Whitechapel (63 page)

“This is odd? Maybe he’s going to walk all the way?” said Andrews. Bentham remained silent as they kept walking.

Tumblety had walked nearly a quarter of a mile before he stopped to hail himself a cab. Andrews and Bentham were ahead of the game this time; moments before, Bentham had remained on foot whilst Andrews had hailed a cab and followed slowly from further back. Tumblety climbed aboard his ride as Bentham jumped into the cab with his boss and the driver snapped his riding crop to keep pace as instructed. The English detectives had no idea where they were going towards as they fairly quickly turned off of Lexington Avenue on the left hand side.

“Driver, where do you think he’s going?” asked Andrews.

“Could be the harbour side on Manhattan if he keeps going,” replied the helpful driver.

“What’s down there then?” asked Bentham.

“Well, where should I start? Ideal for a night out. Bars, dance halls, restaurants and in the right places a woman at all budgets.”

The two Englishmen fell silent and looked at each other. Andrews spoke first.

“My God. Perhaps he’s starting all over again over here!” Bentham stayed quiet as they both remained transfixed on the cab ahead. Both carriages rumbled over the cobbled streets lined with a mixture of buildings with very distinctive smells in different areas as they journeyed.

“Guv’nor, do you really think that’s going to happen.” asked Bentham.

“If it does, we’re going to stop him,” replied a determined Andrews

***

Byrne received Abberline’s latest telegram and read it over several times. He sat with the paper flat on his desk with his head supported by and in his hands with his elbows resting either side of the telegram. Crowle was in his office with him having brought the telegram in.

“Goddamn it, Crowle! What the hell does all this crap mean! Has he gone mad? Journeymen, knights of the compass, levels and squares. It’s all hogwash.” Byrne grabbed a piece of paper and composed a hurried short reply. He then handed it to Crowle. “Right, send this back to him. I don’t know what the hell he means and I need straight English!”

“Abberline’s reputation, sir, is as a smart man. He’s one of Scotland Yard’s best detectives. This has to be a coded message and if you don’t understand it that might be deliberate. Why would they drop such an investigation unless there is some corruption or pressure. Whoever the Ripper is he’s killed six women and an officer. What would stop you investigating such a case other than pressure from above?”

Byrne digested what his subordinate had said. He stood up and walked up to the window in his office and looked and rubbed his chin as he considered this scenario. He stared out of the window with his arms crossed. Crowle silently watched him. After what seemed like minutes but was in fact only 30 seconds or so he turned and spoke.

“Give me that paper.” He took it from Crowle and screwed it up throwing it into his waste paper basket. He took another piece from his desk and composed a new message.

Frederick,

An interesting message that sadly means little to me. But I understand there maybe connotations. Please send me a straight talking answer so we can understand the need to disengage from the case. Hope to meet one day.

Thomas.

“Get it sent now please. It’s late there but I’m staying until there is a reply.” Crowle left the office and made for the telegram room passing many officers on the way that had been engaged on the initial surveillance but now re-assigned; none really had a care in what was now happening. It concerned events such a long way that they felt unaffected.

***

Tumblety arrived at the dock front in Manhattan watched closely but still at a discreet distance by the Englishmen. Unaware of this alias, Weston stood still on the pavement as his cab rode away looking the street up and down for anyone who seemed to be taking an unhealthy interest in him. Sensibly the Englishmen had instructed their driver to continue a little way past before they alighted by which time their subject was on the move again. It was dusk on the harbour front with the lights all coming on making the whole place look appealingly attractive.

Weston crossed the road under the gaze of Andrews and Bentham and entered a lively and well lit bar. As they were about to cross the road to follow him, Andrews stopped abruptly on the kerbside and put his arm up across Bentham’s chest as he did so stopping him in his tracks.

“What?” said Bentham frowning at Andrews. Andrews took a deep breath in and turned to face is subordinate.

