.
But, for God's sake, what is the matter, Doctor? Are you feeling nauseous? Put vinegar compresses on your forehead, and take internal ----"
"Not another word,: gasped the Doctor, "I beg you, leave me alone. Tomorrow you said, tomorrow evening? On Walworth Street you said?"
"Yes, quite right, between nine and ten o'clock, but that tomorrow, is actually today, because I got the story yesterday in Hyde Park. Well, Doctor, but don't let that bother you," said Mr. Connor innocently, "you have a major lecture at the Medical Society, that takes precedence. Good Lord, a little woman like that wants to have some fun, and then her husband just has to turn a blind eye. You are going to the Medical Society, and your Ruth is going to some other society."
"Leave me, I do not thank you for giving me this information. Do you think ,sir, I do not see that you mock me?"
"Me? Oh, Doctor, I am not such a person."
But in the next moment, the obliging Patrick Connor very quickly closed the door, for quite suddenly and without any transition, Doctor Fitzgerald had snatched up a surgical knife that had been lying on the desk in front of him, and with a wild cry, he was about to lunge at his visitor, who had just whispered the terrible thing to him. The man stopped at the door and watched sharply the Doctor, who seemed to have been overcome by a sudden weakness.
The knife had flung from Fitzgerald's hand, and he himself stood trembling, foaming at the mouth, his eyes wide with detachment, staring up at the ceiling. And quickly now the agreeable gentleman, who had cast a terrible firebrand into the Doctor's soul, scurried out the door to reach the street as soon as possible.
When he was on it, he smiled and muttered to himself "He is insane, of that I have no doubt, and I wish him with all my heart that he is, for were he not mad, the rack would have to be introduced especially for him, and he would have to be broken on the wheel, as were the most heinous criminals of the middle ages.
Our reader will not easily guess who the agreeable gentleman was.......
* * * * * * * * * *
"Aren't you going to the Medical Society yet, Robert? It's already eight o'clock." Ruth entered her husband's study, where, to her astonishment she still saw Fitzgerald sitting at his desk in an ordinary suit. He had his head in his hands and was staring into space.
"Robert," Ruth called again, "You told me you had a lecture to give at the Medical Society today. They will be expecting you, and it's impolite to be late."
"Very impolite," said Fitzgerald darkly. "Therefore make sure you are not late, just go, just go."
"Where should I go?" Ruth asked him. alarmedly. "I am not accompanying you to the lecture."
"Yes, quite right, gentlemen only," muttered Fitzgerald. "Only gentlemen and officers will be there, you hear, officers too. Wouldn't you like to go now? Stand in the middle of the hall and look around, call down the one you like best. You are beautiful, he will undoubtedly be happy to please you."
Ruth turned red then pale, she sat up indignantly. "You speak to me in a strange way," she exclaimed in a trembling voice, "that I will not tolerate, that I must reject. You seem intent on making life at your side increasingly unbearable for me, and it might be best for both of us if we parted ways."
"Do you think so, darling?" cried Fitzgerald, rising to approach his beautiful wife, slowly like a cat stalking a mouse. "Do you really think it would be best if we parted ways? And to whom would you run if you won't be with me? Perhaps to ----"
"I'll decide my own future," Ruth replied. "Why are you grabbing my hands so roughly? Don't squeeze me so hard. Leave me alone, or I'll call for help."
With a sudden leap that Ruth didn't expect Fitzgerald lunged at his young wife, grabbed her wrists, and tried to force her to her knees. Ruth bravely resisted him. He gritted his teeth, rolled his eyes, and was a terrible sight with his distorted features, but Ruth didn't lose her composure, and she even managed to wriggle free from him.
"Don't you dare touch me again," she cried, "it could cost you dearly. Or do you think I'm completely unarmed because my father isn't in England?" I have a friend who will demand an explanation from you."
No sooner had Ruth spoken these words than she regretted them. With a scream that had nothing human about it, Fitzgerald lunged at her again and pulled her to the ground. The cry for help choked her throat, so filled with terror was she as she looked at him now. Madness grinned from his eyes and burst forth in bright flames. Bloody foam flew from his mouth, and the fingers, with which he jerked towards her white dress, were bent.
