Bestial (31 page)

Throughout the city, housewives barricaded themselves inside their homes while their husbands were away at work, refusing to open their doors to anyone, even deliverymen they had known for years. Milkmen who would normally take a few minutes to chat with an old customer simply left their bottles on the front stoop and hurried away. Some women even stopped answering their phones, fearing that the strangler might be on the other end. Others kept their children home from school. After spending all of Monday knocking futilely on bolted doors, frustrated callers—house-to-house salesmen, bill collectors, vegetable peddlers—simply gave up the effort, declaring a holiday until the “Gorilla Man” was caught.

Boardinghouse owners exerted particular caution, turning away every stranger who came to their doors. Visitors to the city were forced to look elsewhere for accommodations. Within forty-eight hours, every hotel in Winnipeg, even the most expensive, was booked solid.

Of course, many rooming houses in the city were already full of lodgers. Some proprietresses worked out secret codes with their guests: whenever a roomer returned from an outing, he had to knock in the prearranged way in order to be readmitted. Others had a house key made up for each boarder, so that they themselves would never have to answer the front door. More than one landlady who had recently rented a room to a burly young stranger became convinced that she was harboring the “Gorilla Man” and lost no time in notifying the police.

In general, it was a bad time to be a stocky, dark-complexioned male in Winnipeg. On the streets, men who bore even a passing resemblance to the published descriptions of the “Gorilla Man” were subjected to suspicious looks, hostile stares, and worse. On at least one occasion, a threatening mob surrounded an olive-skinned hobo in a shabby gray suit, who had to be rescued by police. By Tuesday—when the
Manitoba Free Press
ran a story headlined
REIGN OF TERROR HAS CITIZENS OF WINNIPEG IN GRIP
—some swarthy, thickset men were afraid to leave their homes.

Assisted by American detectives—who had detoured to Winnipeg on their way home from the International Police Chiefs’ Convention in Windsor—the local authorities threw themselves into the search for the “Gorilla Man.” Since the discovery of Lola Cowan’s body, every member of the Winnipeg force had been on continuous duty, focussing all their energies on what the
Tribune
described as “a man-hunt that for intensity has never been equalled in the history of the city.”

Squads of uniformed and plainclothes officers, armed with revolvers and sawed-off shotguns, patrolled the city and suburbs. Others, mounted on motorcycles or packed into cars, roared through the streets in pursuit of the hundreds of leads pouring into the stationhouse switchboards. In the rural districts, provincial police scoured the countryside, setting bloodhounds on the trail of the elusive “Gorilla.”

“Everything that can be done is being done to track down the maniac responsible for these revolting crimes against women,” announced Police Commissioner John O’Hare. “Every rendezvous for crooks in the city has been combed, and the police are working day and night. Every man on the force has been placed on the job. We will spare neither time nor effort to run this maniac to earth.”

By Monday morning, police had visited hundreds of rooming houses and brought in scores of suspects for questioning. All the men were eventually cleared, though a dozen or so, picked up on street corners or rounded up along railway tracks, were fined or imprisoned for vagrancy. On Sunday night, Attorney General W. J. Major authorized a $1,000 reward “for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the criminal degenerate” responsible for the murders of Emily Patterson and Lola Cowan. The following day, the City Council added another $500, bringing the reward to $1,500.

At first, police made encouraging progress. On Saturday afternoon, officers canvassing Main Street had located William Patterson’s stolen whipcord suit in Sam Waldman’s clothing store. Waldman had supplied the investigators with a complete description of both the dark-skinned stranger
who had visited his store on Friday and the apparel he had sold the man. Waldman then led the officers to the barbershop down the block where the owner, Nick Tabor, provided them with additional physical details.

Armed with this new information, Police Chief Christopher Newton had a reward bulletin printed up and distributed to police departments from western Ontario to Alberta.

The bulletin described the suspect as “28 to 30 years, 5 ft. 7 or 8 ins., 150 lbs., dark sallow complexion, has Jewish or Italian appearance, peculiar eyes, fairly well built, hair thin on top and brushed back in long pompadour, newly barbered and inclined to be curly, believed to have very bad corns or bunions on feet.”

