Chapter 6 Chapter 3 Whitechapel

"By the way, Holmes, what became of Wiggins?" I put the question to Holmes the next morning in Baker Street. We had a buffet dinner at the station the night before after returning from Shires Castle. Holmes said at the time: "The young American pianist, Baden, is playing at Albert Hall tonight. I recommend him strongly to you, Watson." "I never knew this country had ever produced a decent piano talent." Holmes laughed. "Come on, come on, bro! Don't think about the Americans. They've been doing a great job there for over a hundred years." "Would you like me to accompany you? I would be honored."

"I'm suggesting a concert for you. I've got a few ideas in my head that I'd better investigate tonight." "In that case, I'd rather sit in an easy chair by the fire and read a book from your wonderful collection." "I recommend a recent one - Uncle Tom's Cabin, written by an American lady named Stowe. It is tragic and intended to awaken a whole nation to right a great injustice. I believe, It was one of the causes of the American Civil War. Well, I must go. Maybe I'll come to you later with my nightcap on." However, Holmes came back very late, and I was already asleep.He didn't wake me up and we didn't meet again until breakfast the next day.I was expecting to hear him report on last night's work, but nothing happened.He didn't look like he was going to work right away, but was just wandering around in his mouse-gray pajamas, drinking tea and smoking around the house with his favorite clay pipe.

Suddenly there was a noise on the stairs, and a dozen dirty, sloppiest-dressed urchins in all London rushed into the house.They were Holmes' most incredible band of street bums, as he called them otherwise - the Baker Street Detective Police Division, or his "unofficial team", and the "Baker Street Squad". "Attention!" cried Holmes.The waifs tried their best to line up in a crooked row, with serious expressions on their dirty little faces, obviously trying their best to put on a military posture. "Now, have you found anything?" "Yes, sir, we found out," replied one of the party.

"I found it, sir!" interjected the other, and then grinned, showing three cavities between his teeth. "Very well," said Holmes gravely, "but take it as a whole without individual heroism, my fellows. I am for all, and all for me." "Yes, sir." Came a neat reply. "What's the situation?" "It's in Whitechapel." "In Great Shipton Street, near the corner. It's a narrow street, sir." "Very well," said Holmes again. "This is your reward, and you may go now." He gave each child a shining shilling.They left as loud and happy as they had come.We soon heard their youthful screams from below.

Holmes tapped his pipe and poured out the ashes. "Wiggins? Oh, he's great, enlisted in the British Army. His last letter to me was postmarked in Africa." "In my impression, this young man is very motivated." "It's the same with these children. There's never a shortage of beggars in London. Now I'm going to make an inquiry. Let's go." Our destination is not difficult to predict.I wasn't surprised when we stood in front of a pawn shop in Whitechapel, Great Shipton Street.The street, as Holmes had reasoned, and the waif had confirmed, was very narrow indeed.The side facing the store is a tall building.When we arrived, the sun was just cutting through the glass, cutting a line of light, and the inscription could be read: Joseph Baker - Pawn.

Holmes pointed to the display in the window. "That's where the toolbox should be, Watson. Do you see the direction the sun is shining?" I can only nod my head.Even though I'm used to his consistently accurate judgment, it still amazes me every time it's confirmed. Entering the store, we were greeted by Joseph Baker, a pudgy, middle-aged man with a waxed moustache.Typical German businessman, trying to create a Prussian style, looking very funny. "Is there anything I can do for you, gentlemen?" His English was heavily accented. I figured there must be no guests like us in the vicinity.He may be full of joy to make a big deal, so he followed us every step of the way.

"A friend," said Holmes, "recently gave me a present, a surgeon's kit from your shop." Mr. Baker's small protruding eyes became mysterious. "yes?" "But there's a scalpel missing from the case. I'd like to get a set together. Do you have any surgical instruments here that I can choose from?" "I'm afraid, sir, I can't help you." The pawn shop owner was obviously disappointed. "And can you recall what I was talking about about the kit, the deal?" "Ah, yes, sir. It happened a week ago. I have very few such items. But the woman redeemed the set and took it away intact. Did she tell you that you lost a scalpel? "

"I don't remember," said Holmes firmly. "The point is that you can't be of any help now." "I'm very sorry, sir. I don't have any surgical instruments of this type." Holmes feigned anger. "What a waste of time to come here! You've caused me a lot of trouble, Baker." The man looked exasperated. "You're being a bit vexatious, sir. I don't see why I should be responsible for items that leave the store." Holmes shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think so," he said casually, "but it's troublesome. I've come all the way."

