La Vita Nuova

In the book of my memory, after the first pages, which are almost blank, there is a section headed 'incipit vita nova'.  'Here begins the period of my boyhood.'

Dante Alighieri, La Vita Nuova.

*******************************


'Inspector Hutchinson!  Inspector Hutchinson, sir?'

'Yes, Constable Jennings?' asked Hutchinson calmly.

'Chief Inspector Swanson wants to speak with you, sir.  I think they found another one, sir.'

'Another what, Constable?'

'Oh, sir.  Another body, sir.  It's horrible, sir.  It is.'

'Yes, Constable.  It is quite horrible, indeed, I'm sure.  Is the Chief in his office?'

'Sorry, sir.  He is in his office, right enough.'

'Thank you, Constable.'

Hutchinson made his way through the halls of Scotland Yard.  He'd be very pleased and happy when they moved to new offices, he thought, if that ever happened.  The Metropolitan Police had outgrown this venerable building long ago, but the wheels of bureaucracy ground slowly, if inexorably, toward a dull future.

Chief Inspector Swanson was standing in the doorway of his office, looking down the hall impatiently.  As soon as he spotted Hutchinson, he waved to him to hurry.  Hutchinson ignored the request for urgency.

'Am I in a race with someone, Swanson?' he asked.

Swanson sighed.  'Of course not, Hutchinson.  All of London is going to be in an uproar soon enough.  I'm glad you're here so early, and so calmly.'

'Is there some reason I shouldn't be calm?'

'Not you, no.  From all I've heard, seasoned Constables who have seen more than their share of dead bodies have been sickened at the sight of our newest one.  But it's true enough, that you have an iron stomach.  I've seen that for myself.'

Chief Inspector Swanson smiled at Hutchinson approvingly.  How and why such an intelligent, educated and independently wealthy man had just happened to drop into his lap, was still a mystery to him.  But he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hutchinson was going to be a brilliant detective, when he had some experience with the human race under his belt. That was his sole drawback as a police officer, and a minor one.  Compared with the usual run of officers, Hutchinson was a gem, and one that Swanson wasn't about to let slip through his fingers without a struggle.

'I have a feeling, Hutchinson,' he said.

'A feeling, sir?' asked Hutchinson, curiously.

Swanson smiled.  'Yes, a feeling.  It's a trait all good detectives should develop, and I suggest that you do so.  This latest murder is the work of a lunatic.  And that lunatic is walking around London at this very moment, certain that he'll never be caught.  And he may be right, Hutchinson.  It's easy enough to find the murderer, when the motive for the murder is clear.  An unfaithful wife is found murdered.  Who killed her, Hutchinson?'

'The most likely suspect is her husband, Swanson. Perhaps her lover, because she refused to leave her husband, and run away with him.'

'Thank you, Inspector.  Or if a rich man is found murdered, he may have been killed by his heir, for the inheritance.  But who killed these women, Inspector?'

'A lunatic, Swanson.'

'Yes.  A lunatic, to be sure.  Something London has no perceptible lack of.  I can predict the future. Did you know that?'

'I did not, sir. What do you use, tea leaves?'

'I don't need tea leaves to see our future, Hutchinson.  We aren't going to find this particular lunatic quickly.  And the press is going to pillory us.  Are you prepared to be pilloried?'

'I've never been pilloried, Swanson.   I believe in enjoying each and every new experience as it happens along.'

'Then I wish you joy.  Why don't you go see the body?  That should be a new experience in itself.'

 
**********************


'I must warn you, Inspector.  This is not a pretty sight.'

'Indeed, Doctor Phillips?  I've already been warned, thank you. Once was enough.'

'If you say so, Inspector.'

The doctor lifted the cover from the corpse of Annie Chapman.  

'There are many organs missing, Doctor.  Even I can see that, and I'm not a doctor.'

'You are quite correct, Inspector.  Whoever killed this poor unfortunate woman, removed her uterus and her vagina.  I could find not a trace of them at the site of her murder.'

'So the killer took them away with him?  Why, Doctor?  Of what use would they be to him?  Unless they are some sort of trophy?  The way fox hunters remove the tail of the fox?'

Doctor Phillips shuddered.  He wasn't sure what upset him the more.  The horrible actions of the miscreant who haunted London, or the calm way in which this police officer discussed the miscreant's current depravities?

'I'm not unsympathetic to the sufferings of this woman, Doctor,' Hutchinson assured him, as though sensing his distress.  'But as my superior officer and I were saying only this morning, one of the most important steps in solving a murder, is understanding the motives of the murderer.'

'Who can understand these motives, Inspector?' the Doctor cried, indicating the mutilated body before them.  'And who would wish to?  It is the work of a madman.'

'Yes, it is.  But a madman who acts for reasons which seem sane enough to him.  Look at the body, Doctor.  Now, if someone were to ask you what sort of man did this, and why, what is the first thought you would have?'

The doctor stared at Hutchinson for a moment, then looked down at the body.

'The man hates women,' he said at last.

'Is that all?'

'And he has some skill with a knife.  I'm a skilled surgeon, and this surgery would have taken me an hour to perform, under the best conditions.  However did he do it, in a dark, stinking alley in the middle of the night?'

'However did he do it?' Hutchinson repeated, slowly.  He looked up from the woman's mutilated body to the doctor's white face.  'Long practice, perhaps?'

'You think... you think he might be a physician?' Doctor Phillips asked.

'A physician?  Maybe.  A butcher? Or just a dedicated amateur.  But clearly the man didn't pick up a knife yesterday.  There is some skill here, as well as enthusiasm, wouldn't you say?'

The doctor shuddered again.  'Yes, Inspector.  Some skill, I daresay.  Used for evil purposes.'

Hutchinson looked back down at the body, and nodded.  'When first you saw the body, was it arranged more or less this way?'

The doctor closed his eyes.  'No, Inspector.  The arrangement of the body was far more obscene than what you see before you.'

'Describe it to me -- no, wait.  Not here.  Let us go to the site where the murder occurred.  Show me exactly where you found the body, and how it appeared.'

'How will that help you, Inspector?'

'I don't know.  I don't know what will help me.  But you have knowledge that I do not.  Share it with me, please.'

They made their way from the mortuary to Hanbury Street, Spitalfields, in Hutchinson's private chaise.  Or rather, almost all the way there.  

'My God!' said Hutchinson, as they got within several blocks of the area.

'Blimey!' his driver agreed.  'I don't think I can take you right through there, Guv'nor.'

'Thank you, Higgins,' said Hutchinson.  'Let us out here.  Then drive back to safer climes.  This lot looks as if they might butcher any innocent horse that got in their way.'

'Right 'nuff, Guv'nor,' said Higgins, with a grin.  Doctor Phillips climbed down out of the chaise after Hutchinson, and Higgins drove off.

'You often use your own carriage?' the doctor ventured to ask.

'Why not?' asked Hutchinson.  'That is certainly better than waiting around for a cab, don't you find?'

The crowd around 29 Hanbury Street must have numbered in the thousands. There were about a dozen bobbies holding them back, as well as they could.  Hutchinson strolled up through them, and Doctor Phillips followed.  Hutchinson pushed his way past the gawking men, women and children, intent on reaching the spot where the body of Annie Chapman had been found.

'I daresay this lot has trampled over any evidence that might have remained,' he observed to the doctor.

'What were you hoping to find?' Phillips asked.

'I don't know, doctor.  But my hope, such as it was, has died a pitiful death.  At least you can show me exactly where you found her, which will be better than nothing.'

'Hey, there. You!  Quit shoving,' a bobbie shouted.  'All you lot, move back.'  

The bobbie grabbed Hutchinson's arm, as if to push him back as well. Hutchinson looked down at the hand, then up at the hand's owner.

'Take your hand off my arm,' he said, softly.  

The bobbie turned white.  He took a step back.  'Oh!  Inspector.  I didn't see who you was, rightly.'

'Thank you, so much,' said Hutchinson.  'Can't you move this crowd back?  I want to see the place where the murder occurred, before the building is torn down and a new road put through.'

'Of course, Guv'nor. Wicks!  Help me move some of this lot out of the way.  You there! Let the Inspector through.'

'Inspector?' shouted one of the men in the crowd.  'You from Scotland Yard?'

'Yes, I am,' said Hutchinson.

'Why aren't you catchin' this brute?' the man asked.

'We are endeavouring to do so, I assure you,' said Hutchinson.

'Endeav'ring?' asked a woman.  She was old, and stooped, but her eyes were bright.  'What good's endeav'ring?'

'Not much good at all,' said Hutchinson with a smile. 'But it's the best we have. Now, Doctor,' Hutchinson went on.  'Show me where the body was found.'

Doctor Phillips led the way.  'She lay here,' he said.  'Her hands were raised, as if to defend herself.  To no avail.'

'She lay face up?'

'Yes.  And her throat was cut.'

'So, it was likely she was quite dead, before the other mutilations were performed.'

'Mercifully, yes.'

'Go on, Doctor,' said Hutchinson, quietly.  

The doctor obliged.

*************************

'I told you the press would pillory us,' said Chief Inspector Swanson. He tossed a newspaper down on Inspector Hutchinson's desk, open to the editorial page.  At the top of the page was a cartoon.  It showed a bobbie, with a blindfold over his eyes, being turned about in circles by a group of brutish men.

'Well, I sometimes feel just like that, myself,' was Hutchinson's comment.

'Do you think we're going nowhere, Hutchinson?'  Swanson sat down in the visitor's chair, and lit up a cigar.

'Not nowhere, no,' said Hutchinson. 'But I cannot say for certain where it is we're going.  We know some important facts about the murderer. He must live in the area of Whitechapel, and Spitalfields.  Either that, or he knows the area well.  Also, he arouses no suspicion in the hearts and minds of the inhabitants.  The murders were carried out within a few yards of other people. Then, he walked away, and attracted no notice. On the other hand, the streets of Whitechapel are a warren.  The people who live there never lock their doors. Anyone could walk in the front door of any house, and then out the back, thus appearing in another street altogether.  How can you trace someone's steps, in a place like that?'

'So perhaps one could say, that we're not going nowhere, exactly.  We're being led around by the nose, to an unknown destination?'

'If you like, sir.'

'I don't like, Hutchinson.'

'No, sir.  Neither do I, I must admit.'

'Might I ask you a question, Inspector?'

'Of course, sir.'

'Why is it that you do this work?  It's not out of necessity, surely.'

'Interest, Chief Inspector Swanson.  I want to learn more about the human race, since I belong to it.'

'I'm gratified to hear that, Hutchinson.  Are you going to write a book, when you're finished with this case?  Illuminate the mysteries of human nature for us poor ordinary mortals?'

'Do you believe yourself to be poor and ordinary, sir?' asked Hutchinson with a smile.

'Compared to you, I am,' said Swanson.

Hutchinson's face darkened, as Swanson had seen it do once or twice before.

'That's not true, Swanson.  You are the one who is wealthy compared to me.  You have a loving family, and many friends.  Much in your life to be happy with.  What is my monetary wealth, compared to that?'

'You'd give up your riches for love, would you old chap?'

'I would,' said Hutchinson.

'And what sort of fortunate lady would tempt you to such a renunciation?'

Inspector Hutchinson stared off into space and time.  'I'm not sure,' he said.  'Sometimes, I can almost picture her.  Tall, and regal, and fair. Like a goddess, come down to earth.  But then, a voice inside me says that this is not for me.  That I need a warmer, more accessible lover.'

Swanson laughed.  'That I will agree with,' he said.  'If you married someone so cool as yourself, the marriage would never be consummated. Then where would you be?'

'Sir?' asked Hutchinson, haughtily.  'I hardly think that is any of your affair.'

'Just what I was talking about, my dear chap.  Now, let us return to the matter at hand.   These rumours that it's the Jews who are doing the killings trouble me, and they trouble Sir Charles even more.  We don't want a pogrom, here in London, Hutchinson.  Not on our watch.'

'No, sir.  But looking around for a scapegoat is part of human nature. One of the less attractive parts, but there, nevertheless. And once people are determined to find a scapegoat, a scapegoat they will find.'

'Thank you for that gem of wisdom, Inspector.  Then we must find the real culprit, before the scapegoat hunters begin, mustn't we?  As you were, Inspector.'

Swanson strolled off, chomping on his cigar.


*****************

It was midnight.  Hutchinson had been working since six o'clock of the morning.   Now, he was walking his rounds, in Whitechapel and Spitalfields, checking that every street corner and alley was properly patrolled.

Nothing angered him more, than the charge that the police were not trying to catch the murderer.  Hundreds of police officers were out in the streets of London, most of them concentrated in the rabbit warren that was Whitechapel.  All of them with their eyes peeled, watching for anything suspicious.  All leaves had been cancelled.  Even Inspectors like himself were doing some patrol duty.

It was midnight, and so the bobbies on watch would be changing the guard, after their twelve hour shifts.  The murderer struck in the early hours of the morning, and they needed fresh eyes and ears, to keep a lookout for him.

'Jenkins!  Where is your relief?'

'Ah!  Inspector Hutchinson, sir.  He should be along shortly sir, never fear.  Roberts is reliable.'

'That's good, Jenkins.  I like reliable men.  How was your watch?'

'Quiet enough, sir. Though you can feel the tension.  He hasn't killed no one for a fortnight and more, sir.  Some of us thinks he's dead, or fled the country, or gotten so scared he won't kill again.'

'Do you agree, Jenkins?'

'No, sir, though I'm sad to say it.  He's just being wary, sir. Waiting for us to let our guard down.'

'You're right, Jenkins.  Don't let your guard down.  Pass that on to Roberts for me, will you?'

'Will do, sir.  You off home, sir?'

'Not yet.  I'm patrolling until dawn.  I think he's going to strike again soon, and I want to be here when that happens.  Before the spectators and the press trample all over the murder site.'

'Yes, sir.  They do make a mess, right enough.  Here's Roberts now. I'll just give him my report, and go home.'

Hutchinson watched while the two bobbies exchanged greetings, and Jenkins gave Roberts his report on recent activities in the area.  He watched while Roberts took his post, truncheon firmly in hand.  Then, Hutchinson strolled on.

Some of his acquaintance expressed surprise and horror that he actually walked the streets of Whitechapel alone.  Alone, but not unarmed, he pointed out.  Though ordinary bobbies did not carry firearms, Inspectors could and did.  In his pocket resided a loaded pistol.  And in his hand, he carried what appeared to be an ordinary walking stick.  It was solid iron, painted to look like wood.  It could break the arm of any man who accosted him with violent intent.  Hutchinson himself was over six feet tall, and a skilled pugilist.  Not once in his year as a Scotland Yard detective had anyone accosted him with violent intent.  Hutchinson was rather disappointed in that fact, as he'd been looking forward to a good fight in earnest.

Down the street, he noticed a lady he knew.  'Mary!' he called.  'It's after midnight.  You should be at home.'

'Home, sir,' she said.  'You know I have no home.'

'Well, indoors at least.  There's a man about, killing women like you. You've heard of that, surely, for I told you so myself.'

'And what of it, sir?  I'm not afraid of him.  If I die by his hand, or the bridge, what is that to me?'

'Ah, no. Don't say that, Mary.  Here, take this.  Get yourself a room for the night.  He strikes out of doors, you know?'

Hutchinson pressed a coin into her hand, enough money for her to buy a room and a good meal.

'Thank you , sir,' she said, curtseying, and smiling up at him.

For a moment, he had a vision of what she must have been like as a girl. How did people's lives go so wrong?  He watched sadly, as she made her way down the street, he hoped to a safe place, and a good night's sleep.

Someone bumped into him from behind, and he realized that he had actually been taken by surprise.  It was a group of young men, strolling home from a night out at an inn, so it seemed.  They laughed, and said something in a language Hutchinson didn't understand.  They looked Jewish, so he supposed the language could be Hebrew.

'Pardonnez moi,' said one of them.

'Certainment,' said Hutchinson.  He turned to the speaker.  A pair of laughing blue eyes looked up at him.

'Pardon me, I meant to say,' the man added.  'I am still learning English.  It is difficult.'

'Yes,' Hutchinson managed to say, though he had no idea what it was he assented to.  The young  man nodded, and moved on, joining his friends on their way home.

Home, he thought.  He imagined the places those men called home. Crowded, dirty.  Six or seven people to a room. Crawling with lice and rats.  Filled with the smells of chamber pots that were only emptied once a day.  To say nothing of the smells of unwashed bodies.  And yet, there was a welcome there.  Someone cared whether they lived or died. Someone depended on them.  Loved them, perhaps?

Someone surely loved the owner of those blue eyes.  How could they not?



 **********************

'Thank you, Jeffreys,' said Hutchinson, as his butler took his coat. 'You needn't have stayed up all night.'

'It was no hardship, Mr Hutchinson,' Jeffreys replied.  'I gather that nothing untoward happened this past night?'

'Nothing less toward than usual.  Unless the murderer struck and his handiwork hasn't been discovered yet.'

'Let us hope that such is not the case, sir.  Would you like something to eat, sir?  Or have you already eaten?'

'I'd appreciate that, Jeffreys.  If it's no trouble.'

'No trouble at all sir.  Then, would you like to bathe?  And are you going to try to get some sleep, sir?'

'Enough, Jeffreys.  You are not my mother.'

'No, sir.  Only your butler.  I do, however, reside under the same roof with you.'

'When that becomes unbearable, Jeffreys, you can always go back to working for my father.'

'Sir!' the butler replied.  'I do not see what I have done to deserve such insults.'

Jeffreys stalked off, to fetch Hutchinson's meal.  Doubtless it would be far too elaborate, as a form of protest against Hutchinson's mistreatment.

Hutchinson strolled into his library.  This was his haven, surrounded by the art and the poetry that sustained him.  It had not always been so. His father had raised him to despise all that was not logical and utilitarian.  All that had no practical use. Money was useful, and so money was their household god.  Let all bow down before it.  Art and poetry were acceptable, so far as they supported a rational, moral existence.  If you were rational and moral, you would be rewarded in this life by money and power, and in the next life, by sitting at the right hand of God, and watching sinners burn in Hell beneath you.

Hutchinson looked into the fire that burned slowly on his hearth.  A quiet fire. No passionate bursts of flame.  Throw something on it, like brandy, or oil, or paper, and it would rise up, and engulf the house in a tremendous conflagration.

Four years ago, he had been so engulfed, he thought.  He couldn't remember what had touched off the explosion.   His life, which hitherto had been ruled by logic, fell apart.  Nothing made sense.  He began hearing voices, and was terrified of losing his mind.  His mind was all he had.

He ran, to the continent. He found a lonely cottage on an island in the Mediterranean, and spent months there, arguing with the voices.  The voices won.  It was no longer his mind which ruled his existence.  It was his soul.

He returned to civilization, determined to change his life.  He thought briefly of giving all his money to the poor, but knew his father would see that as a sign of insanity, and have him locked up in Bedlam within the week.  No.  And money was power, sure enough.  It gave him the power to do what he wanted, when he wanted.  They may have thought he was insane when he showed up at the Surete, asking to work as a detective in exchange for training, but no one said so.  The generous donation to the Widows and Orphans fund helped.

'Sir?  Here's your dinner.  And only ten hours late.'

'Thank you, Jeffreys.  Get some sleep yourself, why don't you?'

'I will, sir.'  Jeffreys left the room, leaving the implication hanging in the air.  Hutchinson should get some sleep himself.

But how could he sleep?  His life had undergone yet another upheaval. Where would this one lead him?  How could he order his existence, when neither his mind nor his soul were in charge?
Hutchinson looked around his library, filled with so much wisdom collected from the ages.  Had any of the authors of these great volumes solved the simple mystery of love?  Did any of them know what to do with a love that would not be welcomed by its object?  Not only not welcomed, he thought, but abhorred.  He could never speak of his love, to anyone at all.  Who would understand?  Well, some of these dead poets, perhaps. Men in the past loved other men.  Jonathan loved David, with a love that surpassed that of the love of women.

Hutchinson ran his hand along a line of books, enjoying the sensual feel of the leather spines.  His fingers touched one which sent a thrill throughout his entire being.  He checked the title.  La Vita Nuova.  The New Life.   Dante had suffered such a change of life, when first he saw Beatrice in the streets of Florence.  He pulled out the slender volume, and his eyes found the words they sought.

'... the vital spirit, which dwells in the inmost depths of the heart, began to tremble so violently that I felt the vibration alarmingly in all my pulses, even the weakest of them.  As it trembled, it uttered these words:  Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. 'Behold a god more powerful than I who comes to rule over me'.... From then on indeed Love ruled over my soul....'

The hearth fire blazed up briefly, fed by some mysterious hand.



**********************


Jeffreys entered Hutchinson's room, quietly.  When he saw his master was being shaved, he waited politely until the barber put away his implements.

'Yes, Jeffreys?' said Hutchinson at last.  'What is this news so grave you must perforce wait until there are no sharp instruments at hand with which I could cut my throat?'

'Your father is here to see you, sir.'

'Ah!  I surmised that by the expression of doom and gloom upon your visage.'

'You could slip out the back way, sir, while I keep him occupied in the breakfast room.'

'Put him in the breakfast room by all means, Jeffreys.  Tell him I'll join him as soon as I've finished dressing.  My jacket please, Jacques.  And wipe that disapproving look from your face, or I'll send you back where you came from.'

'Monsieur!' said Jacques.  He helped Hutchinson into his disreputable jacket, and attempted to adjust the limp lapels to his satisfaction.  From the look on his face, he failed.

Well, thought Hutchinson.  In one day, I have offended my butler, and my valet.  Add my barber to that list, since I wouldn't let him curl my hair.  Now, let's deal with my father.  

His father was waiting impatiently in Hutchinson's breakfast room.  

'Good morning, Father,' said Hutchinson.  'I haven't breakfasted yet.  Why don't you help yourself to something?  It must be lunch time, for you.'

'It is.  And you're having breakfast.  I called earlier, and your butler wouldn't wake you.  He said you'd been out all night.'

'Out on the tiles, yes.  The brothels of Whitechapel are cheerful places these days.'

'How dare you speak to me of such things.  I never thought I'd live to see the day....'

'But you have.'

'Don't interrupt me.  I never thought I'd live to see the day when a son of mine wasted his time in such a fashion.  You shame me before my friends. Parading about London as a low class Constable.'

'Detective Inspector Hutchinson, of the Criminal Investigation Department, the Metropolitan Police.  Better known as Scotland Yard.   I'm proud of that title.  Don't forget to use it again.'

'How dare you!'

'You said that before, Father.  You are beginning to repeat yourself already, and it's only noon.'

The Elder Hutchinson looked as if he were about to lose the temper he prided himself on never losing.  With a great effort, he gathered all his resources, and kept his famous cool exterior.  

'One day,' he announced.  'You will regret your actions.  You will return to me to beg my forgiveness.  Don't wait too long, or I might not grant it. I might leave you to your terrible fate.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!  Beware the Jubjub bird and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!'

'I beg your pardon?' asked his father.

'Granted!' said Hutchinson.  'Have some tea?'


***********************


Chief Inspector Swanson was pacing up and down in Hutchinson's office.  

'Are you in a bad mood too, sir?' Hutchinson asked.

Swanson looked grim.  'Yes,' he said.  'And with reason.'

'I'm sorry I'm late today, Swanson.  I decided to get some sleep.  My butler was threatening to give me his notice if I didn't.'

Swanson actually laughed.  'Good for your butler,' he said. 'I'm gratified to learn you follow his orders better than you do mine.  You look almost human this afternoon.  It's not you I'm upset with, Hutchinson.  Read this! It's a copy of a letter sent to the Central News Agency the other day.  They just passed it on to the Chief Constable today.  The bloody idiots!'

Hutchinson looked down at the letter.  It was dated 25 Sept. 1888.  Four days ago, he thought.  

"Dear Boss," he read out loud.  "I keep hearing the police have caught me, but they won't fix me just yet.  I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track."

'Yes, yes, yes.  I've read the damned thing several times.  Sorry, Hutchinson.  Just skip to the bottom, if you please.'

'Sorry, sir.  "My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance good luck.  Yours truly, Jack the Ripper."  Jack the Ripper?  Is that what he calls himself?'

'Who knows?  It could be genuine, I suppose.  Stranger things have happened.  I think it's a fake.  Some bloody journalist wanting to stir things up even more.  I'd love to get my hands on the author, though.  Whoever he is.   Jack the Ripper.  Can't you see the headlines when this goes public?'

'It will have to be released to the public, sir.  And by us.  If someone else makes it public, and it looks like we're withholding information....'

'I know, Hutchinson.  But -- Jack the Ripper!  I can foresee that name haunting me for years to come.'



********************


'I need hardly point out that we have no idea who wrote this letter.  The official police response is that we find the letter interesting, and wish to speak to the author.  The murderer has not struck for three weeks now, but that mercy may soon come to an end.  Keep your eyes and your ears open.  Pay no attention to the accusations of the press, that we have arrested no one for the murders.  We have indeed arrested dozens of people.'  Hutchinson smiled at the wry laughter of his men.  'What we can be blamed for, is being unable to find evidence to make an arrest stick.  On the other hand, we should be lauded for not blaming the innocent.  We want to find the real perpetrator of these crimes, and send him to an insane asylum for life.  Or the gallows, whichever is appropriate.  Gentlemen,  London depends on you.  Don't let her down.'

'No, sir.  We won't,' said Sergeant Wilkes.

'Good man,' said Hutchinson.  His men filed out, looking a little surprised at Hutchinson's unusual display of emotion.  

'You're with me, Sergeant Wilkes,' said Hutchinson, to the Sergeant's further surprise.  Hutchinson always worked alone.  

'I'll patrol with you for a few hours,' Hutchinson told him, as they made their way from Scotland Yard.  'Then, I'm taking the evening off.  I promised my father I'd attend some boring party in Belgravia. I'd rather not, but if I do as he wants once in a while, he leaves me alone the rest of the time.'

Sergeant Wilkes seemed not to know whether to be gratified or terrified at Hutchinson's sudden confidences and offer of companionship.  This amused Hutchinson, so he remained in a chatty mood as they strolled through Whitechapel.  He compared the Debutantes of High Society displaying themselves at the Marriage Mart, to the prostitutes walking the streets. Wilkes was shocked, so Hutchinson continued in that vein for some time.  

'You see Pretty Polly there, Wilkes?  At least she's honest about her trade.  She's selling herself. She sells herself to many men, but doesn't promise them eternal devotion.  What about the so-called ladies, who sell themselves to the highest bidder, all the time pretending to love them, when what they love is money?'

'Do you think all women are liars, sir?' Wilkes ventured to ask, at last.

'Not born liars, most of them. And it is not only women who are liars. Society makes liars of us all.  It expects us to feel what we don't feel, and not to feel what we do feel. We have to hide our true selves.  You see, some of those women on the Marriage Mart would rather not marry. Certainly many of them would prefer to marry where they please, where they love. But they must make a good marriage, meaning one of which society approves.'

'People do marry for love, sir.  What about your parents?'

Hutchinson was silent for a moment.  He glanced over at Wilkes, who turned pale suddenly, as if he feared he had gone too far.  

'I think my mother loved my father,' said Hutchinson at last.  'At least I hope so.'  

Hutchinson looked around the streets of Whitechapel, the crowded streets that now held the secret of his own heart and soul.  The streets where Love had assumed mastery over his very being.  Would the one who ruled his heart appear?  What could Hutchinson do about it if he did?

A man could not court another man, not in the way he courted a woman.  And to tell the truth, Hutchinson had no idea how to court anyone.  He had never been taught the niceties of romance,  his education having been in logic, finance, politics. Never in love, for love was a fantasy, and fantasy was verboten.

Then, there had been that other sort of education, that took place in the back alleys of any number of cities.  Athens.  Rome. Berlin.  Paris.  London.  All the same education, despite the differences in language.  Language was irrelevant. Gesture was enough.  And none of those gestures had anything to do with romance.  They had to do with taking, using another human body for pleasure, for release.  And the pleasure was soon over.

Love and romance meant giving, not taking, and Hutchinson had believed himself incapable of giving.  He had indeed believed himself incapable of loving, until last night.  Now, he knew he could love, and did love.  There were only two things he could give to his love, he thought.  His heart, and his soul. That meant his life must change once again.  He could never again prowl the back alleys, where men engaged in acts of sexual congress with each other.  And he must not seek out the one he loved, in hopes of finding friendship, for in that way lay grave danger.  

Several hours later, he came to the end of his patrol.

'Looks like a thick fog rolling in,' he remarked to Wilkes.

'Aye, sir.  Soon, we won't be able to see our hands in front of our faces.'

'That will be pleasant, sure enough.  If anything happens, Wilkes, send for me.  I'm giving you the address of the party I'll be at all evening.  Send a runner to call me.  I left the address and telephone number at the Yard as well.  It would be a mercy on your part, to rescue me from that pack of carnivores, trust me.'

'Aye, sir,' said Sergeant Wilkes with a laugh.  'At least you'll be getting a free meal out of it.'

Hutchinson snorted.  'All of it topped with cream sauces,' he said with disgust, and stomped off, leaving a bewildered Sergeant behind.

*******************************

'Oh, Mister Hutchinson,' a young lady cooed.  'They tell me you are a detective, and that you're hunting this terrible, terrible man.  Is that true?'

'I'm a detective inspector with Scotland Yard.  The Criminal Investigation Department.'

Hutchinson had once harboured hopes that such declarations would result in him being cut dead by all polite society, thus rendering his father's plans for his future useless.  Such hopes had been dashed, however. Hutchinson's vast personal wealth, and connections to the aristocracy through his mother, seemed to protect him from the worst prejudice. Also, there was the recent popularity of detective fiction, which made his mad career seem romantic to some women.

Take Estella Lacey, for example.  And he wished someone would. Hutchinson was certain she had been eyeing the front of his trousers all through the evening, despite looking as innocent as the Virgin Mary.  If she'd been Pretty Polly, or one of his male amours, they'd have been making the beast with the double back by now.  He smiled to himself at the thought.  Estella caught his eye, and looked back down at his crotch.  He let his legs fall further apart, just to tease her.

'Well, I think you're very brave,' she gasped.  'The monster has a big weapon, I've heard.  And he has only attacked women with it so far, but who knows?  He might go for a man, don't you think?  If the opportunity arose?'

Hutchinson looked up from his contemplation of the Turkish carpet.  Did she know what she was saying?  Her eyes looked very knowing, but that was impossible.  How could a carefully brought up English woman of her class know of such things?

'I think he hates women,' said one of the other ladies.  'He would kill us all if he could.'

'I'm sure not, my dear,' said her husband.  'The women he is killing are... of a certain class.  Not ladies like yourselves.  One could say they endangered themselves by their way of life, and where they chose to live.  I don't understand you, Hutchinson.  And I don't approve.'

'Ah!' said Hutchinson, clapping his hands to his heart in mock horror. 'Your disapproval wounds me, Travers.'

'Can you be wounded?' asked Estella.  'I would have thought you were impervious to all wounds.'

'All wounds except those inflicted by bright blue eyes,' Hutchinson sighed.

Estella, whose eyes were brown, pouted prettily.  'Well, I hope you catch the monster soon, and stop him from killing those poor women. Wherever they live, they don't deserve such a death.'

Hutchinson nodded approvingly.  'We are working very hard to do so,' he told her.  'But the man seems to disappear, once he has committed his horrendous acts.'

'I think he is a Jew,' said another man.  'Only a Jew would be so base and depraved as to do such things, even to a woman who is no lady.'

It seemed to Hutchinson as though his blood stopped flowing in his veins, so cold had he become.  For a moment he thought he had turned to ice permanently. Then, a fiery rage, such as he had never felt, turned his frozen blood to flame.  He opened his mouth to say something completely unforgivable about the parentage of the one who had dared to speak of his love in such terms.  Words filled his mind.  Words in several languages, heard in the gutters of several cities.  Words which would put him instantly outside the pale of polite society.  And what loss would that be?

Before he could speak those words, he was interrupted.

'Mr. Hutchinson?' said his hostess.  'There is a... person to speak with you. Someone from your police station.'

'Ah, yes,' said Hutchinson, coolly.  'I suppose they need me for something, and so I must leave you now.  It was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Thatcher.  And most interesting conversation.  Please excuse me.'

'Of course, Mr. Hutchinson,' said his hostess. Estella smiled as he got to his feet, and she gave his groin one last longing glance.

It was indeed a runner from the Yard who awaited him in the foyer. 'Inspector, sir,' said the youth.  'They found another body, sir.  And they think it's the work of Jack the Ripper.'



*******************


'Gor blimey!' said Constable Smith, as Hutchinson climbed down out of his carriage on Berner Street.  'It doesn't take long for the bloody toffs to show up for sightseeing these days, does it?  Oh!  Sorry, Inspector Hutchinson, sir.  I didn't recognize you in them clothes.'

'That's all right, Smith,' Hutchinson told him, tossing his top hat onto his carriage seat.  'I didn't recognize myself in the mirror when I got dressed.  Where's the body?'

'Over there, sir.  Up near the gates of the Club.'

Smith indicated the Berner Street Club, a rather rowdy establishment, with an unsavoury reputation.  The fog, which had been quite thick when Hutchinson had left his home for the party, had cleared by now, at least in this part of London.  The bobbies had torches all around the murder scene, and Hutchinson could see the body clearly.   

'This body doesn't appear to have been mutilated like the others,' he pointed out.

'No, sir.  They arrested someone, sir.  They think he didn't have time to finish his work,' said Smith.

'Arrested someone?  Why wasn't I informed of this?'

'I don't know, sir.'

'Well, tell me about it now, Smith!'

'Yes, sir.  Of course, sir.  It was some lunatic, sir.  A Jew who has been seen hereabouts lately.  They found him near the body, and took him back to the Yard.'

'Ah.  Was he standing right over the body, with his knife in her throat?'

'I don't think so, sir.  But he was nearby.  And he's a lunatic.  Jack the Ripper is a lunatic.'

'Now, listen to me carefully, Smith.  Yes, Jack the Bloody Ripper may be a lunatic, judging by his behaviour, which exhibits certain signs of lunacy.  It doesn't follow from that, that a lunatic is Jack the Ripper. An apple is a fruit.  A fruit is not necessarily an apple.  Some fruits are oranges.  Are you with me, so far?'

'Yes, sir.  Some fruits are oranges.'

'Thank you, Smith.  Your attention to my logic impresses me.  This lunatic they've arrested might be an apple, or he might be an orange. Time will tell.  At the moment, we have another dead body.  Where the Hell is the surgeon?'

'I'm right here, Inspector,' a voice announced.

'My apologies, Doctor,' Hutchinson answered.  'Blackwell, isn't it?'

'Yes, Inspector.  I arrived here at 1:16 a.m.  I examined the body, and I believe the woman died about twenty or thirty minutes prior to my arrival.'

'That places her death between 12:45 and 1:00 a.m., wouldn't you say, Doctor Blackwell?'

'I would say so, Inspector,' the doctor answered.

'Good.  It's nice to have at least one fact established, this early in the game.  Maybe our luck is turning.'

A Constable came running around the corner.  He saw Hutchinson, and ran up to him, as the most senior police officer at the scene.

'Inspector!' he said.  'He's struck again.  They've found another body, over in Mitre Square.'

'If anyone hears me speak of luck again,' said Hutchinson.  'I give you leave to wash my mouth out with soap.'


***********************

It was dawn when Inspector Hutchinson strode through the doors of Scotland Yard.  Chief Inspector Swanson was there, and he grinned and lifted an eyebrow at Hutchinson's attire.
'Did you enjoy the party, Hutchinson?' he asked.

'It was boring, just as I thought it would be, sir,' he replied. 'Except for one young lady, at least.  She was... interesting.'

'Indeed?' asked Swanson.  'Are wedding bells in your future?  Am I invited to the wedding?'

Hutchinson laughed.  'She's not that interesting,' he said.  'And I don't think she's the marrying type.'

'Ah!  You think she has a roving eye, do you?'

'To say the least, sir.  But I was called away before I could confirm my impressions as fact.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, Hutchinson,' said Swanson.

'No need for sorrow, sir.  You've heard of the newest developments in the case?'

Swanson blinked at the sudden change of subject, but he wasn't too surprised.  Hutchinson usually deflected the conversation quickly, if it became too personal.

'I have,' he replied.  'Two in one night?  A bit unusual, isn't it?  If both murders were indeed by the same hand?'

'I think they were, sir.  Though we cannot be certain until we arrest the murderer, and question him.  The modus operandi appears to be the same, with the one exception that the first victim wasn't disembowelled. Her throat was cut in the same manner as the other women, however.  And I think the murderer was interrupted, ran off, and found another victim.'

'That makes it pretty certain that the man they arrested at the first scene was not the murderer,' said Swanson.

'Oh, yes.  That piece of information had slipped my mind.  They told me a man was arrested near the first body.  A Jew, who appeared to be unsound of mind.'

'So they say.  I haven't had a chance to talk to him.  I was on my way to do so, when I saw you walk in.  Why don't we question him together. Even if he isn't the murderer, he was near the scene.  He might know something of the matter.'

'Of course, sir,' said Hutchinson.

They walked together to the room in which suspects were questioned.  A guard was standing outside the door.

'Is the man they arrested within?' Chief Inspector Swanson asked.  'Has he been questioned at all?'

'He's waiting inside, sir,' said the Constable on duty.  'They questioned him when they first brought him here, but no one could hardly make out a word he said, sir.  Not only is he a lunatic, sir, but he speaks some foreign sounding language.  He's a Jew sir, not long in this country.  Only knows a few words of proper English.'

'Well, Inspector Hutchinson and I know several languages between us. I'm sure we'll manage to communicate.'

The guard opened the door.  A man was seated at the table, his head resting on his arms. At first he appeared to be asleep, but then he lifted his head, and looked up.  He muttered something in a strange language, but smiled and rose to his feet.

'Good evening,' he said carefully.  'I don't speak English very well. Parlez-vous francais?'

The man's bright blue eyes certainly held no signs of lunacy, but Hutchinson could not have sworn to his own sanity at that moment.

'You!' he said.  'What are you doing here?'

'Pardon?' the man asked.

