She glanced over his shoulder at the steamer trunk resting amid a welter of clothing and scattered objects on the floor near the closet door.
“He told me he was leaving tonight, leaving the country for good, but he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. And that’s what he did — he put his arms around me and said goodbye. I tried to break free but he grabbed me by the throat and pressed the cloth against my face — chloroformed, of course, I recognized the odor. I remember hitting out at him, and then—”
She shuddered. “God knows what he meant to do if you hadn’t arrived to interrupt him. He must have planned to get rid of me before he left, in case I suspected him. But it’s not just suspicion now. We can go to the police with proof.”
“What proof?”
Eva sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as she gestured toward the closet door.
“Look in there.”
Mark rose, moving to the closet, then turned as Eva followed. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine now.” She smiled with wan reassurance. “When I came in he was standing here and the door to the closet was open. Before he closed it I caught a glimpse of what was inside.”
As she spoke, Eva pulled the door back to reveal the closet’s contents — the woman’s skirt, the blouse, the jacket hanging on a rack and the bonnet dangling from a hook.
“He must have brought these along with him when he went to Miller’s Court. After the murder he burned his clothing in the grate and put them on. That’s why those witnesses thought they saw Kelly alive the next morning — they saw him, when he left.”
Mark spoke quickly. “What about his mustache?” He frowned. “Surely they should have recognized him for a man.”
Eva was frowning too. “I wondered about that. Do you suppose he was too far away, and never faced them?” She brightened. “But there’s other evidence. Didn’t you notice the desk when you came in?”
She moved across the room with Mark beside her. He stared at the desktop, stared at the pen, the pile of notepaper, and the bottle of ink.
Red ink.
Red for danger. Red for the letters the Ripper wrote. Mark reached down to the drawer beneath the wooden surface of the desk, yanking it open.
He saw the neatly-folded stack of clippings at the left, a score of news stories dealing with the crimes. On the right were a half-dozen unfinished epistles inscribed in red ink. The handwriting was familiar, and so was the salutation which headed each sheet.
“Dear Boss—”
Mark started to scoop them up, then halted as something slipped from concealment between the scribbled pages and clanked against the bottom of the drawer.
He fished it out and held it up against the light from the oil lamp. Stamped into the worn metal on the rounded head was the number — thirteen. Kelly’s missing key.
The lampflame flickered in the chill draft from the open window. But the chill Mark felt came from within.
He moved to the open trunk on the floor, Eva beside him as he stooped and riffled through its contents. Men’s shirts, undergarments, a heavy woolen suit, a pair of boots, a dark brown leather bag—
Mark lifted the bag, placed it on the edge of the bed, opened it. He pulled out the oblong metal case and raised the lid.
Eva’s eyes widened in the reflection of the lamplight — the lamplight that shone on the gleaming array of knives and scalpels.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Maybe we ought not to disturb anything else until the police get here. We’d better notify them now.”
“In a moment.” Mark could feel the chill grow stronger. “I’ve got to make sure.” He turned back to the trunk.
“But what else is there—?”
Eva’s voice trailed off as Mark shifted a pile of garments and uncovered the black cloth sack. Loosening the drawstring, he pulled the cloth down and revealed a sealed glass jar, half filled with a colorless transparent liquid.
Floating in the fluid was a formless blob — or was it formless? At first glance it resembled a monstrous pink and white worm, coiled and bobbing against the lid. But this worm had stumplike arms, and a rounded, oversized head with a puckered mouth and slits for eyes.
It was a human fetus.
“Horrible!” Eva stood beside him, her face livid in the lamp glow. “To think he’d preserve something like that! The poor woman—”
“Who?”
“Mary Jane Kelly.” She nodded. “Don’t you see? The key, the women’s clothing, the notes in the Ripper’s handwriting — everything adds up.”
“Almost everything.” Mark stared at the fetus and now the numb chill rose; the chill of recognition, of realization. His gaze shifted to the girl beside him. “The information about the missing fetus was never published. Who told you Kelly was pregnant?”
Eva shrugged. “It must have been you.”
He shook his head. “Not I. Nobody told you. You know because you saw it.”
“Mark!” She faced him, eyes imploring.
But now the chill within him invaded his voice. “The burned clothing in Kelly’s grate belonged to a woman, not a man. It’s no use, Eva. I knew from the moment you told me about the chloroform. There’s no cloth, no odor on your breath.”
“What are you saying?”
“What I must tell the police. That you and Pedachenko never quarreled. You were both in this all along. You meant to leave together tonight, but decided to dispose of me first.”
“Mark—”
“It was all going to be so easy, wasn’t it? You hid here in the room while Pedachenko waited for me in the hall with his knife. When the plan went wrong, you faked unconsciousness and tried to fix the blame for the murders on him alone.”
“But that’s absurd—” Eva’s voice broke, her mouth quivering.
Mark turned, unable to endure her anguish. “How did Pedachenko know you were meeting me tonight? Only because you told him. You arranged to have his note delivered, left it for me to find, luring me here—”
He caught the gleam out of the corner of his eye, caught it and fell back as she thrust her hand into the instrument case on the bed and gripped the shaft of the scalpel.
It rose, glittering in the lamplight, then plunged down towards his chest.
He thrust her away, but her eyes were glittering too, and a mewing sound rose in her throat as the scalpel stabbed at his jugular.
Mark twisted aside as the blade missed its mark, biting into his left shoulder, shearing through cloth, finding flesh, bathing his arm with warm, flowing wetness.
The scalpel tore free and Eva raised it again. But was it Eva?
The pain lancing his shoulder was so intense that for a moment his vision faltered. Then it cleared and he stared at a stranger. A stranger with a white, contorted face framed by a tortured tangle of reddish curls; a stranger whose eyes bulged and blazed at the sight of the bright, bubbling blood.
She lunged forward, the scalpel ripping at his throat.
Mark’s right arm rose, his hand clutching at the wrist behind the swooping blade. His fingers closed, twisting tightly with all his strength. Something snapped, and as the scalpel dropped to the floor the stranger stumbled back. The night table toppled sideways, the lamp atop it shattering as it fell. Oil gushed into the carpet, licked by a tiny tongue of flame.
The stranger cried out, lurching against the window ledge on the far wall. Mark advanced and she raked at him with her left hand, wild-eyed, shrieking. Suddenly aware of her intent, he gripped both heaving shoulders to pull her back, but sharp nails shredded his cheek and she wrenched free.
He reached out again, hands grasping empty air as she turned and hurled herself forward. For an instant her blurred body seemed to hang suspended in space beyond the open window, then dropped into darkness. There was a single scream, then silence.