"Sting, sting, frivolous whore," he exclaimed, "I'll sweep all these women from the face of the earth. I will destroy this brood of vipers, I...I am...called by God to do so, for the Lord has revealed himself to me and called out to me....kill, kill the snakes!" His hands clasped her neck; to the beautiful, unhappy woman, it was as if her hour had come.
Already her breathing was becoming difficult, already she was struggling for breath, already she was despairing of her rescue, when suddenly, he let go of her. His features smoothed, the fire in his eyes subsided.
"Stand up," he said to the trembling woman, "I beg you, Ruth, get away. I was out of my mind, but you had provoked me too much." He himself helped her to her feet, and with a voice choked with tears, the words came out: "I do love you Ruth, I love you madly, I want nothing more than to make you happy. I know you are faithful to me, aren't you? You will always love me?"
To calm him and get away from him, and probably also because she felt pity for the unfortunate man, she answered him: "You are my husband, I must love you and will be faithful to you, but such a scene must never be repeated between us."
"Never," he exclaimed, and raised his hand as if in oath. "Oh, if only this constant headache didn't plague me. I don't know what it is, but it hammers right over my temples.....I beg you go, go, leave me alone, I want to change my clothes and go to the Medical Society."
"It's high time for that."
"Yes, it's high time," Ruth answered him, thinking that she too had to leave the house to fulfill her promise to Harry, to visit his mother, high time, farewell.
She felt pity for him, and yet she shuddered as he pressed his lips to her forehead.
Dr Fitzgerald escorted his wife to the door, then locked it behind her, approached his desk, and took from it a small box. From a small bottle within the box he drew a syringe full of white liquid. Then he drew up his collar and shirt to above his elbows and inserted the needle of the syringe under the skin. A few minutes later, his figure straightened, his features became calmer, and his eyes were now filled with a mild fire.
Dr Fitzgerald became a different man. This was the effect of the morphine to which this unfortunate man had long been devoted.
Chapter 9.
Sherlock Holmes Wins His Bet.
In the dimly lit hall of a house on Walworth Street stood an elegantly dressed young lady who could be said to be a truly English figure. Beside her was a young man who constantly regarded the lady with admiring glances.
"Mr. Holmes, what have you accomplished today in the art of disguise?" whispered the young man to the detective disguised as a lady, "this surpasses anything I have seen from you before. You have transformed yourself into an elegant lady, truly, if I met you on the street, I would be able to fall in love with you."
"Really," smiled the lady, and what would you say Harry, if you saw the one who's features I have faithfully imitated? I tell you, I hope I'm easily mistaken for Mrs. Ruth Fitzgerald. But now Harry, it is time. I hear the sound of wheels. That is probably the hansom cab bringing Ruth. Yes, quite right, the cab is stopping over there, on the corner. Quickly, Harry, scamper over to the cab and deliver Ruth the assignment I gave you earlier!"
Harry left Sherlock, rushed along Walworth Street and reached the hansom cab just as Ruth was climbing out. "Quickly madam," Harry whispered to her, "give me your hand and come with me."
"My husband is after you."
"Harry replied, "A terrible fate awaits you if you do not follow me, everything has been betrayed!"
"Merciful God, my husband knows everything."
"He knows that you are to visit Captain Harry Thomson, and he may appear at any moment. Quickly madam, I will save you, follow me!"
Ruth was so bewildered that she asked no further questions, but took Harry's arm, and they vanished into a side alley off Walworth Street.
Meanwhile Sherlock Holmes had been walking down the street. With, playful steps, such are characteristic of certain women, he approached the hansom cab and sid to the driver, "Stay here, I want to linger a little longer inside the cab, I'll pay for your lost time."
"That's very strange,' muttered the cabbie to himself, "a minute ago she left and now she's getting back in! I'll bet my head there's a love affair going on here. But I'm being payed, so it suits me just fine."