Hutchinson repeated his words in French. The blue eyes laughed up at him.

'I'm sorry,' the man said in French.  'Do we know each other?'

'We met the other night,' said Hutchinson.  'You bumped into me in the street.'

'Ah!  That was you?  But you were dressed differently.  Not all... fancy like this.'  The man waved his hands, indicating Hutchinson's evening attire.

'You were dressed differently as well,' Hutchinson pointed out. 'Certainly you were much cleaner and neater, and your hair was combed.  What have you been up to?  Masquerading as a lunatic?'

The man laughed again.  'You are indeed a detective,' he said.  'You have discovered the truth so quickly.  I thought to play the spy, you see.  To pretend to be a harmless lunatic, and then this murderer would not pay me any attention, and perhaps I would catch him at his work.  I almost did so, in fact.  I was only a few moments away, when he killed that poor woman.'

'Did I say you were pretending to be a lunatic?' asked Hutchinson.  'You are a lunatic, and certifiably so.  You could have been killed yourself, if you saw him at his work, as you put it.  And look, you have been arrested.  The people of London are so terrified, who knows what might have happened if the police had not arrested you and brought you safely here? What were you thinking?'

'I was thinking to be helpful, and to find the monster who is killing people. What does my own safety matter?'

It matters to me, thought Hutchinson, but he managed not to say the words out loud.  Something must have shown in his face, though, for the man looked at him oddly for a moment.  Then he smiled.

'Well,' said Chief Inspector Swanson, in reasonably fluid French. 'Since you were near the scene at the time of the murder, perhaps you have some information for us, and then we can let you go home.  Mister?  I don't believe we know your name.'

'Starsky,' said the man, in his careful English.  'My name is David Starsky.'

He smiled proudly at his achievement.  Hutchinson's heart melted all over again.  Starsky.  David Starsky.  His love's name was David Starsky.  David Starsky was brave.  Incredibly brave.  And, it hardly need be said, just as incredibly foolhardy.  Brave, and foolhardy.  A dangerous combination.  Not stupid, however.  His plan had shown a certain intelligence.  His love was brave, foolhardy, but intelligent, and he cared about other people and wanted to help them.  All this confirmed what Hutchinson had already known, that the one who ruled his heart, was worthy of his power.

Hutchinson's nose twitched.  His love was incredibly dirty, and needed a bath.

'So, I joined the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, as soon as it was formed,' David Starsky was saying.  'We have been patrolling the streets. Perhaps you know of this?'

'Ah, yes. We have heard of your organization,' said Swanson.  'I don't entirely approve.  There is a police force about.  Have you heard of us?'

'We have,' said Starsky.  'But some of us don't entirely approve.'

Swanson smiled.  'We are aware of the lack of approval.  Our founder, Sir Robert Peel, had a deal of trouble getting around that lack of approval.  There are those who see us as tyrants, out to take away their civil rights.'

Starsky nodded sagely.  'And how do you see yourselves?' he asked.

'As men who want to defend the defenceless,' he said.

'That is how the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee sees themselves,' said Starsky, triumphantly.  'But to return to my tale, I came up with the idea of pretending to be a lunatic.' He smiled at Hutchinson, conspiratorially.  'Perhaps that was not entirely pretence?  I walked about the streets, muttering to myself.  Yes, it was dangerous, as one or two people looked at me with wild surmise, on more than one occasion. But I survived.  Then tonight, I attended a meeting at the Berner Street Club.'

Hutchinson looked up.  'What sort of a meeting?' he asked.

'A meeting of the International Workers Educational Club,' said Starsky.

'Socialists!' said Swanson, a bit disapprovingly.

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'I am a socialist.  But not a murderer.'

'Of course not,' said Hutchinson.  'Go on.'

'I left the meeting about 11:30, and turned from a socialist into a lunatic.  Though there are some who would say that was no change.  I walked about the streets for a time, then circled back toward the Club.'

'Why?' asked Swanson.

'I didn't want to go home like this,' said Starsky.  'I left my ordinary clothes there at the Club, so I could change back into them.  It was raining, and that was clearing up the fog.  I saw a man and a woman about a block ahead of me.  He wore a black coat, and a tall black hat. They disappeared into the shadows.  And then, I heard a policeman, coming down the street.  You can hear them, for a block away at least. I saw a man run out from the shadows.  It may have been the same man, the one who was with the woman.  I went closer, to see what had happened. And that is when someone saw me.  They called out, that I was the murderer.  I thought it best not to run, for then, I would have looked guilty.  Am I right?'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'You did the right thing.  Though you might still have been hurt, if someone really thought you were the killer.'

'But I have survived, and I am unhurt.  Only a few bruises.'

'Bruises!' said Hutchinson, sharply.  'Who gave you bruises?'

'Only the police officer, when he arrested me.  He twisted my arms behind my back, that is all.  I have had worse things happen to me.  It is nothing.  The important thing is, that I may have seen the murderer.'

Swanson was looking at Hutchinson with great curiosity, so he dropped the subject of Starsky's bruises.

'Can you describe him?' he asked.

'Not too well, but a little,' said Starsky.  'He was not very tall. Perhaps this tall.'
He stood up, and indicated a point, about five feet and six inches from the ground.
'He was well dressed, all in black, and he had a big black moustache. But no beard.  And a tall black hat.  That is all I could see of him. I didn't want to get too close, or accost him in any way.  I had no idea at the time that he was the killer.'

'You behaved quite correctly,' said Hutchinson.  'And I think you would agree, sir, that we could let him go?'

'Hmm?' said Swanson, still watching Hutchinson, curiously.  'Oh, yes. Of course, by all means you are free to go, Mr. Starsky.  Please give us your address, if you will.  So that we can call on you, if we have further questions.'

'I will write it down for you,' said Starsky, and did so.

'Sir?  I think I should go home and change, if you will allow me,' said Hutchinson.  'I can't go about all day in evening clothes, and I have nothing to wear, here at the station.  I took all my changes of clothes home to be laundered.'

'Of course, Hutchinson.  Go home and change, or you will be dealing with jokes about toffs all day.'

'Thank you, sir.  I will give you a lift home, Mr. Starsky.  I think that will be safest. Someone may have seen you being arrested, and if they see you walking about freely a few hours later, who knows what they might do.'

'Thank you,'  said David Starsky to Kenneth Hutchinson, with a smile. 'You are very kind.'

*********************

'You were right to question the motives of the police,' Hutchinson told Starsky, as they waited for Hutchinson's driver to pick them up outside the station.  'Not all police officers are as noble as Swanson.'

'Or as noble as you?' asked Starsky.

Hutchinson snorted in amusement.  'What gives you the idea I'm noble?' he asked.

'You don't seem to want for money,' Starsky observed, as the carriage pulled up.  'And yet, you work as a police officer.  So, I suppose you do that work for noble reasons. Unless of course, you got your money through some nefarious means, through your work.  That would change my opinion of you, considerably.'

'Nefarious means?  Yes, nefarious. Quite.  I inherited it from my grandfather. Doubtless he made his money through nefarious means, or his father did. Thus am I guilty of iniquity by association.'

'That's why you became a police officer?'

Hutchinson smiled.  'I wanted to help people,' he said. 'I wanted to prove I was not like my father, and my grandfather.  I hope I have done so.'

They got into the carriage, and Starsky smiled at the leather upholstery, and the gold-plated fittings.  'I'm sorry to sit on the cushions in these dirty clothes,' he said.

'Don't worry.  My servants will take care of that,' said Hutchinson.

'You keep servants?'

'Why not?  It gives people work.  I was wondering.  Why don't you come home with me?  Truly, I am worried about the mood of the City right now. I don't want someone recognizing you.  Perhaps I can find you something else to wear,  and you could get cleaned up, before returning to your own home.'

'If you like,' said Starsky.  He didn't seem worried that Hutchinson had some ulterior motive.

This is dangerous, thought Hutchinson.  But only for a short time.  I have to return to work, and he will be going home, and I'll likely never see him again.  But I'll have a few more memories.  Intimate memories. His face and body, in my home, against the background of my walls.

Starsky was looking out the windows.  'Where are we going?' he asked.

'St. John's Wood,' Hutchinson told him.

Starsky lifted an eyebrow.  'I don't know much about London,' he admitted.  'But is that a district where people of your class live?'

'My class?' asked Hutchinson with amusement.  'What class is that?'

'The rich class,' said Starsky.  'There are two classes of people. Those with money, and those without.  I am without money, and you are with it.'

'And that puts us on opposing sides?' asked Hutchinson.

'I haven't known you for very long,' said Starsky.  'An hour perhaps. But I cannot imagine what could put us on opposing sides.'

'Neither could I,' said Hutchinson.  'But to answer your question about districts of London, -- no.  St. John's Wood is not any sort of place where my father would live.'

'And so that is why you live here?' asked Starsky.

'That is one reason why I live here,' Hutchinson told him.

St. John's Wood was quiet streets, lined with trees.  Peaceful villas, in which artists and writers dwelt.  A neighbourhood in which no one questioned who you lived with, or what you did inside your own home.  No one noticed when you got home at night, or  with whom. Not that Hutchinson brought home any of the men or women he had intercourse of a sexual nature with.  But, at one time, he had considered such a thing.  At one time, he had entertained hopes of engaging in rather more regular sexual relations, if not romantic relations.

The carriage pulled up before his villa.  It was a large home, well back from the street, and surrounded by trees.  The windows faced the back, rather than the front of the property.

'A nice place for a party,' said Starsky.

'I don't have parties,' said Hutchinson.

'Why not?' asked Starsky.

'I don't like most of the people I know well enough to invite them to one.'

'You need a better class of friends,' Starsky observed.  'What about your neighbours?'

'I've never met them,' Hutchinson admitted.

Starsky sighed and rolled his eyes.  'How long have you lived here?'

Hutchinson opened his mouth to tell the man it was none of his business. The blue eyes looked right through him, however.  Straight into his soul.

'About a year,' he said at last.  'I'm not good at making friends.'

'You've made friends with me,' said Starsky.  'That's a start.'

The door opened as Hutchinson and Starsky reached it.  A footman greeted them and took their coats.  If he was offended in any way by the torn and dirty coat that Starsky handed him, his thoughts did not show on his face.

'Thank you, Simmons,' said Hutchinson.  'Is Mr. Jeffreys about?  Ah, there you are, Jeffreys.  This is a friend of mine, Mr. Starsky.   He is in need of a bath, and some clean clothes.  Please see to that.'

'Sir?' asked Jeffreys, raising an eyebrow.

'Is there a problem, Jeffreys?' asked Hutchinson, very softly.

'No, sir.  Of course not,' said Jeffreys, quickly.

'That is a relief, Jeffreys,' said Hutchinson.  'I'm not often home.  I like to have my orders followed without question when I am.'

'Of course you do, sir,' said Jeffreys.  He stalked off to see to baths, and changes of clothing.

'Am I disrupting your household?' asked Starsky, as they walked down the hall.   He couldn't have understood more than a few words of Hutchinson's conversation, but that was enough, it seemed.

'If you are disrupting it, it can only be for good,' said Hutchinson. 'There is no mistress here, and my housekeeper is very old, and rather deaf.  The servants have the run of the house, I'm afraid, and once in a while, they need shaking up.  Keeps them on their toes.'

'Still, it must be a bit unusual for you to show up at the door with a strange man, and one who looks rather disreputable.'

'I've shown up looking rather strange and disreputable myself, after work, on more than one occasion,' Hutchinson told him.  'Here!  Why don't you use this guest room?  I'll send Jacques to help you bathe.'

'Jacques?' asked Starsky, looking a trifle alarmed.

'My valet,' said Hutchinson, with a solemn face.

'Valet?' asked Starsky.  'You think I need a valet?'

'You need a valet, and a barber, and a decent suit of clothes.  And good heavens!  Look at your hands.  A manicure would help.'

'A manicure!' said Starsky, in amazement.

'Don't socialists believe in neat nails?  And stop repeating everything I say.  Go in that room, and don't come out until you look human again.'

Hutchinson pushed Starsky into the guest room, and shut the door on him. He walked down the hall to his own bedchamber.  Jacques was waiting for him.

'Monsieur.  You are home early,' he said.

'Only long enough to change my clothes and get something to eat,' Hutchinson told him.  'Then I have to get back to work.'

'I have heard,' said Jacques.  'The killer has struck again.  Killed two poor women in one night.  They are calling him Jack the Ripper.  I do not like the resemblance to my own name.'

'I don't blame you,' said Hutchinson.  'Please, do me a favour.  I have brought a friend home, just to wash up.  Would you give him your skilled assistance?'

'A friend, sir?' Jacques lent a point to his question with a raised eyebrow.

'Not that sort of friend, Jacques.  I don't think he knows anything about those sorts of friends.  But he is a good person, and I like him.'

'I will be very polite, sir, I assure you,' said Jacques.  'Shall I lay out some clothes for you, before I go?'

'Thank you, Jacques,' said Hutchinson.

He pulled off his evening clothes, and tossed them on a nearby chair. Then he made a sketchy wash, before dressing in his work clothes.  That was more like it, he thought, as he looked at himself in the mirror.  He had a slight beard, but decided to leave it.  Time was flying, he thought.

He strolled down the hallway, back to the guest chamber, and tapped on the door.
'Entrez!' said his guest, so he opened the door.

David Starsky was stepping out of the bath.  He held a large white towel in front of himself, but that didn't hide the strong, muscular chest, covered in dark, course hair.

'Oh, it is you,' said Starsky.  'I thought it was that servant, Jacques. He went to get me some clean clothes.  I hope nothing like what you're wearing.'

'What is wrong with what I'm wearing?' asked Hutchinson.

'It is not the fashion in Whitechapel this year.  Too bourgeois.  Not working class.'

'Not socialist enough for you?'

'Non.  Mais, vous etes admirable.'

Starsky finished drying himself, and flung the towel down on the floor.  He strode over to the fire, and held his hands before it.  The light from the chamber window fought with the light from the fire, to see which would caress his body the more.  Hutchinson fought with himself to keep breathing.

The tap at the chamber door nearly made Hutchinson jump out of his skin.

'My apologies, sir,' said Jacques.  'It is only me.  I have brought our guest some clothes.'

'That is good,' said Hutchinson, perhaps a bit too sharply.  'I am going to make a late breakfast.  Why don't you join me, when you have dressed, Mr. Starsky?'

Starsky turned with a smile.  'I will,' he said. 'If I can find my way. Do you have a special room for that?'

'Jacques will show you,' said Hutchinson.  He closed the door carefully as he left the room, shutting out temptation.


********************

Hutchinson had recovered his equilibrium, by the time Starsky joined him in the breakfast room.  'Help yourself,' Hutchinson told him, from behind his morning newspaper.

'Jack the Ripper?' asked Starsky, slowly.

'Who, me?  No, not at all,' said Hutchinson.

'No.  I mean, what is that, please?  What does that mean?'

'Oh!' said Hutchinson.  He realized that Starsky was reading the headline of Hutchinson's newspaper.

'Jack the Ripper, yes.  It is what the newspapers are calling the Whitechapel murderer now.  How well do you read English?'

'Better than I speak it, or understand it.  I can spell out the words, and understand a few. Ripper.  What does that mean?' he asked again.

'Rip,' said Hutchinson. 'Couper.  To cut, to tear, with your hands, with a knife.'

'Why would someone wish to cut and tear another person, as if they were material?  Something inanimate?'

'That is a good question,' said Hutchinson.  'Why do people treat other people as less than human?  And yet they do.  I see it every day.'

'I have seen it as well, in my own life,' said Starsky.

Hutchinson put down his newspaper, and looked at Starsky for the first time, since he'd shut the guest room door on his naked form.  He was neatly dressed, but in not too bourgeois a fashion.  His hair was neatly trimmed and combed, and his nails were now reasonably clean.  He would pass, in Whitechapel, for a respectable working man.

'You came here from some place in Europe, to avoid the pogroms, didn't you?' Hutchinson asked him.

'We came from Poland, yes,' Starsky told him.

'We?' asked Hutchinson.  And he felt a chill along his bones, though the fear was senseless.  It made no difference if Starsky was married or not, and yet he could not help but wish he were not.

'We. My mother, and my brother, and I.'

'I see,' said Hutchinson.  'And your father?' he asked, carefully.

Starsky spread jam on a muffin, and took a bite.  'These are good,' he said.  'My father died some years ago,' he added almost in the same tone of voice.

'I am sorry to hear that.  The situation in Poland is not very good for the Jews, is it?'

'Non,' said Starsky.  'But my father did not die in a pogrom.'  He poured himself coffee, and offered the pot to Hutchinson.

The scene was strangely domestic, thought Hutchinson, as if they'd been doing this for years.  Clearly it was time to get back to work, and to reality.  He drank his coffee quickly, and made motions to get up from the table.

'Oh!' said Starsky.  'Look at the time.  Could I trouble you to give me a ride back to the City?'

'Of course,' said Hutchinson.  'I wasn't going to make you walk.'

'Merci beaucoup.  You are more than kind.'

'Not at all,' said Hutchinson.  'I was wondering about this Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.  Who else belongs to it? Are there men of any intelligence?'

'A few,' said Starsky.  'About the normal number you would find on any committee.  Why, please?'

'I wanted to have a meeting here, in my home.  A private meeting, to discuss the situation.  I have been thinking that there is a lot of confusion, a lot of speculation.  Perhaps if a handful of intelligent men of various backgrounds got together, and pooled their resources and outlooks, we could come up with a few answers.'

'You want a committee of your own?' asked Starsky.  'The Inspector Hutchinson Committee of St. John's Wood?'

'No,' said Inspector Hutchinson.  'Just a meeting of minds.'

'A meeting of minds,' said Starsky slowly.  'I will speak to my friends on the Vigilance Committee and see what they think.  When did you want this meeting?'

'How does tomorrow night sound?' asked Hutchinson.

Starsky smiled. 'Tomorrow night is fine with me,' he said. 'I have no previous engagement.'


**************************

Starsky fell silent once they were on their way back to the City.  He seemed to be thinking about something private, and Hutchinson had thoughts of his own, so he let the silence run on.  He wasn't sure whether he was looking forward to the coming separation, or dreading it. The last couple of hours had been filled with excitement, and happy discovery.  He had learned so much about the person he loved, and he wanted to learn more.  On the other hand, there had been one or two moments when he had almost revealed too much about himself.  It was best not to get too close, he thought, in spite of Starsky's offer of friendship.

Friendship, he thought.  The concept excited and terrified him.  How was a friendship conducted?  Didn't friendship require the exchange of confidences?  He supposed they had already done that, to some extent. Hadn't he told Starsky that he didn't make friends easily?  Dear God. What must the man think of him.

'Don't you wish you were a child again, sometimes?'

'I beg your pardon?' Hutchinson asked.

'A child, Hutch.  Don't you wish you were a child again?'

'What was that you called me?'

'Hutch.  Your name is a mouthful.  It is difficult for me to pronounce, so I am shortening it.  Hutch.  That is easier to say.'

Hutch, he thought.  He's given me a nickname.  Or christened me anew. Well, that's fine with me.  Hutch it is.  What was it he asked me?  Oh, yes.

'Why would I wish I were a child again?'

'Look at them!'  Starsky pointed at some children, running about in a park, engaged in some mysterious activities with a ball of some kind. 'Wouldn't you like to be able to run around like that, and not have to work all day, and half the night?'

'Have you seen the children who look for lost items in the Thames at low tide, so they can afford to eat?' Hutchinson asked.  'What do they call them?  Mudlarks? I think I prefer my present position in life.'

'I think you've forgotten what it is to be a child,' said Starsky.  'A real child, I mean.  Not one of those poor mudlarks.'

Hutchinson opened his mouth to tell him that he never had been a real child, and to ask him what it was like, precisely.  But he was saved from so embarrassing himself, by a commotion just ahead on the road.

'Those horses looks like they're out of control, Guv'nor!' said his driver.

'You're right, Higgins.  Pull out of the way, and let me down.  Quick, now!'

'Right you are, Guv!'

The carriage was thundering down the street, both horses obviously terrified.  The driver was slumped over, as if he were unconscious.  The passengers were screaming in terror, and numerous bystanders were shouting at the horses, which only frightened them the more.

Hutchinson leapt down from his own chaise, just as the runaway carriage passed.  He turned and ran after the carriage, making a successful grab for the reins of the nearest horse.  He pulled on the reins as hard as he could, all the time being dragged along the street.  Just as he thought he might have to let go, the horses began to slow.  When he had reduced their speed to a walk, he dared to look over at the other side of the carriage.  At the other horse. The one whose reins he had not been tugging on, and had not needed to tug on, because Starsky had tugged on them, instead.  He realized now, that he had known all along what was happening, but hadn't even given it a thought.  When he leapt down from his carriage, Starsky had done the same, and they had moved as one, without question.

Starsky looked over the backs of the sweating horses, and their eyes met.

'Yes,' said Hutch, without asking what he was assenting to.  Yes to anything you ask, he thought.


*************************


Hutchinson insisted on driving Starsky right to his door.

'That is not necessary,' the man argued.  'I'm used to walking longer distances.  Aren't they expecting you back at your police station?'

'The Yard?  Not them.  I show up when I show up.  They're used to me by now, and they know I do my job.'

'And then some,' Starsky said with a laugh.  'Do you make a habit of driving suspects to your home and making them take baths?'

'That was an act of charity to the whole human race.  Do you have any idea how you smelled?'

'I do, yes.  And it wasn't any more pleasant for me.  I assure you I do not make a habit of going about so dirty.  I take a bath once a week.'

'Once a week!'

'I know that is an extravagance, but I like my small luxuries.  The sort of person I was pretending to be, would not have been able to wash for years.  I had to look the part.'

'And smell the part.'

'Enough, Mr. Hutchinson,' said Starsky.  'If my presence offends you, you can let me out here.'

'Not on any pretence,' said Hutchinson.  'If you think I will be shocked by Whitechapel, I assure you I will not.  I know the area well.  I've patrolled it for some months now.'

'You are a strange man, Hutch.'

'You don't know the half of it.'

'You live in a beautiful home, full of peace and harmony.  Do these streets not distress you?'

'Yes.  They do.  It distresses me that people should have to live this way.  It's not right.  It's not the normal way that humans should live.'

'Whose fault is it?' asked Starsky.

'You are a socialist,' said Hutchinson.  'You should know.'

'But I am interested in your interpretation.'

'It is the fault of society, that distributes the means of production so unequally.'

Starsky laughed.  'A good socialist answer,' he said.

Hutchinson's carriage pulled up at the address Starsky had given Higgins.  The building was not as run down as Hutchinson had feared.  It was crowded, though, and dirty.  And noisy.  A door opened down the hall.  A tiny, naked baby girl ran out of the apartment, laughing.  She saw Starsky, and started toward him.

'Da da!' she said.

Hutchinson turned to Starsky with surprise.  'She's yours?' he asked. He was about to stupidly say that Starsky had told him he was unmarried. But of course, he hadn't said that, merely not mentioned a wife.

'No,' said Starsky with a grin.  'Only a neighbour's child. She's trying to say my name.  David.'

'Da da.  Da id' said the baby.

'Good girl,' said Starsky, in English.  He picked her up, and blew bubbles on her naked tummy.  Hutchinson shivered all over with longing to be kissed like that.  It was senseless.  Such things were not for him.  He looked down at the harsh wooden floor.

'Hutch!' said Starsky.

Hutch looked up quickly.  'What?' he asked.

'Nothing.  Come and meet my mother.'

Hutchinson followed Starsky down the hall.  Starsky pushed the baby back inside her apartment, and closed the door on her, firmly.  Hutchinson wondered if anyone had noticed her escape, and what might have happened if Starsky hadn't caught her.

A rat slithered around a corner, and ran past Hutchinson's boots.  It bared his teeth at him, and chittered.

'One of my servants keeps ferrets,' he told Starsky.  'He could bring them here, and clean this lot of vermin out.'

'Why bother?' asked Starsky.  'New families would move in the next morning.  Luggage and all.'

Starsky opened the door at the end of the hall.   A middle-aged woman was sitting at the window, sewing.  She looked up as they entered, and ran to Starsky with tears in her eyes.  She hugged him, and scolded him, and then slapped him, lightly.  Starsky laughed.  He chattered to her in some foreign tongue, of which Hutchinson didn't understand a word.  He pointed at Hutchinson, and seemed to be explaining his presence here. Though Hutchinson couldn't really explain it himself.

Why was he here?  What place did he have in this tiny, shabby apartment? It wasn't as dirty as the condition of the rest of the building would lead one to expect, though.  The room was clean, and the furniture, though old, and probably rescued from the dump, was neatly mended, and covered with clean throws. There was a table in the window.  On it were a tea set, and a jam jar with an arrangement of flowers, perhaps also rescued from a dump.  The earnest domesticity of the picture tugged at his heart.

'Mother,' said Starsky.  'Please meet Monsieur Hutchinson.  He is an Inspector with the Metropolitan Police.  Monsieur Hutchinson, please meet my mother.  She is a seamstress.'

'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madame Starsky,' said Hutchinson.

'I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur,' said Starsky's mother.  'Would you like some tea?'

'Thank you, I would,' said Hutchinson.  He sat down in the chair Starsky offered him, and wondered at the strange feeling that came over him. Was this what it felt like, to be at home?

They had tea, and Hutchinson thanked Madame Starsky for her hospitality. Then, with great solemnity, Starsky showed him around the tiny apartment.

'Here is our window,'  he said.  'We have, as you can see, a view of the building next door, but light does get in, somehow.  I know little about physics.  Perhaps you can explain it?'

'I haven't a clue,' Hutchinson admitted.

'And you call yourself a detective. Here is my boot-making kit.'

'Ah.  You make boots?'

'For a living, yes.  Not as a hobby.  I make good boots, but that's not how I planned to spend my life.  I still don't.  I want to move up in the world.'

'Enter politics, perhaps?'

Starsky shuddered.  'I have no interest in entering politics,' he said.

'I've always considered that those sorts of men make the best politicians,' Hutchinson told him.

'You could be right,' said Starsky.  'But since those sorts of men don't usually enter politics, your point is lost.  Now, we have three beds. Mother sleeps here.  I share this bed with my brother, Nicholas.  And that bed over there is used by the married couple who share our apartment.  The young married couple.  The young,  passionate married couple.'

'I get the picture,' said Hutchinson.

'No, you don't,' said Starsky.  'I thought I knew what we were in for, when they moved in.  I was wrong.  I'm predicting that soon they will have an addition to the family, and that will cool their ardour.'

'But then you will have a baby living here with you,' said Hutchinson.

'That will be pleasant,' Starsky commented.  'And I almost forgot.  Here is our wash basin.  I assure you that I wash every morning, in addition to my weekly bath.  So, I have satisfied all of your curiosity?  You know all about my life now?  Such as it is?'

Hutchinson looked around the apartment, and smiled.  Starsky's situation wasn't what Hutchinson would have considered appropriate for such a person, but it wasn't as bad as his worst fears. 'Yes,' he said  'I'm quite satisfied now.'

'Good,' said Starsky.  He showed him to the door, and shook his hand. 'I will speak to my friends about the meeting you wanted.  I'm sure they'll be interested.  And I will see you again tomorrow night.  Au revoir, Monsieur Hutchinson.'

'Au revoir, Monsieur Starsky. Madame Starsky.' said Hutchinson, with a bow.

Higgins drove him to Scotland Yard, and he checked in with Chief Inspector Swanson.

'Greetings!' said Swanson.  'I'm gratified you decided to join us.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Hutchinson, though he wasn't sorry at all.  'I had something important to see to.'

'No need to apologize, old chap.  I'm the one who should apologize. You've been working longer hours than anyone else at the Yard.  It's about time you had a day off.  And you need more sleep.'

'I slept two nights ago,' Hutchinson protested.

'Yes. You're sleeping your life away, man.  What are we going to do about you?'

'I can go far longer without sleep, sir.  I'm quite well.'

'That's what scares me, Hutchinson.  Well, that, and these bloody newspapers.  You'd think this Jack the Ripper were the first murderer to walk the streets of London.'

'Not by a long shot, sir.'

Hutchinson looked at the headlines, all of them trumpeting the fact that Jack the Ripper had killed twice, right under the noses of the Metropolitan Police.

'They want to sell papers, Swanson, and this murderer is a god send to them.  But I wonder what he thinks of all the uproar.  And you know what worries me?  That someone else might read these newspaper stories, and want to get in on the act, so to speak.'

'Now you are frightening me, Hutchinson.  Go.  Get to work.  Then go home at some Christian hour, for God's sake, and get a decent night's sleep.  I'll let you work tomorrow, since you're so keen to drive yourself into the ground.  But that's it.  You've got the next day off, and that's an order.'

Swanson stomped off, muttering about police officers who didn't know when to quit.


*******************************


Hutchinson supposed that 9 o'clock of the evening would qualify as a Christian hour.  Truly it was about as early as he could bear to go home.  His house, rather, for his home was elsewhere.  He wrapped himself in the memory of that domesticity.  A wholly ephemeral domesticity, he knew.  Sitting at the table drinking tea with the one he loved, Madame Starsky nodding and smiling approvingly as they chatted. If they knew what it was he wished for, the smiles would have vanished fast enough.

Once or twice, he thought David Starsky did suspect something, and wasn't entirely disgusted. But what could that mean?  Did Starsky think that Hutchinson wished to use him, as a whore?  There had been no hint of that, in his words or his expression.  Starsky was obviously a man with great confidence, and self respect.

He strolled into his library, and searched among his books for something that would take his mind away from his feeling of isolation.  An ancient author, he thought.  Greek or Roman.  Plato.  Yes.  The Synposium.

"The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, having a name corresponding to this double nature, which had once a real existence, but is now lost, and the word 'Androgynous' is only preserved as a term of reproach...  Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round like their parents...Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods... Zeus said: 'Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist,  but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers'... if man came to man they might be satisfied, and rest, and go their ways to the business of life: so ancient is the desire of one another which is implanted  in us, reuniting our original nature, making one of two, and healing the state of man. Each of us when separated, having one side only, like a flat fish, is but the indenture of a man, and he is always looking for his other half... they who are a section of the male follow the male, and while they are young, being slices of the original man, they hang about men and embrace them, and they are themselves the best of boys and youths, because they have the most manly nature. Some indeed assert that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they do not act thus from any want of shame, but because they are valiant and manly, and have a manly countenance, and they embrace that which is like them."

Yes, thought Hutchinson, but what do such men do, in a world that doesn't understand or accept them?  What do they do, if they discover their other half, and he doesn't feel the same way?

He remembered first reading this passage, in the original Greek, and feeling a thrill of recognition.  Somewhere in the world his other half was wandering, lost and divided, searching for him as he was being searched for.  And that other half was male.  Not that women were at all unattractive to Hutchinson,  nor did their bodies disgust him.  They were lovely, and at one time, Hutchinson had thought of marriage, hoping that a wife would thaw his frozen spirit. Someone else had done that first. Now, what was he to do with this longing to embrace his other half and be at rest?

"...Suppose Hephaestus, with his instruments, to come to the pair who are lying side by side and to say to them, 'What do you people want of one another?' they would be unable to explain. And suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity he said: 'Do you desire to be wholly one; always day and night to be  in one another's company? for if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt you into one and let you grow together, so that being two you shall become one, and while you live a common life as if you were a single man, and after your death in the world below still be one departed soul instead of two -- I ask whether this is what you lovingly desire, and whether you are satisfied to attain this?' -- there is not a man of them who when he heard the proposal would deny or would not acknowledge that this meeting and melting into one another, this becoming one instead of two, was the very expression of his ancient need."

For we were originally one, thought Hutchinson.  That is why I wish to embrace him, not out of some evil desire to warp nature, or destroy civilization, or sin against the Holy Ghost.

He remembered a friend of his father's, fulminating against 'those sorts of men' who 'burned in their lust for each other' and would do God knew what if they were allowed to continue.  How good it was, the man had said, that a law had been passed sentencing them to two years in prison for their crimes.  Though two years was not long enough, the law was an improvement on the ancient law against sodomy.  Penetration had needed to be proven for sodomy, and the sentence was death, so that juries were often far too lenient.  Now, we can root them out from among us.

How could he subject the one he loved, the other half of his soul, to such a fate?  Better to live always separate, and longing for union, than to cause him any pain or sorrow.


***********************

A very old wagon pulled into the carriageway.  The horse that drew it, matched the wagon, and looked to be on its last legs.

'Jeffreys, see to it that our guests' horse is cared for while they're here.   A good rubdown.  A good feed.  Not too rich, though. We don't want the shock to kill it.'

'No, sir,' said Jeffreys.

'And stop rolling your eyes,' Hutchinson added.  Jeffreys was kind, but rather stuffy.  The announcement that his master would be answering his own door had been too much for him.

David Starsky jumped down from the wagon, and offered his arm to another Jewish gentleman, who brushed it off with a laugh.  He was bearded, but appeared to be only middle-aged.  A third man joined them, and one whom Hutchinson recognized.

'Mr. Starsky.  Mr. Lusk.  Welcome.  Please make yourselves at home.'

'Thank you, Mr. Hutchinson.  You are most kind,' said Starsky.  'I wish to introduce to you, Rabbi Cohen.  Rabbi Cohen, meet our host, Kenneth Hutchinson.'

'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hutchinson. I have been hearing most interesting things about you the last few days.'

'Interesting things?  And about me?  You alarm me strangely, Rabbi Cohen.'

'All interesting things of a good nature, I assure you,' said the Rabbi.

Hutchinson led them down the hall to the drawing room.  He opened the door, and waved them in.  Starsky let the other two men go in ahead of him.

'I washed before I came here,' he murmured, as he brushed past Hutchinson, just a little too closely.  'So you don't have to give me a bath.'

When Hutchinson recovered the ability to breathe, he joined his guests in the drawing room, and made the introductions.  There were four other men in the room already.

'Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, of Scotland Yard.  Doctor Charles Winston, from Cambridge University.  The Reverend Mortimer Partington. And Doctor Sigmund Freud.'

'I notice you mentioned me last,' Doctor Freud commented, solemnly.

'That was intentional,' said Hutchinson.  'And no accident.'

'I see,' said the doctor.

'To continue with my introductions, if I may be permitted.  Rabbi Cohen. Mr. George Lusk of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.  And Mr. David Starsky, also of the Committee.'

'A most interesting gathering, if I may be permitted to say,' said Doctor Freud.

'I will allow such an observation, Herr Doctor, if you will elaborate on what you mean by interesting.'

The doctor merely smiled.

'Wine, gentlemen?  Ale, perhaps?'

Hutchinson served refreshments, and then joined his guests, as they sat in comfortable chairs before the fire.

'This is an interesting gathering, Hutchinson, as Freud pointed out,' said the Reverend Partington.  'I am at a loss to see what you think we can achieve.'

'I am not sure myself, Mr. Partington,' Hutchinson admitted.  'When I thought of this meeting, my idea was, that we would pool our resources, share our ideas and impressions.  As you see, we have several of the residents of Whitechapel, the scene of Jack the Ripper's crimes.  We have two members of the Clergy, whom I hope can be persuaded to give us their perspective from a religious viewpoint.'

'How is that, Mr. Hutchinson?' asked Rabbi Cohen.

'I am interested in the nature of evil, Rabbi.  Why is the murderer committing such evil acts?'

'That is a question which I do not think we can answer in one night, or a thousand, Mr. Hutchinson.'

'Of course we cannot answer it, but we can discuss it.  And then, there is an old friend of mine, Charles Winston.  Winston is interested in the possibilities of using science to solve crime.   Donald Swanson is my superior at Scotland Yard, and knows more than anyone about the case. And last, but not least, we have Sigmund Freud.  I met Freud when I was living in Paris.  He is interested in how the human mind works, though how he thinks he can study that, is an eternal mystery to me.  One can dissect the brain, perhaps, and look at all the little grey swirls that form its structure, but who can grasp the intricacies of the mind, as a separate entity, and one which is not tangible.  How can you capture, etherize, and dissect a thought?'

'That is what I wish to discover, Mr. Hutchinson.  I wish to form a science of the human mind, and create a method of studying it.  Then we will know if it can be studied.'

'And if you can, perhaps some day we will understand why Jack the Ripper acts as he does?' asked Hutchinson.

'It might help us if we could, I suppose,' Starsky spoke up.  'But there is one group which is not represented here,'  he pointed out. 'There are no women present.'

'Women?' said Hutchinson.  'No, there are none.  Jack the Ripper is a man.  We are men. It is up to us to discover why and how he commits his crimes against the gentler sex.  I have spoken to a number of the ladies who are his potential victims in Whitechapel, and I know they would not come here, and give their opinions before such a gathering.  I can tell you what they told me.  I can tell you that I have warned them repeatedly to be careful, and that they have informed me that they are not afraid of death, because they have no hope.  Jack the Ripper is not the terrifying monster to them that he is to the rest of humanity, because their lives are so full of violence and despair, that he is a minor detail.'

'But you think this discussion is worthwhile?' asked the Reverend Partington.

'Yes, Partington, I do,' said Hutchinson.  'Whatever the women themselves think of their own value, I do not agree. I don't think they deserve to die at the hands of a lunatic, and be carved up like beasts at the slaughter house, and have pictures of their bloody corpses preserved for all time, and have details of their lives used as fodder to sell newspapers.'

'Well, I'm not sure I agree,' said the Reverend.  'They are staying in the life they've chosen, despite the dangers, are they not?'

'Because they see no way out, Partington.  Not out of choice.'

'You needn't get angry, Hutchinson. I am merely giving you my opinion, which you invited me here to do.  Did you want our opinions, or only opinions which are in agreement with your own?'

'I wanted the Archbishop of Canterbury, Partington, but he was otherwise engaged.  No, I don't want opinions which are identical with my own. And if I am angry, it is because I do not like the attitude which blames the victims of such an horrific crime.  The women made a mistake, in agreeing to have sexual relations with this man.  But he was the one who pulled out his knife and killed them.  That is the important point here.  Why?  Who is this man, and why does he act as he does?  Let us gather all our information, and all our impressions and viewpoints, and see if we can come up with a description, a... a profile of who it is we are looking for.'

