I
It is fortunate that the affair should have happened to Mr. Ralph
Wyndham Trevor and be told by him, for Mr. Trevor is a scholar of some
authority. It is in a spirit of almost ominous premonition that he
begins the tale, telling how he was walking slowly up Davies Street one
night when he caught a cab. It need scarcely be said that Davies Street
owes its name to that Mary Davies, the heiress, who married into the
noble house of Grosvenor. That was years and years ago, of course, and
is of no importance whatsoever now; but it may be of interest to
students.
It was very late on a winter’s night, and Mr. Trevor was depressed, for
he had that evening lost a great deal more than he could afford at the
card game of auction bridge. Davies Street was deserted; and the moon
and Mr. Trevor walked alone towards Berkeley Square. It was not the sort
of moon that Mr. Trevor remembered having seen before. It was, indeed,
the sort of moon one usually meets only in books or wine. Mr. Trevor was
sober.
Nothing happened, Mr. Trevor affirms, for quite a while: he just walked;
and, at that corner where Davies Street and Mount Street join together
the better to become Berkeley Square, stayed his walking upon an idea
that he would soothe his depression with the fumes of a cigarette. His
cigarette-case, however, was empty. All London, says Mr. Trevor,
appeared to be empty that night. Berkeley Square lay pallid and
desolate: looking clear, not as though with moonlight, but with dead
daylight; and never a voice to put life into the still streets, never a
breeze to play with the bits of paper in the gutters or to sing among
the dry boughs of the trees. Berkeley Square looked like nothing so much
as an old stage property that no one had any use for. Mr. Trevor had no
use at all for it; and became definitely antagonistic to it when a
taxicab crawled wretchedly across the waste white expanse and the
driver, a man in a Homburg hat of green plush, looked into his face with
a beseeching look.
“Taxi, sir?” he said.
Mr. Trevor says that, not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings, he just
looked another way.
“Nice night, sir,” said the driver miserably, “for a drive in an
’ackney-carriage.”
“I live,” said Mr. Trevor with restraint, “only a few doors off. So
hackney-carriage to you.”
“No luck!” sighed the driver and accelerated madly away even as Mr.
Trevor changed his mind, for would it not be an idea to drive to the
nearest coffee-stall and buy some cigarettes? This, however, he was not
to do, for there was no other reply to his repeated call of “Taxi!” but
certain heavy blows on the silence of Davies Street behind him.
“Wanting a taxi, sir?” said a voice which could only belong to a
policeman.
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Trevor bitterly. “I never want a taxi. But now
and then a taxi-driver thrusts himself on me and pays me to be seen in
his cab, just to give it a tone. Next question.”
“Ho!” said the policeman thoughtfully.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Trevor.
“Ho!” said the policeman thoughtfully.
“The extent of your vocabulary,” said Mr. Trevor gloomily, “leads me to
conclude that you must have been born a gentleman. Have you, in that
case, a cigarette you could spare?”
“Gaspers,” said the policeman.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Trevor, rejecting them. “I am no stranger to
ptomaine poisoning.”
“That’s funny,” said the policeman, “your saying that. I was just
thinking of death.”
“Death?” said Mr. Trevor.
“You’ve said it,” said the policeman.
“I’ve said what?” said Mr. Trevor.
“Death,” said the policeman.
“Oh, death!” said Mr. Trevor. “I always say ‘death,’ constable. It’s my
favourite word.”
“Ghoulish, I calls it, sir. Ghoulish, no less.”
“That entirely depends,” said Mr. Trevor, “on what you are talking
about. In some things, ghoulish is as ghoulish does. In others, no.”
“You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “But ghoulish goes, in this ’ere
affair. One after the other lying in their own blood, and not a sign as
to who’s done it, not a sign!”
“Oh, come, constable! Tut-tut! Not even a thumb-mark in the blood?”
“I’m telling you,” said the policeman severely. “Corpses slit to ribbons
all the way from ’Ampstead ’Eath to this ’ere Berkeley Square. And why?
That’s what I asks myself. And why?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Trevor gaily, “there certainly have been a lot of
murders lately. Ha-ha! But not, surely, as many as all that!”
