The flesh-pots were dubiously spiced with females of all ages and conditions. Most were pitiful in their physical deterioration. Only a few were attractive, younger ones who had just set foot upon the downward path.
It was one of these latter who approached me after I had found a table, had ordered a pint of stout, and sat surveying the reckless scene. She was a pretty little thing, but the wicked light in her eye, and her hard manner, indelibly marked her.
“ ‘Ullo, luv. Buy a gel a gin-an’-bitters?”
I was about to decline the honour, but a brutish-looking waiter standing by cried, “Gin-an’-bitters for the lady!” and ploughed towards the bar. The man was no doubt paid on the basis of the liquor the girls wheedled from their marks.
The wench dropped into the chair opposite me and laid her rather dirty hand upon mine. I withdrew mine quickly. This brought an uncertain smile to her painted lips, but her voice was cajoling as she said, “Shy, ducks? No need to be.”
“I merely dropped in for a quick pint,” said I. The adventure no longer seemed so alluring.
“Sure, luv. All the toffs drop in for quick pints. Then they just ’appen to find out what else we ’ave for sale.”
The waiter returned, slopped down the gin-and-tonic, and fumbled among the coins I had laid upon the table. I was sure he appropriated several pence too many, but I did not make an issue of it.
“Me name’s Polly, luv. What’s yers?”
“Hawkins,” said I, quickly. “Sam Hawkins.”
“ ‘Awkins, is it?” she laughed. “Well, it’s a bit of a change from Smythe. Yer ’eart’d bleed at ’ow many bloody Smythes come ’round.”
My reply, if indeed I had any, was cut down by an outburst in another part of the room. A dark-visaged sailor of gorilla proportions gave out a roar of rage and upset a table in his zeal to get at another patron who appeared to have offended him, a Chinese of insignificant stature. For a moment it seemed likely that the Oriental would be killed, so ferocious was the sailor’s aspect.
But then another man interposed himself. He was thick-browed, with a heavy neck, and shoulders and arms like trees, although he did not match the angry sailor’s proportions. The Oriental’s unexpected defender smashed his fist into the sailor’s solar plexus. It was a mighty blow, and the sailor’s gasp could be heard all over the room as he doubled over in agony. Again the smaller man measured the giant, and again he delivered a blow, this time to the brute’s jaw. The sailor’s head snapped back; his eyes glazed; and, as he collapsed, his assailant was ready with a hunched shoulder, and caught the man’s body like a sack of meal. His load balanced, the victor made calmly for the door, lugging the unconscious mariner as though he weighed no more than a child. He opened the door and hurled the man into the street.
“That’s Max Klein,” said my doxy in awe. “Strong as a bloody ox, ’e is. Max just bought this place. ’E’s owned it for about a four-month, an’ ’e don’t allow no bloke to get kilt in it, ’e don’t.”
The performance had been impressive indeed; but, at that moment, something else drew my attention. The door through which Klein had flung the sailor had scarcely closed when it was put to use by a new customer, one whom I thought I recognised. I peered through the haze to make sure my identification was correct. There was no doubt. It was Joseph Beck, the pawn-broker, moving towards a table. I made a mental note to report this fact to Holmes, and then I turned back to Polly.
“I got a nice room, luv,” said she, in a seductive tone.
“I fear I’m not interested, Madam,” said I, as kindly as I could.
“Madam, ’e says!” cried she, with indignation. “I ain’t that old, guv’ner. I’m young enough, I promise yer. Young and clean. You ’ave nothin’ to fear from me.”
“But there must be someone you fear, Polly,” said I, observing her closely.
“Me? I don’t go ter ’urt nobody.”
“I mean the Ripper.”
A whining note leaped into her voice. “Yer just tryin’ to scare me! Well, I ain’t afraid.” She took a gulp of her drink, eyes darting here and there. They came to focus on a point over my shoulder, and I realised that they had been directed that way during most of our conversation. I turned my head, and beheld as vicious-looking a creature as the imagination could have conjured.
He was incredibly filthy, and he had a hideous knife-scar across one cheek. This twisted his mouth in a permanent leer, and the damaged flesh around his left eye added further to his frightful aspect. I have never seen such malevolence in a human face.
“ ‘E got Annie, the Ripper did,” Polly whispered. “ ‘E gouged the poor thing up good―Annie wot never ’urt a soul.”
I turned back to her. “That brute there, with the knife-scar?”
“ ’Oo knows?” Then she cried, “Wot’s he ’ave to go and do those things for? Wot’s the fun in shovin’ a blade into a poor gel’s belly, an’ cuttin’ off ’er breast an’ all?”
He was the man.
Explaining my absolute certainty is difficult. In earlier life I indulged for a time in gambling, as a young man will, and there is a feeling that comes over one on certain occasions that is not founded in reason. Instinct, a sixth sense―call it what you will―it comes, and it is impossible to ignore it.
Such a feeling came over me as I studied the creature behind us; his gaze was fixed upon the girl who sat with me, and I could see the foul slaver at the corners of his contorted mouth.
But what to do?
“Polly,” I asked, quietly, “did you ever see that man before?”
“Me, ducks? Not ever! Narsty-lookin’ cove, ain’t ’e?” Then, with the instability that characterises the loose woman, Polly’s mood changed. Her natural recklessness, possibly re-inforced by too many drinks, came to the fore. She suddenly raised her glass.
“ ’Ere’s luck, lov. If yer don’t want me lily-white body, yer don’t. But yer a good bloke, and I wish yer the best.”
“Thank you.”
“A gel’s got t’make a livin’, so I’ll be off. Another night, maybe?”
“Perhaps.”
She arose from the table, and moved away, flaunting her hips. I watched her, anticipating that she would approach another table for another solicitation. But she did not. Instead, she scanned the room, and then moved swiftly towards the door. She had found the pickings poor that night in The Angel and Crown, I thought, and was going to resort to the streets. I had scarcely begun to feel relief when the repulsive creature beyond my shoulder jumped up and set out after her. My alarm may be imagined. I could think of no other course than to touch the weapon in my pocket for reassurance, and follow the man to the street.
I was beset by a momentary blindness, having to adjust my eyesight to the darkness after the glare of the public-room. When my eyes fo-cussed, fortunately, the man was still within my view. He was skulking along, close by the wall, at the end of the street.
I was now certain that I was embarked upon a perilous course. He was the Ripper, and he was stalking the girl who had endeavoured to entice me to her room, and there was only I between her and a hideous death. I gripped my revolver convulsively.
I followed, treading on the balls of my feet like a Red Indian of the American plains. He turned the corner; and, fearful both of losing him and of finding him, I hurried after.
I rounded the corner, panting, and peered cautiously ahead. There was only one gas-lamp, which made my survey doubly difficult. I strained my eyes. But my quarry had disappeared.
Apprehension seized me. Perhaps the fiend had already dragged the poor girl into an areaway and was slashing the life from her young body. If only I had had the foresight to bring a pocket lantern! I ran forward into darkness, the profound silence of the street broken only by the sounds of my footsteps.