'A profile?' asked Starsky.

'An outline,' said Hutchinson.  'Made up of a detail here, and a detail there.  For example, you may have actually seen the murderer, just before he murdered Elizabeth Stride, and right after, as he was running away.  What were your impressions?  Let us begin with that.'

'The man seemed quite ordinary,' Starsky told them.  'If I had not been looking for suspicious circumstances on every street corner, and in every passing face, I would have paid him no attention.  But they were a man and a woman, walking together late at night, and so I turned to watch them.'

'How did they behave?' asked Hutchinson.

'They were amorous,' said Starsky.  'Almost affectionate.  So affectionate that I almost doubted my first impression that this was a commercial relationship, rather than a romantic one.  Then they disappeared into the shadows, by a wall, and the fog rolled in.  I grew curious, because the circumstances reminded me of the newspaper stories I read.  I hung around, waiting for them to emerge from the shadows, and for the gentleman to pay the lady for her services and depart. That never happened.'

'So the man seemed affectionate toward the lady?' Hutchinson asked.

'Most definitely,' said Starsky.

'Then why did his behaviour change, once they entered the shadows, and the lady began to give him what he supposedly hired her to give?'

'Perhaps he is disgusted by the sight of female anatomy, Hutchinson?' asked Swanson.

'Then why seek it out, Swanson?  It is simple enough to avoid the sight, if it disgusts one.  Women don't usually go about the streets naked, do they?  All the ones whom I have seen are fully clothed, to be sure.  And he seemed to want to see this woman naked, as Starsky has attested.'

'I have noticed that sometimes people desire something and hate it at the same time,' said Sigmund Freud.  'This man desires a woman, but then, when he has her, he feels revulsion.  Perhaps the revulsion is for his own desires, as much as for her body. Perhaps the knife is an extension of himself.'

'Himself, Doctor?'

'Yes.  His penis.  The knife represents his penis.  His attack is like a grim act of sexual intercourse.'

'How horrible, Doctor, that a man could see his penis as a knife, and the act of sex as murder,' said Hutchinson.

'Don't most men see their penises as weapons, Hutchinson?'  Doctor Charles Winston spoke up for the first time.

'Not I,' said Hutchinson.

'What do you see your penis as?' asked Starsky.

Hutchinson carefully avoided looking at his interlocutor.  'As an instrument of pleasure, I would hope.  Certainly none of the people I share it with, seem to regard it as threatening to their lives, and I've had no complaints about its performance.'

The other men laughed.  Even the Reverend Partington, and the Rabbi Cohen joined in.

'You keep a mistress, Hutchinson?' asked George Lusk.  He looked around hopefully, as if expecting a mistress to come walking into the room, perhaps half naked.

'Not at the moment, I'm afraid,' said Hutchinson.  'But do any of you gentlemen truly see your organs as weapons, with which you would like to kill someone?'

All the men present swore they did not.

'But some men become overwhelmed by lust,' said Partington.  'That is what I think happened here.  The man became so crazed, he entered a sexual frenzy, and no longer knew what he was doing.  There are men like that.  No sexual act can be enough.  It leads them into extreme degradation and sin.  Why, they might even forget themselves so far as to try to mate with each other, not realizing that it is another man they are with.'

'Indeed, Reverend Partington,' said Hutchinson.  'That would take a deal of forgetting of oneself, one would think, for a man not to notice such an obvious thing as a male in his bed instead of a female.'

'You may well laugh, Hutchinson, but such things do happen, be assured. In the village where I grew up, a man was discovered naked in bed with another man, and they were clearly attempting to mate.  They didn't even have the excuse of being drunk, or mad.  Though how could they be truly sane?  How could anyone be so confused?'

'I don't know, Partington,' Hutchinson admitted.  'You tell me.'

'I do not think they were insane, Reverend Partington,' said Doctor Freud.  'In my studies into the human mind -- such as they are, Hutchinson -- I have come into contact with a number of men who enjoy relations with other men.  I have found them to be quite sane, and otherwise normal.  I think their desires are a variation of sexuality, and nothing more.'

'I agree, Doctor,' said Rabbi Cohen.

Hutchinson glanced at him with surprise.  He had never heard anything but negative comments from the clergy, when the subject of sodomy and its variations came up in polite conversation.

'You do, Rabbi?' asked Doctor Freud.  'That is gratifying indeed. Usually my observations meet with nothing but horrified opposition.'

'Ah, Herr Doktor,' said Hutchinson.  'You finally admit it.'

'Well, I am certainly horrified, and I oppose what you are saying,' spoke up the Reverend Partington.  'I do not understand you, gentlemen. Especially you, Rabbi Cohen.  Though I don't approve of your religion, we do share part of the Bible, as I understand it.  And the Bible states that such horrific acts as you describe are sins, to be punished by death.  How can you defend men who commit them?'

'That is a misunderstanding of the Bible,' said the Rabbi.  'The verses in Leviticus to which you refer, do not claim that such acts are sins. Leviticus is a book of laws, which proscribes certain acts, for Jews only.  We Jews are a separate people, and we have some peculiar laws, to be sure.  But our laws are supposed to be just, and they can be argued against. If they are shown to be unjust, the laws can be ignored.  Thus, we no longer drag women who are taken in adultery out into the streets to stone them.'

'That is good,' said Hutchinson.  'I am pleased to hear it.'

'Once it was believed that women were the property of men, to do with as they willed.  But we are coming around to a better understanding of the relations between the sexes, are we not?'

'I hope so,' said Hutchinson.

'And so with the laws against one man lying with another man, as if he were a woman.  I believe this law to be unjust.'

The Reverend Partington drew back a little.  'Are you one of these men, Rabbi?' he asked.

The Rabbi laughed.  'Certainly not,' he said.  'I am indeed a very happily married man, and I have three children.  But I am acquainted with some men like those of whom we speak.'

'Men who lie with other men, you mean, Rabbi,' Hutchinson clarified.

'Yes. I believe it to be a private matter, and not a matter for the law.'

'But... but how do such men commit the acts? How can they do such things?' asked the Reverend Partington.

Hutchinson wondered what would happen if he described the acts of love between two men in intimate detail.

'Gentlemen,' he said.  'I am loathe to interrupt such an interesting discussion, but I believe it is my duty to point out that we have drifted far from our original subject, and that is the subject which we came together to discuss.  Namely, Jack the Ripper.'

'You are right, of course, Hutchinson.  I apologize,' said Partington.

'No need for apologies,' said Hutchinson, briefly.

'To bring the discussion back to our subject,' said Doctor Winston.  'We are looking for a man who exhibits no particularly remarkable appearance or behaviour.  He can kill quickly and then seemingly disappear into the warren of streets, and no one notices him.  How do you track such a man?'

George Lusk spoke up.  'I begin to see the difficulties more clearly,' he said.

Since most of the men in the room spoke French well, and all of them spoke it to some extent, the conversation had been carried on in that language.  Lusk didn't speak it well, but he had been getting by, with some translation here and there.  Now he tried to speak in French, but gave up with a laugh.

'I know that there have been many criticisms of the police over your failure to find this murderer,' he said in English.  'I don't agree with those critics.  But now, I understand your difficulties even more, and I wish to help.  How can I help?  I think I will call a mass meeting in Whitechapel, with the permission of the police of course.  I know you don't want the possibility of a riot, if it can be avoided.  But I think there is a deal of ignorance about how the police work.  I think some people believe you to be miracle workers.'

'Would that were the case,' said Hutchinson.  'The people of Whitechapel can indeed help.  We are going to send police officers door to door. They are going to knock on every door in Whitechapel and Spitalfields. They are going to speak to everyone who answers the door, and leave leaflets at every residence.  The leaflets will describe what we know about the murders so far, and ask if anyone has any information for the police.  How many of the Jewish residents do not read English?  Do you have any idea, Rabbi?  Starsky?'

'I have no idea, but there are some,' said the Rabbi.

'Mostly those who have come here recently, like myself.' said Starsky. 'But I am learning fast.'  He smiled.

'That is good,' said Hutchinson.  'Then perhaps notices can be posted in your temples.  Your synagogues?  In Hebrew.  You all read that, am I right?'

'It is the law,' said the Rabbi. 'All Jewish men must read Hebrew, and most women are literate too, these days.  Also, notices in English may be written in Hebrew letters.'

'That is good, and very interesting, as well,' said Hutchinson.  'What else can we do?  Doctor Winston?'

'I wish that something could be done about securing the crime sites,' he said.  'There may be more which can be learned there.  And if only we could move on adopting the use of fingerprinting.  There is a very good system, designed by Sir Francis Galton.   This Jack the Ripper might have left his fingerprints all over the site.  Perhaps he leaned against a wall, or a window.  Or if we could find one of his weapons, they might be found there.'

Hutchinson sighed.  'That is a dream of mine,' he said.  'To be able to block off crime sites from the general public, and bring a scientist such as yourself there to examine it.  What remarkable things we could learn, if only my dream could come true.'

'That is what you dream of?' asked Starsky, with amusement.

'Among other things, which I won't speak of here tonight,' answered Hutchinson.


******************

Hutchinson walked his guests to their carriages, and said farewell.  He shook hands with them all, even the Reverend Partington.

'Remember!  You are not on duty tomorrow, and I will have you shot for disobedience if you make an appearance,' said Chief Inspector Swanson.

'I am suitably terrified, sir, and I will remain safely at home,' said Hutchinson.

'Do so,' said Swanson, and drove off.

'Did you find the evening's discussions educational?' asked Starsky.

'Yes, truly.  And in so many ways,' Hutchinson answered him.  'Look! The fog is rolling in over the City. Be careful.'

'I am always careful.  Are you?'

'I take more care now, than formerly,' said Hutchinson.  'Farewell.'

'And to you also,' said Starsky.  'I feel certain we shall meet again, and soon.'

'I hope so,' said Hutchinson.

'Do you?' asked Starsky.  And he smiled.

Hutchinson watched as the carriage rolled away, Starsky sitting beside the Rabbi Cohen, and George Lusk.  Their horse looked rested, and well fed.  Hutchinson hoped that would last long enough to get his love safely home.

It was a chilly night. Autumn was upon them, with a vengeance.  There had been little sunshine so far, and a lot of rain. But this evening was clear, and Hutchinson decided to stroll in his garden, under the stars.

The Reverend Partington had looked quite shaken by the revelation that not everyone believed Sodomites to be evil lunatics.  The man wasn't cruel, Hutchinson decided, only misinformed, and misguided.  But how did you inform such people, when revealing yourself could mean being shunned by society, being imprisoned, or even executed in some times and places? And if Sigmund Freud did indeed create a science of the mind, who could say what that would lead to. Some already would call Hutchinson and men like him insane.  What if they decided to look for a cure for his supposed illness?

He imagined being locked in a hospital, and forced somehow to be cured of his desire for men, his love for David Starsky.  He imagined his very soul being torn in half.  Would anyone want that, he wondered?  Could anyone so hate themselves?  Freud said that some people hated what they desired.  That they despised themselves for their desires.  If Jack the Ripper was indeed such a man, then to hate yourself was a great evil.

"This is the first and great commandment," Jesus had said.  "To love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your mind and with all your strength.  And the second is like unto it.  To love your neighbour as yourself."

And the second is like unto it.  As yourself.  People forget those few small words, thought Hutchinson.  It is as important to love yourself, as it is to love your neighbour, and to love God.  If you hate yourself, how can you love anyone else, even God?

'Monsieur Hutch?'

Hutchinson turned quickly at the voice which interrupted his internal soliloquy.
'Monsieur Starsky?  Is something wrong?  Did the horse fall down dead so soon?'

Starsky laughed.  'The horse is well, thank you for asking.  I told the others I had forgotten something, but to go on without me, and I would walk back until I could find an omnibus.  They both wanted to get home to their families, so they didn't argue for too long.'

'I see,' said Hutchinson.  'And what did you forget?'

'Well, nothing.  I lied, I am afraid.  You were the one who forgot something.'

'Indeed?  And what is that, please?'

Starsky looked him up and down most carefully.  'I showed you my... home,' he said.  'But so far, you have neglected to show me yours.'

'Have I?' asked Hutchinson.  'I wasn't aware of my lack of courtesy.  You have been inside my home twice now.'

'I have seen your hallway.  Well, one of them at least.  I'm sure you have more.  And I have seen your drawing room, and your breakfast room. Oh!  And that room in which you forced me to bathe, though I had already bathed that week. But I haven't seen all the rooms in your home, and I showed you all of mine.'

Hutchinson bowed.  'You are quite correct, and my manners are indeed somewhat lacking.  Allow me to show you the other rooms.  Most of them, I mean. Do you need to see the servants' quarters?  They might be upset, if we come strolling in.'

Starsky thought for a moment.  'No,' he said at last.  'That can wait for another visit.'


*************************

'... and that is my library,' said Hutchinson, indicating the door.  He didn't offer to open it, but the offer wasn't necessary. Starsky, who did not appear to have a shy bone in his body, opened it instead, and wandered in.  He gasped as he looked around.

'So many books!' he said.  'There must be hundreds of them.  Thousands?'

'Twenty five thousand two hundred and fifty three books,' Hutchinson told him.

Starsky laughed.  'You keep count of your books?'

'Of course,' said Hutchinson.

'So do I,' said Starsky.  'I have three.'

'What are they?' asked Hutchinson.

'The Bible.  The Talmud.  The Mishneh Torah by Moses Maimonides.  My grandfather was very devout, and he wanted me to be a Rabbi.  I don't think he ever truly understood me.  But I have held onto the books he gave me, through everything.  I would never sell them, even were I starving.'

'I know nothing about the Talmud, or the Mishneh Torah.  Did I pronounce that properly…?  Thank you.  But I would like to know more.  Books have been an important part of my life.'

'I will tell you about them, one day.  But, you have a piano.  Do you play?'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'Let's move on to another room, shall we?'

'In a moment.'  Starsky was strolling about the room, poking into every corner, with the curiosity of a cat.  'Who is this lady?'  he asked, indicating the portrait that graced a corner by Hutchinson's desk.

'My mother,'  answered Hutchinson.

'Oh!  What's wrong?  Is she no longer alive?  I am sorry, I didn't mean to...'

'I think it's getting late,' said Hutchinson.  'Perhaps you should leave now.  It's a long walk back.'

Hutchinson opened the library door, and started down the hall, Starsky following.

'No, no, no.  Wait.  Please, I am sorry.  Hutch?'

He stopped at the name, which recalled him to himself, as if from a great distance.  It was difficult, but he forced himself to stop walking, and to wait for Starsky to catch up with him.  He felt Starsky's arms slide around him from behind, and pull him close.  The feeling was strange, as he never allowed anyone to hold him in their arms, no matter how intimately their bodies were joined otherwise. But he experienced no desire to escape from this embrace.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Hutch.  I didn't mean to bring back sad memories.  Please believe me.  I won't speak of it again.'

'There are no sad memories,' Hutchinson managed to say.  'My mother is not dead.  But it is getting late.  Won't your own mother be wondering where you are?'

'No. Not at all.'  Starsky let go of him, and came around to look into his face.  'I told my mother that I was tired of listening to the amorous activities of the young couple who share our home.  I told her I was going to spend the night at a friend's house.  She thinks I'm out whoring, though she wouldn't use that term.'

'I should hope not,' said Hutchinson.  'She impressed me as a lady.'

'But I am not a gentleman,' said Starsky.

'Are you not?'

'No.  I like to poke about in other people's houses, which is not gentlemanly behaviour.  I wonder?  Do you have other hallways, as I thought?'

'I suppose I do,' said Hutchinson.  'What of it?'

Hutchinson followed Starsky wearily, as his guest led him down an unfamiliar wing of the rambling villa.

'What's down this hall?' asked Starsky.

'I really couldn't say,' Hutchinson told him.

'Hutch!  Haven't you explored this house yourself?'

'I looked around when I bought it.  But I haven't had time for exploring.'

'No.  You are out every day and every night hunting London's criminal population.  Oh, look.  A room.  Have you been in this room?  Probably not.  All the furniture is covered up.  What's this?   A really overstuffed chair.  Sit down, and let me look around, since you have no curiosity.  Isn't that a little strange for a detective?'

'I suppose it is,' Hutchinson allowed.  He yawned, in an exaggerated manner.  Starsky didn't appear to notice, and continued exploring. Hutchinson gave in, and sank into the chair, with a sigh.  Is this how a parent feels, he wondered, when their children have far too much energy, far too late at night, and don't want to go to bed?

Bed, he thought.  Starsky looked over at him quickly, as though he had read his mind.  He smiled, then turned away again to continue his search.  What is it you're looking for, Hutch wondered?  Or waiting for? If you are waiting for me to give you a signal, you will wait a long time.  The first move is yours.  The ball is in your court.

'What's in this cabinet?' asked Starsky.

'How should I know?' Hutchinson replied.

'It's locked,' Starsky complained.  'Where's the key? I know, I know. How should you know?  This is your house, remember?'

'Pry it open with a knife, for all I care,' Hutchinson told him.

'I don't need to do that,' said Starsky.  He pulled something that looked suspiciously like a kit of burglar's tools out of his pocket, and set to work, quite dextrously.

'I will pretend I never saw that,' said Hutchinson, as Starsky opened the cabinet door.

Starsky turned to him with a grin.  'Don't worry,' he said.  'I'm not a thief.  My father left me these when he died, and I've never had the heart to throw them away.'

'You have a most interesting family, to be sure,' Hutchinson observed. 'A grandfather who leaves you religious texts, and a father who leaves you burglar's tools.'

'Look at this,' said Starsky, ignoring him.  'It's beautiful.'

'What's beautiful?  Oh.  A camera.'

'Yes. And a stack of plates.  I used to have a camera.  It was lost, like a lot of other things, when we left Poland.'

'Take that one,' said Hutchinson.

'What?  No, Hutch. That wasn't a hint.  You don't have to give me such expensive gifts.  No matter what happens between us.'

'It's not expensive to me.  It's not my camera, merely it was left behind by the previous owner.  Take it, it's yours.'

'Truly?' Starsky breathed, as if he had been offered the moon and the stars.

'Yes. Truly.  And you have given me a great gift, so why shouldn't I reciprocate?'

'What gift is that, Hutch?'

'I don't know if I can explain,' said Hutchinson.  'I told you I did not make friends easily.  You obviously do.  You frighten me a little, but....'

'What is there to fear?' asked Starsky.  'Friendship?  Love?  They are easy things enough.'

'Don't!' said Hutchinson.  'Don't diminish it.'

'Diminish?'

'Diminish.  Belittle.  Minify. Play down.'  Hutchinson got up from his chair, and stalked toward Starsky, who didn't back up one inch. 'Love is not easy.  Love is dangerous. I think you should have gone home.'

'I don't,' said Starsky, and he pulled Hutchinson into his arms again. This time, he drew his head down, and their mouths met in a kiss.

How incredibly soft his lips were, thought Hutchinson.  His mouth looked so hard and strong, and yet his lips were like rose petals, and they stroked Hutchinson's own lips, gently.  He felt his love's breath enter his own mouth, and he gasped, clutching Starsky closer, as if the man might escape.

Easy,' whispered Starsky.  'Slowly.  I'm not going anywhere.' Starsky kissed him again.  Again that softness against his skin.  He had never felt anything so soft and sweet, since the last time his mother had kissed him.

Her lips had been soft like this.  Her hair....

He could hear someone sobbing, and it was a terrible sound, but Starsky was murmuring something, rocking him in his arms, cradling him against his chest, and his arms were strong, and his voice,  murmuring tender love words in a language that Hutchinson didn't know but somehow understood all the same, drowned out the frightening sounds of grief. He burrowed deeper into Starsky's arms, because they were one person after all, and he needed to go home, to be back where he belonged, back where there were no terrible separations. Starsky was asking him something, but he couldn't answer.  Or he couldn't answer with words.  He let his body answer for him.  Hold me, touch me, kiss me.

The sounds of grief stopped, as suddenly as they had begun.  He opened his eyes, and looked around.  Somehow, they had ended up on the floor, leaning against the cabinet that Starsky had broken into.  Starsky seemed calmer now, and Hutchinson dared to look at his face.  For some reason, it was wet, as if with tears.

'What is wrong?' Hutchinson asked.  'Has someone hurt you?'

'No.  No, I am well,' said Starsky.  But his voice shook.

'You were crying,' said Hutchinson.

'Yes,' said Starsky, slowly.  'I was crying.  Do you remember why?'

'No. I've forgotten.  Have you forgotten too?'

'Yes.  Perhaps I will remember, and then I'll tell you why.'

'I don't want you to be sad,' Hutchinson told him, stroking his hair. 'When you remember why you were sad, tell me and I'll make everything better.'

'Can you do that?' asked Starsky.

'I think so.  I will try,' said Hutchinson.  'I want to make love to you,' he whispered, like a secret.

Starsky reached up and brushed back a lock of Hutchinson's hair out of his eyes.  His hands came away all wet, as if with tears.  That was strange.

'You are romantic, are you?  You want to court me?'

'Yes.  Does that disgust you?  We're both men.'

'I know,' Starsky whispered back.  And he bent and kissed Hutchinson, with great care, as if he were afraid of something.  That Hutchinson would break if he applied too much pressure?  He drew back after a moment, and looked into Hutchinson's face.

'Make love to me,'  he said.  'I will let you.  Just don't become too flowery.  I'm not a fainting maiden.'

'I don't know how to be flowery,' said Hutchinson.  'I've never made love before.  You're the first person I've ever kissed.  Did you know that?  And no one would mistake you for a maiden.'

'Ah!,' said Starsky.  'You aren't confused about my sex?  You know I am a man?'

'I am certain of it,' Hutchinson assured him.  'It is one of the things I love about you most.'

'So you love me, do you?  Despite the dangers?'

'I've forgotten the dangers.  And I can't help but love you.'

'I wonder what other rooms are hidden away down that hall?' asked Starsky.  'Perhaps there is a room with a bed?'

'Is that what you want?' Hutchinson asked.

'That's what I want,' Starsky told him.  'You may continue to court me. But let's take our clothes off first.  I'm feeling rather warm.'

Hutchinson's face hurt, and his vision was blurry, but he managed to smile at Starsky, and follow him deeper into the mysterious recesses of his own home.

*****************

Hutchinson followed Starsky as he prowled the hallway, opening door after door and shaking his head, until they reached the final chamber. Starsky tried the door, but it didn't open.  He looked at Hutchinson, with a grin.

'Bluebeard's Chamber?' he asked.

'It could be,' said Hutchinson.  'Do you dare to open it?'

'There is no door I fear to open,' his love told him.  He reached into his pocket for his burglar tools, and tried several picks before the wards tumbled, and the lock gave way.

'The moment of truth,' said Starsky.  He pushed the door open, and turned on the gas.  Hutch lit a match, and the chamber filled with light.  'I feel at home,' said Starsky.  'Do you?'

Most of the furniture was hidden by dust covers, and Starsky strode about, pulling them off.  There was a bed, an ornate four poster from a previous era.

'I would imagine the bed isn't made,' said Hutchinson.  'We'll have to look for sheets.'

'There are sheets in this chest here,' said Starsky.  He bent down to the chest at the foot of the bed, and arose with his arms full of sheets and blankets.  He tossed them at Hutchinson.  They smelled of lavender and other mysterious herbs.  'Have you ever made a bed?' he asked.

'I don't believe I ever have,' Hutchinson told him.  'My education was in things other than housework.'

'Your education was sorely lacking.  I do not care for housework, myself, but sometimes it is necessary.'

The man began to strip the coverlet from the bed, and shake out the dust.  He coughed.
'We need to open a window,' he said.  'Unless you believe night air to be dangerous?'

'I haven't found it to be so,' Hutchinson told him.  He opened the curtains, and struggled with the window sash.  By the time the window was open, and fresh night air was flowing in, Starsky had the bed made. In a fashion.

'It's not very neat,' he said.  'My mother would not approve.  But we are only going to unmake it, and soon enough.  My mother would not approve of that, either.'  He lay down on the bed, his head propped against the mahogany headboard.

'Would you stop talking about your mother?' Hutchinson begged.  'I don't appreciate her presence here in our bedchamber.'

'Our bedchamber.  Yes.  Come to bed,' Starsky ordered.

Hutchinson started walking toward the bed.  This did not frighten him. This he understood.  The terrifying moments had passed, in which their souls had touched, and caressed.  They had kissed, and made love to each other, if only briefly.  He wanted more of that, but if Starsky wanted his body, that was easy to give.  He began to undo his trousers, watching Starsky's face.  Then he stopped in confusion, his hands shaking.  Had he misunderstood?  Starsky's face had grown distant.

His love was off the bed, and in his arms, within a heartbeat.  His hands caressed Hutchinson's shoulders, and stroked down his back.

'Slowly,' Starsky whispered in his ear.  'Save the best part for last.'

'The best part?' Hutchinson asked.  All was well.  Starsky did want him.

'Yes.  The best part.  The most beautiful.  I want to see that, but slowly.'

Starsky drew him to the bed, a step at a time.  It was like a game, thought Hutchinson.  A mysterious game, whose rules he had not learnt. This was truly unlike his hurried couplings in the brothels, and the back alleys, where he had discovered that his body could be a source of pleasure, and not only a housing for his mind, and something to be subdued into obedience.
He let Starsky undress him.  Starsky's hands were loving, and he showed his pleasure at each new revelation of Hutchinson's body.  Jacques was always professional, knowing that his master would have allowed nothing else.  This was personal, an act of  love.  An act of sight, and touch, and arousal.

'Your skin is so soft,' said Starsky.  'And you're shivering.  Is it too cold in the room?'

The chamber had been shut up for some time, and the window was open, letting in the night air, but Hutchinson was not cold. He thought he would never be cold again, and he said so.  'Are you cold?' he asked Starsky.  'May I take off some of your clothing?'

'I have been hoping you would.'

'I've seen you naked before,' he told Starsky.

'I remember.'

'But not this close.'

'I wanted to be closer, but we were interrupted.  That was not the right time.  This time is better.'

Hutchinson wove his fingers through the dense hair on Starsky's chest. The warm smell of Starsky's sweat was making him dizzy.  Images of remembered acts of sexual intercourse were tumbling in his mind, like the wards of the lock, waiting for the right combination, so the lock would open.   The right key, in the right lock, he thought.  That has never happened yet, but soon it will.  Starsky was pushing him back among the sheets, pulling off his boots, taking off his own boots.  Hutchinson laughed.  'Did you make those boots?' he asked.

'Stop talking about boots,' said Starsky.  'I don't want to think about bookmaking in our bedchamber.  Now you may show me this work of art that is your penis, that has only met with approval from all who have seen it.  I would think so much praise would give it a swelled head.'

'I didn't say it met only with praise,' Hutchinson admitted, opening his trousers obediently.  'Merely that it has had no complaints.'

'I can see why,' Starsky told him.

'So, you agree there is nothing to complain of?' asked Hutchinson.

'No.  In truth, I approve.'

'That is a relief.'

Starsky laughed, and reached for Hutchinson's trousers to tug them off.  His hands met Hutchinson's, and they struggled for a moment over who would perform this task.  Hutchinson gave up, and lifted his hips, so Starsky could finish stripping him.  As Starsky pulled his trousers past his feet, he tickled one of them, and Hutchinson gasped in surprise.  Starsky repeated the action, and Hutchinson scrambled back, out of the way of those wicked hands.

'Oh, no you don't.  Come back here.'  Starsky grabbed one of his ankles, and tried to pull him back. 'Ah, mon Dieu!  You are heavy.  Where do you keep all that weight?  Here?'  

Starsky's strong, work-worn hand closed around his penis, and Hutchinson sighed.  He closed his eyes, and let his love caress him.  This was peace, peaceful pleasure, simple and direct.  He had never understood those who called sex filthy and degrading.  It was a mere joining of bodies for a brief respite from toil, and struggle, and pain.  Why did people fear it so?  

Love was superlative beauty, this he knew from his one previous experience of it.  Love was beauty, yes, and it was pain.  When you loved, you opened yourself to the most boundless opportunities for joy, and for sorrow.  It was best not to do it too often.  He had loved one person, before he met Starsky.  There would be no others.

What happened when love joined forces with sex? Hutchinson had never experienced such a fusion, but he could  imagine that the possibilities for joy and sorrow increased exponentially.  Nevertheless, he was resolved to this enterprise.  Indeed, it seemed he had little choice.

'Hutch!  Are you thinking?'

'Yes.'

'Why?  Am I boring you?' asked Starsky.

'Not at all.  I was thinking you were wondrous.  Those callouses on your hands.  I love what they do to my senses.  They are an aphrodisiac.'

'A what?'

'Something that increases pleasure.'

'I have something that will increase your pleasure,' said Starsky.  He sat up, and began to unbutton his trousers.

'Isn't that my job?' asked Hutchinson.  

'No.  Your job is to rest, and to enjoy, and to let me do the work.  I am of the working class, remember?'

'So am I, in a way.  I am a police officer.'

'But this is your day off,' said Starsky.  'I heard your boss tell you so, and threaten to shoot you if you went in to work.  Thus, I am here to see that you spend your time in bed.'

'I see.  This is a conspiracy. I am being conspired against,'  Hutchinson complained.

'You are being forced to enjoy yourself, so you might as well surrender.'  

Starsky finished removing his trousers, revealing strong legs, covered in dark, curly hair, like his chest.  His penis was already hard and erect, and Hutchinson reached for it, feeling his mouth water, and his loins tremble with desire.   Starsky crawled up the bed, to lie beside him.  They curled around each other, pressing their naked bodies close.  Starsky's penis touched his own, and they began to move,  pressing closer, rubbing against each other, enjoying the warmth of flesh, and the hardness of bone, and the soft, velvety touch of skin.

He searched for Starsky's mouth, and found it quickly.  They kissed, clinging to each other, Starsky wrapping his legs around Hutchinson's thighs, letting Hutchinson thrust his penis between his own thighs.  He could feel Starsky's rough hair, and his strong muscles. His penis rubbed against Starsky's testicles.  He gasped, and Starsky thrust his tongue into his mouth, mimicking the act of intercourse.  He had seen other people do this, but no one had ever had the audacity to try it with him.  His refusal to allow even a kiss had ensured that.   That refusal had been wise, he thought.  Such transcendent pleasure should only be shared with the one you loved above all others.

Starsky's hands were taking liberties as well, and Hutchinson let them.  This was his love, the one he would die for, he thought.  His hands must be licensed to go wherever they pleased.  He rolled Starsky over on his back, and thrust down into the warm channel of his thighs.  Starsky thrust his tongue into his mouth over and over, and all the while his hands were stroking up and down his back, going lower with each stroke, until at last they reached their final destination.  He felt one of Starsky's fingers touch that last, secret place where no one else had ever touched him, and the pleasure was finally too much.  His body shuddered with that pleasure.  He watched his lover's face twist with the pleasure he felt in his own bones.  Then he closed his eyes, and let the storm take him where it would.


******************************

He wanted to stay in the harbour, but the bowline broke, and the ship began to run before the wind, as her sails filled.  He took the tiller, and steered her safely out toward the open sea, keeping the wind over his shoulder, and taking care not to gybe her, lest the boom swing round and sweep him from the deck.

The current was demonic, and it tried to wrench control of the tiller from him, but strong hands, hands that he knew, closed over his own, adding their own command to obey.  The ship stayed  on course.

'Now you're talking!' he told the old girl.  

They were far from sight of land now, and the creatures that lived beneath the surface of the wine-dark sea began to rise.  Dolphins leapt over his bow.  Whales spouted, and drenched him with sea water.  A giant squid tossed its tentacles across the deck, as if about to board.

'Where are we headed?' asked the beloved voice in his ear.

'Straight as the crow flies,' he answered.  'Toward the New World.'

'That has been discovered, and explored already.'

'Not so.  Not this New World.'

He leaned back, against a strong shoulder, and closed his eyes.  'Keep watch,'  he said,  'Tell me if you sight land.'

'I will,' said the voice.  And he slept.

He felt a warm, familiar hand shake his shoulder.  'Wake up.  Is that land, or only a cloud on the horizon?'

'It is land,' he answered.  'Keep an eye out for a safe harbour.  I do not know this country, and I am no pilot.'

The land was green, and the sun shone upon it, and the scent of its forests was enticing. They found a quiet inlet and dropped anchor, then disembarked, and walked upon white sand, leaving their footprints where none had walked before.

Above them, on a high ridge, a woman appeared, riding a fine white horse.  Her golden hair flowed behind her in the wind.  She saw them, and rode down the hill toward them.  Her face was veiled, but he knew her nonetheless.

'Mother!' he said.  'Here is where you have been hiding.  I knew I would find you.'

She lifted her veil, and showed him her face.  Tired and worn with trouble, and wet with tears, and yet she smiled.  

'I see you have a companion, at last,' she said.

'Yes,' he told her.  'Meet the one who rules my heart.  Though the world would not approve, yet I will travel with him, and only with him.'

'Pay no mind to the approval of the world,' she said.  'For that is false coinage.  But wed your Love to Reason, and heed its counsel.'

'I will,' he said.  'I will protect him, as I could not you.  I am a man now, and no one shall hurt him.  I would guard him with my life.'

'Do so,' she said.  'But guard yourself as well, for many depend upon you.  And you must leave these shores, and return home.  You cannot stay, for you would easily become lost in the green forests.'

'Would that be such a hardship?' he asked.

'Ask that of the one you love,' she answered.  'You said he rules your heart.'

'Shall we return, or become lost in the green forests?' he asked.

'Return,' the loved voice told him.  'But slowly.  Let us take our time, and enjoy the sea, and the leaping dolphins.  We have the time for that.'

'As you will,' he told his love.

They embarked once more, and the rise and fall of the sea soothed him, and he slept.


**********************

He was happy and contented to drift for a time upon strange seas, but at last he opened his eyes, and saw that he had come back to land.  The place beside him in the bed was empty, but when he sat up and looked around, he saw that his companion had not left him alone, but was sitting by a lit fire, reading.  Starsky must have heard him stir, or perhaps some other sense alerted him, for he looked up and smiled.

'Good afternoon,' he said.

'Afternoon?  Is it so late?'

'Yes, but you had nothing more to do with your time than sleep, remember? Well, that and a few other things.'

'How could I forget, since everyone reminds me?'

Starsky lifted a teapot, invitingly.  'It is afternoon,' he said.  'And so we are having afternoon tea.'

'Are we?'  Hutchinson pushed the covers back, in an invitation of his own.

Starsky laughed.  'You are beautiful, my love, and I want you again very soon, but I need some refreshment.  Come, share it with me.  I'm not running away.'

'Well, if you are sure.'

'I am.'

Starsky looked at him with a sort of awe, as he climbed out of bed, and wrapped a sheet around himself.

'What is it?' Hutchinson asked him, and Starsky smiled, wryly.

'When I came to England, some of my friends told me that English people were cold, cold as the wet winds of autumn, cold as your famous London fog.  They had not met you, I think.  You would be a revelation.'

'Ah. So you do not find me cold?'

'No.  At first, you appear to be so, but you provide a warm and hospitable welcome, once the door is opened.'

'And you are a master burglar.  Admit it.'

'I am a master burglar.  But have some tea.'

'What did you do?' asked Hutchinson as he buttered a muffin, and spread it with homemade jam. 'Raid the pantry?'

'No need.  Your servant, what is his name?  Jeffreys?'

'He is my butler, and would resent being referred to as my servant.'

'I'm sorry,' said Starsky, though he did not look sorry at all.  'Your butler knocked on the door some hours ago.  I was afraid, wondering how he would react to the sight of you, naked in bed, and me, half dressed and with such bruises on my neck....'

'Bruises?  What bruises?  Dear God!  Did I give you those?'

'Who else?  I was not so deranged with lust as not to know who was in bed with me biting my neck, whatever your Reverend Partington might think.'

'He's not my Reverend Partington,' said Hutchinson.  'Do they hurt?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Why? I liked it,' said Starsky.  'But your butler took my disreputable appearance in his stride.  He asked if we needed anything, and I told him the room was cold.  He brought firewood, and breakfast for me.  And then more firewood, and luncheon for me.  And then more firewood, and afternoon tea, for both of us this time.  The quantity of the firewood, and the quality of the food, increases with each visit.  He seemed impressed that you were sleeping so long, and I think his opinion of me has risen.'

'So has mine,' said Hutchinson.  'When can we stop eating and go back to bed?'

'When I've had enough to eat,' Starsky told him.

'You've had breakfast and luncheon and afternoon tea.  You must have put on ten pounds sitting here by the fire eating all that food.  Aren't you satisfied yet?'

Starsky stared at him, with heavily lidded eyes. 'You have lost your wits,' he said.  'If you think I've been doing nothing all this time but sitting by the fire, eating.  I've lost count of the number of times I've asked you if you're satisfied yet.  If I'm hungry, it's with good reason.'

Hutchinson sighed.  He stood up, and let the sheet drop.  'Come back to bed,' he told him.  'And bring the food with you.  I'll make it worth your while.'


**********************


Hutch opened the library door, and bowed Starsky inside.  'This is my favourite room,' he told him.

Starsky laughed.  'From the way you acted last night, I would have thought this your least favourite room.  Or I your least favourite person.  It seemed you didn't want me here.'

'I wanted you here,' said Hutch.  'I wanted you here too much.'

'Because you wanted me?' Starsky asked.

'That was one reason,' said Hutchinson.  'This room holds many memories.'

'I thought you have lived here only one year.'

'I have.  The memories are in the contents of the room.  The piano.  The portrait of my mother.  And some of the books I've read so often, it seemed that if you only looked at them, you would see the dreams they led me to.'

'There are so many books,' said Starsky.  'Thousands of books.  You have had thousands of dreams?'

'Yes.'

'Most of them are in languages I cannot read, so how can I discover your dreams?  Will you tell me of them?' Starsky asked.

'If you like,' said Hutchinson.   'Here are some books in French.  You read that language, do you not?'

'Fairly well.  Monsieur Lecoq by Emile Gaboriau.  What is that about, please?'

'It is about a detective, who solves a mystery.  It is quite good.'