“You go in and watch him and I’ll stay out here.” He had put his arm down and Bentham began to cross the road. Suddenly he grabbed Bentham’s arm. “No. I’ve changed my mind. You stay her and I’ll go in.” He felt he needed to burden the responsibility of apprehending the murderer, whilst engaged in a new crime, personally.

He entered the smoke filled bar, ‘The Jefferson’, with a piano playing noisily in the background. It was full of the cross section of people he had seen in the station except for a large number of elaborately dressed women in typical American saloon-bar wear. They ranged in age and attractiveness quite greatly, but then so did the clientele and undoubtedly so would the price. Unlike in the station he spotted his quarry up at the bar already buying a drink for himself and with a lady next to him. ‘He wasted no time’ thought Andrews. Tumblety was still sporting his bowler hat pulled well down to his eyebrows as before making it difficult to clearly see his features unless you were close to him. He didn’t want to close that sort of gap to him as yet. He wanted to catch him in the act, and of course Andrews and Bentham were both completely unaware of the Masonic conspiracy and the termination of the investigation.

Weston particularly liked the smell of the twenty-two year old buxom blonde prostitute he now courted as well her impressive and well displayed bosom. He found it especially difficult to always look her in the eye as they made conversation his gaze drawn to her voluptuous breasts. She was very pretty too, with an attractive hour glass figure and he knew that the cost to have sex with her would be much greater than he could normally afford. Then again with his clothes and new found wealth she was much better than he could usually choose. She was from the deep south of the country and her soft ‘southern drool’ on top of all of her other physical attributes really aroused his desire. He would have her, whatever the cost. At the opposite end of the bar Andrews was buying himself a drink and keeping a close eye on Tumblety whose back was to him. He too could see why he had chosen this woman to talk to as she was very attractive. He had only ever seen prostitutes like her in the West End of London, with the bizarre exception of Mary Kelly, never would women of that class frequent the pubs or streets of Whitechapel.

At times he almost found it difficult to see to the other end of the bar due to the thickness of the smoke which was beginning to make his eyes feel quite sore. The constant noise level from the piano and the loud bawdy conversations ever trying to compete with each other already made Andrews ears start to ring; he could understand how the woman and Tumblety were so close to each other. She seemed charmed by him chatting freely and almost constantly smiling as he plied her with drink. Andrews only wished he could hear the conversation that was taking place between them.

“So, pretty lady, what’s your name then, huh?” asked a smiling Weston.

“S’April, named after the month you know. Do you like it then, sir?” She smiled back at him lifting her right leg and brushing it along his left calf and then slowly going a little higher.

“It’s lovely. Call me Frank. None of that formal bullshit. You got somewhere quiet we could go to, huh?” She brushed his thigh as he finished talking. She looked down all innocently and then back up into his eyes with a glint and spoke again.

“Certainly have, Frankie if your money is right. It’s private and warm and comfortable and we can fool around as long as your money allows.”

“Lady, April honey, I can pay to fool around all night.” Away from prying glances he opened up his coat and showed her a wad of notes in an inside pocket. The English detective looked on in puzzlement of what was going on. What had he shown her? She nuzzled into his neck and then gave the man Andrews perceived as Tumblety a light kiss on the cheek.

Andrews looked on at the intimacy of the situation between them feeling uncomfortable that the Whitechapel murderer could be able to shortly strike in New York. Suddenly his blood ran completely cold as the two linked arms and walked away from the bar. He looked on in horror to see if they were leaving the building before making any moves himself. They made for the stairs which led up to a landing with an ornate balustrade around it with, he could see, several doors running off of it. He felt pangs of the Kelly murder; if this was Jack the Ripper he would again have privacy to commit terrible crimes undisturbed and without time constraints. Andrews walked slowly through the crowds keeping his eyes transfixed on them as they reached the bottom of the stairs and began to make their way up the wide carpeted staircase. Despite the Ripper obsession and the desire to prevent any further bloodshed Andrews rationalised that he also had to consider that Tumblety was about to embark on a simple business transaction with a prostitute. He reached the base of the stairs as the still laughing couple were at the top and turning right onto the landing arm in arm with their faces often close to each other exchanging what appeared to be many words of innuendo.