"But, sir, if you ask which poor fellow redeemed the box—" "Poor guy? I don't understand." Holmes' serious tone frightened the man.With a businessman's instinct, he hastily apologized. "Forgive me, sir. I have great sympathy for that woman. In fact, I got her the case at a very good deal. Her horribly disfigured face has always tormented me." "Ah," said Holmes in a low voice, "I see." His hawk-like face lit up, and in an instant it returned to disappointment with wit. "I have an idea. That original pawn kit man - can I get in touch with him..."

"I doubt it deeply, sir. For some time." "how long?" "I need to see my ledger." Frowning, he took out an account book from under the counter and flipped through it with his fingers. "Here. Why, it's been nearly four months. How the days go by!" "That is," replied Holmes sarcastically. "Have you the man's name and address?" "Not a man, sir, but a lady." Holmes and I glanced at each other. "I see," said Holmes. "Well, even after four months, it may still be worth the effort. God bless her, what's her name?"

The pawn looks at the ledger. "Young. Miss Sally Young." "Where's her address?" "The Montague Street Hotel." "It's a weird place to live," I said. "Yes, gentlemen, the center of Whitechapel. It is a dangerous place these days." "Indeed. I wish you success in your business," said Holmes politely. "You have been a great service to us." Holmes laughed softly as we emerged from the pawn walk. "This Joseph Baker is really difficult to deal with. You can lead him deep, but it is difficult to let him back an inch." "I think he cooperated pretty well." "Yes. But if we question him in an official tone, we will have a hard time getting anything out of him today." "Your inference, Holmes—that the removed scalpel is a symbol—has been proven correct." "Possibly, though of little value in fact. But now, we might as well drop by the Montague Street Hotel and meet Miss Sally Young. I trust you have an idea of ​​the two ladies we are looking for?" "Of course. A man who pawns a box must be tight." "Very likely, Watson, but not sure." "If not, why did she pawn the box?" "I'm inclined to think she's servicing the other party. Someone can't or isn't comfortable showing up at the pawn shop in person. A surgeon's kit is hardly thought to be a lady's item. The same applies to redemption collateral that woman." "We know nothing about her except that she suffered certain injuries to her face. She may have witnessed the Ripper, but who would have escaped him?" "Very well, Watson! An excellent hypothesis. The point, though, is that something is different. You may recall that Mr. Baker mentioned that the person who redeemed the box was a woman, but he spoke in a more respectful way." The tone mentioned that the pawnbroker was a lady. Therefore, we can safely assume that Miss Sally Young is a respectable person." "Certainly. Holmes. This hint, I must confess, was ignored by me." "The redeemer was definitely from the lower classes. She was probably a prostitute. Of course, the lot is full of such unfortunates." Montague Street was not far away; the pawn shop was less than twenty minutes' walk. It is a short passage linking Purdy Court with the Circus of Oremtold, famous as a refuge for London's large numbers of beggars.We turned into Montague Street, and had gone a few paces when Holmes stopped. "Aha! Look what we found here?" My eyes followed him to an old stone archway engraved with the word: MONTAGUE.I don't think I'm particularly sensitive, but as I peer into the dim depths through the crypt-like entrance, a sense of melancholy and despondency settles over me, as it did when I first saw Shires Castle. "This is no hotel, Holmes," said I. "This is an asylum for the dead!" "Let's not pass judgment until we investigate," he replied, before pushing open a creaking door into a makeshift courtyard. "It smells of death, I'm sure," I said. "Death is near, Watson. How is it such a coincidence to meet our old friend Lestrade?" Two men were standing talking on the other side of the yard, one of whom Holmes recognized before I did.It was Sergeant Lestrade of Scotland Yard, even thinner and paler than I remembered. Lestrade, hearing our footsteps, turned round with astonishment. "This is... Sherlock Holmes! Why are you here?" "It is good to see you, Lestrade!" cried Holmes, with a broad smile on his face. "It is inspiring to see Scotland Yard responsibly following in the footsteps of criminals." "You don't need to be so sarcastic about me," Lestrade muttered. "What's up, buddy? Looks like something's bothering you." "If you don't know what happened, you must have missed the newspaper this morning." Lestrade said briefly. "It's true, I didn't read it." Noticing me, the officer turned and said, "Dr. Watson, it has been a long time since we last saw each other. "It's been a long time, Inspector Lestrade. I believe you're in good shape?" "A little back pain now and then. I've got to live," he went on gravely, "at least until I see this Whitechapel lunatic caught in prison." "Has the Ripper committed another crime?" asked Holmes eagerly. "Very similar. This is the fifth attack, Mr. Holmes. You must have read about him, though I have not heard that you have come here to serve." Holmes ignored