Starsky opened the book, and settled in a chair to read.  Hutch sat down across from him, and watched his face.  They had dressed for dinner, and been quite formal in the dining room.  At some time during the day, Starsky had apparently sent a message to his mother, informing her that he was staying with his friend one more night.  

'Just so she will not imagine I have been murdered by your Jack the Ripper,' Starsky had told him.

'He's not my Jack the Ripper.  And already I tire of the name.'

'I love my mother, but she worries about me as if I were a child,' Starsky had complained.

'Mothers do that,' Hutchinson had answered.

Starsky seemed to notice that Hutchinson was watching him.  He put the book down, and smiled.  'Do you want to go back upstairs?' he asked.  

Hutchinson felt himself blushing.  'Not for a while,' he said.  'I don't want you to think that I'm sexually depraved.'

'My love,' said Starsky.  'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but it's too late.  I have discovered the truth already.'

'I've been thinking,' said Hutchinson.

'Oh, no.'

'I must tell you something, first. And then I have a question to ask you.  And then I will tell you my plan.'

'Is this a conversation, or a military operation?'

'A military operation, so be quiet and listen.  I must tell you that I love you, that I admire you, and greatly esteem you.  These feelings are permanent, and not contingent upon your answer to my question.'

'Contingent?' asked Starsky.

'Contingent.  Dependent.  Your answer will not change my estimation of you.'

'I see.  And what is this question?'

Hutchinson took a deep breath.  'Did you enjoy last night?' he asked.

Starsky laughed.  'How could you doubt that I did?' he asked in turn.

'But how much did you enjoy it?  Would you like to repeat the experience?'

'As often as possible,' Starsky told him.  'But how often will that be?'

'That is what I have been asking myself,' said Hutchinson.  'That is what I have been planning.'

'Planning it like a military operation?'

'Oh, yes.  And this operation is even more dangerous than one dedicated to a war. You must understand that I would die before I would allow you to be harmed.  And if it were known that we had lain together, you could be sent to prison, and might die there.  Two years of hard labour.  It has been a death sentence for many men.'

'Your servants know we lay together,' said Starsky.

'Don't worry about my servants.  There is not one of them who would betray me, for any amount of money.'

'You are so certain of them?' Starsky asked.

'More than certain.  For two reasons.  Love.  And fear.  They love me, and they fear me as well.'

'Your valet, Jacques?' asked Starsky.

'What of him?' said Hutchinson.

'I think he loves you more than he fears you.  Have you ever lain with him?'

'No.  He is my servant.  I don't abuse my servants.'

'Would he consider it abuse?'

'Perhaps not.  But I would.  I have power over him, and over all my servants, beyond what most employers hold.'

'Why?' asked Starsky.

'I could send them to prison, or to Australia, or even to the gallows.  All of them, at one time or another, have committed far worse crimes than gross indecency.  With the exception of Jeffreys, I mean.  All I have to do with him, is remind him of my father, and all my sins are forgiven me.'

'You blackmail your servants?' asked Starsky.

'At least once a week. Then, I make it up to them, and they love me again.  I'm telling you this, so that you will know what sort of person I am.  Do you still want me?'

Starsky got up from his chair, and came to sit on Hutchinson's lap. He bent down, and kissed him, gently.

'What does that mean?' Hutchinson asked him.  Starsky kissed him again, more deeply this time.

'It means that I still want you,' he said. 'Now, what is this plan of yours?  And does it come with a map?'


********************

It was rare these days for such a perfect opportunity for judicial blackmail to simply fall into his lap, thought Hutchinson.  Usually he was forced to search for one, but this particular instance appeared, almost as he walked in through the door of Scotland Yard.  At first, he scarcely understood what it was he was overhearing.  But one of the other Inspectors saw him, and called him over.

'What do you think, Hutchinson?' asked Barclay.

'Of what?' he answered.

'The inscription, of course.  Do you think it really was Jack the Ripper, or just a hoax?'

'I haven't decided,' said Hutchinson, with perfect truth.  'What is your opinion?'

'I think it was a hoax, designed to stir up hatred toward the Jews.  But we cannot know, can we?  That was an act of stupidity, to wipe it off, however well intentioned Sir Charles was.'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson, slowly. 'If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have something important to see to.'

As he walked to Chief Inspector Swanson's office, he let a practised rage fill him.  He was incapable of feeling violent emotions, for the most part.  True anger, fear, fierce passion -- all were beyond him. But he could do a passable job of pretence.

Swanson was leaving his office, as Hutchinson arrived. 'Excuse me, sir.  I need to speak with you.'

'Not right now, Inspector.  I'm busy,' said Swanson.

'Too busy?  What am I?  The janitor?  The ratcatcher?  When was I demoted?  Yesterday when I wasn't here, and you are just getting around to making the announcement?  Or did that happen earlier, and no one bothered to inform me?'

'I beg your pardon, Inspector Hutchinson?'

'Well, it's about time, but I'm not sure if I feel like granting it.'

'Come into my office, Inspector, and explain your remarks, if you please.'

'I do please, sir.  In fact I will feel great pleasure in clarifying my remarks at some length.'

'I see, sir.  Far from being demoted, sir, it appears that you are now my superior officer, sir, and I am required to answer to you. Sir.'

'No, sir.  Not required.  But one would think common decency dictated that you keep even such an lowly underling as myself informed about the developments in a case on which he has been working night and day for weeks.  Merely so that he doesn't appear to be an idiot when he hears others discussing these developments as if they were common knowledge, you understand.'

'I find it difficult to believe that you ever appear to be an idiot, Inspector,' Swanson observed.

'Well, if I did not appear to be one, at least I felt like one,' said Hutchinson.

'That must have been a new experience for you, and it was my understanding that you sought out new experiences.'

'Is that what you understand, sir?  You see me as someone who has always had their own way, is that it?'

'Well, no....'

'Someone who has been spoiled and imagines himself superior to all around him?  I remember you said something like that to me once or twice.  Now, you wish to take me down a peg or two.  Cut me out of the herd, and slaughter me?'

'Really, Inspector!'

'Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, sir,' Hutchinson allowed, with a forgiving smile.  'But you did keep information from me, did you not?'

'Nothing important, Hutchinson.  And not from any desire to plot against you.  At first, I wasn't aware that you were ignorant of the matter. You did visit the second murder site, did you not?'

'Briefly, sir.  But my main focus was on the first one.  It was my hope that the murderer, having been interrupted in his grisly work, might have made a mistake.  So, when another inspector showed up at the second site, I returned to the first.  Why?  Is that where this inscription was found?'

'So you do know nothing of it?'

'Yes. I know nothing.  Does that gratify your base desire to see me humbled, sir?'

Swanson stared at Hutchinson with bemusement.   'You are a genius at this sort of thing, are you not?  Just what is it that you want, Inspector Hutchinson?'

'First of all, I would like to know what this bloody inscription is.  Sir.'

'It was written on a wall, near the second victim.  "The Jews are the men who will not be blamed for nothing."  Hardly deathless prose, is it, Inspector?  Perhaps that is why I forgot to mention it to you, knowing of your elevated literary tastes.'

'Is that all, sir?' asked Hutchinson.

'That was the entirety of the message.  We have no idea who wrote it.  I doubt it was Jack the Ripper.'

'But now we will never know, sir.  So why was it erased?'

'Sir Charles thought it might lead to a pogrom.'

'I see,' said Hutchinson.  'The word "Jews" written near a murder victim.  Proof positive it is a Jew who is the murderer.  So let us, by all means, go forth and slaughter all the Jews.'

'It is an historical fact that humans have slaughtered each other with less reason.'

'Granted, sir.'

'Good. Now, are you satisfied?' asked Swanson. 'What's funny?'

'Nothing, sir. And no, I'm not.  Why was the existence of this inscription kept from me?'

'As I started to tell you, at first I was unaware of your ignorance. Then, I didn't tell you, because to be quite blunt, Hutchinson, I was afraid to.  By Monday, you didn't look all that much healthier than one of Jack the Ripper's victims.  You look much more rested now.'

'Thank you, sir.  I would appreciate it, if in future, you didn't attempt to coddle me.  And I have another request, sir.'

'Ah!  We are getting to the point of this conversation, are we?'

'Yes, sir.  I am unhappy with the way this investigation is proceeding, sir.'

'Who isn't, Hutchinson?'

'Jack the Ripper, for one, sir.  I would like to try something new.  I feel I am making no headway working alone.  I would like to put together a team.'

'A team, Hutchinson?  What sort of team?'

'You remember the meeting at my house the other night?  The meeting at which you neglected to mention the inscription to me?'

'Ah, yes,' said Swanson. 'That meeting.'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.    'A few of those men would be useful on the team.  Freud perhaps.  Doctor Winston.  That man from the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.  David Starsky.  He lives in the area, and can communicate with many of the residents who don't speak English.'

'I see. Is that all?'

'No. I'd like to attach a few of the more intelligent constables to the team.  Teach them some detective skills.'

'Hmm.  Granted.  Go find some intelligent constables.  I'll leave that daunting task in your more than capable hands.  Now, please get out of my office, and let me get back to work.'

'Of course, sir.  Sorry to bother you, sir.'

'Don't make me laugh, Hutchinson.  The shock to my system might be fatal.'


**********************


'I do not believe them.  The idiots!'  Hutchinson stormed.  'I keep telling them the crime site must be secured, that everything in the surrounding area is potential evidence, until proven otherwise, and must be preserved.  And what do they do when they discover potential evidence?  Destroy it!  For altruistic reasons, but specious reasons at the same time.  How can we catch this murderer, if we throw evidence away with such profligacy?'

Hutchinson realized he'd been speaking for some time in English, a language his audience did not understand. 'I am sorry,' he said.  'I don't know what came over me.'

And truly he did not.  His outburst to Swanson that morning had been carefully judged to make the right impression.  This had been a loss of control, a breaching of the dam that now seemed a bit frightening.  'I've been ranting for over an hour,' he said.  'Please forgive me.'

'Ah.  There is nothing to forgive, Monsieur Hutchinson,' said Madame Starsky.  'I think you show very fine feelings, to be so concerned.  And though I do not understand this evidence of which you speak, or why it is so important, I can see it is important to you.  You may speak, and I will listen.'

'You are most kind,' said Hutchinson.

'Not at all, Hutch,' said David Starsky.  He had sat quietly, throughout Hutchinson's speech, with a gentle smile.  His eyes had been deep and dark, his presence calming, despite the undercurrent of desire between them.  'My mother is merely accustomed to listening to men talk about their own troubles, and making soothing noises.  We are Russian, besides.   We are passionate, and hot blooded, unlike you cold, unemotional English.  When I was growing up, a stubbed toe was a tragedy worthy of an oration.'

'Indeed?' asked Hutchinson, in English.

'Yes, indeed,' said Starsky, in the same tongue.  'But explain to me why this inscription was so important?' he continued, in French.

'It is not the inscription itself that is important, as far as I can tell.  It is the fact that we do not know what its significance is, and now it has been destroyed.  I am in despair that the police will ever act in a rational manner.'

Madame Starsky smiled, and lifted the teapot.  'Tea?' she asked, in English.

'Yes, thank you, Madame,' said Hutchinson.

'You are very welcome,' she answered, slowly and carefully.

Hutchinson smiled, approvingly. 'The weather is very chilly, is it not?' he asked.

Madame Starsky thought for a moment.  'Chilly?' she asked, at last.

'Chilly,' said Hutchinson.  He shivered and hugged himself.  'A little cold.'

'Ah!  Chilly.  Yes.  It is chilly.'

'But the tea is hot.'

Madame Starsky laughed, easily. 'Chilly weather.  Hot tea,' she said.

Hutchinson switched back to French.  'You say you came from Russia?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'Years ago, when I was a boy.  We still speak the language, though.  We moved to Poland for a short time, but never learned Polish properly.  Or German.  Many of the Jews here are from Germany.  They speak German.'

'This is interesting.  Do you have a common language.  Hebrew, perhaps?'

'Hebrew, but not for everyday.  We speak Yiddish, for that.'

'Yiddish?  Yet another language.  Russian, Polish, German, French, Yiddish.'

'What a mishmash, yes.'

'Mishmash?'

'Mixture.  A messy mixture.  There!  Your first Yiddish word.'

Hutchinson laughed with delight.  Starsky's foot touched his lightly under the table, as if by accident.  Joy filled him.  He smiled at Starsky.  'I spoke to Swanson,' he said.  'He has agreed that you can help me on this case.'

'So soon?' asked Starsky.

'Yes.  Is that not convenient for you?  I do not want to pressure you.'

'I don't mind pressure,' said Starsky.  'It is quite convenient. I did not expect this so soon, is all I meant. What did you do?  Blackmail him?'

'David!' said Madame Starsky.  'Do not be so rude to our guest.'

'I don't mind David's rudeness,' said Hutchinson.  'I like it.  But I am beginning to set up my team of investigators.  You will be paid a small fee for helping me.  Not as much as I would have liked, but something to compensate you for your time, so that you will not have to work with me, and come home to make boots, merely so that you may eat.'

'That is very kind of you, Monsieur Hutchinson,' said Madame Starsky.

'Not at all. It is very selfish of me,' Hutchinson told her.

'You are becoming selfish?' asked  Starsky.

'I'm afraid so,' said Hutchinson.

Starsky smiled.  'That is good,' he said.


*********************

'The moment I saw you, I knew,' said Starsky.  'You, my dear love, are a shnook.'

'Indeed?' asked Hutchinson.

'Yes, indeed.'

'I see.  And what is a shnook?  It doesn't sound too complimentary.'

'A shnook is someone who allows themselves to be used.  They are always trying to help others, and always being hurt. Am I right?'

'No. I don't think so.'

'You have servants, and some of them have committed crimes worthy of the gallows, and they have the run of your house.  You are wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, and you walk the streets,  looking for murderers, and thieves.  What word would you use to describe yourself?' Starsky asked.

'That is not for me to say,' Hutchinson informed him.

'No.  It is for me to say, and I have said it.  You are a shnook.  But you are lucky.  You have found me, and I am not a shnorrer.  A shnorrer is someone who uses others.  I will not use you.'

'Please use me.  You may use me, until I am all used up. I am yours.'

'Well, then, I will use you, but I will allow you to use me.  I am yours in return.'

Hutchinson had sent his driver, Higgins, off with some money, and orders not to get into too much trouble with it.

'At least nothing I can't buy you out of,' he told him.  'Don't murder anyone important, or steal anything identifiable.  Understood?'

Higgins had laughed.  'Thanks, Guv'nor.  I'll see you in the morning.'

'I hope so,' said Hutchinson.

'He'll end the night drunk in a whorehouse,' Starsky had pointed out.

'What of it?' Hutchinson had asked.  'That's a sight better than the way I used to end my nights.'

Now, Hutchinson was driving them back to his villa, and Starsky was teaching him Yiddish.

'You aren't only a shnook, though.  You are also a mentsh.  An admirable person.  And a kemfer.  A fighter.'

'So are you,' said Hutchinson.  'Shall we fight the world together?'

'I would be honoured,' said Starsky.

St. John's Wood Road was quiet.  No other carriages passed them, and Starsky rested his hand on Hutchinson's thigh.  It was warm, and strong. The callused fingers were long and slender, and Hutchinson remembered them, twisting inside him, opening him, making him ready for Starsky's penis.

'Talk to me,' he ordered.  'Or I might drive us off the road.'

'Perhaps you shouldn't have sent Higgins away,' Starsky suggested.

'No.  I wanted to be alone with you.  To drive with you under the stars. But talk to me.'

'What would have happened, if I hadn't found you?  Someone else might have come along. Someone who wanted to shtup you, and take your money, and hurt you.  It gives me nightmares.'

'I am not so stupid.  Is that what you think of me?'

'Stupid?  No.  But kind, and pure, and filled with need to help people. It makes you vulnerable.'

'I know,' said Hutchinson.  'That is what my father taught me.  He taught me to use other people, to treat them like dirt under my feet, because they were poor, and I was rich.'

'I am not telling you to do that,' said Starsky.  'I admire you. You are a mentsh. But you can go too far the other way.'

'We're almost home,' said Hutchinson.  'Some day soon, I want this to be your home, too.  I do not like you living in that place.  It isn't safe. It isn't clean.  There are too many rats.'

'I would like to live with you,' said Starsky. 'But I will not live off you.'

'Don't worry about that.  I have my plan, remember?'

Jeffreys greeted them at the door, and took their coats.

'Mr. Starsky will be staying overnight again, Jeffreys,'  Hutchinson told him.  'We'd like some supper, in the library.  And a good breakfast in the morning.  Other than that, I can't think of anything we need.'

'Yes, sir,' said Jeffreys.  He opened the library door for them, and went off to arrange for the supper.

Hutchinson closed the door, and leaned his back against it.

'Oh, come here,' he said.

'Is that wise?' asked Starsky.  'Your butler will be back soon.'

'I must taste you,' said Hutchinson.  'It has been hours since I tasted you.  Please!'

Starsky came to him, and offered his mouth to be tasted.  Hutchinson pushed him away after a long taste, and regarded him sternly.

'When supper arrives,' he told him.  'Eat it quickly.  I don't have the patience for a protracted meal.  I had Jeffreys stock our chamber with biscuits and such things, in case you find yourself starving in the night.  Any questions?'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'What sort of biscuits?'

'Mouldy old sea biscuits, full of maggots.  Ah!  Here's Jeffreys now. You have ten minutes, and I'm counting.'


*****************************

'Jacques was valet to the son and heir of a great dynasty.   He became enamoured of his master, and his master of him.  Their attachment was discovered, and Jacques was thrown out into the streets, with nothing but the clothes on his back.  He lived by prostitution, and by theft. One night, I caught him breaking into a house to steal.  He told me his story, and I confirmed it.  His former lover told me he was a good man, and I believed him.  So, I hired him as my own valet.  He has behaved impeccably ever since.'

They were resting in bed, after a long, delicious bout of love.  Hutchinson felt raw and exposed, in body, mind and spirit.  Starsky's words, that he was a shnook, still rankled. Shnook, he thought. What sort of name was that, to call your lover?  He hadn't called Starsky names.  Yet. Was he truly such a fool?  Did his lover see him as unable to conduct his own affairs without a keeper?

'Marie killed her husband.  She did it quite cleverly, and made it look as if he was killed by an intruder, but I discovered the truth.  She told me that he beat her, and abused her.  I confirmed her story, and covered up the truth, saving her from the gallows. Unfortunately, she was left destitute by her husband's death.  His nearest male relative inherited everything.  So, I hired her as one of my servants.'

'You are very kind,' said Starsky.  'You are a mentsh.'  He stroked Hutchinson's hair, and ran one finger the length of his nose, teasingly.

Hutchinson smiled, and felt at peace again.  It had been many years since he had desired anyone's approval, and strove to achieve it.

'I still think you are a shnook, but....'

Hutch sat up, and pushed Starsky down on his back.  He straddled Starsky's thighs, and glowered down at his lover, in his most intimidating manner.  Starsky managed not to appear intimidated.

'What names shall I call you?' Hutchinson asked him.

'What names do you want to call me?' Starsky asked in his turn.

'I don't know,' Hutchinson admitted.  'You are my love, the one who rules my heart.  I am helpless, when I am in your arms.  You reduced me to this state, with one glance from your eyes.  What should I name you?  Demon?  Wizard? Magician?'

'I like those names,' said Starsky.  He twisted in Hutchinson's arms, and flipped him over on his back.  Now, it was Starsky who had Hutchinson at his mercy.  'I am a magician,' he said.  'I am able to make large objects disappear. Watch!'  

Starsky slid down Hutchinson's body, until he knelt between his thighs.  Hutchinson wrapped his legs around Starsky's shoulders, and watched, as Starsky bent down, and took his penis into his sweet mouth.  Slowly, so slowly.  

'You are a magician,' Hutchinson said, and then, he could only gasp, and shiver, and moan Starsky's name.  

You are a torturer, besides, Hutchinson thought.  This bed is like the bed of Procrustes, and I am too short, so you stretch me to fit.  What will I become, under your tender, implacable hands?  Already, I cannot imagine living without this expression of love.  All day long, my mind was reaching out to you, across the City, calling to your mind, making assignations with your thoughts, planning what to do when next we met.  What will I do, if I seek you with my mind, and you don't answer?

Starsky let go of his penis, with a loud smacking sound.  Hutchinson cried out in reproach.

'You are thinking again,' said Starsky.

'That is my business,' Hutchinson told him.  

'Oh, no,' said Starsky.  'I am not one of your anonymous whores.'

'What?' asked Hutchinson, truly outraged.  'Who said such a thing?  Not I.  I was thinking nothing of the sort.'

'What were you thinking?'

Hutchinson was silent.

'Were you thinking that I am dangerous, because you can't control me?  I cannot be blackmailed, or ignored, or put in my place, like everyone else in your life?'

Hutchinson reached out, and touched Starsky's mouth.  'I wouldn't want to do those things,' he said.  'I am glad that such things are not possible.'

'But I frighten you,' said Starsky.  'I see it in your eyes.'

'What else do you see in my eyes?' Hutchinson asked him.

Starsky gazed intently into his eyes, as if studying each facet of iris, each point of reflected light.  'I see myself,' he said at last.  'I see my own soul.'

'Is that what you see, when you look at me?' Hutchinson asked.  'Then where am I?  If you see yourself in me, where am I?'

'Here,' said Starsky.  He took Hutchinson's hand, and placed it over his own heart.  'You are here, in me.'

'And when you disappear, so will I,' Hutchinson whispered.  'I will be nothing.'

'Hutch. I am not going anywhere,' Starsky whispered back.  'Feel me. I'm solid enough, am I not?'

Starsky pushed him back among the pillows, and covered him with his own body, as if he were a quilt.  His strong thighs formed a warm channel for Hutchinson to thrust into. His kisses and caresses drove away all fear.  In between the kisses, he murmured sweet love words, and assurances, and praise of Hutchinson's beauty, and strength and manly prowess.  Hutchinson feasted on all this sensual pleasure,  grasping at Starsky's muscular arms, and powerful back, twining his legs with Starsky's own, as if to prevent his escape.  At last, he was overwhelmed, and reached completion.  He tumbled into a maelstrom of ecstatic joy, knowing that his companion was there with him.

It might have been hours, or mere moments, when he awoke from his light doze, and opened his eyes.  Truly the passage of time did not matter, when Starsky was with him.  He smiled at his lover, out of the peace from which he emerged.

'What is it?' Starsky asked.  'You seem amused.'

'I am amused,' he answered.  He tried to find the words to express his amusement.  'I am discovering strange worlds indeed.  This.  Between us.'  He indicated their naked state, the closeness of the fit of their bodies.

'You find that amusing?' asked Starsky.  But he appeared amused as well, and not at all offended.

'It is like nothing I have ever known, and yes, it is amusing.  The excessiveness of it.  When one connects with a stranger, in the dark, and does not permit true intimacy, it is simple, and direct, a drive toward orgasm, and then withdrawal.'

'And you are accustomed to that?'

'I have never known anything else.  I told you so.'

'I remember, but I don't understand.  Why?  Why have you denied yourself what you so obviously needed and longed for?'

'I don't know if I could explain,' said Hutchinson.  'Not in any way that you would understand.'

'Try,' said Starsky.  And how could Hutchinson disobey a command issuing from the Realm of Love?

'I had not any experience of  love before I met you,' he told his lover. 'But I knew of love's existence, and of its properties.  I thought myself incapable of ever feeling love, and yet, I could not bear to pretend to love, as I am persuaded some do, merely to enjoy the play acting, the game.  Love must be real.  That is the only thing that makes it worth the danger.'

'But why would you think yourself incapable of love?' asked Starsky.  He seemed bewildered, as if the answer were not clearly written in Hutchinson's face. Had he not seen the truth, when he looked into his eyes?  Ah, no.  He had seen himself there, he had seen his own soul, his own ability to love, not Hutchinson's emptiness and loss.

Starsky seemed to sense his lover's distress.  'I'm sorry,' he said.  'I do not wish to force your confidences. Do you think that?  I only wish to understand, and to reassure you.  You were wrong when you said that, don't you know?  You must have been capable of love, otherwise, how could you love me?'

Hutchinson smiled.  Starsky was so endearingly certain, and for no good reason.  'That is not because of my own virtue,' he said.  'But because of yours.'

Starsky laughed.  'I am hardly as virtuous as you think me,' he said. 'I have committed my share of sins.'

'Ah. And I thought you were perfect.'

'Not at all,' said Starsky.  'You have created a strange picture of me in your mind.   Someone who is perfect, and yet will disappear, leaving you with nothing.  Why would you think such a thing of me?  Hutch?  What is wrong?'

Hutchinson pulled him closer, wrapping him tightly in the covers, and in his own strong arms.  'You won't disappear,' he said.  'I will protect you.'

'Protect me from what, dear  love?' asked Starsky, but Hutchinson couldn't answer.  Starsky was equally silent for a time, then he laughed, a little wryly.  'I am lacking in wisdom,' he said.  'Here am I, asking you to bare your soul to me, and yet, I have told you little of myself.'

'You have told me many things,' said Hutchinson.  'Far more than I have told to you. And we have only known each other a few days.'

'Have we?' asked Starsky.  'It seems longer.'

'You are right, it does.  In the Realm of Love, we have known each other forever.'

'But in this world, only a few days, it is true.  What have I told you about myself?  Refresh my memory.'

'That your family came from Russia.  That you moved to Poland to escape the pogroms, but only stayed a short time.  Then you came here.' Hutchinson thought for a moment.  Something did not add up.  'But you said you left Russia when you were a boy.  If you stayed in Poland a short time, you would have been a boy when you came to London.  And surely by now, you would have learned English.'

'Ah!  So you are a detective.  What do you think happened, then?'

'I do not think you would lie to me, only leave something out.  So, your family moved from Poland to another country, and you did not wish to speak of it.  We were with your mother at the time. Something about that other country upset her.  Perhaps that is why you moved.  Was there another pogrom?  But no, she didn't mind you talking about Russia. Something more personal and individual.  Your father died, you said, and not in a pogrom.  Did he die of illness?  Yet, illness is fairly common.  Why would it upset her so?  Am I getting too close to the bone? Do you want me to stop?'

'Yes, you are very close,' said Starsky. 'And no, do not stop.  Go on.'

'Then I will.  Was your father murdered?  And does the murderer threaten you and your mother in some way?  Is that why you have moved here, and now live in Whitechapel making boots?  For truly, David Starsky, I do not think you were born to such a trade.'

'Why?  Are my boots so badly made?'

'Not at all. They seemed quite competently formed to me, if not up to the standards of my valet.  I don't think I will be purchasing any for my own wardrobe.'

'I am heartbroken.'

'But however skilfully you have learned to make boots, you are not a bootmaker.  No bootmaker that I have ever met could read several languages, and converse with such skill on so many subjects.  I do not mean that they were lacking the intelligence, merely the education. They were trained in a craft, not educated as you have been.  There was no time.'

Starsky laughed.  'I see that soon I will have no secrets from you at all,' he said.  'And I might as well surrender.  We left Russia, and moved to Poland, as I said.  We had been rather well off in Russia, and my father managed to bring some money out of Russia with him, and in Poland, he looked for a chance to invest it.  He met a man named Joseph Durniak.  Durniak was not Jewish, but he and my father started an importing business together.   We moved to France.  Paris.  All went well for a few years, and that is when there was some time for my education.'

'But the happiness did not last,' said Hutchinson.  It was a statement, not a question.

'No,' said Starsky.  'It did not last.  My father and Durniak became involved with evil men.  My father told me he did not know the extent of their evil, and I believe him.  What choice do I have?  To believe that my own father is capable of white slavery?  And it is true enough, that he tried to get out of it.  That is why he was murdered.  I don't know who murdered him.  The men belong to some organization.  They have long arms, that reach everywhere.  But my father told me that he thought they originated in Sicily.'

'The Mafia!' said Hutchinson.

'You have heard of them?' Starsky asked.

'Oh, yes.  And they are capable of anything.  The only reason you and your mother are alive, is that they must have decided you knew nothing, and so were not worth killing.'

'That is a relief,' said Starsky.  'I never thought to be grateful for my own ignorance.'

'The Black Hand,' said Hutchinson.  'They started out in Sicily, but they have been spreading throughout the Continent, and even into America.  New Orleans is their base of operations there.'

'But what do they do?  My father told me almost nothing, only that they were involved in smuggling, and came from Sicily.'

'What do they do?  Anything to make money.  And they offer protection -- for a price.  Perhaps that is how your father became involved.'

'Perhaps.  Who knows, now.  But you think I am safe?'

'I think so. I cannot know so. But I will try to protect you.  And I will charge you no fee.'

'Well, there.  Now you know almost everything about me.  If I can think of anything else you need to know, I will tell you.  And you don't need to tell me everything.  Not right away.  In your own time.'

Hutchinson lay quietly in Starsky's arms for a time, thinking.  He thought it likely that Starsky and his mother were safe, but the Mafia were unpredictable, at least in the resolution of their grudges.  They had a different concept of justice than most of the rest of the world. Who knew when a Mafia boss might decide that his honour had not been entirely restored?  Well, there was nothing he could do about that at the moment.  But there was one way in which he could repay Starsky for his confidences.

Fathers, he thought.  Perhaps it would be better for the world, if men engendered children, and then moved on, leaving the mothers to raise them alone.

'When I was a child,' he began.  'My mother disappeared.'

'She ran away from your father?' asked Starsky.  'And left you behind? I find that hard to believe.  What mother would do such a thing?'

'Oh, no,' said Hutchinson.  'She didn't run away.  She disappeared.  My father has her imprisoned somewhere.  And I want to find her.'

'That is why you became a detective,' said Starsky.

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'Now you know all about me.'


******************************


They were at breakfast, and Hutchinson was giving Starsky a potted history of Scotland Yard.

'The Metropolitan Police were founded in 1829, by Sir Robert Peel,' he informed Starsky, in a mock professorial manner.  'The Metropolitan Police Act doesn't cover the City of London, the Square Mile that is the ancient city of Londinium. They have had their own police since 1839. At times, we fight over who has jurisdiction, as you have seen.  It is nonsense to me.  We could have used their help long ago.'

'They are involved now,' Starsky pointed out.

'Yes.  But to return to Scotland Yard.  The detective division was founded in 1842, a mere forty-six years ago.  The population of London in 1885, was 5,255,069.  It  has surely risen since then.  We have 14,567 police officers, and only 1,487 are actually available to walk a beat on any given day.'

'Mon Dieu!'

'Then, there are the difficulties in finding worthy police officers in the first place.  Every year, hundreds are dismissed for corruption. They take bribes, they become involved in crimes themselves.  Few have more than the most basic education.  We need a school where their education may be supplemented, and they may be taught proper police methods.'

'When will that happen?' Starsky asked.

'Now, that is a good question,' said Hutchinson.  'You may have heard me complain about the difficulties of having any innovation approved.  The English, and Londoners in particular, were rather concerned about the entire concept of the Metropolitan Police in the first place.'

'Why is that?'

'We are a quasi military organization.  The English do not like standing armies.  As soon as a war is over, a good portion of the army is demobilized, and sent home to the farm.  We like order, but we like our freedom as well.  It is the struggle of order against chaos.  Liberalism against conservatism.'

'Where do you stand?' asked Starsky.

'I am liberal minded.  But I belong to no party,' said Hutchinson.

'You are not a socialist?' Starsky asked, with a smile.

'I have read Das Capital,' Hutchinson told him.  'I agree with some of Marx's views, but not enough to join the Social Democratic Federation. Or the Socialist League.  And I think police officers should stay out of politics.   For the most part, I keep my opinions to myself.'

'England seems to me to be a liberal nation, in many ways.'

'The government is Tory at the moment.  I mean, the Conservative Party forms the government.  I don't know how long that will last.  But we are liberal, in the sense that we are democratic, though not democratic enough to suit me.   Women are campaigning to win the right to vote, something of which I approve.  And we are working to rid ourselves of other prejudices as well.  For example, London University admits women and Jews, and grants them degrees.'

'Ah! I was wondering in which direction this conversation was heading,' said Starsky.

'Have you been thinking about the rest of my plan?' asked Hutchinson.

'I have been thinking, but I am not sure I like it.'

'Do you like it worse than the prospect of us never seeing each other except in secret?  Think about this, Starsky.  I know your true worth, but the world would see only your poverty, and my wealth.  You make boots for a living.  I am possessed of a fortune, to say nothing of my houses and carriages and servants.  Shall I go on?  Do you know, do you have any idea what the world would think, if we continued as we are?  I have bought us a little time.  We are hunting Jack the Ripper together. What will they think if our friendship continues?  There is only one reason why a man of my position in life would visit anyone of your position in life, and the opinion of the world on that reason is not a pretty one.  If you were a woman, they would scorn me for my low tastes, merely, unless I proved my love by marrying you.  Then, our story would be romantic.  But since you are a man, that makes us both criminals.'

'I know,' said Starsky.  'I am endangering you.'

'And I you,' said Hutchinson.  'Which is more to the point, as far as I am concerned. There are two solutions.  We must make our association appear less remarkable. Or we must give up the association. Which solution do you like best?'

Starsky reached across the table, and dabbed at Hutchinson's face with his finger.  'You had a spot of jam on your chin,'  he explained.  He licked the jam off his finger.

'What does that mean?' Hutchinson asked.

'It means I hate the idea of giving up our association,' Starsky told him.  'And so I must give up my pride instead.'

'Not much of your pride, I assure you.  I do not wish to be your patron. I love your pride, and your strength and your independence.  Can't you see that?  Can't you see that what I have planned will preserve that, not destroy it?'

Starsky took his hand, and held it tenderly.  'Yes,'  he said.  'I do see.  You are working hard to give us a life together, and I am not helping, am I?  All I have done is argue.'

'Your arguments are valid,' said Hutchinson.  'If the world were different -- or if you were a woman -- no one would look at us askance. But you aren't a woman, and the world is what it is.  Consider my proposals.  They will give you more independence than you now possess. If in the future you decide you do not love me after all, you will still be better off than you are.'

'I will never decide that,' said Starsky.

'But I want you to have that freedom,' said Hutchinson.  'That is why I could not come to you.  You had to be the one to offer your love to me. You see that, don't you?  The very thought of buying your love scorches my soul.  My father taught me....'

There was a tap at the breakfast room door.  'Come in,' said Hutchinson.

Jeffreys stepped inside.  'I am sorry to interrupt you, Mr Hutchinson, but your father is waiting to see you, sir.'

'Well, how very convenient, since you were just speaking of him,' said Starsky.

'Yes.  Speak of the devil,' said Hutchinson, dully.

'I would like to meet this gentleman, who can make your face go so white.'

'What!' said Hutchinson.  It was as if someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on him.  'You can't meet him.'

'Why not?' asked Starsky, reasonably.

'Jeffreys.  Stall him for a moment.  Starsky, you have to leave.  Now.'

'What?  I'm not leaving.  What do you think I am, Hutch?'

'You are leaving.  That's an order.  This is my house, and when I say leave, you leave.  Here.  Take this.  You may be able to find a cab on St. John's Wood Road.  I'll meet you at the Yard.  What are you waiting for?'

'Money! I don't want your money.  And I'm not sneaking out the back door like some....'

One uppercut to the jaw did it.  Hutchinson caught Starsky as he fell, unconscious.

'Sir!' said Jeffreys.  'I never!'

'Stick around, Jeffreys.  You might witness more violence, if I can't get rid of my father before Mr. Starsky comes around.'  Hutchinson half carried, half dragged Starsky into the servants' passageway.  'Call Jacques as soon as you let my father in the breakfast room.  See that Mr. Starsky is taken care of.  He probably won't want to talk to me, but maybe he'll let you pay his cab fare home.'

'I'm sure that Mr. Starsky will understand, if you explain, sir,' Jeffreys said.

'Don't bet on it,' said Hutchinson.  He hurried to the table, and began to clear away the extra dishes and cutlery.  Then he had a better thought.  'Just let my father in, Jeffreys,' he said.

'Yes, sir,' said Jeffreys, sounding as weary as Hutchinson felt.

Hutchinson sat back down at the now empty table, and picked up his newspaper.  It was full of  news about Jack the Ripper.  Some of it was testimony from the inquests.  Much of it was mere speculation.  Journalistic license, thought Hutchinson, in a distant part of his mind.  It was more fanciful these days than poetic license, and less attractive.  He imagined the news stories about himself at some future date.

'Wealthy Son of London Businessman Caught in Acts of Gross Indecency With Jewish Immigrant!'

His father strode in the door, dressed in his usual severe frock coat, carrying his walking stick, and his tall black hat.  He tossed the hat onto the breakfast table, and regarded Hutchinson with disdain.

'What is the trouble now, father?' Hutchinson asked.

His father waved his hand around, indicating his son, and the cluttered table.  'Look at you,' he said.  'Dressed like a common tradesman.  And you've been entertaining one of your lightskirts again.'

'What of it?  Are you jealous?'

'Certainly not!' said his father, in tones of outrage.  'You disgust me.'

'Then why are you here?  Surely you can find more agreeable company elsewhere.'

'I came to tell you that I find your behaviour embarrassing in the extreme.'

'Well, thank you for telling me.  If you would only get a telephone, you could have saved yourself the journey.  Or next time, send a telegram.  Now, if you'll excuse me....'

His father continued, as if he hadn't spoken.   'The other night, you attended a dinner party.'

'Yes, ' said Hutchinson.  'At your express wish.'

'But you left early.  And you didn't pay the young ladies there much attention.'

'I am sorry, father.  It was a dinner party at a respectable home, not an orgy in a brothel.'

'Kenneth?  How dare you?'

'And as for leaving early, there was an unfortunate incident in Whitechapel.  Perhaps you've heard.  It's been in all the papers.'

'Oh, yes.  I've heard.  Your name has been mentioned once or twice in the news stories.'

'Well, there.  You see, I am famous, as well as rich.  What more could you ask?'

'I could ask you to do your duty and marry.  End this charade of being a common police officer.  Take over your proper place in my business firm.  Start a family, so that our business might be passed on to them one day. That is what I might ask.'

