The Cutthroat (Isaac Bell 10)

“Do private detectives investigate murder in America?”

“Ordinarily, murder is a matter for the police,” Bell admitted.

He told Roberts about his role in Anna Waterbury’s death.

“I let her down,” he said. “I let her father down. I will make amends the only way I can—by strapping her killer in the electric chair.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” said Roberts. “But I fail to see similarities to Jack the Ripper, who killed many, many women.”

Bell described the subsequent murders of Lillian Lent and Mary Beth Winthrop.

Roberts grew excited. He demanded details.

Bell reported the patterns: fair, petite young women; their necks broken; their bodies wound in capes. He gave him the murders turned up by his All Field Offices Alert: the slaying in Albuquerque that Texas Walt unearthed; Tim Holian’s account of girls killed in rising numbers that paralleled the movie business shift to Los Angeles; Bronson’s raw assessment of relentless slaughter in San Francisco.

Roberts asked, “Are you saying that your murderer operates similarly to Jack the Ripper? Or are you saying that he is actually one and the same, Jack the Ripper?”

“I was told at the Yard that Jack the Ripper drowned himself in the Thames.”

“I do not believe you left America in the midst of a murder investigation to study the habits of famous killers. I ask you again, are you speculating that your man is actually Jack the Ripper?”

“Whether he is hinges largely on how old he was when he killed in London. Was he as young as Davy Collins suggests? Keeping in mind that no one knows for sure whether Davy Collins saw the actual Ripper or someone else.”

Roberts shook his head and marveled, “It doesn’t seem possible . . . But now I see why his age is so important to you.” Abruptly he smiled and looked satisfied. “You’re ready for Barlowe.”

“Who is Barlowe?” Bell was wary. It sounded like Roberts was back to his games.

/> “Wayne Barlowe was a newspaper artist who drew for the Illustrated News. You’ll have seen his drawings in your research. Try to get him to tell you a story. Tell him I told you to ask him to tell you a story. If he asks which story, tell him the one I never believed.”

“Will his story tell me the Ripper’s age?”

“I was told that Wayne Barlowe interviewed a woman who saw Jack the Ripper up close. I asked, repeatedly, whether what I heard was true. Barlowe won’t tell me. In fact, he cut me off. You may have better luck, not being with the Yard.”

“Will he tell me the Ripper’s age?” Bell repeated harshly.

“With any luck, you can tell his age yourself.”

“How?”

“When you see the Ripper’s face.”

17

The Cutthroat walked on a railroad track with a girl in his arms.

“I love American rivers,” he told her.

The Ohio River was tearing alongside them in the dark. It made a sound that seemed to blend far-off thunder and the slither of an enormous snake.

“Your rivers are mighty compared to the Thames.”

He laughed softly. “Even in flood, the Thames can’t hold a candle to your rivers. Yours drain mountains—ours mere hills—and valleys as broad as all England.”

Swelled by melting snow and spring rains, they uprooted trees, smashed steamboats, scoured soil, and swept drowned cattle, men, and women to distant oceans. A floating body raced on the surface, pummeled by waves and driftwood. A body that sank was hurtled over the river bottom in a corrosive slurry of mud and water.

“The Mississippi is my favorite,” he said. “But we’ll make do with the Ohio tonight— Not to worry. It will take you to the Mississippi in a week or so.”

Scraped, battered, and unrecognizable where the rivers joined at Cairo. A month or so later, seagulls would feast in the Gulf of Mexico. “Show me no body,” he told her, “and I’ll show you the perfect crime . . . Let me count the ways.”