“I’m coming to that,” said the policeman severely. “We don’t allow of
the Press reporting more’n a quarter of them. No, sir. That’s wot it ’as
come to, these larst few days. A more painful situation ’as rarely
arisen in the hannals of British crime. The un’eard-of bestiality of the
criminal may well baffle ordinary minds like yours and mine.”
“I don’t believe a word of it!” snapped Mr. Trevor.
“Ho, _you_ don’t!” said the policeman. “_You_ don’t!”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Trevor, “I don’t. Do you mean to stand there
and tell me that I wouldn’t ’ave ’eard--I mean, have heard of this
criminal if he had really existed?”
“You’re a gent,” said the policeman.
“You’ve said it,” said Mr. Trevor.
“And gents,” said the policeman, “know nothing. And what they do know is
mouldy. Ever ’eard of Jack the Ripper?”
“Yes, I ’ave,” said Mr. Trevor bitterly.
“_H_ave is right, sir, if you’ll excuse me. Well, Jack’s death was never
rightly proved, not it! So it might well be ’im at ’is old tricks again,
even though ’e has been retired, in a manner of speaking, these forty
years. Remorseless and hindiscriminate murder, swift and sure, was
Jack’s line, if you remember, sir.”
“Before my time,” said Mr. Trevor gloomily.
“Well, Jack’s method was just to slit ’em up with a razor, frontwise and
from south to north, and not a blessed word spoken. No one’s touched ’im
yet, not for efficiency, but this new chap, ’e looks like catching Jack
up. _And_ at Jack’s own game, razor and all. Makes a man fair sick, sir,
to see the completed work. Just slits ’em up as clean as you or me might
slit up a vealanam-pie. We was laying bets on ’im over at Vine Street
only to-night, curious like to see whether ’e’d beat Jack’s record. But
it’ll take some beating, I give you my word. Up to date this chap ’as
only done in twelve in three weeks--not that that’s ’alf bad, seeing as
how ’e’s new to the game, more or less.”
“Oh, rather, more or less!” said Mr. Trevor faintly. “Twelve! Good
God--only twelve! But why--why don’t you catch the ghastly man?”
“Ho, why don’t we!” said the policeman. “Becos we don’t know ’ow, that’s
why. Not us! It’s the little one-corpse men we’re good for, not these
’ere big artists. Look at Jack the Ripper--did we catch ’im? Did we? And
look at Julian Raphael--did we catch ’im? I’m asking you.”
“I know you are,” said Mr. Trevor gratefully. “Thank you.”
“I don’t want your thanks,” said the policeman. “I’m just warning you.”
Mr. Trevor gasped: “Warning _me_!”
“You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “You don’t ought to be out alone
at this time of night, an ’earty young chap like you. These twelve ’e’s
already done in were all ’earty young chaps. ’E’s partial to ’em
’earty, I do believe. And social gents some of ’em was, too, with
top-’ats to hand, just like you might be now, sir, coming ’ome from a
smoking-concert. Jack the Ripper all over again, that’s wot I say.
Except that this ’ere new corpse-fancier, ’e don’t seem to fancy women
at all.”
“A chaps’ murderer, what!” said Mr. Trevor faintly. “Ha-ha! What?”
“You’ve said it,” said the policeman. “But you never know your luck,
sir. And maybe as ’ow thirteen’s your lucky number.”
Mr. Trevor lays emphasis on the fact that throughout he treated the
constable with the courtesy due from a gentleman to the law. He merely
said: “Constable, I am now going home. I do not like you very much. You
are an alarmist. And I hope that when you go to sleep to-night your ears
swell so that when you wake up in the morning you will be able to fly
straight to heaven and never be seen or heard of again. You and your
razors and your thirteens!”
“Ho, they ain’t mine, far from it!” said the policeman, and even as he
spoke a voice crashed upon the silence from the direction of Mount
Street. The voice belonged to a tall figure in black and white, and on
his head was a top-hat that shone under the pallid moon like a monstrous
black jewel.
“That there,” said the policeman, “is a Noise.”
“He’s singing,” said Mr. Trevor.