Hutchinson placed his teacup gently back in its saucer.   It was bone china.  The Willow pattern.  Jeffreys would be distressed if he broke it.  He looked at his father calmly.

'I will marry when I meet a woman whom I love more than anyone else on earth,' he said.

'Love?' asked his father.  'Love is a waste of time.'

'Everything I do is a waste of time, according to you.  Now, as I tried to say earlier, I am busy.  I have to get to Scotland Yard.  Please leave.'

'Don't turn me away like a tradesman,' his father started to say.

He was interrupted by a shout from the servants' passage, and a clatter of falling cutlery.  The noise ceased suddenly.  Hutchinson's heart, which had risen into his throat, returned to its regular abode.

'What was that, Kenneth?  Your little lightskirt making free with the servants? Perhaps you aren't man enough for her?'

'Perhaps not,' said Hutchinson, mildly.  Time to end this conversation, he thought.  And quickly, before Starsky decided to join in.  'Perhaps you should leave, so I c... c... can settle the matter.'

His father reached over the breakfast table, and slapped him across the face.  Hard.  'I thought I had cured you of that stupid stutter,' he said.  'I am beginning to think I am the one wasting my time.  I have more important things to do than bandy words with a fool like you. Good day!'

His father picked up his hat, and stomped out of the room, almost banging the door in his haste to leave.

'What's your hurry?' Hutchinson asked the retreating figure.  'I was hoping you'd stay, and we could have a friendly chat.'

How beautiful had been his hopes, thought Hutchinson. How beautiful and how fragile.  Just like the Willow Pattern china.  He picked up the teacup again, and studied the pattern.  There were the two lovers, Koong-se and Chang, fleeing across the bridge, away from her father, the Mandarin, who had tried to keep them apart. The Mandarin tracked them down, and had Chang put to the sword, and burned his own daughter alive.  But the gods turned them into two doves.  How sweet, he thought.  That must have made up for a lot.

He heard footsteps behind him.  'Jeffreys,' he said, quietly.  'Please tell Mr. Starsky that I am very sorry for my behaviour, and I will understand if he now wishes to end all aspects of our association.'

'Why don't you have the courage to tell him yourself?'

He turned to look at Starsky, because he had learned long ago the futility of attempting to avoid punishment. It only became worse, the longer you put it off. Starsky looked even angrier than he had imagined.  Hutchinson got to his feet, and waited, somehow keeping his eyes fixed levelly on Starsky's face.

Starsky reached out, and gently touched his face, where his father had struck him.  'Hutch?' he asked.  'What has that man done to you?'

This was worse than any blow, he thought, and stepped back, out of range of those sweet, tormenting hands.  'I am sorry for my behaviour,' he said formally.  'Please forgive me.  It won't happen again, I assure you.  If you like, I can have someone drive you back to the City, now that my father is gone.  I only offered you cab fare, lest he see you leaving the house in one of my carriages.  I never intended to suggest that it was payment, for any services rendered.'

'Hutch!  Oh, Hutch.  I'm the one who's sorry.  My temper makes me say such cruel things sometimes.  My mother would tell me I need my mouth washed out with soap.'

'There is nothing to forgive.  Higgins can drive you home, and I will drive myself today.  I need something to do with my hands.  Please excuse me while I pass the message on.'

'Hutch?  Don't be like this.  I'm sorry.  Don't walk away from me.  Talk to me.'

Starsky looked truly frightened now.  Dear God. What had he done to the man?  This was the result of striving after something you're not entitled to, he thought.

'Starsky.  Listen.  I am not angry with you.  It is nothing that you have done.  But you must leave.  I see that now.  My plans were foolish.  My father would see through them in no time.  He has people reporting to him, again. They told him about my behaviour at a party the other night.'

'And so you're going to ship me home, like extra baggage?'

'I'm going to make sure he never learns of your existence, because I love you too much to risk what he might do to you if he ever did.'

'You let your father rule your life, Hutch?  I thought you were a grown man.'

'So did I,' said Hutchinson.  'I suppose I was wrong.  I'll tell Higgins to drive you home.'

'No, you won't.  We have an arrangement, remember?  We're working together to hunt Jack the Ripper, and I'm holding you to that, and to everything else you promised.  Your father can hang, for all I care.  I'll get my coat.  And I need a drink of something to wash the bad taste out of my mouth.  Meet me out the front in five minutes.  And don't try to run off, or I'll hunt you down like a dog.  Do you understand me?'

'Yes,' Hutchinson managed to say.

'Good.  And by the way, never hit me like that again.  You're forgiven this one time only.'


***************************

Hutchinson stood by the horses, holding their reins, debating with himself.  He should just drive off, he knew, whatever Starsky said.  It would be better for them both.  But that would be the coward's way out, he thought.

Or was it the coward's way to continue to long for his company, when he knew he had no right to it?  Lovers behaved irrationally, he thought, driven by their need to be together.  Like the lovers in Plato's Symposium.  They had once been one body, and still shared one soul.  But they lived in a world that could not, and would not, accept that.

Starsky came out the door, saw Hutchinson waiting obediently, and nodded.  'Shall we start?' he asked.  'Or do you want to argue with me still?'

'I want to argue,' said Hutchinson.  'But I see that would be a waste of breath.'

Starsky smiled.  'You should save your breath for other things,' he said.

'Don't.  Don't do that.  Don't say those things.  That is over.'

'Nothing is over, Hutch.  I won't accept your rejection.  You said you loved me.'

'I do.'

'And yet, you let your father separate us?  Never.'

'I don't want to argue with you, out here.  If we are going to work together, you must behave professionally in public,' said Hutchinson.

'If you like,' Starsky answered.  'But don't ignore me.  Don't treat me like a servant, or one of your horses.'

Hutchinson turned to him.  'I won't,' he said.  'But where has my mind been?  I knocked you out.  Are you dizzy? You should see a doctor.  And you shouldn't be riding around the City with me all day.'

'You only stunned me,' said Starsky, climbing into Hutchinson's chaise.  'You're not ridding yourself of me so easily.  My head is made of solid marble, as my mother would tell you, and doctors are idiots. I'm not letting one near me.  I came around almost immediately, and I heard most of your conversation with your father.   That was most interesting.  Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there all day?'

Hutchinson sighed, and climbed up beside Starsky.  'Look at me,' he ordered.

Starsky turned to him, with a smile.  His eyes looked normal.  There was a small bruise on his chin, but nothing too noticeable.

'How many fingers am I holding up?' he asked.

'Only one,' said Starsky.  'But it's a long, thick one.'

Hutchinson decided to ignore this childish provocation.  'You seem well enough,' he said. 'But if you feel dizzy later, inform me immediately.'

'Yes, sir.  And you will take me home, and nurse me.'

'No.  I will send you to a charity hospital,' Hutchinson threatened.

'If you try such a thing, I will trumpet your mistreatment of me to everyone around,' his tormentor announced.

Hutchinson took the reins, and clucked to the horses.  It was going to be a long day, he thought.

After the peace of St. John's Wood, the noise and smells and bustle of the City was always a shock.  Huge dray horses pulled heavy wagons down cobblestone streets.  Hawkers of every sort called out their wares.  Urchins ran about on mysterious errands.

The streets of London were always muddy.  The mud splattered onto men's trousers and women's dresses and petticoats.  The mud was mixed liberally with the droppings of horses, and other, even less savoury things.

Then there was the smell of the Thames.  Sewage pipes dumped human waste into the river, and had done so for decades.  That was what caused the cholera outbreaks that swept through the City, Hutchinson knew.  Something must be done about the situation, but try and convince anyone in power of that fact.  In the past, the stench of London had become so unbearable that Parliament had to close early.  Members of Parliament had retired to their country estates, until the smell abated. The situation had improved somewhat in recent years, but not nearly enough.

'What are you thinking about, Hutch?' asked Starsky.

'Shit,' Hutchinson told him.

'How fitting,' said Starsky.

*********************


Hutchinson looked around the meeting room with approval.   All the constables he had requested for his team were there.  Doctor Winston was seated to one side, a notebook in front of him.  Starsky had seated himself close to Hutchinson, but not too close.  Ever since they had entered Scotland Yard, he had behaved quite impeccably.  Friendly, but not too familiar.  Hutchinson could feel his support, like a hand on his shoulder, however.   A form of forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve.

Starsky coughed, dryly.  'I think I need something to drink,' he said.  There was a table, with a pot of tea, just behind Hutchinson.  He got up and poured Starsky a cup of tea.  Their hands touched as he handed Starsky the cup.

'Does anyone else need some tea?'  he asked.  'We can't have the entire room coughing throughout the meeting,' he added sternly.

Everyone shook their heads.  'No, sir,' said Police Constable Burnett.

'Good,' said Hutchinson.  'I have been appointed to lead this team of investigators, by Chief Inspector Donald Swanson.  I have asked that Doctor Charles Winston from Cambridge University, and Mr. David Starsky from the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, be allowed to lend us their assistance.'

Hutchinson took his place at the front of the room.  'As you all know,' he said.  'In the last few months, there have been seven brutal murders of women in Whitechapel and Spitalfields.'  He pointed to a large map of the area.

'On February 25, 1888, a woman named Annie Millwood was attacked in White's Row.  Here.'  Hutchinson stuck a  dressmaker's pin into the map at the site of the attack.  'She was stabbed many times in the lower torso.  She survived the attack, and told police that a man, unknown to her, attacked her with a clasp knife.  She made a complete recovery, but died on March 31, from natural causes, unrelated to her injuries.  We have no knowledge of whether or not she was a prostitute.'

Hutchinson took a second pin from his pocket.  'On April 3, a woman named Emma Smith, who supported herself through prostitution, was attacked by three or four men, at the corner of Brick Lane and Wentworth Street. These men probably belonged to one of the gangs that roam Whitechapel.  They beat her, and raped her, and then raped her further with some sort of blunt instrument.  It was that final outrage that led to her death, for it pierced her perineum.  She walked back to her lodgings, though she was bleeding to death.  She was taken to London Hospital, where she described the attack, and then lapsed into a coma.  She died four days later.  We are certain this crime is not related to Jack the Ripper's activities, but the brutality of the attack began to attract the attention of the press, and the public.'

Hutchinson placed a third pin on the map, at George Yard, near Wentworth Street.  'Martha Tabram.  August 7.  Stabbed 39 times in the lower torso.'  A fourth pin.  'Mary Ann Nicholls.  August 31.  She was attacked in Buck's Row.  Her throat was cut, and her abdomen mutilated.'

Hutchinson drew the fifth pin from his jacket.  'Annie Chapman,' he said.  'Killed September 7, in Hanbury Street.  Her body was mutilated and some of her organs were removed.  Her vagina, and her uterus.  Then, on September 30, we have the double murders.  Elizabeth Stride, at Berner Street.  She was not mutilated, but we believe that the killer was interrupted.  Less than an hour later, he killed again. He attacked Catharine Eddowes in Mitre Square.  This time, as well as performing the usual mutilations of her abdomen, he slashed her face.'

Hutchinson stood back, and regarded the map and its set of pins.  'Does anyone have any comments to make so far?'  he asked.

'I wonder if the dates have any significance?' asked Starsky, in French.

'What do you mean?' Hutchinson asked him.

'I'm not sure,' Starsky said slowly.  'It might be coincidence, or the dates might  have a significance to the killer. August 7, August 31, September 7, September 30. The end of the first week of the month.  Then, the last day of the month itself.'

'Excuse me, sir,' spoke up Constable Burnett.  'I don't speak French.'

'I apologize, Constable,' said Hutchinson.  'Mr. Starsky does not speak English very well as yet.  He noted the dates. The repeating dates of August 7, and September 7.  August 31, and September 30, the last days of the months.'

'You think that means something?' Doctor Winston asked Starsky, in French.

'Not exactly,' said Starsky.  'I think the dates might mean something to the killer.  Something private, perhaps.'

'Mr. Starsky said that he wondered if perhaps the dates meant something to the killer. Something that we would not appreciate,' Winston translated.  'I wonder myself if it might mean he is readying himself to kill again, on October 7?'

'Then we should be ready for him,' said Hutchinson.  'We have police officers on every corner.  We are going from door to door asking residents for information.  I think we should offer a reward, but those above me don't agree.  What can this team do, that hasn't already been done, you might ask?  What Mr. Starsky just did.  Whatever thoughts come to your mind, however far fetched, I want to hear about them.  They surely cannot be more far fetched than the speculations in the Press.'

Hutchinson opened a attache case, and drew out a stack of photographs.  He began to pass them out among the assembled men.  'Have a look at these,' he said.  'This is the sort of man we are hunting.'

He watched Starsky's face, as the man studied the photograph of Annie Chapman.  He turned white, but didn't look away, and bravely accepted the photograph of Catharine Eddowes.

'You know, sir,' said PC Burnett.  'This man we are hunting is a very strange sort.  On the one hand, he murders in the most brutal way.  But it's almost a game to him, isn't it?  I mean sir, he does it right out in the street, where he might get caught.  And he nearly does get caught.  You'd think he wanted to get caught, wouldn't you? But he runs off so he won't get caught.  Then does it again.  Then he runs away, but comes back, and drops that piece of bloody apron.  Right by the message on the wall.'

'And he might have written that message,' said PC McKenzie.  'There are some people as thinks he did.'

'People think a lot of things,' PC Burnett replied.  'They think the Jews are responsible for the murders.'

Starsky sat up straighter in his chair.  'The Jews?' he asked, in English.

Hutchinson translated Burnett's remark for him.  Starsky turned to Burnett, and smiled.  'They are wrong,' he said slowly.

'Well, of course,' said Burnett.  'I was only reporting what people said.'

'You think the Jews aren't responsible, Mr. Starsky?' PC McKenzie asked.

'No, the Jews are not murderer,' said Starsky.  'The English are not murderer.  It is one man who is murderer.  The one man might be Jew, or Englishman.  But he is not the Jews, or the English. And I am not the Jews.  I am David Starsky.'

'Pleased to meet you,' said PC Burnett.  He smiled and shook Starsky's hand.


***************************

'Do you think all these questions will gain us any useful information?' Starsky asked him, as they crossed another address off their list.

Hutchinson had insisted that all the bobbies on his team must take part in the house-to-house interviews of the residents of Whitechapel and Spitalfields.  The Metropolitan Police were questioning everyone in those neighbourhoods, asking if they had seen or heard anything suspicious on the nights of the murders.  Or indeed on other nights.  They carried sketches based on the few witness accounts of the possible killer, and of his victims.

'It might.  You never know,' said Hutchinson.  'But one thing is for certain.  We need to reassure the residents that we are doing everything in our power to find the killer. The Press seems to think we aren't.'

'But who has told the Press anything different?' asked Starsky.  'Forgive me.  I know nothing of these things.  But why doesn't someone tell the Press what you are doing, and why?'

'Because we have been forbidden to tell them anything,' Hutchinson informed him.  'We were told to never give interviews to the Press. Never to give them information about a case.'

'I can see sometimes that would be necessary.  But other times, like these times, such a rule seems to be senseless.  You are being criticized at every turn.  Is that in your interest?'

'Pilloried, yes,' said Hutchinson.  'Put in the stocks, for people to throw rotten fruit at, and tie dead cats around our necks.'

'Dead cats?' asked Starsky, looking bewildered.

'A very old punishment, which should be revived for some people,' Hutchinson told him.

'For me?' asked Starsky.

'No, no.  For me,' said Hutchinson, almost laughing, before he caught himself.  One thing would lead to another, he thought.  As it had already done.  

It was getting dark, and the fog was rolling in.  Soon, they might not be able to see beyond the ends of their own noses. Soon, Starsky would want to stop for dinner.  Hutchinson didn't feel hungry. Indeed, the thought of food made him ill, as did the thought of a noisy pub, filled with people.  One of them might be the next victim.  One of them might be Jack the Ripper.

A flicker of movement to his right, attracted his attention.  A black cape swirled, as a man turned down an alley.

'There,' said Hutchinson.  'Did you see that?'

'See what, Hutch?' Starsky asked.

'Someone saw us coming, and slipped away, down that alley,' Hutchinson told him.  'Let's follow.'

Starsky followed Hutchinson, as he tracked the mysterious caped man.  The alley twisted and turned, leading them deeper into the back streets of Spitalfields.  At last, they found themselves in a blind alley, confronted by a blank wall.  It was almost dark.

Starsky sighed.  'Well, that was worthwhile,' he said.  'Do you think you can find our way back to civilization?'

'You're the one who lives here,' Hutchinson pointed out.

'Not in this alley, I don't. I'm hungry, and as soon as we find a pub, I want dinner.  And you're buying. I haven't sold any boots for a week.  I've been spending all my time with you.  Some of that time was more enjoyable than this time.'

'Don't,' said Hutchinson.

'Don't what, Hutch?  Don't even remember sweeter times?  Do I have to forget them?  All of them?  Am I forbidden to speak of them, as you are forbidden to speak to the Press?'

'No. Of course not.  Just don't remind me,' Hutchinson told him.

'You are asking too much,' Starsky answered.  'You are the only person I wish to remind of sweeter times.  And I am only human.'


**********************

'Look here, you.  We don't like Jews.  We don't let them in here.'

'Jews don't like pigs, and this place is full of them.  But my friend is willing to overlook his prejudices, for now.  I suggest you do the same,' said Hutchinson.  They were in the public house popularly known as Black Hell.  This was not the original Black Hell, which had been demolished in 1844 to allow for the construction of Commercial Street, but a new pub intent on living up to the reputation of its namesake.

'Blimey!' said the villainous looking patron who didn't like Jews. 'It's a toff.  I'll show you the right about.'

The speaker, and several of his friends, lumbered towards Hutchinson and Starsky.  Hutchinson swung his walking stick, hitting the brick wall.  The ring echoed throughout the suddenly quiet public house.   The men backed up rather quickly, eyeing the new dent in the bricks.

'Here, here!' the proprietor called out.  'We don't want no violence, gentlemen.  Inspector Hutchinson is a valued customer.'

'Well, that I am, Sawyer.  And with good reason.  I continue to drink that dog piss you call beer, and eat your dog meat pies, and I'm still alive.  Healthy even.  What does that tell you?'

'That dog piss and dog meat are good for you, Inspector?'

'I think not, but England is a free country, and we may all think as we please, even if we be Jews.  My friend and I are hungry and thirsty, and require the best your house has to offer.  If you wish to continue serving me, you will serve him as well.  Otherwise, I am no longer your customer.  Do you get my drift, Sawyer?'

'Now, now, Inspector.  No need to make threats.  No need at all.  Your friends are always welcome here, to be sure.   What can I get you gentlemen?'

'Whatever is on the menu, for me.  Don't serve my friend pork, or I'll take your kitchen apart.'

'Am I?' Starsky asked, when Sawyer departed in search of pork-less pies.

'Are you what?' Hutchinson asked in his turn.

'Am I still your friend?'

'Of course you are.'

'That is good.  But what are the privileges of friendship?  I require the new rules to be explained to me.'

'Not here and now,' said Hutchinson.

'Then when?  I wish to understand.  All you have done today, is tell me what I may not do.  The list grows longer.  What is left to me?  What am I allowed?  May I come home with you, so that we may talk there?'

'Home?  No.  It's too late.  The fog is rolling in.  You should go to your own home.  Your mother will be worried.  Do you want me to walk with you?  The streets in this neighbourhood are very unsafe.'

'I can take care of myself, and find my own way home, even in the fog.  What about you?  You are beginning to look lost to me already.'

'I am not lost,' Hutchinson told him.

'Aren't you?'  Starsky asked.

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'I know where I am.  This is familiar territory.'

'I thought that we were becoming familiar territory?'

'We are,' Hutchinson agreed.  'But more dangerous than the streets of Whitechapel.'

'I have been in more dangerous places than Whitechapel many times.  My family and I barely made it out of Russia alive.  Everywhere I turn, the Jews are reviled, and blamed for whatever trouble is current.  There is the nonsense that we kidnap children, and murder them, and drink their blood.  Anyone who knew anything about Jewish dietary laws would realize that such a thing is impossible.  But people are ignorant, and their ignorance fuels their hatred, and their hatred fuels their ignorance.  And so it goes on.  But shall I let such people stop me from living?'

'No. Of course not.'

'You say that with such conviction,' said Starsky. 'I almost think you believe it.'

'I do,' Hutchinson told him.  'I believe it for you, but not for me. We are two different people.'

'No, we aren't,' said Starsky.  'Or we are different people outwardly.  Not in here where it counts.'  He reached across the table, and patted Hutchinson over his heart.  It was a simple, casual gesture.  Something one friend might do to another, without provoking remark.  But Hutchinson felt his heart leap in response.

'I know,' he said.  'That I must appear to you to be a coward.  But I would rather you were alive to despise me, than that you were dead, and it was your association with me that led to your demise.  Don't laugh.  How much of the conversation with my father did you understand?'

'I didn't understand many of the words, but that wasn't necessary.  I understand that he is unhappy with you.  He struck you, for something you said that provoked his anger.  What was that, please?'

'It was not what I said, but how I said it.  I stuttered. He hates my stutter.  I cured myself of stuttering long ago, but I can still use it to end a conversation with him when nothing else will work.  And he is unhappy with me, because he wants me to marry, and give him grandchildren.'

'Most parents want grandchildren,' said Starsky.  'My mother wants them as well.'

'I will die, before I give my father new victims,' said Hutchinson.  'Hurry up and finish your dinner.  You should be safely at home, before the fog is much thicker.'

'Stop telling me what I should do,' said Starsky. 'I will be the judge of that.'


******************

Hutchinson insisted on accompanying Starsky back to his lodgings.  'I need to be sure you are safe,' he said.  'Whatever you may think, that is my first concern.'

'I know it,' said Starsky.  'I think your method of expressing your concern is misguided, that is all.'

The fog swept past them in waves.  People stumbled from lamp post to lamp post.  Hansom cabs, and private carriages appeared out of the yellow haze, their lamps flickering, and then vanished once again, as if they had never been.  Hutchinson had suffered nightmares that had seemed more real.

'Here is my street corner,' said Starsky.  'You may safely leave me now.'

So soon, thought Hutchinson.  'Very well,' he said. 'Will you be at Scotland Yard in the morning?'

'If that is what you wish,' said Starsky.

'My wishes are of no importance here,' Hutchinson answered.  'If you never wish to see me again, I would understand.  But it would look odd, if we seemed friendly today, and then tomorrow you made no appearance.'

'And appearance has now become everything to you?'

'No, Starsky.  It has not.  Appearance means nothing to me.  I care nothing for what the world thinks.  If my reputation were the only matter at stake here, I would live with you in full view of everyone.  How many times must I tell you that?'

Starsky shoved Hutchinson into a convenient alley, and pressed him up against a wall.  He kissed him, long and hard, thrusting his tongue into Hutchinson's mouth, until he moaned with the sweetness of the longed-for contact.  Starsky held him so, letting him feel the warmth of his body, and the hardness of his erection through the rough cloth of his trousers, for endless moments, and Hutchinson could do nothing to resist.

At last, Starsky drew back slightly. 'I wish you a good evening,' he said.  The sudden old world formality of his words and manner contrasted strangely with the brutal intimacy of their embrace.  'I will see you on the morrow.'

Hutchinson stared at Starsky's dark face, and bright blue eyes.  'I love you,' he said.  'Believe me that I love you.'

Starsky smiled and turned to go.  A dark caped figure was waiting for him at the mouth of the alley.  'Starsky!   Be careful!' Hutchinson called.

Starsky turned back.  'What is wrong?' he asked.

'Didn't you see?  The man we were chasing earlier. He was standing there, watching us.  Then he disappeared, when I called out to you.  He's gone now.  But didn't you see him?'

'I saw nothing, my dear.  I think it was a trick of the fog.  No one can see anything clearly in this haze.  Go home yourself.  I will be quite safe, and I think we both need a good night's sleep.'

'Are you sure?' asked Hutchinson.  'Are you sure there was no one there?'

'No one,' said Starsky.  'And I was closer to the mouth of the alley than were you.'

I know what I saw, thought Hutchinson.  There was someone there.   But I could not see his face.  I think I saw his eyes.  They were dark, and bright, and they pierced the fog.  They looked right through me, but they saw nothing.

He watched as Starsky disappeared into the fog.  He listened as a door opened and then shut.  The sound held a frightening finality.  All the way home, as he caught a cab back to Scotland Yard, and then drove his own chaise home to St John's Wood, he could hear the sound of that closing door.
 

*************************


There were many ways to handle madness, thought Hutchinson.  One might give the madness free rein, let it take over one's life.  One might fear it, attempt to drive it forth.  Both methods were of little use, in his opinion.  Or one might try to control the madness, and learn from it.

That is what he had done, the first time he went mad.

How interesting, he thought, that the form of his madness had changed.  The first time, his insanity manifested itself in voices, that no one else could hear.  This time, it was visual phenomena, that no one else could see.  He was undecided on whether or not that was an improvement.  He had been able to argue with the voices, after all, and tame them at last, when he discovered what it was they were saying.  How could he argue with his cloaked spectre?  He had tried, and the bastard had ignored him.

He opened the book he held upon his lap.  It had been one of his mother's favourite books, and the only thing of hers that he still possessed. The Pilgrim's Progress.

"Now, while I was gazing upon all these things," he read.  "I turned my head to look back, and saw Ignorance come up to the river side; but he soon got over, and that without half the difficulty which the other two men met with. For it happened that there was then in that place one Vain-Hope, a ferryman, that with his boat helped him over; so he, as the other I saw, did ascend the hill, to come up to the gate; only he came alone, neither did any man meet him with the least encouragement.... Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gate of heaven...."

Yes, he thought.  And it is this which troubles me, more than the trifling matter of my madness.  I was at the gate of heaven, and now I am in hell.  That is my true dilemma.

It was not only his desire for Starsky, which had grown the last few days until it threatened to consume him.  It was not only his loneliness for Starsky's company, which was roused to greater heights, rather than satisfied, by the time they had spent together.  It was the fact that Starsky did not appear to be suffering to the same extent as he was.

Truly I am in hell, he thought.  And truly I belong there, for it is unfair of me to feel such pain and jealousy.  I don't want Starsky to suffer.  That is why I ended the intimacies between us, so that he wouldn't suffer.  Then, why do I ache so, when he seems unaffected by our separation?

Starsky had shown up at Scotland Yard, as promised, for the last few days.  He was friendly, in a cool fashion, as if they truly were the acquaintances they were pretending to be. The problem was, Starsky acted that way in private now.  Hutchinson had sat up for hours that first night after his father's visit, working out the dynamics of their new relationship.  Starsky had asked what the privileges of friendship were, and Hutchinson had studied the matter.  He had prepared a position paper, and was willing to read it to Starsky, but Starsky had declined the offer.  When Hutchinson drove him home, he climbed down from the chaise with a cheerful smile and wave, and disappeared behind that closed door.

It is insupportable, thought Hutchinson, that he should do what I bid him do, and not look like death warmed over.   This very morning, Swanson told me that is how I look.

'You look like death warmed over, Hutchinson.  What have you been doing to yourself?  Whatever it is, stop doing it immediately.  That's an order.  Only a few days ago, you looked human.  When was that, again?  Ah, yes.  After I told you to take the day off and get some rest.  Must I do that once more?  Or must I put you on extended leave?'

'Extended leave?  I hardly think the situation warrants that, sir.'

'I don't agree, Hutchinson.  I think you are beginning to look unwell enough to warrant medical leave, if you don't take care of yourself.'

'Perhaps I should go to Switzerland, sir?  Like Dr Anderson?  If the press is tearing into us now, what do you suppose they would do, if yet another of us went on holiday in the Alps, whilst an insane killer is running around loose in London?'

'Take the night off,' Swanson had growled.  'And I don't want to see you before noon tomorrow.  If your appearance hasn't improved by then, I may well send you to Switzerland.'

So here he sat in his library, before a fire that no longer had the power to warm him, with nothing to do but dream of sweeter times, as Starsky had called them.

He had not even driven Starsky home this evening.  Starsky had become friends with PC Burnett.  That is good, thought Hutchinson.  I am happy that Starsky has friends.  It is childish of me to feel such jealousy.  But that is what I felt, when Starsky told me they were going to a pub together.  He asked me to come too, but how could I, now that I am mad?  That would make a wonderful impression on my subordinates,  when I see dark, caped men that no one else sees, and start talking to them, asking their business.  So far, only Starsky knows that I'm a lunatic, and I prefer to keep it that way.

I need sleep, he thought.  Sleep would help.  But how can I sleep?  My bed is cold and empty.  I fall asleep here by the fire, and wake up when the fire sparks or the log settles.  If only the telephone lines extended into Whitechapel, and he could afford the service.  We could talk to each other, and no one else would know.  I could hear his voice, and the sound of his breathing, and fall asleep to that.

There must be some trace of him somewhere in this house.  I haven't been in our bedroom since that last morning together.  Perhaps the maids haven't cleaned every scent of his body from the room?

The sheets on the bed had been changed, but not the pillow cases.   The scent of Starsky's hair still lingered.  He crawled into the bed fully clothed, and laid his head where Starsky's had rested, and fell asleep at last.


***********************

He wasn't sure what woke him.  Not Big Ben, surely.  That was a distant and familiar sound.  He lay listening to the ringing of the hour, then counted down the final strokes.  Ten.  Eleven.  Twelve.  It was midnight.  Then it was the next day, and he should be up and at work.  Swanson had told him not to come in until noon, but that was a senseless command, when they all knew Jack the Ripper struck in the early hours.

He opened the curtains, and moonlight streamed into their bedroom, almost as bright as sunlight.  He turned and studied himself in the bedroom mirror, something he rarely did.  His face was pale, and streaked with tears.  The tears were red, like blood.

It was right that he should weep tears of blood, he thought, for so much blood had been shed, and for what purpose?  And what had he done to stop it?

There was that sound again.  Now he recognized what had awakened him.  It was the sound of someone trying to open a window.  He turned, and the window being opened was his own, by the man caped in black.  The man he had seen so many times the last few days.  The man was real, after all.  Why hadn't Starsky seen him?

They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, then the man turned and ran.  Hutchinson jumped through the window, and gave chase, up St. John's Wood Road, toward the City.
Hutchinson was a good runner -- fast and strong -- but the caped man held his lead.  Hutchinson sped up, but his quarry did the same.  A dark shape lay on the road before them.  The caped man pointed, and Hutchinson looked down.  It was a body, lying in a pool of blood.  Her throat was slashed, and her abdomen....

'No!' Hutchinson cried.  He doubled his speed after the fleeing man.  They passed more bodies and then more.  Lord's Cricket Ground was a charnel house.  And then they were in Westminster.  The Parliament Buildings.  Even Scotland Yard.  All there were dead.

This cannot be real, he thought.  But the smell of blood was overwhelming.  He followed the fleeing man, into Whitechapel, to a street which he knew.  The man stopped at the door of Starsky's lodgings, and drew out a knife.

'Starsky!' Hutchinson screamed.  'Be careful.'

The man opened Starsky's door.  Starsky was lying on his little bed.  It was a mattress on the floor, and the blankets were old and worn.  Hutchinson had never heard him utter a word of complaint about anything in his home, with the exception of his amorous fellow tenants.  The tenants were dead, killed in their bed together.  Only Starsky remained alive it seemed, in all of London.

The caped man advanced upon Starsky, knife raised.  Hutchinson tried to move, but his legs seemed bolted to the floor.  He tried to cry out again, but no sound issued from his dry throat.  All he could do was watch in horror, as the caped man raised his bloody knife higher.

The knife started to slash down, toward Starsky's defenceless throat, and that woke him from his trance.

'No!' he screamed, and threw himself between the blade and the one he loved.  He felt the knife go deep.  But there was no pain.  He struggled to pull the knife out, and fought with the caped man, in vain.  The knife was ripping him open, and his blood was staining Starsky's bed. Hutchinson closed his eyes, so he would not see this desecration.

'Hutch,'  Starsky cried.  'Hutch, it's me.'

'Starsky?' Hutchinson whispered, through his dry, aching throat. He opened his eyes and looked up into Starsky's beloved face.

'Yes. It is me, Starsky.  What's wrong, Hutch?'

'Has he gone, Starsky?  Don't let him get away.  He killed everyone, Starsky.  Everyone in London.  He was going to kill you.  But I stopped him.  You are safe.'

'Yes, my love. I am safe. It was a dream.  See.  You are in our bedroom.  I walked here from London.  There has been no great slaughter, I assure you.'

'Are you certain?' Hutchinson asked.

'I'm certain,' Starsky told him.

Hutchinson looked at the man.  He had lit the gas, it seemed, and the room was bright, after the darkness of the moonlit streets, littered with bodies.  He was dusty after his long walk, and his boots were muddy.  It did not appear that he had taken time for a bath before his visit.

Hutchinson pulled him into the bed, muddy boots and all.

'Starsky,' he said.  'Starsky, I'm going mad.'

'No my love, you aren't.  I'm here, and I won't let you.'

There was a tap at the door.

'Monsieur?  Monsieur Hutchinson?  Are you well?'

Hutchinson climbed out of the bed, and went to the door.  Jacques would be worried, he knew, unless he could see for himself that Monsieur Hutchinson was whole and healthy.  He opened the door, and managed a smile for his valet.

'I was having a nightmare, Jacques,' he told the man.  'But Monsieur Starsky woke me.  All is well.'

'Ah,' said Jacques.  'I did not know Monsieur Starsky was visiting.  That is good.'

Jacques studied his master, and then glanced over at the bed.  He smiled, as he saw the muddy sheets, and Starsky's dusty clothes.

'Would the Messieurs wish me to make them a bath?' he asked.

'In the morning, Jacques.  But perhaps you could arrange for some food to be brought to the room?  And the fireplace needs attention.'

'I will see to that, Messieurs.  I will bring food and firewood myself.  So as not to disturb your privacy too much, you understand?  I will not be long.'

'Thank you, Jacques,' Hutchinson told him.

'You don't need to feed me,' said Starsky.  'I had supper at the pub.  What? What does that frown mean?'

'Nothing important,' said Hutchinson.

'Everything about you is important to me,' said Starsky.  'Come here!  That is better.  Why did you frown?'

'It is something silly and childish, and you will think less of me,' Hutchinson explained.

'Ah.  Then you must tell me this thing, for I cannot imagine you being silly and childish, and the idea interests me.'

'I was jealous, because you went to the pub with Burnett,' Hutchinson admitted.

'But why?  I asked you to come along.  We had a few drinks, and some supper, and he went home to his family, and I walked here.  That is all.'

'I know.  I told you it was silly and childish.  Did you have a good time?'

'No, because you were not there, and I was worried about you.  Why do you think you are going mad?'

Hutchinson started to explain, but Jacques tapped at the door, and he called out permission for the valet to enter.  Jacques was carrying a tray, loaded with tea, and small sandwiches and cakes.  He placed it on the table by the window, and said he would be back in a moment with the firewood.

Starsky got up, and poured out a cup of tea.  He brought it back to the bed, and handed it to Hutchinson.

'You don't have to wait on me,' Hutchinson said.

'Yes.  I do.  Drink your tea now, and rest.   We will talk when Jacques has made up the fire.'

Starsky pulled off his muddy boots, and put them outside the door.  Then he took off his coat, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.  He poured water from the ewer, into the wash basin, and washed his dusty hands and face.  He eyed Hutchinson, lounging in the bed.

'You look quite disreputable, for a man who is usually so elegant.  But it is charming,' he said. 'Let me take off your boots.'

He had managed one boot, and was struggling with the other, when Jacques returned.  Starsky laughed up at Jacques, from his position on the floor.

'I am no valet,' he said.

'No you are not,' said Jacques.  'But I think Monsieur Hutchinson does not mind.'  Jacques lit the fire, and then bowed.  'I will leave you alone,' he said.   'And I will see you in the morning.  Bonsoir!'

They were alone.   The fire was lit, and the curtains closed against the world.  Hutchinson's hands began to shake, now that there was no need to maintain a front.  'Starsky?' he begged.

Starsky came, and took away the empty teacup.  He smoothed back Hutchinson's hair, and cradled his head against his chest.

'Mon enfant,' he said.  'What is it?'

'I am going mad, Starsky.  I don't know if you can stop it.'

'Why do you think this thing?  You are not mad.  You are quite sane.  You need sleep, that is all.  How many hours do you sleep?'

'Seven or eight. It depends.'

'Seven or eight hours a night?  Hutch.  I know that is not true.'

'No. Of course not.  A week.  I slept more when you were here, if you remember.'  Starsky was silent, staring at Hutchinson.  Hutchinson felt he should explain.    'Too many hours, I know.  But you wore me out.'

'Hutch,' said Starsky slowly.  'No one can live on that many hours sleep.'

Hutchinson laughed.  'I can,' he said.  'I never sleep more than that.  I have several hours sleep every few nights.  And I have short naps in front of the fire, on other nights.   Other people sleep too much.'

'We do?' Starsky asked.  'Well, pardon us mere mortals, but there's a reason for that.  Humans need sleep.  Even animals need sleep.  I am quite certain that fish sleep.  For all I know, so do trees and rocks.   No wonder you think you're going mad.'

'It's not that,' said Hutchinson, offended.  'This is new.  I started seeing the caped man, only a few nights ago.  We were hunting Jack the Ripper, if you remember, in Spitalfields.  And I saw someone you didn't see.  I've seen him several times since then.  I just had a nightmare about him.'

'A nightmare,' said Starsky.  'That is all it was.'

'But I saw him when I was awake,' Hutchinson pointed out.

'Then you had a nightmare when you were awake.  That doesn't surprise me.  I am here to see that you have no more nightmares.  And if you do, I will wake you.'

He pressed his hot, hard mouth against Hutchinson's.  Hutchinson felt the hotness, and the hardness, travel straight to his groin.  He felt his penis lengthen and grow hard and hot to match Starsky's mouth.   He must not beg, he thought.  Men did not beg.  He had been taught that long ago.  Men commanded.  Begging was for women.  Starsky put his warm, furry tongue in his mouth.  Hutchinson gasped.

'Please, Starsky.  Please forgive me.  Forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive,' said Starsky.  'You were trying to protect me.'

