I looked at the stage Englishman. He looked at me.
"Sir Guy Hollis?" I asked.
"Indeed. Have I the pleasure of addressing John Carmody, the psychiatrist?"
I nodded. My eyes swept over the figure of my distinguished visitor. Tall, lean, sandy-haired — with the traditional tufted mustache. And the tweeds. I suspected a monocle concealed in a vest pocket, and wondered if he'd left his umbrella in the outer office.
But more than that, I wondered what the devil had impelled Sir Guy Hollis of the British Embassy to seek out a total stranger here in Chicago.
Sir Guy didn't help matters any as he sat down. He cleared his throat, glanced around nervously, tapped his pipe against the side of the desk. Then he opened his mouth.
"Mr. Carmody," he said, "have you ever heard of — Jack the Ripper?"
"The murderer?" I asked.
"Exactly. The greatest monster of them all. Worse than Springheel Jack or Crippen. Jack the Ripper. Red Jack."
"I've heard of him," I said.
"Do you know his history?"
"I don't think we'll get any place swapping old wives' tales about famous crimes of history."
He took a deep breath.
"This is no old wives' tale. It's a matter of life or death."
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