“I’ll teach ’im singing!” said the policeman.
Sang the voice:
“_With an host of furious fancies,_
_Whereof I am commander,_
_With a burning spear_
_And a horse of air_
_To the wilderness I wander._”
“You will,” said the policeman. “Oh, you will!”
“_By a knight of ghosts and shadows_
_I summoned am to tourney_
_Ten leagues beyond_
_The wide world’s end--_
_Methinks it is no journey!_”
“Not to Vine Street, it isn’t,” said the policeman.
“Ho there!” cried the approaching voice. “Who dares interrupt my song!”
“Beau Maturin!” cried Mr. Trevor gladly. “It’s not you! Bravo, Beau
Maturin! Sing, bless you, sing! For I am depressed.”
“_From Heaven’s Gate to Hampstead Heath_
_Young Bacchus and his crew_
_Came tumbling down, and o’er the town_
_Their bursting trumpets blew._”
“Fine big gent, your friend,” said the policeman thoughtfully.
“_And when they heard that happy word_
_Policemen leapt and ambled:_
_The busmen pranced, the maidens danced,_
_The men in bowlers gambolled._”
“Big!” said Mr. Trevor. “Big? Let me tell you, constable, that the last
time Mr. Maturin hit Jack Dempsey, Dempsey bounced back from the floor
so quick that he knocked Mr. Maturin out on the rebound.”
Mr. Trevor says that Beau Maturin came on through the night like an
avenger through a wilderness, so little did he reck of cruel moons and
rude policemen. Said he: “Good evening, Ralph. Good evening, constable.
Lo, I am in wine!”
“You’ve said it,” said the policeman.
“Gently, my dear! Or,” said Mr. Maturin cordially, “I will dot you one,
and look at it which way you like it is a far, far better thing to be in
wine than in a hospital. Now, are there any good murders going
to-night?”
“Going?” said the constable. “I’m ’ere to see there ain’t any coming.
But I’ve just been telling this gent about some recent crises. Corpses
slit to ribbons just as you or me might slit up a vealanam----”
“Don’t say that again!” snapped Mr. Trevor.
“By Heaven, what’s that?” sighed Mr. Maturin; and, following his intent
eyes, they saw, a yard or so behind them on the pavement, a something
that glittered in the moonlight. Mr. Trevor says that, without a thought
for his own safety, he instantly took a step towards the thing, but that
the policeman restrained him. It was Mr. Maturin who picked the thing
up. The policeman whistled thoughtfully.
“A razor, let’s face it!” whispered Beau Maturin.
“_And_ sharp!” said the policeman, thoughtfully testing the glittering
blade with the ball of his thumb.
Mr. Trevor says that he was never in his life less conscious of any
feeling of excitement. He merely pointed out that he could swear there
had been no razor there when he had come round the corner, and that,
while he had stood there, no one had passed behind him.
“The chap that owns this razor,” said the policeman, emphasising each
word with a gesture of the blade, “must ’ave slunk behind you and me as
we stood ’ere talking and dropped it, maybe not finding it sharp enough
for ’is purpose. What do you think, Mr. Maturin?”
But Mr. Maturin begged to be excused from thinking, protesting that men
are in the hands of God and God is in the hands of women, so what the
devil is there to think about?
Mr. Trevor says that the motive behind his remark at that moment, which
was to the effect that he simply must have a drink, was merely that he
was thirsty. A clock struck two.
“After hours,” said the policeman; and he seemed, Mr. Trevor thought, to
grin evilly.
“What do they know of hours,” sighed Mr. Maturin, “who only Ciro’s know?
Come, Ralph. My love, she jilted me but the other night. Therefore I
will swim in wine, and thrice will I call upon her name when I am
drowning. Constable, good-night to you.”
“Now I’ve warned you!” the policeman called after them. “Don’t go into
any alleys or passages like Lansdowne Passage else you’ll be finding
yourselves slit up like vealanam-pies.”
Maybe it was only the treacherous light of the moon, but Mr. Trevor
fancied as he looked back that the policeman, where he stood
thoughtfully fingering the shining blade, seemed to be grinning evilly
at them.