'I can't protect you.  Not any more.  I am too weak.  I need you too much. That is why I ask you to forgive me.'

'We're stronger together, than we are apart,' said Starsky.  'We'll protect each other.'


*************************

Starsky sat up, and looked at Hutchinson suspiciously.  'You are awake,' he decided, after a moment's consideration.

'It is morning,' said Hutchinson.  'It is time to be awake.'

Starsky turned to look out the window, where a faint light was beginning to appear.  He groaned, lay back down, and pulled a pillow over his head.  'That is not morning,' he mumbled.  'That is a disease of the sky, like leprosy.'  He peeked out from under the pillow. 'And you are thinking,' he said.  'How am I to cure you of such bad habits?'

'I am thinking of our future,' said Hutchinson.

'Making plans?'

'Not new plans.  I am working on the old ones.  Perfecting them.'

'I see,' said Starsky.  He sat up again, and leaned against Hutchinson's shoulder. 'Tell me of these plans once more.  I will listen, and I will agree, unless they are completely beyond reason.'

'I do not think they are,' Hutchinson told him.  'As I said before, it is not safe for us to continue visiting each other.  Eventually, people will remark upon it, and wonder, and someone will decide we are sodomites, and I am the sort of sodomite who likes working class men, and I am paying you.  So, it is safer if we live together.  Then, when we are in each other's company, no one will be surprised.  Do my words persuade you so far?'

'Yes.  But it doesn't matter whether they persuade me or not.  I will go along with your wishes.  I told you that last night.'  Starsky groaned again.  'This night, I mean.  I do not believe it is morning.'

'So, the next problem is finding a reason we may live together,' Hutchinson continued.

'My mother,' said Starsky.

'Yes,' Hutchinson replied.  'My housekeeper is old, and deaf.  It is time she retired.  In fact, she should have retired long ago.'

'But you are a shnook, and so you hired her.'

'Her previous employers fired her, without a reference, because she could no longer handle her duties.  I found her sleeping in Hyde Park.  What was I to do, Starsky?  My house is not nearly so difficult to run as her former one, and she has regained her self respect.  I'm giving her a pension, and a cottage in the country, and a servant or two to care for her.  Your mother might not speak English well, but she is learning, and most of my staff speaks French.'

'I don't like deceiving her,' said Starsky.

'Neither do I, but what can we do?  She would share the opinion of the world, I daresay.  And then where would we be?'

'She would share the opinion of the world,' said Starsky.  'But I am going to tell her everything, Hutch.  It would not be safe, otherwise.  I don't want to be sneaking around, making excuses for why we are together late at night.'

'She might decide to decline my offer,' Hutchinson suggested.

'No, she will not.  I will explain the situation to her, in terms she will understand.  I have learned something from you, about how to bring people to your way of seeing things.  When must we be at Scotland Yard?'

'Not until noon.  Swanson insisted I take the morning off.'

'I like Monsieur Swanson, though I am sure you do not share my opinion. Go back to sleep.  We will arise at a civilized hour, and pay my mother a visit.'

'I'm not sleepy,' Hutchinson told him.

Starsky groaned once more.  'You are going to be the death of me,' he said.  'Have you no pity?'

But he pulled Hutchinson into his arms, and smothered him with kisses, nevertheless.


*****************


Madame Starsky was already at work on her sewing when they arrived.  She greeted them with a smile, and offered them tea.  Her smiles turned to looks of bewilderment, when Starsky began his story, though.

'Monsieur Hutchinson and I, we love each other,' he said, carefully.  'We love each other like David and Jonathan.  Only more than that. At least, I think more than that,' he added, with a sidelong grin at Hutchinson.

'Yes?' said his mother.  She smiled, clearly at a loss.

Hutchinson had noticed the distressing tendency of people not to understand such matters when you wished them to understand, but to grasp the concept fairly quickly when you were trying to hide the truth.

Starsky let loose a barrage of words in one of those languages Hutchinson didn't know.  He listened for a while, but heard none of the Yiddish words Starsky had taught him, so he decided this must be Russian.  Starsky spoke Russian for some minutes, but Madame Starsky appeared to be no more enlightened.

'Hutch?' Starsky asked, plaintively.

'Yes?' asked Hutchinson.  Dear God, he thought.  Please don't ask me to explain this thing to your mother.

'Do you have a piece of paper?' Starsky begged.  'And a pencil?'

Hutchinson reached into his jacket pocket, and found his notebook.  Another pocket yielded a rather stubby pencil.  Starsky said that would do.

He drew something on the paper, and handed it to his mother.  She stared at the drawing in horror, and screamed. She dropped the paper on the floor, as if it were poisoned.  Starsky laughed, and shook his head.  He pointed at his mother, and the drawing, and said something in Russian. Madame Starsky became very angry at this, and shook her head.

'Nyet!' she said.  'Nyet, nyet, nyet.'

More Russian from Starsky.  Not understanding a word of this conversation, Hutchinson picked up the drawing, and studied it. Starsky had drawn a man, with a very large penis, mounted on another man, who also possessed an impressive organ.  The drawing was not bad, considering how quickly it had been produced.  Hutchinson hoped the man who was mounting the other was intended to represent himself, but he supposed it was Starsky.  The drawing wasn't detailed enough to show which man was circumcised and which was not.  He folded the drawing, and put it carefully in his breast pocket.

The room had fallen silent. He looked up.  Starsky was smiling at him.  Madame Starsky still looked angry, and she was about to turn her anger on him.  He thought of their former amity, and his dreams of a peaceful life, with Starsky's love, and Madame Starsky's motherly care.

'Monsieur Hutchinson is a good man, Mother,' said Starsky.  'You have no right to be so self righteous.'

Ah, so they have returned to French, thought Hutchinson, so I that I may understand every word, and know the opinion she now holds of me.

'I am not self righteous,' Madame Starsky avowed. 'But how can you say this man is good, when he has led you into abomination?'

'Do you want me to tell you what is abomination, Mother?  It is selling children into brothels, like Father did.'

'He did not!  It was those other men, the evil ones. They led him into evil, but he was innocent.'

'So he said.  And so you now say.  But the truth remains, that he committed those crimes.  And we lived off the money that he earned, through the suffering of those innocent children.  You stood by, and did nothing.  And now, you think you have the right to judge me?'

'What could I do? I am a woman, and your father was the man of the family.  It was not up to me, to tell him what to do.'

'Not up to you?  You were his wife, his helpmate.  You had every right to question his actions, and yet you didn't.  But now, suddenly you have the strength to question mine.  Let me put it to you this way, Mother.  If you are a submissive woman, who thinks she has no right to criticize men, then continue to be so, and don't criticize us.  But if you are not, then you must have known about Father's business, and looked the other way, out of greed.  So you are equally guilty, and have no right to criticize us.'

'It was not greed,' said Madame Starsky.  'I loved your father.  I trusted him.'

'Then you can continue to love and trust me.  I am not doing anything evil, no matter what the world says.  I have given my love to this man.  He is brave, and good, and he is hunting the evil man who is killing those poor women.  Do you want to ruin his life with your prejudice, the way the Russians ruined ours?'

'No.  But do you expect me to go along with this?  How can I?'

'Then do not,' said Starsky.  'Continue to live here, in this terrible place, and sew undergarments for rich women, until your eyes give out.  Monsieur Hutchinson and I will go on meeting together.  One day, we may be caught, and charged with sodomy.  I may decide to make a full confession, including the evil deeds of my father, and what I know about Joseph Durniak and those men from Sicily.  What were they called, Hutch?'

'The Mafia,' said Hutchinson, faintly.  I thought I was merciless, he thought.  I believe I have met my match, if not my superior.

'Oh, yes,' said Starsky.  'The Mafia.  I will tell the court, and the press, all about the white slavery operation my father was involved in.'

'You could not do that,' his mother protested.  'It would... it would lead to terrible consequences.'

'That is likely,' Starsky agreed.  'A pogrom, perhaps.  If one Jew commits a crime, all Jews must be punished.'

'How could you do such a thing?' asked Madame Starsky.

'Not me, ' said Starsky.  'It was Father who committed the crime.  And you were the one who stood by and allowed it, when you should have spoken up.'

'Starsky?' Hutchinson interrupted.  'Do you think this is wise?'

'Oh, no,'  said Starsky.  'Don't be a shnook.  My mother is a strong woman.  She lived through a pogrom, and the exodus out of Russia, and the murder of my father.  She will survive finding out that her son loves another man.  That is why I told her about us. Because I love her, and I respect her, just as I still love my father.'

'Yes, David,' said Madame Starsky.  'I will survive.'

'That is good,' said Starsky.  'But how will you survive?  And where?  Will you accept Monsieur Hutchinson's kind offer?  Or will you be proud and disdainful?'

'I will accept Monsieur Hutchinson's kind offer,' said Madame Starsky.


*******************


'I have a cook, two housemaids, and a scullery maid,' Hutchinson informed Madame Starsky, as he ushered her into her new rooms.  'They all speak French.  Indeed, they are French. So, you should have no problems communicating your wishes to them.  There has been no time to decorate your rooms to suit your tastes, but that may be done in the future, if you wish.'

Starsky laughed.  'These rooms bear a resemblance to the private apartments of Queen Victoria, I am certain.  I do not see why Mother should have any complaints.'

Madame Starsky smiled, and nodded quite politely.  She had been very polite the last few days, and had agreed to everything her son and his friend suggested.  Hutchinson wished she would argue with them over some small thing, any small thing.  He had wanted a woman to fill the role of mother in his household, he realized.  Not a servant who bowed and scraped and did whatever she was told.

'There are two footmen, a coachman, a groom and a gardener, as well.  All of them are under the command of Jeffreys, my butler.  Jeffreys speaks French, and so do the footmen, and the gardener.  My coachman and my groom are learning the language.'

'Why so much French?' asked Starsky, with a grin.

'My father does not understand or speak it,' Hutchinson explained.  'My mother was half French, on her father's side.  We spoke the language whenever we were alone.  I have lands there, that I inherited from my grandfather.  Now, I will leave you to settle in.  I will be in the library, until luncheon.  Then Starsky and I must leave for Scotland Yard.'

Hutchinson bowed, and excused himself.  Starsky murmured his name, but Hutchinson ignored the entreaty.

Swanson had been shocked, but in a pleased way, when Hutchinson announced that he was taking the morning off to settle some domestic affairs.

'I have hired a new housekeeper,' Hutchinson had told him.  'David Starsky's mother has agreed to fill that role.  It is quite convenient for all of us, as he will be sharing her rooms for the present.'

'Ah.  A new housekeeper.  Good gracious, man.  Why do you need a housekeeper?  You are never home.'

'That is why I need a housekeeper.  To keep my house, because I am never home to do it.'

'Then why do you need a butler?' asked Swanson.  'I've never understood what a butler does, exactly.'

'Jeffreys is in charge of my wine cellar, and my plate, and the male staff.  He warms my morning newspaper and irons the creases.'

'I see.  Certainly there is nothing more annoying than a cold, wrinkly newspaper, Hutchinson.'

'I agree, sir.  They are the bane of my existence.'

Hutchinson sat down before the library hearth fire, and opened his warm, uncreased newspaper.  It was only the contents of the paper that were cold and twisted, he thought.  Story after editorial after letter to the editor.  All about Jack the Ripper.  The inquests into the deaths of Elizabeth Stride and Catharine Eddowes was continuing.  The jurymen were questioning the spelling of 'Jews' in the message on the wall.  Was it 'Jews' or 'Juwes' ?  The various rewards offered for any information leading to the Ripper's capture, had now reached over 1000 pounds.  The Metropolitan Police were about to make a trial of two bloodhounds, to test their abilities to track the killer.  Sir Charles Warren, the Chief Commissioner, had himself agreed to act as their prey.

Now there was news worth printing, thought Hutchinson.  The rewards might persuade someone who knew of, or had suspicions of, the identity of Jack the Ripper, to come forward.  And the bloodhounds!  If Jack the Ripper struck again, and Hutchinson could make it to the site before it had been disturbed too much, and Winston could use his fingerprinting kit, and the bloodhounds were called in to track whoever had last touched the victim -- then they might have the killer on the ropes.  Hutchinson wanted to be the arresting officer, when they tracked the man to ground.  He wanted to be there, to see that no one harmed a hair on his head, unless it were necessary to subdue him.  He wanted to be sure the monster was whole and healthy for his trial, not torn apart by an enraged crowd, so that Hutchinson would never know for certain they had caught the right man.

He heard the library door open.   Starsky put his arms around his neck, and whispered in his ear. 'You are angry at me.  Why are you angry?'

'How could I be angry at you?' Hutchinson asked.

'But you are angry,' said Starsky.  'You came and shut yourself away from me, in here with all your books.'  He came around the chair, and pulled Hutchinson's neat newspaper out of his hands, and threw it in an unsightly mess all over the floor.  Then he crawled into his lap and kissed him.  'I locked the door,' he said.  'We are all alone.  You can shout at me.  Hit me if you like.'

'I would never hit you.  Not to hurt you.  That one time, that was....'

'To protect me, I know.  But you are angry that I told my mother about us.  It was necessary, Hutch.  She would have found out eventually, and then she would have been angry that we used her.  This way, she knows already.'

'Use her?  I never meant to use her.  I wanted....'

'I know.  You wanted my mother to be your mother.  And she will be, Hutch.  She will come to understand.  I made her sound much worse than she is, the other day.  I wanted her to see that she is not perfect, and that she has no right to sit in judgement over you.  Now, let us begin living together properly.'

Starsky kissed him, long and hard.  Then he slid down Hutchinson's body, and knelt before him, on the carpet, and opened his trousers.

'Starsky?' Hutchinson whispered.  'I don't think....'

'Good,' said Starsky.  'Don't think.'

Hutchinson watched as Starsky's mouth enveloped his penis.  It was like coming home.  It is true, he thought.  It is true.  We are living together.  He is living here with me, and all is safe for now.  He is mine.  All mine.

'Mine,' he whispered.


*********************

'I see you have decided to honour us with your presence,' said Chief Inspector Donald Swanson.  His glance, and his words, appeared to envelop both Starsky and Hutchinson, as if they were a unity.

'We wouldn't miss this for all the tea in China, sir,' Hutchinson told him.

Hutchinson was mounted on his tall black stallion, Ajax.  He had insisted that Starsky ride also, and had given him a gentle chestnut gelding, named Nelson.

Starsky had been a little reluctant to the idea of riding horseback, at first.  'I can ride,'  he said.  'But I don't care for it, and nothing would get me up on that animal's back.'  He indicated Ajax, who was prancing and snorting like a year old colt.   'I prefer to drive.  I'd like to try one of your chariots.'

'Well, you may do so at any other time.  But not today,' Hutchinson told him.

Today was the day for the bloodhounds to be tested.  The Police Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren, had already made his escape, off into the streets of the City.  Now, everyone was waiting for the bloodhounds to be brought in, to hunt him down.  Hutchinson and the other police officers would follow, and horseback was better for that.

'You look well, Inspector Hutchinson,' Swanson noted.  'Your new domestic arrangements must agree with you.'

'Indeed they do, sir.  My new housekeeper is most agreeable,' Hutchinson told him.  'I have had a thought, sir,' he added.

'Have you now?' said the Chief Inspector.  He lifted an eyebrow.  'And what is this thought, pray tell?'

'I think we should have police officers dressed as women.  They would walk the streets of Whitechapel and Spitalfields, posing as prostitutes.'

'You believe they would fool anyone, Inspector?'

'I think they could.  With the proper clothing, and if they are trained how to walk as these women do.  It is dark, after all.  And they only need to fool him until he makes his attack.  I will do this myself.  I'm not asking anyone to do something I'm not willing to do.'

'You are rather tall for a woman, are you not, Inspector?'

'I've seen some Irish women nearly as tall as I.  I can slouch down a bit.  Many of these women walk in a dispirited fashion.  And sure, I can talk with an Irish brogue, sorr.'

'Then you have my permission to try, Hutchinson.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'And if you do have the luck to fool Jack the Ripper, please leave something of him to stand trial.'

'Never fear, sir.  I intend to do so.  There is nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to see him hang.'

'Nothing, Inspector?  You need more pleasure in your life, I believe,' said Swanson.

Hutchinson laughed. 'I meant my words to refer to pleasure in police matters, sir.  Not in my private life.'

'Ah!  You have a private life, Hutchinson.  That is good.  And here are the bloodhounds.'

The small crowd around the 'crime site' cheered, as the bloodhounds were led in.  Their huge heads, and sad eyes, were both ugly and beautiful, thought Hutchinson.  Their owner, Mr. Brough, led them through the group of men, letting the dogs stop and sniff each spectator.

'They will remember your scent,' he said to Hutchinson and Starsky.  'When they are given the scent of their prey, they will ignore your trail, if they should come across it.'

'I have worked with bloodhounds before,' Hutchinson told him.  'They are relentless, are they not?'

'They are indeed, sir.  Once they are on a trail, it is very hard to pull them from it.  They want to find the source of the scent, sir.  Nothing else matters.  But they are not miracle workers.'

'I know,' said Hutchinson.  He bent to rub the long, droopy ears of one of the dogs.  'You must keep them on leads, must you not?  They are blind, and almost deaf when they are on a trail.'

'That they are, sir,' said Brough, with a smile of approbation.  'The hound you are petting is Burgho, sir.  The other hound is Barnaby.'

The dogs whined at the sound of their names.  They wanted to work, thought Hutchinson.  They wanted to track a scent through the city, and find their prey.  He knew how they felt.

'If the Ripper should strike again,' he told Brough.  'I will make certain the crime site is untouched, and all unnecessary people are kept away.  If that is done, do you think your dogs could track the killer through London?'

'If the trail is no more than two days old, sir?  Yes.  That they could.'

Brough led his hounds to the 'murder site'.  He was handed a piece of torn material, which Sir Charles had handled before he made his escape.  The dogs sniffed the ground carefully for a while, then they seemed to catch the scent they were looking for.

'Burgho!  Barnaby!' said Brough. 'Find!'

The words seemed unnecessary, but they did act as a form of permission, Hutchinson supposed.  Burgho threw back his head, and howled.  Barnaby took up the cry.  Brough held onto their leads, as the dogs sped off, through Hyde Park, toward the City, and the crowded streets.  Could they hold the scent, until the prey was run to ground?


*************************


The green grass and open spaces of Hyde Park had given way to the crowded, noisy, smelly streets of the City, and yet Burgho and Barnaby had not lost the scent of their prey.  They had faltered once or twice -- once when a wagon parked in their path, and they tried to walk over it and then through it and finally were persuaded to walk around it.   Twice was when a particularly large and noisome pile of horse droppings appeared on the road before them.  But they had recovered from these set backs, and were hard on the trail.

Spectators lined the roads and gathered in groups on the corners to watch the baying hounds run by.  Nothing distracted them.  They were blind and deaf, it seemed, and only their noses continued to function.   They passed Tyburn Hill, where once criminals were executed in full view of thousands of spectators.  Two hundred thousand people had turned out to watch Jack Sheppard hang.  Probably most of them hoping he would cheat death one more time.  Sheppard had been born in Spitalfields, if Hutchinson remembered properly, and there he had become a burglar, and it was for housebreaking that he was condemned to death.  A master burglar, thought Hutchinson, with an uncanny ability to escape his captors.  But not evil.  He had not deserved to die so painfully.

Burgho and Barnaby led them up Newgate Street, then up Cheapside toward the Poultry.  Old Jewry.  Hutchinson had an idea where Sir Charles had decided to go to earth.  He was right.  The baying hounds charged toward the offices of the City of London Police.  Sir Charles poked his head out the door, turned and ran back inside.  The dogs let out a howl to wake the dead, and almost pulled Brough off his feet. They chased Sir Charles inside the City Police headquarters.  A number of police officers stood about, laughing heartily as the head of the rival firm was hunted down before their eyes.

'Good work,' Hutchinson told Brough. They were watching  Burgho and Barnaby drool all over Sir Charles, as if he were their long-lost master.  'Now, if only that were Jack the Ripper.'

Starsky came up and patted Hutchinson's shoulder in a comradely fashion.  'Next time, perhaps it will be so,' he said, in careful English.  Hutchinson had been giving him lessons the last few days.  Some of those lessons had taken place in bed, but were none the worse for that.  Starsky had stuck to his horse well enough, thought Hutchinson, though he was no graceful rider.  He could be graceful in bed though.  Considerate.  Passionate when passion was required.  Tender when Hutchinson needed tenderness.  Giving, always.  Hutchinson wondered if he himself were so giving.  He wanted to be, but occasionally his own needs got in the way, and....

'The Press has tracked us down,' Swanson announced.  'I suppose they are bloodhounds of a sort themselves.'

'We were making enough noise, sir.  I doubt anyone was in doubt of our mission.'

'No. But now someone must deal with them,' said Sir Charles, who had freed himself from the embrace of the bloodhounds.  'I confess I do not like the Press.  I would much rather face down a hoard of howling savages intent on tearing me limb from limb.  But also, I must confess I tire of the gag order which prevents us from revealing anything to the populace.  It has not helped us in our endeavours these last days, has it now?'

'I would say it has hindered us, Sir Charles,' Hutchinson told him.  'But then, that is not for me to say, is it?  Being a humble Inspector, I am restrained from giving my opinion upon such elevated matters.'

Sir Charles snorted.  'You are a humble nothing, Hutchinson. And I do not tax you for it.  Humility is a useless virtue, and thus no virtue.  Better to know your true worth, am I right?'

'Of course you are right, Sir Charles.  You are my employer.'

'And you quake in your expensive boots every time you see me coming, I am persuaded.  No doubt you will be starving in the streets when I fire you for insolence.  Never mind, man.  I like your insolence, as long as it is not exaggerated.  Why don't you take care of the Press for us, and I will continue to employ you a little longer. Eh?'

'If you like, Sir Charles.  What shall I tell them?'

'Enough.  But not too much.  Use your judgement, Hutchinson.  That will suffice.'

The Press was swarming over the street outside the City Police headquarters, hoping for a smidgen of information from anyone.  They fell silent when Hutchinson appeared on the steps,  Swanson and Sir Charles behind him.  Starsky was quietly watching from the side.

'Gentlemen!' said Hutchinson.  'I believe you have some questions for us.'

A babble of voices broke out.  Shouted questions from every corner.  Hutchinson held up his hands for silence.  'One at a time. One at a time,' he said.  'You.  From the Telegraph, I believe.'

'Yes!' said the reporter, with obvious surprise.

'I am Inspector Hutchinson.  What would you like to ask me.  I cannot promise to answer, but I will attempt to do so, within the bounds of our rules.'

'The trial of the bloodhounds was a success, Inspector?'

'It was,' said Hutchinson.

'Then you will be using them to hunt Jack the Ripper?' the reporter continued.

Hutchinson glanced at Sir Charles, who gave him an almost imperceptible nod.  'If Jack the Ripper should strike again,' said Hutchinson.  'We will be using the bloodhounds.  The dogs have proven they can indeed track a man through the city streets.'

'Would you say that you are doing everything possible to protect the people of London, Inspector?' another reporter called out.

'The City Police are doing everything in their power,' said Hutchinson.  'The Metropolitan Police are doing everything in their power.  I am doing everything in my power.'

Hutchinson heard a snicker behind him.  Muttered words --  'Who does he think he is?'  He ignored the question.  He didn't consider himself above the rest of the police force.  He had simply made the hunt for the killer a personal crusade.  It was a dangerous undertaking, that he knew, but his soul, and his love, required  it.



*******************************

Hutchinson stood on a stool, while Madame Starsky adjusted the hem of his dress.  It had been difficult to find a dress to fit him, there being few women who stood over six feet tall, and who possessed the arms and shoulders of a pugilist.  They had finally found something close in fit, and now Madame Starsky was finishing the adjustments.

Hutchinson wondered what she thought of his masquerade.  Did she believe he made a habit of dressing in women's clothes?  Did she think he played the role of a woman in his relations with her son?  Perhaps it would assuage her grief over their unnatural union, if she understood that he had no intentions of turning Starsky into a woman.  It was that very point, he thought, that made the idea of two men lying together so loathsome to people.  The thought that one of the men must act like a woman.  And for a man to act like a woman, was the most disgusting thing imaginable.   Did other men hate their own mothers, and sisters and wives and daughters so much, that to be like them in any way was repulsive to them?

Was that why Jack the Ripper killed, he wondered?  Was that why he cut out the most female parts of his victims?  Did he fear he was a woman himself, inside, and so he was trying to kill that part of himself?

'It needn't be perfect,' Hutchinson told Madame Starsky, twitching impatiently at the hem of his dress.  'I'm not going to be wearing it that long, nor in daylight.  And a woman in my position would not be able to afford the best dressmakers.  Certainly not someone with your skills.'

'I do not like shoddy work, sir,' Madame Starsky said.

Hutchinson winced.  'You need not call me sir,' he protested.

'You are my employer,' she said.  'What should I call you?'

'I don't know,' he answered, bleakly.  'Mr. Hutchinson, I suppose.  But Starsky -- David -- says that is a mouthful.  Call me Kenneth.'

'Oh. I couldn't do that,' Madame Starsky said, horrified.  'What would people think?'

'Who in Hell cares what people think?' Hutchinson shouted, then caught himself.  'I apologize, Madame.  I did not intend to berate you.  But you are my housekeeper, not my servant.  I don't wish for subservience from you.  Never mind.  Call me what you wish.'  Hutchinson doubted she would do that.  He thought she had some names for him best not said out loud, in his presence.

'Why not call him Hutch?' Starsky suggested from his easy chair.

'Oh, I could not call him that, either,' said his mother.  'I will call him Mr. Hutchinson.'

Starsky was sprawled in the chair, enjoying the show, as Hutch tried out his costume, and acting skills.  Starsky himself was dressed in an assortment of dirty rags.  He insisted on joining the mission, in his earlier guise as a lunatic, and following behind Hutchinson the entire way.

'I can take care of myself,' Hutchinson had said, arrogantly.  'I have been walking the streets of Whitechapel for months now, and for most of that time alone.'

'Alone, yes,' Starsky had allowed.  'Dressed as a woman, no.  You  would frighten away any number of murderers, trust me.  But few men fear to physically attack a woman.  They believe women to be physically weaker, as most are.  And women's clothes are cumbersome.'

'I know,' said Hutch.  'I have dressed as a woman before.'

'Have you?  That is interesting.'

'Not for the reasons you may be thinking.  It was when I was at the Surete.  I was working on a case.'

'And what reason did you suppose I suspected?  I know you are not effeminate, my dear.'

'Would it disgust you if I were?' Hutchinson had asked.  'Is there anything repulsive about femininity?'

'No.  Not natural femininity.  I have known men like that.  They were born more woman than man.  But for other men it is an act they perform.  Perhaps it is a mockery of women?'

Hutchinson wondered.  He had known some men who should have been born women, he thought.  And some women who were quite manly.  Then, there were the men who were so stiff, so unbending in their masculinity, that Hutchinson thought it might do them good to lie with another man, and be treated like a woman, and learn that life would go on, unaltered. The sun would continue to rise and set, uncaring.

'There, Mr. Hutchinson,' said Madame Starsky.  'I think I have done all I can with this dress.  It is not a perfect fit, but will do.'

'Thank you, Madame,' said Hutchinson.  'That is all I ask.  What do you think, Starsky?'

'I think you make would make a charming woman, but not in that dress.  It is years out of date, and not the right colour.'

'That is good,' said Hutchinson.  'Truly I do not want to attract any men to buy my wares.  They are not for sale.'

Madame Starsky gathered up her sewing materials, rather hurriedly.  'If I may be excused, Mr. Hutchinson,' she said.  'I have some other duties.  Good evening.'

Hutchinson barely restrained a sigh.  'Good evening, Madame,' he answered.  She curtsied slightly, and left the room.

'Oh, well,' said Starsky.  'I have not yet been able to convince her that I'm not your whore.'

'I'm sorry, Starsky,' Hutchinson told him.

'You have nothing to be sorry for.  My mother has the idea fixed in her mind, and indeed it is what most people think.  They cannot believe that two men might truly love each other, and be faithful.  Or the thought frightens them, if it ever occurs to them. But we must not think upon that.  We know what we are, and who we are.'

You know what you are, thought Hutchinson.  And you know what you imagine I am.  But what am I, exactly?  What is it in me, that draws you to me?

'Shall we be off?' he asked Starsky.  Then he curtsied, as Madame Starsky had done moments before.

Starsky got to his feet and bowed.  'Ladies first,' he said.

'I thank you, sorr,' said Hutchinson, trying out his Irish accent, and womanly tones.  'You are most polite.'

Starsky held the door for him, and helped him into the carriage.  Then he picked up the whip.  'I have been wanting to drive this chaise,' he said.  'You had better hold onto your seat.'

'That is what I feared,' said Hutchinson.  'Will we make it to the City in one piece.'

Starsky grinned. 'Trust me,' he said, and cracked the whip.


***************************

'Make your presence in the area known to the constables on every corner.  Quietly, of course.  Don't trumpet it to the heavens.  Keep your whistles at hand.  If any man approaches you, arrest him, and bring him in for questioning.  It matters not if he fits the descriptions we have been given of the possible killer.  The man might now be wearing a disguise.  He might appear to be a sixty year old clergyman up from the country.  Arrest him!'

'Aye, sir!' chorused the roomful of constables disguised as prostitutes.  They were a disreputable looking enough lot, which was all to the good, thought Hutchinson.

'Several factors are in our favour,' he continued.  'The danger that lurks in Whitechapel and Spitalfields has led to a decrease in the number of women walking the streets, and the number of men who wish to be their customers.  It is therefore more likely that men will approach us, and more likely that a man who approaches us may be Jack the Ripper.  He murdered a woman on August 7, and September 7.  He did not kill on October 7.  It could be that the date means nothing to him, and it was merely a coincidence.  Or it could be that he found no opportunity to kill, because we have him on the run, and the women of Whitechapel are more wary themselves.  If that is the case, he could be desperate.'

There was a chuckle from the doorway.  One of the uniformed constables, who had not volunteered to walk the streets in disguise, was leaning in the door.  He laughed again.

'Jack the Ripper would have to be desperate,' he said.  'If he went after you lot.'

'Indeed, Weller?' Hutchinson asked.  'If you think you would make a more attractive woman, why did you not volunteer?'

'Me, sir?' asked Weller.  'Never!'

'Never is a long time, Weller.  Or rather, in your case, never is a short time.'

'What do you mean, sir?' Weller asked, mystified.

'I mean, Weller, that you have volunteered.  Go find a dress, and a wig, and shave off your moustache.'

'Sir!  That is not fair.'

'Is it not, Weller?' asked Hutchinson.  'I allowed the laughter when first we walked the halls in our current costumes.  I was persuaded that the humour would lead to comradely feeling, or something of that nature.  But I set a limit, did I not?  I said you might laugh then, but once we entered this room, and I began to give orders, the time for humour was over.  Did you not hear me, Weller?'

'Aye, sir.  I did, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'

'Apology noted, Weller.  Go find yourself a dress, and join us.  Now, Weller!'

'Aye, sir.'  Weller moped off.

One or two of the 'ladies' in the room snickered, but they stopped at Hutchinson's glare.  'I don't blame you,' he said.  'For wanting to laugh in your turn.  But let us be serious now, and you may laugh all you wish when your patrol is over.  Adams, you have the corner of Wentworth Street and Goulston Street.  Wilkinson, you are assigned to White Street and Commercial.  Evans....'

**********************

'What do you think?' asked Starsky, as they left Scotland Yard.  Starsky was driving the chaise again, and Hutchinson gritting his teeth.  The ride in from St John's Wood had been a revelation.  His chaise, which appeared to be delicately balanced, could withstand a remarkable amount of punishment.  So could his horses, he thought, as Starsky cracked the whip, and they pranced off toward Whitechapel.  They would leave the chaise and the horses at the local Police Station, and pick them up after their patrol.  Hutchinson had no intention of walking from Whitehall to Whitechapel, dressed as a woman.

'What do I think of what?' he asked Starsky.

'Weller's chances of being approached by Jack the Ripper, of course.' Starsky replied.

Hutchinson considered the question seriously, for a moment.  'There are 109 of us out tonight,' he said at last.  'All things being equal, we each have the same chance of being approached by Jack the Ripper.  That is, one chance out of 109.  However, all things are not equal.  They never are.  That is the fallacy of statistics.  You must factor in so many variables.  Whether or not Jack the Ripper is desperate.  How many other ladies are out tonight looking for clients.  Whether or not one of us happens to pass by at the right moment. And so forth.'

Starsky digested this information while he continued to drive at a reckless speed.  Hutchinson considered asking him to slow down, but since they were nearly there, the request seemed pointless.

'So?' asked Starsky at last.  'What do you think Weller's chances are of being approached by Jack the Ripper?'

'About as high as yours, Starsky,' said Hutchinson.

'Thank you,' said Starsky.  'That answer made more sense.  And Hutch,' he added.  'Watch yourself.  Whitechapel is in a dangerous mood.'

'I know,' said Hutchinson.

'Business is down. All business, not just the business on the streets in the evening.  Profits have fallen by half, I've heard.  That tends to make people nasty.'

'I'll be careful,' said Hutchinson.

'I'll be nearby,' Starsky told him.  'Right behind you.  And I have this.'

Starsky opened his jacket, to show him a pistol, shoved into his belt.

'For God's sake, Starsky.  Be careful with that thing.  Don't shoot some important part of your anatomy.'

'I know how to use it,' said Starsky.  'And I will, if anyone tries to harm you.'

'And don't let anyone else at Scotland Yard know you have it,' said Hutchinson.  'Only high ranking officers are allowed to have them, and you're not even a constable.'

'No.  I'm not.  Which means I am not bound by your rules.  But I will only use it if necessary.'

'Let us hope it isn't,' said Hutchinson.


*********************

Hutchinson had assigned himself to Thrawl Street, a stretch of road between Commercial Street and Brick Lane.  It was near this part of Whitechapel that Emma Smith had been beaten to death by a gang of rapists.  So much had happened since then, that this first outrage had faded in the minds of the public.  Not so in Hutchinson's.

Big Ben struck midnight.  Thrawl Street was deserted, dark and foggy.  Not a likely time and place for a poor unfortunate woman like himself to meet a gentleman client, but perhaps the perfect time and place to meet Jack the Ripper.  Half a block down the road, he could hear Starsky muttering to himself.  The man was born to play a lunatic, thought Hutchinson, and it was a damn good thing, too.  It made for a certain sympathetic understanding on Starsky's part toward Hutchinson's own mental infirmities.

Or perhaps Starsky truly was insane, like Hutchinson, and they were happily mad together.  Starsky drove like a madman.  But then, he behaved like a madman in bed, as well, when Hutchinson so wished. It was best to forgive him his iniquities.

Far down Thrawl Street, Hutchinson could see a small group of men, perhaps looking for an evening's entertainment, perhaps on their way home.  They turned a corner, and disappeared.  Hutchinson trudged on.  I am likely wasting my time, he thought.

Behind him, Starsky continued his insane mutterings.  Hutchinson could not understand a word, but the sound was comforting.  Starsky was watching, so that no one might jump out from a dark alley, and catch him unawares.  The sound of Starsky's voice, and of his footsteps, was like a warm hand on his back.  Reassuring, and steadying.  A memory came to him of a dream,  a dream of a journey upon the sea, and of Starsky's hand upon the tiller, adding his strength to Hutchinson's own.

'David?'

A voice interrupted his warm soliloquy on the power of love.  The voice echoed strangely in the fog.  Hutchinson turned to see from whence it came.

'David?' asked the voice again.

David, he thought.  That is my love's name.  His first name. The one I never use.  Who is addressing him?  What is it they want? He turned back, toward Starsky, keeping his head down, as if he were merely giving up on the quest for a customer, and returning home.

A man was trailing Starsky, who appeared to be ignoring his existence.  He was still muttering to himself.  But now, he began to look around, as if suddenly uncertain of his surroundings.  He turned slowly, and came face to face with his pursuer.

'David,' said the other man.  'I was sure it was you.'

'Tais-toi!' Starsky muttered.  'Tu es completement idiot.'

That was what Hutchinson had been thinking, himself.  Cretin.  Imbecile.  'Gentlemen!' said Hutchinson, out loud.  'Would you like some company, on this foggy evening?'

'Certainment,' said Starsky.  'Bonne idee!'  He grabbed the other man's arm, and dragged him into the alley.   Hutchinson followed.

'Nicholas?' said Starsky, as soon as they were off the public street.  'What in the name of.... Where have you been?  And why do you appear here, and now?'

'This is your brother?' Hutchinson asked Starsky. I should have guessed, he thought.  They do look alike.

'To my extreme embarrassment, yes,' Starsky told him.

'You are embarrassed?' asked Nicholas.  'I am not the one walking the streets dressed in such dirty rags, and talking to himself.'

'Then what are you doing walking the streets?' Starsky asked.  'Don't you know what danger you might be in?'

'Danger?  From Jack the Ripper?  He only attacks women.  Like your friend here?'  Nicholas looked at Hutchinson curiously.  'Your friend who may not be a woman?'

'Very clever of you,' Hutchinson noted.  'I am not a woman.'

'Ah!' said Nicholas.  But he didn't appear to be completely enlightened.  He looked back and forth between them several times.  'I think he is one of your fancy men,' he said at last.  'One of your customers, perhaps?'

'Tais-toi!'  Starsky snapped again. 'Can't you ever keep your mouth shut?'

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'I am a police officer.  I am dressed as a woman, hoping to catch the murderer.  Your brother is helping me.'

'Oh!' said Nicholas. 'Mon Dieu. Did I say something I shouldn't have?'

'Yes.  You did,' said Starsky.  He was looking at the ground, not at Hutchinson.

'Not at all,' said Hutchinson.  He put his hand on Starsky's shoulder.  'I don't know what you mean.'

Nicholas studied Hutchinson's face, and Starsky's attitude of depression.  'You are the friend he spoke of before,' he said.  'The police officer.  What is your name, again?'

'Never mind his name!' said Starsky.