A detailed itemization of the clothes purchased from Waldman’s followed: blue shirt, grayish brown socks, tan boots with “bull-dog toes,” fawn-colored cardigan, leather belt with a “green-and-white stripe in centre,” gray-and-white silk scarf, gray overcoat, and a “gent’s second hand two-piece suit, very light gray, plain with no visible stripe.”

“This man has a very pleasing manner in presenting himself when entering houses,” the bulletin continued. “Upon entering he does not have the appearance of being vicious. He reads and speaks of religious missions. Is an inveterate cigarette smoker, usually smoking Lucky Strike or other American cigarettes…. In the past he has been beating his way by freight, walking, and getting lifts from autoists, stopping at rooming houses. He goes over lists of advertisements for rooms in local papers and then commences visiting them. Other houses with ‘For Sale’ or ‘For Rent’ signs he enters on some pretext.”

The bulletin concluded with a warning and an appeal: “This man is the most dangerous criminal at large today. I ask every Police Officer to help bring this man to justice. There is ample evidence to convict.”

This widely circulated description of the suspect’s wardrobe, however, was of limited use, since—as Chief of Detectives George Smith pointed out—“the strangler’s chief method of eluding police is by frequently changing his clothes.” Meeting with reporters on Monday morning, Smith stressed that the strangler was “a clever man. He is different from any criminal with whom we have ever been called on
to deal. He is a man with absolutely no moral sense. He can commit the most atrocious crime and a minute afterwards go on his way without showing the slightest mental trace of the frightful act he has just done.” Even with the entire police force pursuing him, a killer of such monstrous cunning wasn’t going to be easy to catch.

Smith’s sense of caution was justified. As Monday wore on, police found themselves utterly frustrated in their efforts to pick up the murderer’s scent. By that evening, Smith was forced to concede that “there is no telling where he is. He may still be in the city, but we have combed it thoroughly and are still searching.”

The cheerless news was featured on the front page of Tuesday’s
Tribune
: “A thousand clues and a thousand chases have left police no nearer to the strangler’s hiding place…. He is still at large, and the fear that he might strike again, near or far, still holds a threat.”

The “phantomlike” killer who had eluded U.S. police for over a year appeared to have done it again, “vanished,” as the paper reported, “like a gorilla in the jungle.”

†

Grace Nelson

He did not seem to hold your glance for any length of time. He would look at you and look away. But his eyes seemed to have a sort of magnetism.

He had arrived in Regina, the provincial capital of Saskatchewan, about 350 miles due west of Winnipeg, on Saturday afternoon. As always, his first order of business was to purchase a copy of the local paper and check out the “Rooms to Let” section of the classifieds. One ad in particular caught his attention.

Asking directions of the newsvendor, he had found his way to 1852 Lorne Street, reaching his destination at approximately 3:00
P.M.

When Mrs. Mary Rowe answered her front door, she found herself facing an olive-skinned stranger, nattily attired in a pale-gray topcoat, two-piece suit, blue shirt, striped tie, silk scarf, and a snappy fedora with a fancy headband. Flashing a smile that revealed a striking set of even, white teeth, he explained that he had read her ad in the
Regina Leader
and had come to see about the room.

Inviting him inside, the young widow led him up a flight of stairs and ushered him into a clean, spacious room, furnished with a single bed, oak bureau, wooden chair, and night table.

After taking a quick look around, the stranger asked if
Mrs. Rowe had something smaller and more secluded, perhaps in the rear of the house.

Mrs. Rowe shook her head. This was her only vacancy. The rent was four dollars a week.

The olive-skinned man spent a few more minutes looking around, then—after saying he’d “think it over”—left the house. Twenty minutes later, he was back. He had decided to take the room after all.

At the foot of the stairway, he handed Mrs. Rowe a five-dollar bill, got a single in return, then repaired to his room. A few minutes later, he descended again and headed outside. Mrs. Rowe watched him through the parlor window as he made his way down Lorne Street. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when he stopped abruptly, did an about-face, and came back.

“Can’t buy anything without money, can I?” he said with a grin as he reentered the house and hurried up to his room.

