Thackeray yelled, “Police!”
They’re never around when you need them. Bill cracked his fist into Thackeray’s ribs. This was a strong man.
“Sarge!”
“The minute he strikes, we’ll pounce.”
That vicious left hand came exploring his face again. This time he bit into the fleshy part and heard a screech.
Encouraged, Thackeray said, “Better give up, mate. You’re nicked.”
For that, he took a knee in the small of his back.
Then he was grabbed and rolled aside. There was shouting. Hands grasped his arms and lifted him. Finally the reinforcements had arrived.
Razor Bill was formally arrested and cuffed. He said nothing.
“You all right?” Cribb asked Thackeray.
“A bit sore.”
“Could be so much worse, though. Smart of me to think of the collar, wasn’t it?”
When they tried to interview the prisoner at Chelsea police station, there was a snag. He refused to speak. Wouldn’t even give his name.
Big and swarthy, with the coldest eyes Cribb had seen, he sat staring back like a caged bear.
“It won’t help you, saying nothing,” Cribb told the man. “You were caught red-handed. We picked up the open razor. You attacked one of my men, mistakenly taking him for a streetwalker. You might as well sing now, and save us all a long night.”
They’d searched him thoroughly. He carried no papers, no pocketbook, nothing. His clothes were those of a working man. His hands had done manual work.
“You’ll be hungry by now,” Cribb said. “Speak up and we’ll feed you a hot meal.”
Not a glimmer of interest.
“I’m beginning to think he’s stone deaf.”
“Or a foreigner,” Thackeray said.
“You could be right. He was yelling a bit when you were on the ground with him. What was he saying?”
“Nothing I remember, Sarge.”
“Weren’t you paying attention? What were you doing?”
“Fighting for my bloody life.”
“There’s no need for coarseness. Fetch Inspector Jowett. He speaks some French. He’ll enjoy showing off to us.”
But Jowett, when he tried, made no impression, despite employing all the animated gestures of a Frenchman. “Are you certain this is Razor Bill?” he said to Cribb.
“I’d put my last shilling on it, sir. He attacked Thackeray with a razor — Thackeray being artfully disguised as a woman of the street. He does a very good impersonation of a woman, does Thackeray.”
“Indeed.” Jowett glanced at Thackeray, seeing him in a whole new light, and took a step away. “Well, your prisoner is no Frenchman. Of that I’m sure. You’d better bring in an interpreter.”
“No gratitude,” Cribb said after Jowett had left the room. “All of London was living in fear of this monster and what thanks do I get for nabbing him? Not a squeak.”
“I know exactly how you feel, Sarge,” Thackeray said.
The papers were full of the arrest next morning. “An unidentified detective posed as a woman of the unfortunate class,” the Morning Chronicle stated, “and was set upon by the murderer with an open razor. Thanks to the foresight of Inspector Jowett of the Criminal Investigation Department, the officer concerned was wearing a protective leather collar and succeeded in detaining his assailant and calling for assistance from his colleagues nearby. The arrest was effected immediately.”
“‘... the foresight of Inspector Jowett?’” Cribb said, flinging the paper aside. “He didn’t even know about this plan of mine.”
“Ah, but he knows how to tell a good story to the newspapers,” Thackeray said.
“Most of it untrue.”
“Well, yes. It didn’t seem to me like an immediate arrest.”
Cribb ignored this dig. He had too much else to deal with. “The interpreter is coming in at noon. Claims to speak nine languages.”
“That ought to be enough,” Thackeray said. “How many languages are there?”
“More than that.”
“London’s full of Poles and Russians. He looks like a Russian to me.”
Towards the end of the morning a gentleman in a top hat arrived and asked to speak to the officer who had arrested Razor Bill.
“Right, sir. You’ll be the interpreter, I dare say,” the desk sergeant said.
“No, sir, I am not. I am the Reverend Eli Mountjoy.”
“Might I inquire what you’re here for?”
“That officer.” The Reverend Mountjoy pointed a finger at Thackeray, who was on his way to an early lunch. “He’s the one I came to see.”
“Right, your reverence.” The desk sergeant beckoned to Thackeray with a curled finger.
There was no escape. Thackeray ushered Eli Mountjoy into a room where they wouldn’t be overheard.
“You look almost normal without your face painted,” the minister said. “I saw in The Times that you arrested a man last night.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Are you sure he’s the murderer?”
“Well, he did his best to cut my throat,” Thackeray said.
“Who is he?”
“That’s something I can’t reveal, sir.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both, sir. He’s not speaking to us.”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance. Through my missionary work on the streets I come across many of the local ne’er-do-wells. Would you like me to take a look at him?”
Thackeray pondered for a moment, scratching his chin. “I suppose it would do no harm.”
The interpreter hadn’t yet arrived, so he took Eli Mountjoy downstairs and slid open the Judas hole of Razor Bill’s cell door.
“That’s Vladimir,” Mountjoy said at once. “He’s a Russian.”
Thackeray smiled to himself. “I thought so. You know him, then?”
“By sight. He doesn’t talk. Can’t understand us, I suppose. Well, there’s a thing. I’d never have thought of Vladimir as a murderer.”
“We’ve got an interpreter coming in. We’ll find out what he’s got to say for himself if he isn’t completely mad.”
“Let’s hope he isn’t,” Mountjoy said. “It would be so encouraging if he asks his Maker for forgiveness before you hang him. How many women did he kill?”
“We know of four.” Thackeray slid the cover over the slot in the door. “Would you happen to know his second name?” Mountjoy shook his head. “People call him Vladimir, or Vlad. That’s all I can tell you. Four, you say. Is that certain?”
“Four corpses, all with their throats cut.”
“That’s beyond dispute.” He stroked his beard thought-fully. “I expect you’ll make sure.”
Thackeray frowned. “Make sure of what, sir?”
“That he killed all four.”
“Is there any doubt?”
“I suppose not. I was reflecting that if — for the sake of argument — he was responsible for only three of the murders, and he refused to speak, or is mad, you might never find out who carried out the fourth.”
Thackeray thought about that for some time. “It’s pretty far-fetched, isn’t it? There isn’t much chance of two evil people cutting women’s throats in Pimlico at the same time of year.”
“I have to concede that it is. Pretty far-fetched.” On the way upstairs, Mountjoy said, “They’ll all flood back onto the streets now, all those women who were too frightened to parade themselves while Razor Bill was about. He did more to clean up the streets of Pimlico than you or I.”
“That’s another way of looking at it,” Thackeray said. He was pleased when the Reverend Eli Mountjoy raised his hat and left. The man made him feel uncomfortable.