'I am Inspector Hutchinson,' Hutchinson told him.  'I am with Scotland Yard.'

'And that is all you need to know,' said Starsky.  'Now answer one or two of my questions.  Where have you been?  You disappeared.  And now you show up, out of nowhere.'

'Yes.  Out of nowhere. Because I have nowhere to go,' Nicholas informed him.  'I went home, and you and mother had moved, without telling me where you had gone.'

'How could we tell you?  We didn't know where you were.  We tried to find you.'

'Of course you did!' Nicholas sneered.

'Yes.  They did,' said Hutchinson.  'They tried to find you, but you had disappeared.  Do you do that sort of thing often?'

'What business is that of yours?' asked Nicholas.

'No business of mine at all,' Hutchinson allowed.  'I am merely asking out of curiosity.'

'Well, I had some business to take care of.  I finished it, and came home, and you had moved, as I said.  Where are you living now?'

'That is none of your business,' said Starsky.

'With me,' said Hutchinson.

'With you?' asked Nicholas.  He laughed.  'What would your police station give me for such an information?'

'They know,' Hutchinson told him.  'Your mother is my housekeeper.  They both live with me, now.'

'I see,' said Nicholas.  'I have mistaken the matter.'

Hutchinson stared at him, icily.  'Just what are you up to?' he asked.  'Are you attempting to blackmail me?  Or your brother?'

'No.  Of course not.'

'That is good,' said Hutchinson.  'Because, if you were to do or say anything which might hurt him, I would cut off your hands, and cut out your tongue.  I would tie you to a stake out in the greenwood, and leave you to be eaten alive by wild beasts.'

Nicholas laughed again.  'You would not do such things,' he said.  'You are a civilized man.'

'You are mistaken there,' said Hutchinson, softly.  'I am the most dangerous man you will ever meet.  I will make your recent experiences with the Sicilian Mafia seem to be a pleasant dream of your most peaceful past.  I know the Mafia, and what they are capable of.  I know what I am capable of.  Do not force me into a position where I must demonstrate the truth of my words, I implore you.'

'This is not necessary, Hutch,' said Starsky.  He looked up, and met Hutchinson's eyes.  'Nicholas would not do anything to intentionally hurt me.  He is merely thoughtless.'

'I do not entirely agree with that sentiment,' Hutchinson told him, gently.  'But I will trust your judgement.'

'Thank you,' said Starsky.

'You love him,' said Nicholas, suddenly.  'You aren't just one of his fancy men.'

'Nor am I a customer,' snarled Hutchinson.  'How dare you speak of your brother so.'

'But it is true.  Or it was true.  He did have....'

Hutchinson grabbed Nicholas, and shoved him against the dirty wall of the alley.  'Shut up,' he explained.  'What your brother did in the past, is in the past.  Do you understand me?'

'Yes. Of course.  I'm sorry.'

'Apologize to your brother.  Not to me.'

'I'm sorry, David,' Nicholas said quickly.

'You are forgiven,' said Starsky.

Hutchinson turned to him.  'What do you want to do?' he asked.  'Do you want to keep him with us?  Take him home?  Your mother has been worried.'

'You would do that?' asked Starsky.  'I don't know if it's a good idea.'

'I don't have any place to stay,' Nicholas interjected.

'Whose fault is that?' asked Starsky.

Hutchinson turned back to Starsky's brother.  'Stick close to David,' he said.  'Keep quiet, and in the shadows.  I doubt that Jack the Ripper will show up, but if he does, let us handle him.  We will take you home with us, when our patrol is over, and we will see what your mother thinks.  Behave yourself, and forget about the past.  That is an order.'

'Yes, sir,' said Nicholas, with a cheerful grin.

'Hutch?' said Starsky. 'I can explain everything.'

'There is no need to explain,' said Hutchinson.  'I already understand everything.  Don't worry.  We will talk later, if you wish to talk. For now, let us get back to work.'


**********************

Jack the Ripper had not shown up.  Not to Hutchinson and Starsky.  Not to any of Hutchinson's detectives.  Certainly not to Weller. It was a disappointment, but at least he had not carved up any new victims.  That was a mercy.

Perhaps not, thought Hutchinson.  The longer Jack the Ripper went without killing, the more complacent people would become.  They would start drifting back to Whitechapel.  The ladies would become less and less cautious and mistrustful about whom they bestowed their favours upon.

The longer Jack the Ripper went without killing, the more and more his rage would build.  Hutchinson pictured an apotheosis of violence, as the dam burst, and his sick fantasies spilled forth.  We must lure him out, he thought.  We must catch him, before he kills again, and brings this city weeping to its knees in horror and pity. How can we do that?  A challenge?  Something that will tempt him to be less cautious?  If we could only catch him in the act, attacking one of my men, myself I would hope.  Or even a woman, if we could only stop him before he does too much damage.

Starsky pulled up before the villa, and Nicholas tumbled out of the chaise, eagerly.  He looked around and whistled.  'Nice little cottage you have here, Hutchinson,' he said.

'That is Inspector Hutchinson to you,' Starsky told him.  'Inspector Hutchinson, sir!  You are here on sufferance, remember that.'

'Don't be so stiff necked,' said Nicholas, with a cheeky grin.  'I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate that part of your anatomy becoming stiff.'

Hutchinson listened, while Starsky berated his brother in Russian and Yiddish.  He allowed the lecture to go on for several minutes, before interfering.  He put his hand on Starsky's shoulder.  'Let us go inside and get warm,' he said, gently.

The sun had been up for over an hour, but it was a cold morning.  Hutchinson wanted to get out of his uncomfortable clothes, and wash.  He wanted something to eat, and his warm bed.  Most of all, he wanted to take Starsky in his arms, and kiss away the look of misery that Nicholas had put there.

He wanted to horsewhip Nicholas, as well, but he guessed that would not win him Madame Starsky's approval.  Madame Starsky was awake, having breakfast in her sitting room.  She ran to Nicholas, hugged him, scolded him, kissed him.  Nicholas played up to the display of motherly concern, the little lost lamb.  No explanation of what he had been doing while he was lost.  He poured himself some coffee, and helped himself to breakfast, all without asking.

'Ahem!' said Hutchinson.

Nicholas ignored him.  Madame Starsky looked up, her eyes shining.  'Thank you, Mr. Hutchinson,' she said.  'You are so kind.  I have been worried sick about Nicky.  I am so relieved to know he is safe.'

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'That is a relief, indeed. I will let you become reacquainted.  Make yourself at home, Nicholas,' he added to the man who was doing just that.  'For now, at least.  I will speak to you later in the day, and we will make other arrangements.  My home is not a hotel.  Good morning!'

He grabbed Starsky's arm, and dragged him out of the room.

'Hutch,' said Starsky.  'I am so sorry.  Of course your home is not...'

Hutchinson pushed Starsky against the wall, and kissed him.  Starsky was still trying to talk, so he kissed him harder.  The man yielded in his arms, as he had never quite done before.  This was interesting, he thought.  He pulled himself together.  The hallway outside Madame Starsky's room, was not the best place to ravish anyone, let alone her elder son. 'I think we should get out of these clothes, before we do this,' said Hutchinson.

'Do you still want to lie with me?' Starsky whispered.  'I was not entirely honest with you, about some things.'

'I have not told you everything about myself, either,' said Hutchinson, as they entered their bedchamber.  'Help me out of this dress, will you?  Then get yourself out of those rags, and wash your face.  I need something to eat, before bed.  Where is that tray?'

Someone tapped at the door.  It was a maid, with tea and breakfast.  She curtsied, and placed the tray on the table by the window, then left them alone again.  Starsky helped Hutchinson out of his dress, and poured him tea.

'You are very understanding,' he commented.

'I am very selfish,' Hutchinson told him.  'I want you.  I will have you, no matter what the cost. You know that.'

'But when you first wanted me, you thought I was a better person.  Purer.  Less sullied.'

'Sullied?' asked Hutchinson, with a laugh.  'How are you sullied?  Other than in the obvious way, by the dirt on your face, I mean?'

Starsky washed his face, before answering.  Hutchinson drank his tea, and spread jam on a muffin.  He watched his love, who did indeed seem sullied -- by his despondency.

'I told you that I already understood everything,' Hutchinson said.  'I imagine that you were desperate.  You needed money.  You sold what you had, your body.  Why should I look down upon you for that?  It was honest.  God only knows what my father and grandfather did for money.  Worked people to death in their factories.  Children, many of them, chained to their machines.  Forced to work for pennies.  Beaten and starved unto death.  All so they could become rich and powerful, because that was their destiny.  Take off your clothes.'

'Hmm?  Oh, yes of course,' said Starsky.  'I'm sorry.'

'Don't apologize,' said Hutchinson.  'Just get out of those rags.  They offend me.  Throw them outside the door, please.'

Starsky did so, and walked over to the table, naked.

'That is better,' said Hutchinson.  'Have some tea, and something to eat.  I don't want you fainting from hunger in the middle of something important.'

'Are we going to be doing something important, Hutch?' Starsky asked.  His face looked less anxious, and more hopeful.

'Yes.  I am going to make love to you, for a while.  I am going to demonstrate what you are to me, which has nothing to do with what you might have been to others in the past.  Does that meet with your approval?'

Starsky nodded.  'Yes,' he said.   'But I want to tell you something first.'

'Go ahead,' said Hutchinson.

'When my father was murdered, we lost everything.  It turned out that all my father's money was tied up in the business, and the business now belonged to the Mafia.  Joseph Durniak came to us, and told us he had received a warning, that the Sicilians were going to kill us all. Not right away.  They wanted us to suffer from our fear.  We had almost no money, and that was soon used up.  It was hard to find work, with so many others seeking it, and I could see us sinking lower and lower, until we were nothing. I considered selling the books my grandfather left me, but they were in Hebrew, and a bookseller told me they weren't worth much.  The money would only have lasted a very short time, and then we'd be just as badly off as before. I went to a park, where men such as ourselves meet, to find company, to forget my troubles for a time.  A man offered me money, in exchange for my body.  At first, I was horrified.  I did not want to become a whore.  But we had no money.  Mother was hungry.  When I left our room, she was crying.  I took the money, and told her I had found a job.'

'Of course,' said Hutchinson.  'That was the sensible thing to do.'

'I am happy that you think so,' said Starsky.  'Most people would say that I had destroyed my soul.'

'How so?' asked Hutchinson.  'Perhaps if you had continued as you were.  Drinking, and smoking opium to dull the pain.  But you have not done so.  You no longer sell your body, do you?  Unless you think you have sold it to me?  I assure you that is not the case. I belong to you, not the other way around.'

'No,' said Starsky.  'I have not sold myself, since we came to England. I made a vow.  I gave some of the money to my mother.  I saved some, for our voyage here, and to start our new life.  And I found a man who was willing to teach me bootmaking, without a long apprenticeship.'

'Why bootmaking?' asked Hutchinson.  'I have been meaning to ask you that.'

'My grandfather was a bootmaker. My mother's father.  I learned a little from him, such as how to work the leather.  But he didn't want me to learn the craft.   He wanted me to be a rabbi.  And my father was not interested in bootmaking.  He was a business man, and that was what he wanted for me.  Not a trade.  But when I had enough skill, and enough money, I told Mother we were moving to England, and she agreed.  You truly do not despise me?'

'What is there to despise?  What reason do I have to be so self righteous?'

'Some would say you have every reason.  You have not sold yourself, have you?'

'Not in the way you mean,' said Hutchinson.  'There was no need.  I have never been desperate in that sense, that I must sell my body to eat.  But I have sold my soul, for peace.  I allowed my mind, and my heart and my soul, to be taken over, to be controlled by someone stronger, simply so that I could go on living.  Is that not worse?  You made a conscious decision, and took a vow, which you kept.  I was defeated.'

'You mean by your father?' asked Starsky.  'If that is what you mean, he had all the power, and you had none.  What choice did you have?'

'I might have kept some small part of me alive inside,' Hutchinson said.

'You did,' said Starsky.

'Where?' asked Hutchinson.  'Show me where.'

'Come here,' said Starsky.  'And I will show you as often as you want.'

**********

'Have you seen Michelangelo's statue of David?' he asked Starsky.

'Only a photograph,' Starsky told him.  'A rather poor photograph.  To be sure, I could take a better one.'

'One day soon, we will go to Florence, and I will introduce you to the statue, so that it may see how it is outshone.'

Starsky chuckled.  He professed to be amused by Hutchinson's excessive lovemaking, but Hutchinson thought he was secretly pleased.

'You are far more beautiful,' he continued.  'I think Michelangelo had the same taste in beauty, and he would have been enthralled with yours.'

'I think you need glasses,' Starsky averred.

'Michelangelo wrote a sonnet to a friend of his, Tommaso de Cavalieri.'

'Poetry!' said Starsky.  'You are going to quote poetry to me, at this hour of the morning?  Can't it wait until the evening?'

'No, it cannot.  Listen!

" Over here it was that my love stole from me,
In his mercy, my heart and, farther on, my life.
Here with his beautiful eyes he promised me help,
And with the same eyes here he stole it back.
Over here he bound me and here released me;
For myself I wept here, and with infinite sorrow
From this rock I saw him leave,
He who stole myself from me and never turned back."

Would you turn back, Starsky?'

'I did turn back.  You saw me turn back.  I would always turn back.'

**********

Was there any one more perfect contentment in life, than lying with the one you loved?  To touch him, and praise his beauty, and give him joy?  To receive joy from him in return?  What was political power, in comparison to the power of arousing desire in the one whom you desired?  Where was the pleasure in counting your money, compared to the pleasure in counting the sighs and moans that you could wrest from the throat of your beloved?  Who would wish to be called My Lord, or Your Majesty, when once you had been called My Darling?

There is no land, no territory, no battle plain, no dominion, no empire so wondrous as this, he thought.  No throne so rich, no crown so glorious, no sceptre so powerful.  Zeus came before his desired lovers in many guises, in order to ravish them.  A swan, an eagle, a shower of gold.  You are capable of ravishing my very soul without such treachery.

**********

The late afternoon sun was seeping through the curtains.  I suppose we should get out of bed soon, thought Hutchinson.

'It is too early,' Starsky muttered.  'Go back to sleep.'

'Can you read my mind, now?' asked Hutchinson.

'That is easy enough,' said Starsky.  'All you think about is sex, and work.  They are the same thing in your mind, I believe.  Since you do not have an erection, you must be thinking of work.'

'You might do something to change that state of affairs,' said Hutchinson.

'Might I?' asked Starsky.  'Provide me with some suggestions.'

'Move your hand a little faster.'

**********

'It is getting late,' Starsky noted.  'I suppose we must get up some time today.'

'This is a new thing.  You are urging me to get out of bed, and go to work? Are you quite well?'

'I believe it would be wise for us to at least get out of bed.  My brother has been under your roof for some seven hours now.  Who knows what mischief he has been up to?'

'I was thinking the same thing, but I didn't like to say it.'

'Say what you wish,' Starsky told him.  'My loyalty is to you, before my family.'

'I do not wish to cause you any pain.  I would not simply throw Nicholas back into the streets. And who knows what revenge he might exact?  But he is not going to ride roughshod over me.'

'No,' said Starsky.  'That is my privilege.  And my pleasure.'


**********

No one knew where Nicholas was, it appeared.  

'I'm sorry, Mr. Hutchinson,' said Jeffreys.  'I have been attempting to keep an eye on the young man, as you suggested.  But I was unaware I was required to watch his every movement.'

'Of course not, Jeffreys,' Hutchinson reassured the butler. 'I did not expect it of you.'

'With my brother, it is not such a bad idea,' Starsky spoke up.

Madame Starsky was in the kitchen, discussing meal plans with the cook, Maria.  They seemed to get along well enough.  Maria had no anti-Semitic feelings, and had assented quite cheerfully to Hutchinson's orders that she allow Madame Starsky to prepare Kosher meals for herself and David Starsky.

'I like Jewish food, sir,' she had said.  'I wouldn't mind learning how to prepare Jewish dishes myself.'

Madame Starsky had no idea where Nicholas had vanished to either.  'He was in my sitting room when I left to speak to Maria,' she said.  'He was reading a book, and seemed quite happy.'

'Reading a book, Mother?' asked Starsky.  'That's a bad sign.  We'd better look for him, Hutch. He might be setting fire to the stables.'

'David!' Madame Starsky remonstrated.  'Why do you speak so of your own brother?  He is not so bad.  He is young, and rather wild, but....'

'Young, mother?  He is only a few years younger than I am, and no child.  And I would not mind his wildness, if he were some help to us the rest of the time.  But all he thinks about is himself.'

Madame Starsky said nothing, but she looked back and forth between her son, and Hutchinson, as if she wished to comment.

'Do not say anything about Hutch, Mother,' Starsky told her.  'He has been nothing but kindness to you and to me.  He brought Nicholas home with us, last night, when he could have left him out in the streets of Whitechapel.'

'I know this, David.'

'Then remember it, at all times,' said Starsky.

Nicholas was not in the stables, it seemed.  As they walked down the hall in search of him, they heard the sounds of a piano being played, enthusiastically, if rather inexpertly.  Hutchinson stopped dead in the hall, and began to count to ten, slowly.

'Hutch,' said Starsky.  'I think that is Nicky,'

'I know it is,' said Hutchinson.  'No one in this house plays that piano. Only I play that piano.'

'I'm sorry, Hutch.'

'Stop apologizing,' Hutchinson snarled.  He heard Madame Starsky gasp, for she had never heard him speak in anything but measured tones.  He could hear both mother and son follow him down the hall to his library.

Nicholas Starsky had taken a number of books off the shelves, and tossed them down after glancing through them.  Now he was rifling through Hutchinson's sheet music.

'Oh, there you are,' he said, as Hutchinson opened the door.

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'Here I am.  And here you are.  What do you think you are doing in here, if you don't mind my asking?'

'I was bored,' said Nicholas.

'I am distressed to hear that,' Hutchinson observed.  He entered the room.  Starsky and his mother were standing behind him, hidden by the door.  He saw Starsky pull her back, and put a hand over her mouth.

'I was planning on discussing opportunities for your employment with you,' he continued.

'But you were doing other things,' said Nicholas.  'I understand. Well, when my brother begins to bore you, I'm available.  Give me the nod.  I will expect to be paid, of course.'

'Of course,' said Hutchinson.  'And exactly how much do you think you're worth?'

'At least as much as David,' said Nicholas.  'Maybe more.  I am younger, and better looking.  Not as experienced, but....'

'Nicholas!' said Madame Starsky, coming out from behind the door.  'What are you saying?'

Nicholas jumped up from the piano bench, looking rather white.  'You were listening in?' he asked.  'Spying on me? I was joking, of course.'

'Were you, Nicky?' asked Starsky.  'I don't think you were.'  He looked Nicholas up and down carefully. Suddenly he pushed him up against the piano, and began to rifle through his pockets.  Several small but valuable items seemed to have found their way onto Nicholas' person.

'I think this is yours, Hutch?' said Starsky, handing him a gold pen. It was one of the new fountain pens, patented by Waterman, and Hutch's favourite. It had his initials engraved upon it.

'That must have fallen in my pocket,' said Nicholas with a grin.

'I'm sure it did,' said Hutchinson.  'Starsky, why don't you take your brother into the drawing room, and see that nothing else is drawn by his animal magnetism to attach itself to his person?  I will join you in a moment.  Do you mind doing that for me?'

'Certainly not,' said Starsky.  'I have a few things to say to him, myself.'  He pulled an unrepentant Nicholas out of the room, leaving his mother alone with Hutchinson.

'I am sorry, Mr. Hutchinson,' said Madame Starsky.  'I will leave your house immediately.'

'I hope you will not do that, Madame,' said Hutchinson.  'What have I done to make you think I would blame you for your son's misbehaviour?'

'But, sir!  That is my fault. I must have raised my children badly, if they behave this way.'

'Your children, Madame?  David is a good man.  He may have done some things you do not approve of, but what child hasn't?  I have no intentions of tossing you out into the streets, and I will do what I can with Nicholas as well. One thing you must understand.  This is my home, and I will tolerate no disrespect by anyone under my roof.  Do you think that you can discipline Nicholas?'

'I thought I could, but it seems that I was wrong, Mr. Hutchinson.'

'Well, he is a man grown, even if he is young.  Do I have your permission to discipline him?  He did steal, Madame.  I could send him to prison for that.  He would be spending his time walking on the treadmill, or picking oakum.  If he thinks he is bored now....'

'You have my permission, of course, Mr. Hutchinson.  What do you intend to do to him?'

'Nothing very terrible, Madame, I assure you.  I have thought once or twice of horsewhipping him.  But I will save that until there is no alternative left to me.'

Madame Starsky smiled at him.  'I will tell you a secret,' she said.  'I have thought once or twice that such a thing might be good for him.  But I am too gentle.  I think I spoiled him, after his father died.  I never thought it would have such a bad effect on him.'

'I don't believe it was that which turned your son into a thief, Madame.  I think he fell into bad company.  Now, we need to get him away from it, before it is too late.'

**********

'I don't know why you are making such a fuss over it,' Nicholas Starsky was saying.  'It was only a pen.'

'A pen which did not belong to you,' David Starsky pointed out, rather reasonably, Hutchinson thought.  'Neither did the other things in your pockets.'

'I borrowed them.'

'Borrowed them?'

'Yes.  They were just lying about.'

'They were indeed,' said Hutchinson.  'They were my possessions.  This is my home.  I left them lying about.  Clearly it is my fault you stole them.  Shall I turn myself in to the police?  What shall I be charged with?  Incitement to theft?'

'Perhaps you should turn yourself in,' Nicholas suggested.  'You are a criminal, are you not?  Neither you nor my brother have any right to judge me.'

'And why is that?' asked Starsky.

'You truly are perverted men. It makes me sick to think of the disgusting acts you must perform every night.  I would be doing a public service if I informed on you.'

'And that is your only concern,' said Hutchinson.

'Of course,' said Nicholas.  'But I could be persuaded to keep my mouth shut.  For a small fee.'

'That is the third time you have attempted to blackmail me,' said Hutchinson.  'You begin to bore me.  I think you need some sort of useful employment.  Why don't you follow me, out to the stables?'

'I don't think I will,' said Nicholas.  'I have better things to do. It's been nice knowing you, but I think I'll go back to the City.  Talk to a few people at Scotland Yard.'

Hutchinson turned and headed for the door.  'The stables are this way,' he said.

'I told you, I don't.... Hey! Let go of me, David.  What do you think you're doing?'

'Hutch wants you to see his stables,' said Starsky.  'Let's go see them, shall we?'

'You do his bidding now? In bed as well as out?  You turn against your own family?'

Hutchinson kept on walking, listening to Nicholas' protests.  The protests grew louder, as Starsky ignored them, and dragged Nicholas out the drawing room door.

'Who are you, anyway?  You're not my brother!'

'No,' said Starsky.  'I'm the head of the family, and you are the one who has turned against us.  I'm going to fix that.'

'The head of the family?  You?  What would Mother say if she knew what you were doing?'

Hutchinson turned at that.  'Your mother gave me permission to punish you in any way I saw fit,' he said.

Nicholas stared at him in astonishment.  'You are lying,' he said at last.  I don't believe a word of it.'

'No.  He is not lying,' said Madame Starsky.  She was standing in the doorway of the library, with an armful of books.  'I gave Mr. Hutchinson permission to teach you better manners.  Do as he says.'  She went back inside the library, and closed the door.

Nicholas appeared to lose all spirit after that, and trailed along with Starsky and Hutchinson to the stables.  Higgins was grooming Ajax.  The black stallion nickered softly at Hutchinson, until he fed the horse the apple he carried in his pocket, and stroked his soft nose.

'Higgins,' he said.  'This is Nicholas Starsky, David Starsky's brother.  He's going to be helping you in the stables today.  Cleaning out the stalls, grooming the horses, things like that.  Keep him busy.  Don't take your eyes off him.  Make sure the grooms do the same.'

'Fair 'nough, Guv'nor.   Does he know how to groom a horse?'

'Probably not.  Maybe you should keep him cleaning out the stalls.  Wouldn't want to overtax him.'

'Now look!' said Nicholas.  'You can't do this.  It's... it's slavery.'

'You are right,' said Hutchinson.  'It is slavery.  When I decide you have repaid me for the injuries I have suffered at your hands, and that you have learnt a healthy respect for me, I will consider setting you free. In the meantime, get to work!'

Nicholas turned to run, but Higgins, who was smaller but wiry, grabbed him and tossed him on his back, right in a pile of horse droppings.

'Now listen, you,' snarled Higgins.  'The Guv says you stay here and work.  So you stay here and work.  Don't try and run off again.  I don't take kindly to them as disobeys the Guv.'

'Thanks, Higgins,' said Hutchinson.  'Oh, and Nicholas,' he told the young man kindly.  'Don't try to blackmail Higgins, or bribe him either.  He'll slit your throat for it.'


**********

'I don't think he is evil,' Hutchinson told Starsky, as they drove in to the City.  'Only misguided. Of course, that could be my own biases speaking, since I am evil, and so he informed me.'

'Well, I was included in his assessment, thus I ignored his words, as I ignore much of what he says,' Starsky observed.  'Which could be the origin of the problem,' he added.  'We tended not to pay any attention to Nicky's behaviour, putting it down to the wildness of youth.  But Hutch, there was no time.  Father was murdered, and we were lost in our shock and grief. And then the fear, when Durniak warned us of the Mafia.  Then the hardship and the worry.  When I... when I made my decision to support the family in whatever way I could, I fear I was not capable of seeing beyond my own problems for a time.'

'That is understandable, my love,' said Hutchinson. 'You had enough to deal with.'

'I think Nicky was more distressed by Father's death than he showed us outwardly at the time.  Perhaps his wild behaviour was his way of expressing grief, and we could not see that.  But it might be too late to do anything about it now.'

'If Nicholas were truly beyond all help, he would be much more proficient at his criminal activities.  He tried to blackmail me before he had known me for one minute.  His taunts are childish, and so were his attempts at theft.  He is scarcely a master criminal. He struck me as more of a frightened child, striking out at everyone around him.'

'But he is not a child, Hutch.'

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'And that is what makes him dangerous.  A spoiled frightened child, in the shape of a man.'

'Frightened?  You think he is frightened, Hutch?'

'I thought he was frightened last night, when he called to you on Thrawl Street,' said Hutchinson.  'Frightened, and relieved that he had found you.'

'I didn't notice any of that,' said Starsky.  'I was wrapped up in you.'  He laughed.  'I like being wrapped up in you.  But perhaps Nicky noticed that, and is jealous of our association. That is why he keeps striking out at it.  I don't believe he is serious about going to the police.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'Neither do I, my dear.  Besides, that would be to kill the goose that lays the golden egg, now wouldn't it?  I don't mean to tolerate his constant threats, however.  We need to consolidate our authority.  Mine as the master of my own home.  Yours as the head of your own family.  Who are Nicholas's friends, do you know?'

'Not really,' said Starsky, as he drove down Baker Street, toward Oxford Street.  'He doesn't speak to me much these days.  Not since he learned how I earned my money for a time.  Though he continued to eat the food I bought with it.'

'Well, let us see if we can learn something on our own.  He might have come to the attention of one or two people I know.  Nothing much in the way of criminal activity in London escapes their notice.'

'You  mean you wish to stop hunting Jack the Ripper, and hunt my brother instead?' asked Starsky.

'Only as a temporary diversion,' Hutchinson told him.

Starsky laughed. 'Have I ever told you, my darling, that you have strange tastes in entertainment?'


**********

The pub known as Black Hell, was crowded and noisy even at this early hour.  The proprietor, Robbie Sawyer, greeted them heartily, being careful to include Starsky in his welcome.

'What can I do for you gentlemen?' he asked.

Hutchinson tossed a handful of coins down on the counter before him.  'I'm buying rounds of dog piss for everyone in the house,' he announced.  'Keep serving it up, until the money runs out, or your dog stops pissing.  Whichever comes first.'

Sawyer smiled.  'You like to have your little jokes, Inspector,' he noted.  'May I ask why you are feeling so generous this afternoon?'

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'I am asking the questions.'

'Ah.  I see.'

Sawyer made the announcement of free beer, and the patrons cheered.  Hutchinson waited until everyone was happily drinking.  Then he turned back to Sawyer.  'I am interested in the activities of a certain young man,' he said.  'His name is Nicholas Starsky, though he might not be using that name.  He is Jewish, and resembles my friend here, but is a few years younger.'

'Nicholas Starsky?' Sawyer asked.  'No.  Never heard of him.  And I don't have much truck with Jews.  Don't take offence, but they're none too friendly to me, neither.'

'I'm not offended,' said Starsky.

No one else had heard of Nicholas either, it appeared.  Hutchinson wasn't too worried by the dearth of information.  They had only begun their investigation.  But the final patron had a word of advice.

'Why not try Silent Sam?' he said.  'He holes up in the Turkish Parlour, these days.'

'Ah, yes. Silent Sam.  Thank you for your information, and buy yourself another round,' said Hutchinson, tossing several coins on the table. 'Have you ever been in the Turkish Parlour?' he asked Starsky, as they left Black Hell.

'No,' said Starsky.  'What is that?   A restaurant?'

Hutchinson laughed. 'A restaurant, yes.  And they serve up a variety of tasty dishes.  Liberally spiced with opium.  I hope you are not easily shocked?'

'You ask that of me?' said Starsky.  'I was a whore, remember?'

'One of the most truly innocent whores it has ever been my pleasure to know,' Hutchinson told him.  'I don't suppose you were in the business long enough to sink to the very depths of depravity.  Not that it would have made any difference to me if you had, I assure you. The Turkish Parlour will be an education for you.  You are interested in learning new things, are you not?'

'I am interested in learning new things about you, to be sure,' said Starsky.

'Well, the Turkish Parlour is a good place to begin,' Hutchinson told him.


************

'You must be aware that I enjoy sexual relations,' said Hutchinson, as they strolled together, looking for a Hansom cab.

'Do you indeed?' asked Starsky.  'I was not so aware.  In fact I am shocked.  Shocked and surprised.'

Hutchinson laughed.  'I don't believe you are surprised at all,' he said.  'You must have had suspicions.'

'Yes, the times we have spent together furnished me with some reasons to suspect it.  Most people enjoy the pleasures of sex, however. Men, certainly.  Women also, though they are given the foolish impression that they should not.'

'But I believe I enjoy sex more than most.  It is something beyond merely a physical pleasure for me, especially since we met, but even before that.  Even when I had not achieved the connection between love and sex.  You see, Starsky, when I turned twenty-one, I inherited my fortune and lands from my grandfather, and I became independent.  Then, I was able to make my escape from my father.  But I knew not what to do with my new independence.  I continued to live as I had done for so many years, in a narrow, confined manner, much like a prisoner, just released from Newgate, who has no idea how free people spend their time.  I began to roam the streets of London, watching the people who passed by, laughing and joking and meeting each other for mysterious purposes.  One day, down by the docks, I passed the door of the Turkish Parlour.  Something about it drew me, and I turned back and went inside.  I must have appeared very innocent to their eyes.  A pigeon to be plucked, which indeed I was not.  I may have been unable to feel normal human emotions, but I was not unwary.  Someone tried to steal my purse.  When the entire establishment discovered a healthy respect for me, I decided I liked the place after all, and went back.  Many times.'

'It is a brothel?' asked Starsky.

'A brothel.  An opium den.  A number of fencing operations are run out of it.  Smuggling.'

'You smoke opium?' Starsky asked, curiously.

'No.  I tried it once, and did not like it.  I was looking for a way to forget certain things.  The opium worked, but it worked too well.  I foresaw that eventually I would forget everything, not only that which I selectively wished to forget.  I wanted to live, to feel, not disappear into a haze of smoky pleasure from which I might never emerge.  That was when I learned that pleasure might be had in sexual relations, which left the mind clear, and the body feeling at ease, as long as one avoided the dangers of venereal disease.  The ladies who work in the Turkish Parlour are free from such diseases, and I always used condoms.  Now, they are so useful, they should be handed out free on every street corner.'

'Would men want to wear them?' asked Starsky.  'Perhaps they don't like the loss of pleasure.'

'The new latex condoms are so light, you scarcely know you are wearing one.  And what pleasure can be found in Syphilis or Gonorrhoea?  I studied the matter, and decided the condoms were worth it.  But the government, and the church, has decided they are not.  They are evil, because they prevent disease and pregnancy.  We should suffer for our sins.  Ah, there is a cab, and it looks to be empty.'

'Will you continue the story?' Starsky asked.  'I find it interesting.'

'Do you?' asked Hutchinson, as he waved the cab over. 'What part of the story is most interesting to you?'

'The part where you escaped from your father,' said Starsky, as they climbed into the cab. 'Why did you need to escape?  Or don't you wish to speak of that?'

'I'm not sure that I can speak of it,' Hutchinson told him.  'So much of my life under my father's control was unspeakable.  He had very strange ideas of how to raise children, or so I have since discovered.  To him, I was not a child, not a human being with a soul, but an object.  A thing to be trained and moulded and forced into the shape he wished me to carry.'

'Do not most parents believe their children are their own, to teach as they saw fit?' asked Starsky after a moment.

'Not as much as my father believes it to be true,' said Hutchinson.  'Most parents allow their children to receive other influences in their lives.  To have friends and acquaintances.  To travel and see the world.  I knew scarcely anyone but my father, and a few servants, until I went to Cambridge, at eighteen.  By then, he had so impressed his own influences upon me, that I was incapable of forming friendships, and I was so strange, and unlike the other young men, that no one wished to be friends with me in return. The Turkish Parlour saved me from spending the rest of my life in that state.  Or rather, it began my salvation, and you have completed it.'

'I see,' said Starsky.  'That is why you have such a peculiar regard for whores.'

'I don't consider my regard peculiar,' Hutchinson answered him.  'I consider the opinion of the world to be peculiar.  But then I have often noted that I do not see things the way the rest of the world sees them.'

'That is the fault of the world,' said Starsky.  'And not yours.'

**********

The Port of London was the greatest port in the world, but its true nature was not at first apparent, winding its way as it did along the banks of the Thames, which interrupted the continuity of its docks.  The River Mersey was straight and wide, and the docks stretched in an unbroken line for several miles.  If one were to stretch out the docks of the Port of London, they would extend much further.  From the Nore to Teddington Weir was some sixty-nine miles.

The London Docks.   The St Katherine Docks.  The East India Docks.  The West India Docks.  The Millwall Docks.  The Isle of Dogs.  The Victoria Docks.  The Royal Albert Docks.  The Surrey Docks.  The Tilbury Docks.

Mile after mile of docks. Some 20,000 ships and boats and barges and other small craft.  Warehouses and ship's chandlers and thieves and prostitutes and beggars and fish markets and preachers out to save souls.  Jews and Chinese and Japanese and Lascars and Maltese.

Opium dens.  The Turkish Parlour.  Its red door opened at Hutchinson's password, and they stepped inside.

Warm, rich smells enveloped him.  Memories assailed him.  For a moment, he was lost in time, and closed his eyes.  Starsky touched his back, lightly.  The contact returned him to himself.  He was not the automaton that had first entered these doors, in search of a key to his prison.  He had found that key, and the door stood wide open, even if he had not yet ventured quite outside the prison gates.

The Turkish Parlour was decorated in an eclectic style, that owed a deal to the prevailing English beliefs of what constituted the oriental, and almost nothing to what any true oriental person would recognize as such. Orientalism, thought Hutchinson.  It had a beauty all its own, however.

He looked around for the owner, but only the door guard seemed to be in sight.  He started for the private back office, Starsky trailing behind him.  Starsky had drawn a deep breath when they had first stepped through the front door, as if expecting to be shocked and appalled the moment they entered.  Now, Hutchinson gave him a reassuring smile.

'I just want to talk to the owner, for now,' he said.   'We can avoid the orgy room if you like.'

Starsky smiled.  'Do they really have an orgy room?' he asked.

'It's one of my favourite rooms,' said Hutchinson.

'Was one of your favourite rooms,'  Starsky corrected.

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'Was.'

A man appeared out of the shadows.  He was new here, thought Hutchinson, and this impression was confirmed when the man stepped in front of him, barring his way.

'You can't go in there,' said the man, in an American accent.  'That room is for the Boss.'

'The Boss is a friend of mine,' said Hutchinson.

'Is that a fact?' said the American.  'I've never seen you around here before.'

'I've never seen you before either, so we're equals,' Hutchinson told him.  'Step out of my way.'

'Not so fast.  Let me ask the Boss first.  Might not want to see you.'

'That is fine, Arnold,' said a new voice.  'Go back to your post.'

Arnold nodded and disappeared as fast as he had originally appeared.  A woman stood in the office doorway.  Tiny, and beautiful, with exquisite Oriental features.

'Kun-Ning!' she said.  'I not see you for many days.  Why you not come see me?'

Hutchinson bowed.  'Xin-Qian,.' he said.  'I apologize for my neglect.  I have been busy.'

'Busy hunting the murderer.  I know.  Too busy to see me.  Too busy to take care of yourself.  I have pretty new girls.  You like?'

'Not today, Xin-Qian,' he answered, smiling to himself as he overheard Starsky muttering to himself in Yiddish.

'You are well, Kun-Ning?  You have headache again?  I take care of headache.  I get needles.'

'Needles?' whispered Starsky, in horror, and Hutchinson laughed.

Xin-Qian turned to him in astonishment.  'You are not yourself,' she said.  'You do not want pretty girls, and you laugh about it.  The headaches have driven you mad?'

'That is very likely, Xin-Qian.  But I fear I am beyond repair. Don't worry.  I am quite happy being mad. May we come into your office and speak with you privately?'

'We?' asked Xin-Qian appearing to notice Starsky for the first time.

 'This is my friend, David Starsky,' Hutchinson told her.

'Friend?' she asked.  Then she bowed.  'Your friend is welcome.  Please come inside my humble office.'

Xin-Qian's office was anything but humble.  It was indeed rather pretentious, but she had designed it that way for effect.  'Have seat,' she said, waving them over to a rather overstuffed sofa, covered in a rich oriental tapestry.  Starsky sat down, trying to look at ease.