She did not see him again until shortly before 6:00
P.M.
She was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, when he suddenly appeared at the doorway, wearing his topcoat and fancy hat.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Let me tell you my name in case any mail comes for me. I’m Harry Harcourt.” With a tip of his hat, he turned and disappeared. Mrs. Rowe heard him go out the front door.

She stayed up late that night, reading
Lost Ecstasy
, the new bestseller by Mary Roberts Rinehart that all her friends had been raving about. She was seated in the parlor at around 10:45
P.M.
when she heard the front door open and close. Glancing up from the book, she saw the dark-skinned lodger pass through the front hallway on his way to the stairs and silently climb to his room.

Mrs. Rowe had another lodger, a twenty-three-year-old woman whose name (coincidentally) was Nelson—Grace Nelson. At around 10:30
A.M.
on Sunday, June 12, Miss Nelson, still dressed in her nightclothes, was reclining in bed, reading the latest issue of
American Mercury
magazine. She was so engrossed in an essay by Sinclair Lewis that she did not hear the door open.

Suddenly, she became aware that there was someone in her room. She looked up from her magazine, and her eyes
widened. A strange, foreign-looking man was looming in the doorway.

Grabbing her blanket and yanking it up to her chin, she began to utter something indignant. But before the words were out of her mouth, the strange man stammered an apology—“Beg pardon”—then turned on his heels and hurried away.

Shaken by the intrusion, the young woman stayed frozen in place, clutching the bedclothes and feeling her heart knock against her breastbone. After a few moments, however, she began to calm down. No harm had been done. The dark-skinned man was undoubtedly a new lodger who had opened the wrong door in his search for the bathroom.

Still, there had been something peculiar, even disconcerting, about the way he had stared at her. After a few more moments, Grace Nelson pulled back the blankets, swung her feet onto the floor, then quickly crossed the room and closed the door, making sure to throw the lock before returning to her bed.

The next day was a balmy one. At around 11:00
A.M.
, the landlady, Mary Rowe, stepped outside to savor the soft morning air. Seating herself on the running board of her beat-up old Ford, she watched as her nine-year-old daughter, Jessie, stalked an orange-winged butterfly in the little backyard garden.

Suddenly, the back door swung open and the new lodger, Mr. Harcourt, emerged from the house. Spotting Mrs. Rowe, he strolled over for a chat. The two spent a few minutes discussing automobiles, and Mrs. Rowe told him that her Ford was for sale. He replied that he had no need for a car, since he owned a fine, six-cylinder Studebaker that he kept on his ranch at Indian Head.

And all the time they spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. Rowe’s little girl.

At around 2:00
P.M.
, while Mrs. Rowe was in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea for herself, she suddenly realized that she had not seen her daughter for several hours. Frowning, she walked out onto the porch, but Jessie was nowhere in sight.

Hastening to her room, she changed from her housedress into street clothes and rushed from the house.

There was a little park not far from the house, where Jessie often went to play. Mrs. Rowe made it to the park within minutes. She looked all around but saw no sign of her child. Suddenly, something caught her eye. Through the trees, she thought she spotted the little powder-blue parasol that her daughter liked to carry on sunny days.

Hurrying across the park in the direction of the powder-blue object, Mrs. Rowe emerged onto Twelfth Street. Sure enough, there was her daughter, strolling along the sidewalk, her open parasol resting on one shoulder.

Beside her walked Mr. Harcourt.

When Mrs. Rowe strode up to the pair, the man greeted her with a big, innocent smile. “I was just bringing her home,” he said.

Mrs. Rowe said nothing in reply. Taking her daughter by the hand, she led her home in silence. It wasn’t until they were seated alone in the kitchen that Mrs. Rowe began lecturing her child, telling her that she must never,
never
go off like that with a strange man.

“But he’s not a stranger,” the child protested. “He’s one of our guests.”

“Where did he take you?” Mrs. Rowe demanded.

Jessie named a local sweet shop. “He bought me an ice cream soda,” she said.

After repeating her warning, Mrs. Rowe sent her daughter out to play.