April and Weston only walked a dozen feet or so reaching a door which she opened and showed him in. He tipped his hat to her and took it off but his back was to Andrews observing him from down below. He couldn’t get a good look then at what he still perceived was Tumblety’s face as the couple entered the room and the door closed behind them. Transfixed and unconscious of how conspicuous he was about to become he climbed the stairs himself too, watched from the crowd by a large set, overly tall, dark skinned American employed by the establishment’s owner to deal with trouble makers. He too made his way to the stairs watching Andrews who he assumed was a thrill seeker of some sort now reaching the landing and looking to the door were he had seen April taking her client.

Andrews walked up to the door and placed his head next to it with his left ear pushed up against the wood to hear what was going on inside. As yet all he could hear was muffled and hushed conversation oblivious to the large menacing American now almost at the top of the stairs keeping him under fierce observation. He could still hear nothing different as he felt a tap on his right shoulder and he wheeled round to be presented at eye level with the chest of a veritable giant. He looked up into the eyes of the man mountain that now bore down on him.

“So, little man, what the fuck are you doing?” said the giant of a man as he folded his arms looking down sneeringly at Andrews.

“Err, I’m, err, I………..” Andrews fell over his words completely surprised by what he was confronted with.

“You’ve got seconds for a good answer, you little pervert.” The giant unfolded his arms and began limbering up his fists.

“I’m Inspector Walter Andrews from Scotland Yard on the trail of Jack the Ripper, the Whitechapel murderer.” He straightened up as he spoke and was about to reach into his suit pocket for his identification.

“Bullshit, limey bastard! You expect me to fall for that crap!”

Angered by what he thought was a contrived excuse and on his guard to having a gun pulled on him, the Giant grabbed Andrews by the throat and pinned him up against the wall next to the door to April’s room. Andrews struggled for breath as he did so and the banging sound of him hitting the wall with force disturbed the occupants of the room.

“What the Goddamn is going on out there, buddy?” shouted the male voice from the room.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the Giant American as he prepared to get Andrews in a wrestling lift and eject him from the premises. Andrews tried to pull the hand inflicting a vice like grip on his throat but his resistance was futile. He felt the giant’s other hand pass between his legs and grab the back of this trousers and he was suddenly and almost effortlessly lifted into the air. He began to be carried downstairs still fighting to loosen the grip on his throat.

Within seconds his feet and head were being used to force the doors of ‘The Jefferson’ open and he found himself in the street. The giant then lifted him above his head giving Andrews an elevated view of the footway and passing carriages.

“Mister, don’t give me that bullshit. At least be truthful. Next ti…” The giant’s words were cut short by a scream from a room above them from the first floor that faced out over the street. Unknown to Andrews the room it emanated from was April’s and the scream was instantly recognised by the Giant American. “Goddamn it! Don’t tell me you were right!” He lowered Andrews and unceremoniously dropped him from at least only from waist height as he turned to run back into the premises. Oblivious to the impact with the ground Andrews sprang to his feet and followed him.

All this was observed by Arthur Bentham who crossed the road and ran into ‘The Jefferson’ after both the men. As Andrews got into the main bar he could see the giant making his way up the stairs ahead of him. He pushed his way through the jostling crowds and sprinted up the stairs himself. As he reached the top the giant was already forcing the door in to the room open and then froze in the doorway as he did so. Andrews, looking over his shoulder as he reached the top could feel his heart racing more through the fear of what he now expected to be greeted with rather than the physical exertion. The few paces he needed to take from the top of the stairs to the door of the room seemed to take a an eternity in slow motion as he saw the giant who had so easily man handled him standing still and speechless in the doorway. He expected the worst; another Kelly murder scene. His auditory functions had shut down unable to hear Bentham’s calls for caution, who was now on the stairs warning him that the killer might still be there with a fearsome knife.