the irony.Instead, he looked at me. "We are getting nearer, Watson." "What is it?" cried Lestrade. "You mean the fifth? Are you sure this is the fifth official murder?" "Officially or not, Holmes—" "I mean you can't be sure. You've found five bodies killed by the Ripper, but there may be others that have been dismembered and disposed of." "A delightful thought," whispered Lestrade. "I want to see the body of this 'fifth' victim." "Inside. Oh, this is Dr. Murray. He's in charge here." Dr. Murray was a pale man with a lifeless expression.His poise caught my attention deeply.His performance reflects that he is inside and out an expert in dealing with the dead.He responded to Lestrade's introduction with a bow, and said: "I work here, but I prefer to be thought of as the owner of the hotel next door. The service is good there, and poor people come to ask for help." "Let's go on," Lestrade interrupted, and led us through a door. There was a strong, carbonated smell, all too familiar to me from my service in the British Army in India. The room was very simple, and the dignity of the deceased was almost lost.It was not so much a room as a wide hallway, with every inch of the walls and ceiling simply painted white.On one side of the room is a raised platform on which wooden tables are placed at intervals.Almost half of the tables were covered with white cloths so that only outlines could be seen; Lestrade led us to the innermost. There, another stand stood, with a table on it, on which a dead body was covered with a cloth.This table is slightly higher than the others, and there is a sign indicating that it is today's corpse.This arrangement also seems reasonable. "Anne Chapman," said Lestrade sadly, "the newest victim." With that, he lifted the cover. Sherlock Holmes has become accustomed to crime and is the most sensible person.But at this moment, a serious pity appeared on his face.I must admit - I'm used to death beds and corpses on the battlefield - I couldn't help feeling sick at the sight.The girl was slaughtered like an animal. To my amazement, I saw in Holmes' face a look of disappointment tempered with pity. "No scars on the face," he whispered, as if complaining. "The murderer doesn't go to the victim's face," Lestrade said. "He only pays attention to other hidden parts of the body." Holmes calmed down, and examined and analyzed it like a specimen in an anatomy room. He touched my arm. "Pay attention to the murderer's method, Watson. It is the same as we read in the magazines. The devil does not strike at will." Lestrade frowned. "The technique of cutting the abdomen is not very skilled, Holmes. The murderer used a butcher's knife." "Perhaps a scalpel was used before the abdomen was cut open," murmured Holmes. Lestrade shrugged. "Second time, the knife in the heart is also a butcher's knife." "The cut off the left nipple is very skillful, Lestrade," I said, trembling. "The Ripper's approach was different, probably depending on how much time he had to commit. In some cases - only a few - he was interfered with while committing crimes." "I have to correct my superficial thinking at first." Holmes was evidently speaking more to himself. "A madman, yes. But he is a clever madman. A genius, perhaps." "And you admit, Mr. Holmes, that Scotland Yard is not fighting an ignorant murderer?" "Quite sure, Lestrade. I'll be happy to do my little bit." This sentence made Lestrade's eyes widen.It was absolutely impossible for Holmes to demean his talent before.Mr. Inspector tried to find a suitable rebuttal, but he was obviously too surprised to speak. He recovered quickly, though, and said in his standard complaining tone, "If you're lucky enough to catch this devil--" "I will take no credit, Lestrade," said Holmes. "I assure you that the credit belongs to Scotland Yard." He paused, then added disappointedly, "if there is any credit at all." He turned to Dr. Murray. "Will you allow us to inspect your hotel, Doctor?" Murray bowed. "I would like to, Holmes." At that moment, a door opened, and a bleak silhouette came into view.There is much to sympathize with in this poor man, but the first thing we notice is the utter dullness in his eyes.There is no expression, and the slack mouth is half open. Obviously, this is a mentally retarded child.The man moved forward and onto the platform.He shot Dr. Murray a questioning glance, and Murray smiled back like a child. "Ah, Pierre. You can cover the body." A hint of eagerness flashed across the empty face.I can't help but imagine a loyal pet receiving sporadic compliments from a benevolent owner.Dr. Murray gestured and we stepped off the platform. "I'm going back," said Lestrade, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell of carbonated water. "If you have any news, Mr. Holmes," he said politely, "just let me know." "Thank you, Lestrade," said Holmes with equal humility.It was the first time, I must add, that I had never seen such a peace between the two detectives, who had evidently decided to suspend fighting until the delicate matter had been settled. As we came out of the morgue, I looked back and saw Pierre stroking the sheet over Anne Chapman's body.I noticed that Holmes was also looking in his direction, and there was a gleam in his gray eyes.