The tawdry little flat was more striking in what it hadn’t than in what it had: no bureau, no wardrobe, no sink with running water, no icebox. Where did she keep her clothes? Agatha wondered. Then she noticed the suitcases under the bed.
Inspector Greeno was saying to Sir Bernard, “I’m afraid I left the comforter in place, Doctor. Under no circumstances did I want to subject the victim’s daughter to the sight of her mother.”
“Who identified the deceased?”
From her doorway, Miss Wick chimed, “I did, dearie. He leaved her face alone, small favor.”
“Otherwise,” the inspector continued, “the constable did a nice job of not disturbing things. You certainly won’t find a shortage of evidence. The fiend used every damn thing he could lay hands on, on the poor wench…. Pardon my bluntness, ladies.”
“Not at all,” Miss Wick said, from her doorway.
Agatha said to the inspector, “Is there any doubt that this is the same assailant?”
But it was Sir Bernard who answered, “There’s always doubt. We make no assumptions before we’ve examined the evidence…. Ready for me in there, Inspector?”
“Photographers haven’t been here yet, Doctor. I wouldn’t remove anything, just yet.”
“Understood.”
And Sir Bernard and his massive medical bag of tricks entered the bleak flat. Carefully stepping around various items on the carpet near the bed, and avoiding the piled clothing, he knelt, opened the Gladstone bag wide, and withdrew his rubber gloves. He rose, put on the gloves like a surgeon preparing to operate, and was lifting the eiderdown gently off the corpse when Inspector Greeno stepped in front of Agatha and pulled the door shut to the flat.
Agatha looked with undisguised irritation at the inspector, but Greeno’s narrowed eyes and a gesture of the head indicated to her that this action was taken due to the presence of Miss Wick, and not herself.
Softly, almost whispering, the inspector said, “I’ll not deny you entry, Agatha, when Sir Bernard has completed his examination of the victim and the various evidence.”
“Thank you, Ted.”
“But I beg you to carefully consider whether you need expose yourself to such unpleasantness.”
“We’ve had this conversation before, Ted.”
“I know we have, Agatha. And I believe my respect for you has been made clear.” He nodded toward the closed door. “But that’s the work of a sexually deranged, homicidal maniac, in there. They pay me to have nightmares. You needn’t volunteer for this misery.”
Genuinely moved by his concern, Agatha touched the man’s sleeve. “Thank you, Ted. But I’m a big girl.”
A loud voice, nearby, interrupted the sotto voce conversation. “Excuse me, but I work evenings. If you don’t need me, ’spector, I could stand to get on with me life.”
Miss Wick’s sorrow had abated sufficiently for her to become annoyed by the inconvenience, it would seem.
“I do have a few questions,” the inspector said, turning to the attractive if harshly made-up blonde.
Both Inspector Greeno and Agatha took notes as the former asked several questions. Miss Wick again was cooperative and businesslike.
“The daughter didn’t know her mum was a working girl,” the woman said. “And I think Pearl turned to it, late in life… at least, late in hers, right?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” the inspector admitted.
“Well, she was a respectable woman, a landlady at a seaside boardinghouse. But the army come and evicted her-took over her place for barracks and such.”
Agatha had a shock of recognition-she’d been similarly “evicted.”
“She was a right good-looking woman, for her age,” Miss Wick said.
“How old was she?”
“In her cups one night, she admitted to bein’ forty-two. It says something about her, you know, favorable like, that at her age the men would still seek her favors.”
The fifty-odd Agatha decided not take offense. Young women in this profession lived hard and died young. Age, it would seem, was relative.
“You called her ‘Pearl.’ ”
“Yes. Her daughter calls her ‘Margaret,’ but it’s Pearl, on the street. Calls herself Pearl Campbell, or she did, anyway. That’s the name you’ll find on your books.”
“She’s been arrested?”
“Last week, you fellas was ’round ’cause of a row she was havin’ with a soldier. Right noisy, it was.”
The inspector exchanged glances with Agatha, saying to Miss Wick, “Who called to complain?”
“Well…” Suddenly Miss Wick seemed embarrassed. “I denied it, when she accused me… I told her it musta been them in the flat, other side of hers… but it was me, all right.”
“That’s… not exactly according to your profession’s code, is it?”
“I would never turn no girl in for making a few honest bob. Dishonest, maybe you’d call it. But I had a gentleman caller meself, at the time, and the noise got so bad, my guest got nervous and flew the coop.”
“I see.”
“Besides, maybe he’d a hurt her or somethin’, the bloody row goin’ on over there. So I was doin’ her a favor, really, callin’ it in-wouldn’t you say, Guv’nor?”
“Did the police come?”
“Yes-like I said, it’ll be on your books. Ask the bobby on this beat-he’s right downstairs!”
“I’ll do that.”
“They wrote the soldier up, too. Good-looking boy.”
“RAF?” the inspector asked, possibly because of Cadet Cummins, Agatha supposed.
“No. Canadian. Nice boys, the Canucks; but they don’t spend as free as the Yanks.”
“Was there any noise last night? Or this morning?”
“No. And I didn’t see Pearl at all last night. No idea who she was entertainin’…. It’s the Ripper, ain’t it?”
“You did your friend a favor. Allow me to do you one.”
“What’s that?”
“I won’t take you in on suspicion of soliciting, if you agree not to go out tonight.”
She frowned. “Don’t nick me, Guv. I got but one date tonight and he’s a regular. No harm done.”
“Miss Wick, you live and work in the middle of this monster’s stamping grounds. You stay in, till we get him.”
“Is that advice or a threat?”
“It’s advice. The threat is down on the street…. You identified the body, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“Do I need to say more?”
“No, Guv.”
“Thank you, Miss Wick. You go on inside, now. There’s a good girl.”
And she did.
“Will she listen to you?” Agatha asked.
“No. But she’ll stay with her regular clients.”
“The murderer might be a regular client.”
The inspector grunted a humorless laugh. “Precisely. One credible theory regarding the original Ripper had it that Jack was a habitue of prostitutes who caught a disease from one and took his rage out on many.”
“You’ll check on this Canadian soldier, of course.”
“Of course.” He sighed mightily. “Solving a murder is like doing a jigsaw-all you need do is fit the pieces together… but you have to find them first.”
She shook her head in admiration. “What you do, Ted, requires incredible patience.”
“It does at that. Real policework is careful plodding, questioning, screening, sifting. Before tonight, our Ripper hadn’t left us many clues.”
“But now he has?”
“He may have. Sir Bernard will tell us. You’ll note at once that the fiend’s madness, his… blood lust, if you’ll forgive the melodrama….”
She smiled gently. “Melodrama is my business, Ted.”
He returned the smile, though his seemed weary. “Well, he’s accelerating in viciousness.”
“As did the original Ripper. Perhaps our man is a kind of ‘copycat,’ too.”
“I think he well may be. But these mutilations reveal a loss of control, not the execution of some master plan. You’ll see a small armory of makeshift weapons, in there-each potentially a carrier of fingerprints and other clues.”