Holmes to a seat in the cab, lowered the window and looked down the street. It wasn't exactly dark in Walworth Street, but the dreaded London fog had returned, the few gaslights dotted down the street could hardly penetrate it.
"He's coming!" Holmes whispered, "and there, there he turns the corner, that old rascal with the scraggly moustache, it must be hin, in disguise."
A wild fever gripped the detective. He felt that much depended on this minute, that it would soon be decided whether he would be granted the chance to solve the dark riddle of Jack the Ripper, as he had solved so many before. The detective now left the hansom. With a light springy step, emulating the movements he had observed prostitutes making, he glided along the wall. Suddenly the rascal rushed towards him.
"Where to?" he shouted in his best female voice.
"Hey you, little one, come here! We two could be a pair," said the man.
"If I please you," Holmes answered, "you might well please me."
With these words, the detective stepped into a pool of light. At that same moment, a mad scream escaped the rogue's lips and the words, "So my wife is a whore after all ---- well ---- then, let ---- her die as the ones in London die! he lunged at the lady. "Down below! Jack the Ripper is upon you!"
And with a force that Holmes could barely withstand, the rogue threw himself upon him. With one hand he seized the detective by the throat; with the other he drew a long sharp knife, and thrust the blade firmly against the body of the disguised detective. Then there was a bright sound; the blade slid and the steel armour Holmes wore had done its duty.
The next moment the scene changed. The detective had used that second in which the Ripper had staggered back in disbelief at his failed attempt to slash the lady, and swiftly seized both of the terrible man's hands. A heated struggle for life and limb ensued, a struggle in which the graceful gaze of a young woman transformed into the characteristic features of Sherlock Holmes.
"I have got you at last, dreadful monster, you who have terrorised London long enough," Holmes exclaimed, "now Jack the Ripper has played his part. Now you must go down, Victor Fitzgerald, for, by God, you and no other man is the one the people of England shudder to call Jack the Ripper."
A dull gurgle escaped the Ripper's lips as he lay on the ground. The next moment Holmes had him bound, he seized the killer and half dragged, half carried him to the waiting hansom. "Driver," Holmes called out, "to police headquarters!"
Mr. Warren was sitting at his desk, about to sign a warrant for the arrest that Murphy had presented to him. "So you are absolutely convinced Murphy," asked the police chief, "that none other than Grover Bell is the murderer of the singer Lillian Bell?"
"I am absolutely convinced, sir," replied Murphy, "and at the same time that I catch Grover Bell, without doubt I will catch Jack the Ripper. Hahaha, my esteemed colleague Mr. Holmes' wager, is as good as lost."
"Do you really believe that Murphy?" came a voice from the door, "Be so kind as to look around. Here, I bring you Jack the Ripper. He will make a confession!"
Warren and Murphy looked on in astonishment, there was Holmes, still dressed as a woman, and he had brought the dreadful Doctor Fitzgerald into the room.
Mr. Warren," said Sherlock Holmes in a steady voice, "I give you my word, and vouch for it with all of my reputation, that Jack the Ripper will no longer terrorise London. The uncanny spectre had been none other than this man, the well known surgeon and physician, Doctor Fitzgerald. You probably know him personally Mr. Warren. Look here."
At this Holmes tore off Fitzgerald's fake moustache and wig, and Warren cried out in horror. "By God, it is Dr Fitzgerald!"
"I have lost my wager, Mr. Holmes," said Murphy. "Please give me your hand. Without envy, I acknowledge you as the greatest of the two of us. And I believe there is no other detective like Holmes on earth."
By an agreement between Holmes, Warren and Murphy, no mortal ever learned the identity of Jack the Ripper, but the dreadful scourge had suddenly vanished from the streets of London. Dr Fitzgerald was transferred to an asylum that same day, where, four weeks later, he ended his wasted life amid horrific fits of coccidiosis.
A year later Ruth gave her hand to Harry in Holy matrimony. Holmes, Warren and Murphy drank the champagne that Warren had offered as a prize, and there ends the terrible story of how Jack the Ripper was caught.
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| The Original Front Cover. |
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| The Original Back Cover. |
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