Bell asked, “Did Jack the Ripper ever drape his victims in a cape? A man’s cape.”
“No, he covered their bodies with their own dress or apron.”
“Did—”
Roberts interrupted. “Mr. Bell, you look like a man who could do with a haircut.”
The observation was as inaccurate as it was incongruous, and Bell said, “Just had one on the boat.”
“Would you consider a shave?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m going to send you to Davy Collins. Tell him I said to tell you a story.”
“Who is Davy Collins?”
“A tonsorial practitioner in Whitechapel.”
16
Davy Collins’s barbershop had a red and white pole by the street door, which was wedged between a dark pub, where men and woman drank in silence, and a tiny grocery with empty shelves. Its twisting stairs were so narrow, it seemed a miracle that his red leather reclining chair had been carried up them. An ornately coiffed barber sporting an elaborate curlicued mustache greeted Bell in an Italian accent so thick, he sounded like a vaudeville comic mocking immigrants.
“I am looking for a barber named Davy Collins,” said Bell.
“Eet eez my Enga-lish-a name.”
“Do you know Mr. Nigel Roberts?”
“Meesta Roba-sa eez retire-a cop-a.”
“He says for you to tell me a story.”
“What-a kind-a story?”
“A Jack the Ripper story.”
The barber picked up a gleaming razor and demanded in harsh Londonese, “Who the bloody deuce are you, mate?”
Bell said, “I’ll tell you who I am if you’ll tell me why you pretend to be Italian?”
“Englishmen treat the barber from sunny Italy kinder than Davy Collins of Whitechapel by way of Ireland.”
“I’m American. I’m kind to everyone.”
Davy Collins laughed. “Fair enough. What story you want to hear?”
“A true one.”
“The only true one I have is about the time I saw the Ripper.”
“You actually saw him?”
“With these eyes.”
“When?”
“It was the ninth of November, 1888.”