'You like tea?' asked their hostess.

'Thank you, I would,' said Hutchinson.  Xin-Qian clapped for a servant, and gave an order in Chinese.

Starsky darted him an anxious look. 'It is just tea, isn't it?' he whispered.

'Oh, yes,' Hutchinson reassured him.  'No opium or any other drugs.'

'No. No drugs,' said Xin-Qian.  'I not give you drugs or you shoot me.'

'And then I would have to hide your body, and it would all be so much trouble for us both,' Hutchinson pointed out.

'I agree,' said their hostess.  'But mostly trouble for you.  I am by then beyond all trouble.'

The servant arrived with the tea.  Xin-Qian dismissed the servant, and poured the tea herself, into tiny handle-less cups.  It was a special, delicate blend of green tea, black tea, and jasmine flowers.

After a moment, Xin-Qian could no longer contain her curiosity.  'Will you explain strange behaviour to humble servant, Kun-Ning?' she asked.

'What strange behaviour, Xin-Qian?' asked Hutchinson.

'You not come here for many days.  You not want pretty girls.  You laugh at this.  You tell me this young man is your friend,' she stared into her cup for a moment.  'Oh!' she said.  'I now see.'

Xin-Qian was an exception to the usual rule that people couldn't put two and two together at the right time, thought Hutchinson.  Indeed, her mind was like an abacus.

She raised her eyes and studied Starsky for a moment.  'You are very interesting,' she said.  'You have beautiful eyes.  You take good care of Kun-Ning?'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'Always and forever.'

'Starsky takes care of me very well,' said Hutchinson.  'And I am much obliged to him.  But we are here on business, Xin-Qian. We are looking for Silent Sam, and we were told he has been making the Turkish Parlour home of late.'

'Silent Sam?  Yes, he is here.  Perhaps in parlour.  Perhaps in private room.'

'Does he have nothing better to do with his time?' asked Hutchinson, with a grin.

'I think he does other things with time better not to say. I not inquire what my customers do outside.  Why do you want to see him?'

'We only want to ask him one or two questions.  Questions about a possible mutual acquaintance. It is the activities of that acquaintance in which we hold the most interest.  The activities of Silent Sam are his own affair.'

'I take you to him,' said Xin-Qian.

'Are we going to the orgy room?' asked Starsky.  His face was a study in curiosity and revulsion.

'Orgy room?' asked Xin-Qian.  'Oh!  You mean parlour? Yes, we must try there first.  It is early in day for orgy, but you never know.'

'It is never too early in the day for an orgy,' said Hutchinson.

To his disappointment, there was no true orgy taking place in the parlour.   Perhaps most customers were having an early dinner, or entertaining themselves in private.  However, a small but determined group of orgiasts were doing the best they could.

'That is Red Peter and Angelique,' Hutchinson told Starsky, pointing out a man and woman copulating on one of the low tables designed for that purpose.  Indeed, he had never seen those tables used in the consumption of a regular meal.  Red Peter was so named, he told Starsky, because of the vivid scarlet colour of his hair, both on his head, and around his private parts.

'His private parts?' asked Starsky with a laugh.

'I grant you, they are not at the moment very private,'

'No.  They are not,' said Starsky.  He was looking everywhere but at the couple engaged in intercourse.  'Doesn't it bother you to watch them?' he asked.

'No.  If it doesn't bother them, why should it bother me?  I don't go about spying on people who wish to keep their activities private, nor do I have the need to watch others in order to be aroused.  But the sight does not disturb me.  Indeed it gives me great enjoyment, if the participants are enjoying themselves.  Does this revelation trouble you?'

'No.  Not at all,' said Starsky.  'I don't wish to watch them myself, however.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'Then sit here,' he said, indicating a chair that faced the other way.  'I will watch, and you may read this newspaper.  Good heavens!  It is from last year sometime.  What an innocent year that was.'

Hutchinson strolled closer to the couple who were engaged in the final throws of ecstasy.  He could feel Starsky's eyes upon him.  Did Starsky think he was truly perverted?  Was there indeed something terribly wrong with wanting to watch two people give each other pleasure, as long as they did not object?  He remembered his first visit here.  He had ventured into this room, all unawares, and his first sight had been of a couple on this very table.  At first he thought the man was hurting the woman, for she was moaning and sobbing.  Then, she had grasped the man's shoulders and pulled him closer.

'Harder!' she had gasped.

'Fuck,' had been the man's answer.  A word Hutchinson had never heard before, to his certain knowledge.

Later, he had spoken to the woman, and she had laughed at his concerns.  'You are a very sweet lad,' she had said.  'But I am quite unhurt.  Come with me, to one of the private rooms, and I will show you.  You may examine every inch of my body, and assure yourself that it is in good working order.'

He remembered being curious about how her body worked, about what parts gave her the greatest pleasure, and she had been willing to teach him.  'I was right,' she said.  'You are a very sweet lad.  Most men want to take their pleasure, give me my money and leave.  And with most men, that is fine with me.  But you are different.  You are beautiful.  I think I will enjoy my time with you.'

Hutchinson found himself confessing a few of his secret desires to her, including the fact that he had been aroused at the sight of the naked man who had been mounted upon her.  She had been amused, but not disgusted, and directed him to those places where he might find other men of a similar disposition.

'I am sorry,' Starsky murmured in his ear.  'I did not mean to suggest there was anything wrong with what they are doing.  Don't shut yourself away from me.'

'I wasn't,' said Hutchinson.  'I know that most people don't share my opinions, as I said earlier.  I know well enough that I am strange, for so many have informed me.'

'Not so very strange,' said Starsky.  'It is a strangeness I can live with.  You know these people, I understand,' he said, indicating with a credible show of casualness, the couple who were disengaging their bodies, and straightening their clothes.

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'This is Red Peter, as I said.  Red Peter, this is a friend of mine.'

Red Peter nodded, briefly, acknowledging Starsky's nod.  He strolled off, to find refreshment in one of the other rooms perhaps.  That left them alone with Angelique.  The lady shook herself, and smiled up at them, from the table.  Her eyes flashed green fire.

'Hello, Beautiful,' she said.  'Who is your friend? May I know his name?'

'My name is David,' said Starsky.  'My friend tells me you are called Angelique.'

'Why, yes I am. I am pleased to meet you, David. But what brings you here, Beautiful?' she asked Hutchinson.  'You are not in search of my favours, are you now?'

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'We are looking for Silent Sam.'

'He was here a moment ago.  Then he left for one of the private rooms.  I will look for him.  Excuse me.'  She nodded at Starsky, and patted Hutchinson on the arm as she passed.  'Very nice,' she said.

'Would everyone here be so easily accepting of our association?' asked Starsky.

'No,' Hutchinson.  'But Xin-Qian and Angelique know me rather well.  At least as well as anyone ever knew me, before I met you.  I confided my varied tastes to them.  They were not offended.  They will not judge you, so you may be at ease.'

Angelique returned, a man trailing in her wake.  Silent Sam was a large, imposing figure.  He walked like a cat, however, making not a sound. At the moment, he looked rather irate at being interrupted in whatever it was he had been doing.

'You!' he said to Hutchinson.   'What do you want?  I thought you were hunting Jack the Ripper, not an innocent safe cracker like me.'

'I only wish to ask you one or two questions, and you make return to cracking safes, or to cracking virgin arses for all I care,' Hutchinson told him.  'Do you know a man named Nicholas Starsky?'

'Aye.  That I do,' said Silent Sam.  'And I'd like to get my hands on him, that I would.  The little prick.  He owes me.  If I could find where he's got to, I'd take what he owes me out of his fine virgin arse, so he wouldn't walk properly for weeks.'

'I am gratified to hear that,' said Hutchinson.  'Tell me more, and I'll make it worth your trouble.'

'I don't like to blow on my mates, 'specially to the pigs,' said Silent Sam.  'Even if they did cheat me.  If this gets 'round....'

'It won't,' said Hutchinson.  'We'll set it up so you come out smelling like roses.'

'That'll be a new thing,' said Sam.  'Here's what happened. My last crow got quodded.  He's spendin' his days on the cockchafer, now.  Who knows where he's spendin' his nights.  Probably fuckin' the warden.  I needed a new lookout fast, and I met your Nicholas Starsky in the Chapel.'

'He's not my Nicholas Starsky,' said Hutchinson.  'But continue.'

'As you say.  I met Nick in the Chapel, and I thought at first he were a diddikko, but he tells me he's no sort of Gypsy.  He's Jewish.  I say that's good.  You know some fences?  He says, plenty of 'em. So I hire him as my new crow, and promise to teach him all my lurks.  Let me tell you somethin'.  Never do anything on the fly like that.'

'I'll make a point of remembering your advice,' said Hutchinson.  'This Nicholas Starsky turned out to be a downy one, did he?'

'And I'm a flat.  I  cracked the safe, but there wasn't much money in it.  I couldn't give him the share I promised, but he took it anyway, and then some.  Ran off with some of my kifers, as well.'

'How much does he owe you?' asked Hutchinson.

Silent Sam opened his mouth to reply, but Starsky interrupted. 'Hutch?' he asked.  'I don't understand more than a few words of all this.'

'Oh, yes?' said Hutchinson.  'Which words were those?'

'And.  The.  But.'

'You're doing well, Starsky, don't worry.  Nicky stole from a thief.'

Starsky sighed.  'Every time I think my brother can't get any more stupid, he surprises me.  How much do I owe you, Mr. Silent Sam?'

Hutchinson started to speak, but Starsky silenced him with a look.  'No, Hutch,' he said.  'This is for me to handle.  Nicky is my  brother.  I'll make him pay me back, but I can't have you fixing all our problems.'

'I wasn't going to,' said Hutchinson.

'Oh!' said Starsky, and he looked down at the floor, embarrassed.

'I was going to suggest we set it up so Mr. Silent Sam here tracks Nicky down to the villa and scares the shit out of him.'

'Oh!' said Starsky again, brightening.  'But you won't actually let your friend kill Nicky, will you?'

'Not if he behaves himself,' Hutchinson told him.  'Tempting as the thought is.'

'Excuse me?' said Silent Sam, with mock gentility.  'I don't understand that Frenchy talk.'

'I'm going to give you directions to my home,' said Hutchinson.  'I want you to go out there, and wait for us to return in the early dawn hours.  When we go inside, I want you to break in the back door. Can you do that?'

'Whad'ya take me for?' asked Silent Sam.  'I could do it with my eyes closed.'

'Keep them open anyway.  Then, you look for Nicholas Starsky.  He should be easy to find.  He'll probably be trying to crack my safe with your kifers.  You can thenceforth scare him all you like, but leave him alive.  I have a use for him.'

'Oh, yes?' asked Sam.  'You fuckin' him?'

'Not if he were the last person left alive on earth,' Hutchinson declared.

'If you say so.  What do I get out of all this?'

'Your money and your tools back for a start. More if you can convince Nicholas Starsky that his brother and I are all that stands between himself and death.  Or even a fate worse than death.  How does a finny sound as a down payment?'

'Fair enough,' said Silent Sam.

'How much money do you have on you, Starsky?' asked Hutchinson.

Starsky pulled out his meagre supply.  Hutchinson added some to it, and Silent Sam declared himself satisfied for now.

Hutchinson provided him with the directions to the villa, and with further directions not to break in too early.  'If you do,' he said.  'I'll cut off your balls and feed them to you.'

'You're such a gentleman,' said Silent Sam, in a mincing voice.

'Go!' said Hutchinson.  'Back to whatever safe you were cracking, when I so rudely interrupted.'

'I think she's found another cracker by this time,' said Sam.

 

*****************


Starsky was silent for a considerable portion of the journey back to the City.  Finally, he turned to Hutchinson, and took his hand.  The interior of the Hansom cab was quite safely private, though Hutchinson would not have taken the chance of kissing him.

'The burglar tools I used to open the cabinet that night,' he said.  'They were Nicky's.'

'Ah,' said Hutchinson quietly.

'You are not surprised,' Starsky noted.

'Not surprised, no,' said Hutchinson.  'I thought it rather strange your father would leave you such things in his will, but I had no idea from whence you might have truly garnered them.'

'We scarcely knew each other that night.  I didn't think it wise to tell you the truth, what with you being a shammes.  Policemen generally frown upon thieves.  And you are also wealthy.  Rich men frown upon thieves even more.  I found Nicky with them that night, just before I came to the meeting.  I took them, and put them in my pocket, intending to dispose of them later.  We quarrelled, and he ran off.  That was the last time I saw him, until we met on Thrawl Street.'

'I do indeed frown upon thieves,' said Hutchinson.  'But not upon you, even if you do possess an inexplicable facility with burglar's tools, for one who professes not to be a burglar.'

'I had a friend,' said Starsky.  'He was Romany.  A Gypsy.  Not all of them are thieves, any more than all Jews are rich business men.  But certainly Vesh could open any lock, and so he taught me.'

'How close a friend was he?' asked Hutchinson.

'Very close,' said Starsky.  'But don't worry.  I am heart-free.  We parted, and I was sad.  But now I am happy again, and I would not exchange my situation for any other on earth.'

'If you were to part from me, my heart would cease beating,' said Hutchinson.

Starsky twined their fingers together, as if attempting to recreate the Gordion Knot, that no one might untie.  'I have never used the skill that Vesh gave me for an illegal purpose,' he continued.  'When I caught Nicky with those tools, I told him the Starskys were not thieves.  He said no, that we were whores instead. I hit him, and he walked out the door, vowing never to come back.  He wouldn't listen to what I tried to tell him.  I told him, we are Jews, and no one has ever been able to keep us down. Not the Pharaoh in Egypt.  Not wandering in the desert.  Not the Diaspora.  Not all the anti-Semitic laws and the pogroms.  I told him, that if someone should ever try to wipe the Jews from the face of the earth, still we would survive, and return stronger than ever.  I told him that I had done what I had done, only so that we should survive, but that part of my life was over, and we were beginning our new life. We came to London, because it was the greatest city on earth.  The capital of the greatest empire the world has ever known.   There is little official prejudice against the Jews here, and I know that our family will build up its fortunes again.  You do not have to help us more than you have already done, Hutch.  And I will repay you for what you have done.  Believe me, I am not selling myself to you.  You know that, do you not?'

'I know that, more than you know it.  You owe me nothing.  What little I have done for you, was done out of love.'

'All that you do for me, and to me, and with me, is done out of love,' said Starsky.  'Now, we must convince Nicky of that.  Or at least convince him that what you do has no evil intention.  I think that when our father was killed, too many of his fond beliefs died with him.  All that Nicholas can see, is what he has lost, and he is the only one who has ever suffered, in his own mind. Nothing our mother does, or I do, is right.  He wants to return to what he sees as his safe childhood, but that world never existed.  Or if it did, it has been destroyed forever. He must learn to move on.'

'No one can return to childhood,' said Hutchinson.  'Once you have passed the portal, and your childhood is taken from you, the door locks behind you, forever.'

'Does it Hutch?' asked Starsky.  'But there are compensations, if you look for them hard enough.  We have found some of them, I think.  We could not do those things, if we were children.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'Oh, do not think I am looking for a burglar to pick that lock,' he said.  'That would be like opening Bluebeard's chamber.'

**************

When he and Starsky returned home close to dawn, Nicholas was not, as Hutchinson had hoped, attempting to crack his safe.  Throughout their cold and depressing patrol of Whitechapel, Hutchinson had entertained himself and Starsky with fantasies of Nick trying to break open that formidable piece of equipment.  Dynamite would do it, he supposed.  Or dropping it from the top of Mount Everest.

It appeared however, that Nicky was too tired and sore, from sweeping out the stables, and whatever other chores the inventive Higgins had found for him to perform.  He was in bed, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, if not the just, and they left him to it.  He'd  be awake soon enough.

They had started back toward their own bedroom, when they ran into Silent Sam, tiptoeing down the hall.  The burglar started, but didn't make a sound. Hutchinson pointed over his left shoulder, and held up three fingers.  Down the hall, the third door on the left.  Silent Sam nodded, and grinned, clearly entertained by the concept of having the full co-operation of the house owner, when he broke in.   He continued down the hall, tiptoeing now in an exaggerated manner, like a stage villain.  It only remained for him to twirl his moustache, thought Hutchinson, and at that moment, he did that very thing.

Starsky chuckled, and Hutchinson pulled him into a nearby empty room, to kiss the sweet, laughing mouth, and run his fingers through the dark curls.  It had been a long day, thought Hutchinson.  He wanted his bed, and Starsky's body.  The scene in the Turkish Parlour had aroused him, and there had been no time for relief.  Starsky moaned into his mouth, and Hutchinson pulled back, with a gasp.

'Not yet,' he said.  'The fireworks should be starting any moment. The other fireworks, I mean.'

At that moment, a shout echoed down the silent hallway.  'Murder!' Footsteps.  Running footsteps.  More shouting.  'Help!  Murder!  Davey!'

Ah, thought Hutchinson.  He calls for his brother already, does he?  Starsky raised an eyebrow.  Did they want to interfere so soon?  Hutchinson nodded.  Starsky opened the door, and glanced out into the hall.

Silent Sam had Nicholas pinned up against the wall, and was apparently attempting to choke the life out of him, in a rather melodramatic manner.  Hutchinson drew his pistol and brandished it in the most theatrical way he could manage.  'You there!  Villain!' he said.  'This is the Metropolitan Police.  I have my weapon trained upon you. Let the young gentleman go free, or I will shoot.'

Silent Sam whipped around, but he pulled Nicholas in front of him.  'Oh, no,' he answered.  'This young gentleman, as you call him, stole from me. If he gives me back my money, and my tools, I will let him go.  But not before.'

'This man says you stole from him, Nicholas,' said Hutchinson, in French.  'Is that true?'

'I know what he said.  I understood most of it.  No, I didn't steal from him.  He owed me the money.'

'I gave you the money I owed you,' said Silent Sam.  'You weren't happy, so you took more.  You don't get to do that.  You should've been happy with your proper share.'

Hutchinson put his gun away.  'That sounds fair to me,' he said.  'If Nicholas cheated you, as far as I'm concerned, you are in the right.  Do your worst.'

'Now that's my sort of peeler,' said Sam.  'The world would be a better place if they were all like you.'  He shoved Nicky up against the wall again.  'Where's my money?' he snarled.  'Give me back my money, or I'll take it out of your hide.'

'Davey?  Help me.  Don't just stand there,' Nicholas begged.

'Why should I?' asked Starsky, with a shrug.  'You're getting what you deserve.'

'The man is right,' said Silent Sam.  'You're getting what you deserve.  Where's my money?'

'I don't have it all.  I spent some of it.'

'Well, give me what's left over,' said the safe cracker.

Madame Starsky appeared at her doorway, white and shaking.  'What is going on?' she asked.

Nicholas looked up, hopefully.  Madame Starsky ignored him, and looked at David.

'Don't worry, Mother,' said Starsky.  'Nicky has gotten himself into trouble, but Hutch and I are fixing things.  We can handle it.'

'Are you certain, David?' she asked.

'We're certain,' said Starsky with a reassuring smile.  Madame Starsky went back into her room, and shut the door.

Nicholas sighed in defeat, and led them back to his room. He produced Silent Sam's safe cracking tools from under his bed, then dug into his trouser pockets for the money.

'What's this?' asked Sam.  'Is that all that's left?'

'I'm sorry,' said Nicky.  'I told you, I spent some of it.'

'Oh.  You spent some of it, and you're sorry.  That's different.'  Silent Sam smiled, and backhanded Nicholas across the room.  'You better dig up more money,' he said.  'Or I'll beat the stuffing out of you until you do.'

'Davey?  Hutch?  Inspector Hutchinson, I mean.  You aren't going to let him do that, are you?'

'Why should we stop him?' asked Hutchinson.  'He's only taking back what's his.'

'But it isn't his,' said Nicky.  'He stole the money.'

'How do you know that?' asked Starsky.

'Because I was there,' said Nicholas.

'Ah.  You were an accomplice,' said Hutchinson.  'Well, then.  I can arrest this man, but then I'd have to arrest you as well.  You'd spend several years in jail, at least.  Walking on the treadmill.  Hour after hour.  Day after day.  But if you're willing to do that to repay society for your crimes....'

'No, no.  Please, give him the rest of the money, and I'll pay you  back.  I promise. I will.  Please, Davey.  I'll be good.  I'll change.  I'll do whatever you say.'

'I don't know, mates,' said Silent Sam.  'I wouldn't trust him, far as I could throw him.  He cheated me, 'member?'

'I promise, Davey.  I'll be good.'  Nicholas was sobbing, now.

'Well, all right,' said Starsky.  'We'll trust you for now.  But you start treating Hutch with a little more respect.  Look.  He's paying off this man, for you.  You will pay him back, Nicky.  I insist on it.  We don't take charity, do you understand me?'

'Sure, Davey.  I'll pay back every penny.'

'You do that, Nicholas,' said Hutchinson.  'And you had better not let anything like this happen again.'

Silent Sam added his own threats.  'I'm going to put the word out among all my friends, and tell them to pass it on, Nicholas Starsky.  You are not to be trusted. No one will have anything to do with you.  If I see you again, I'll kill you.  No one cheats Silent Sam, and gets away with it.  You need your friends to translate?'

'No.  I understand you,' said Nicky.

'That's good,' said the safe cracker.  'I'll take my leave now.  It was nice meeting you gents.  Good day to you.'


****************

'Tell me the truth,' Hutchinson whispered in Starsky's ear.  'Were you very much disturbed that I wished to watch Red Peter and Angelique in the act of sex?  If it troubles you, I will never do such a thing again.  I would not have you think I am perverted beyond redemption.'

Starsky laughed.  'I knew the terrible truth long ago, my darling,' he said.  'It does not disturb me.  I was curious why you wanted to watch them, that is all.'

'Why did I watch?  Because I think it is beautiful, that two people should want to join their bodies, even for a few moments, and that they should want to share their joy with others.  I see nothing ugly, or evil in it.  Compare it with the terrible things that human beings do to each other every day.  The things that Jack the Ripper does, for an example.'

'Of course it is not evil.  I merely believe that it is private, and personal.  Would you want to have sexual relations with me in front of others?'

'Never,' said Hutchinson.  'But not because I am ashamed of what we do.  The extent and variety of my feelings for you exceed the physical by so great a distance, that they may never be calculated and catalogued. When we are joined together, it is not merely a physical act, as it was with Red Peter and Angelique.  We are in a world of our own then, and no one else belongs there with us.'

'Then I am content,' said Starsky.  'And if you wish to watch others engaged in something that is a purely physical act, I will not object.  As long as you don't try to join in.'

Hutchinson smiled to himself.  'I wouldn't do that,' he said.  'I could not. From whence would I acquire the energy? You tire me out.'


***************


His life at the moment was a curious mixture of happiness and grief, triumph and defeat, thought Hutchinson.  On the one hand, a peace of sorts had descended upon his home.  Madame Starsky seemed to have accepted him as an honourable man, at least outwardly.  Nicholas had meekly agreed to work in the stables until David considered the debt to Hutchinson repaid.  Starsky rewarded him for his patience with his family at every opportunity.  The rewards were substantial.

On the other hand, Hutchinson was no closer to catching Jack the Ripper, than he had been on the occasion of the man's first horrific crime.

Being able to love, and to feel a variety of deep emotions was a mixed blessing as well, he thought.  His spirit overflowed with joy, and satisfaction.  The surge of delicious and tender affections he had for Starsky, threatened his defences against the rest of the world, however. He needed those defences, for no one else could be inside the ramparts. They might assemble at the perimeter, but not pass through the gates that led to the inner keep.  Starsky's love both overwhelmed the heights, and undermined the foundations, of his battlements at every turn.  The fortifications were crumbling, and he had not the energy to rebuild.

Thus he speculated as he strode out through the doors of Scotland Yard.  Starsky had left a few moments earlier to ready the chaise for the drive to Whitechapel.  He looked about for his lover, and stopped dead.  Starsky was speaking with a young woman.  She was small, and dark.  A lady, it seemed at first glance.  A Jewess, thought Hutchinson.

Perhaps she is only asking directions, he told himself.  Starsky was friendly looking, and the street outside Scotland Yard was not a dangerous place for a single woman to speak to a man.  He started toward them.  Starsky tossed back his curls and laughed charmingly.

When Starsky had left that terrible night to have dinner with PC Burnett, Hutchinson had felt jealous, or so he had thought.  This was true jealousy, he knew.  This tearing, burning, crushing attack on your viscera.  This urge to commit murder.  It was not sane.  It was not even civilized. Almost, it was something from another world entirely.  Now he understood what people meant, when they said an outside force made them murder the ones they loved.

That force will not control me, he thought.  It is my imagination that an outside force is even attempting to control me.  Starsky has not done anything but smile at a woman.  Even if he should lie with her, I will not harm one hair of his head.  I owe him my soul and my sanity, and my devotion without reservation. That being decided, he felt able to approach him, without revealing his internal distress.  'Starsky?' he called, when he was within hailing distance.  'Are the horses ready?'

'Hutch!'  Starsky turned in surprise at the unusual question.  Hutchinson rarely made such pointless enquiries.  It is another sign that I am cracking, he thought.  What shall I become, if this keeps up?

Starsky gave no sign that he himself was at all concerned, however.  He smiled, and waved Hutchinson over.  'Miss Levy, this is my friend, Inspector Hutchinson,' he said.  'Hutch, meet Miss Amy Levy.  She is a writer.  A poet.  I would like to read her works, but they are in English. I must learn to read English better.'

Hutchinson smiled and bowed. 'Miss Levy,' he said.  'I am pleased to make your acquaintance.'

Miss Levy smiled and bowed back.  She looked at him, but not as most women looked at him. Most women looked at him as if calculating the size of his bank account, or his male organ, or both.  They looked at him as if they were calculating their chances for committing matrimony or fornication with him. Amy Levy's regard was friendly, but cool.  She was small, and dark, and her eyes seemed far too large for her face.  He thought that her emotions were too large for her heart to contain.

'I have read your poetry,' he told her.  'It is very fine.  So indeed are your novels.'

'You have read my books?' she asked, surprised.

'Yes,' he said.  'In spite of being a mere bumbling police inspector, I do know how to read.'

'Hutch is no bumbling police officer.  He attended Cambridge University,' said Starsky proudly.

'Cambridge!' said Miss Levy.  'Why, so did I.'

So, he thought.  We share an Alma Mater, and something else besides.

'I especially love these lines from your poem Borderland,' he told her.

"As sweet as love, as soft as death,
Drowsy-slow through the summer gloom.
My heart in some dream-rapture saith,
It is she. Half in a swoon,
I spread my arms in long delight.
O prolong, prolong the night,
For the nights are short in June!"

'But we have left June behind,' said Miss Levy.  'And the nights are getting longer.'

''So they are,' said Hutchinson.  'I have mixed feelings about it.'

'I would have thought you would welcome longer nights,' said Starsky.

'Longer nights give us more time for love,' said Hutchinson.  'But also more time for hate.  There is no such thing as an unmixed blessing.'

'You are right,' said Miss Levy.  'There is not.  You are one of the police inspectors after Jack the Ripper, aren't you?  I thought I remembered your name, from some of the newspaper stories.'

'Yes.  I am amazed you deign to speak to me, now that you know the truth, but much obliged to you for your tolerance.'

Miss Levy laughed.  'I put little stock in gossip, or the judgements of the world,' she said.  'I make up my own mind, for the most part.  But do I keep you from your work?  You must have more important things to do than chat with me.'

'Not at all,'  said Hutchinson.  'I am coming around to the opinion of the Press that I am indeed wasting my time.  I suppose we must return to that occupation, however, since it is what we are paid to do.  May we drop you off anywhere, Miss Levy?  If you are not opposed to riding alone with two gentlemen, I mean.  And we will be perfect gentlemen, I give you my word.  The word of a police officer.'

Starsky chuckled, in the way which never failed to heat Hutchinson's blood.  'Hutch is such a gentleman,' he observed.  'He would die of starvation rather than break his word.'

'Then how can I turn down your kind offer?' asked the lady.

'You haven't had the experience of driving with Starsky, yet,' Hutchinson told her.

His chaise was really built for two, but three could squeeze in, if at least one of them were small enough.  Miss Levy was tiny, and her walking costume abjured the multiple petticoats and bustles that took up enough room for two people.  They managed to fit onto the seat, and their proximity gave Hutchinson the satisfaction of pressing close to his love in public.

'Miss Levy and I met at a gathering of Jewish socialists,' Starsky told him, as he drove. 'We don't know each other well, but we did have the chance to learn one or two interesting things about each other.'

'Mr. Starsky and I were admiring a handsome couple across the room.  Then we realized at the same moment, that he was admiring the man, while I was admiring the woman,' said Miss Levy.  'Since we have so much in common, it is too bad that we haven't had the chance to get to know each other better.'

'Well, I don't move in your elevated social circles,' Starsky told her.

'I wouldn't call Bloomsbury elevated, precisely,' said Miss Levy.  'It is scarcely Belgravia.'

'No,' Starsky agreed.  'But far above the streets of Whitechapel.  Then again, I no longer live in Whitechapel, do I?  St. John's Wood.  That is a step up, isn't it?'

'St. John's Wood?' asked Miss Levy, with a raised eyebrow.  'That is indeed a step up.'

'It's a long story,' said Hutchinson.  'And somewhat capable of misinterpretation.  When are you publishing your next book?'

'Soon,' said Miss Levy, never missing a beat, despite the sudden change in topic.  'It may garner some criticism, especially from other people of our faith, Mr. Starsky.  I want to write about Jews as we are, with all our virtues and all our faults.   To strip away both the romanticism, and the condemnation, that make up most fictional representations.'

'You do believe in living dangerously, Miss Levy,' said Starsky.  'I admire that in a woman, as much as in a man.'

'Call me Amy, Mr. Starsky,' she answered.  'I see we are going to be great friends.'

'Then you must call me David, and this is....'  he looked at Hutchinson, in a contemplative manner, as if about to christen him anew.

'You may call me Kenneth, I suppose,' said Hutchinson.  'Not many people do.  Not many people I like, at least.'

'It is too soon to expect you to like me,' said Amy.  'But I hope to attain your approval, at some point in the future.'

'And what would you do with that approval, Amy Levy?' he asked her.

'Study it,' she told him.  'Compare it to the approval of other persons of discernment.  Hang it on my wall.  I don't know.  What does one usually do with the approval of others?'

'I am as much at a loss as you are,' said Hutchinson.  'Why don't we ask Starsky?  What do you do with the approval of others, my dear?'

'Enjoy it,' said Starsky.  'It's a rare commodity.'  

He turned a corner.  A newsboy was holding an armful of the latest edition, and calling out to passers-by about the latest lurid revelations from The Inquests.  There was only one inquest that mattered.  Or two rather.  Elizabeth  Stride and Catharine Eddowes.  With no new murder for some days, the Press had to be content with dissecting every detail revealed at their inquests.  Hutchinson thought it was a good thing the public was informed.  There was always the chance one of those minor details might be the clue that brought a reader to the realization that he knew the murderer.  However....

'They are so avid about it,' said Amy Levy, expressing his own thought.  'So excited, as if they had discovered some great new thing.  As if the usual pains and sufferings of mortal life were not enough for any person, and we need to be entertained by the pains and sufferings of others.  Accidents.  Wars.  Famines.  Murders.   All, offered up for our delectation.'

'Yes, it is that which offends me also,' Hutchinson told her.  'Journalism can be so much more.  It can open up new worlds.  Attempt to discover the truth behind the rumours.  Lay the foundations for future histories of great events.'

'That's where photography can help,' said Starsky, suddenly excited.  He had been working on building a darkroom, and had taken several photographs already with his new camera.  'I'd like to start my own studio.  Maybe take photographs of some of the areas of London, and the people who live there.  Show the world that human beings live in Whitechapel, not depraved subhumans.'

'You think the world would pay attention, David?' asked Amy Levy.

'Some of it might,' said Starsky.

'I have a friend who is a photographer.  She wants to start a studio, but is nervous about doing it alone.  She might be interested, but would expect to be a full partner, not your assistant.  She is very much a feminist, and a suffragist.'

'Why don't you introduce us,' said Starsky.  'I don't have much capital, but I have a camera, and a lot of enthusiasm.'

Hutchinson spoke up.  'I would be willing to invest some capital,' he said.

'Hutch.  Don't start that again,' Starsky told him.

'Start what?  I'm speaking of an investment.  I would be a silent partner.  I know little about photography.  I'd expect a return on my investment.'

'All of this is mere speculation anyway,' Amy declared.  'We don't know if my friend would be interested.'

'Then ask her,' said Starsky.  'I will give you my direction.  Does your friend have a telephone?'

'Yes, and so do I,' said Amy.

'Call me.  Here is my number.  Tell her to call soon, or Hutch will have our plans worked out for us, before we have the chance to draw a free breath.'

'I'm not that bad,' said Hutchinson.  'Am I?'


************************

Starsky suggested that they check with the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, before beginning their patrol.  'I am still a member,' he pointed out.  'And that's my reason for working with you.'

'Is it indeed?' asked Hutchinson.  'I was wondering what your reason was.'

Starsky smiled.  It was one of his lop-sided smiles.  Hutchinson often asked himself if those smiles indicated a divided mind.  When he smiled so, did he feel both joy and sorrow?  Did he know, as Hutchinson did, that there were no unmixed blessings?  Did he feel the pain of love, as well as the pleasure?

'You know well,' said Starsky.  'What my true reasons are.'

George Lusk was in his office.  Indeed, he was pacing the floor, looking rather pale.  'Have you seen it?' was his form of a greeting.  'What do you think?  Is it real?'

'What do we think about what?' asked Hutchinson.  'Is what real?'

'The kidney, of course, you fool,' said Lusk.

Hutchinson smiled, gently.  It was the sort of smile one uses on crying children, snarling dogs, and lunatics.  'I was unaware that I was required to formulate a theory about kidneys,' he said.  'Might I be allowed a little more time to do so?  Perhaps you could provide me with more information.  You are, of course, the expert on the subject.'

Lusk stared at him wildly for a moment, then laughed.  'I see.  You haven't seen the kidney.  I apologize for my hasty reaction, and assure you I have not lost my mind.'

'That is a relief,' said Hutchinson.  'I haven't seen a kidney for some time, to my certain knowledge.  Is there one to be seen?'

He looked around Lusk's office, but could see no errant body parts in public view.

'Indeed, sir, there is,' Lusk informed him.  'It was sent to me this very day, in a cardboard box.  About three inches square it was.  The box, I mean, not the kidney.  And there was a letter, addressed to me.  I gave them to the City Police, but I made a copy of the letter.  I couldn't copy the handwriting, but the wording and the spelling are identical. Would you like to read it?'

'Oh, most certainly,' said Hutchinson.  Lusk handed him the copy.

From hell.
Mr Lusk,
Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk


'Bon appetit,' said Hutchinson. He handed the letter to Starsky, who sat down and proceeded to study it carefully.  'And he kindly sent you the half he didn't feel the need to consume,' Hutchinson continued.   'You appear quite overwhelmed by his generosity.'

'Oh, I am.  I sent it to Major Smith, of the City Police, as I told you.  They informed me they would have it examined by a surgeon, to determine if it is indeed a human kidney.'

'Even if it is, that doesn't mean it came from one of the victims,' Hutchinson pointed out.

'No.  But the murderer did remove such organs.  And the man is insane enough to do these things, is he not?'

'That appears to be the case, Mr. Lusk.  He also seems to have an affection for you, I must point out.'

'What!  Oh.  You jest, sir.  An affection, indeed.  I can live without such love letters, and such gifts.  He should turn his attentions elsewhere.'

Starsky looked up, from his perusal of the letter.  'Did you copy correctly?' he asked in English, as he handed the letter back to Hutchinson.

'Yes,' said Lusk.  'Every word.'

'I know not much English.  But I have been studying, very carefully, and I see mistakes in the letter.  The mistakes, they are not....'  Starsky seemed to be searching for the right word.

'They are not consistent,' Hutchinson offered.  He turned to Starsky, and spoke in French.  'His writing is inconsistent, is that what you mean?'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'I make mistakes in my English still.  But they are consistent.  They have a pattern, because I haven't learned the patterns of English, yet.  I am still thinking in French, or Russian.  What language is this man thinking in?'

Hutchinson smiled grimly.  'That is a mystery that may never be solved,' he said.

 

***************************


'Were you ever afraid?' he asked Starsky, as they patrolled their district of Whitechapel.  It was dark, and foggy, and their footsteps echoed down the alleys.  A light rain had begun, and perhaps that would clear away the fog.

'Afraid, Hutch?' asked Starsky.  'Afraid of what?'

'Of men like Jack the Ripper.  When you were walking the streets like this, but alone.'

'Looking for customers, you mean? Not I.  Not very afraid.  I think many of the men were afraid of me.  They seemed unaware that physical intimacy between men could include affection.  Oh!  I am sorry. I did not mean....'

'No need for sorrow,' Hutchinson said, gently.  'I was aware that there could be affection between men, and even more -- love and passion.  But I chose not to pursue those things.  And might they truly be had for a price?'

'A price?  Yes.  Always there is a price.'

A chilly wind fumbled down an alley, and emerged into the street.  It nosed around their ankles, before making its way toward the docks, to bedevil the rigging of the ships in port. 'What would you consider a price too high to pay?' asked Hutchinson.

Starsky pressed his shoulder against Hutchinson's and walked beside him silently for a time.  A black cat slithered out of the alley just ahead, and Starsky pushed him back against the wall, so the cat would not cross their path.  The cat turned to look at them, out of its slanted green eyes.  It hissed, and spat, before disappearing into the fog.

'I would not want you to be harmed, because of me,' Starsky said at last.  'But I would pay even that price, for your love, if you were willing to risk it as well.  What is the use of a love that is afraid of pain?  Afraid of opposition?  You were right, when you said love is dangerous.  I was wrong, when I said it was easy.  It is not easy, but you do not truly love me, if you can turn away and say, I will not love you, because you might be hurt.'

'I did say that,' Hutchinson pointed out.

'Only for a few days,' said Starsky.  'And it near killed us both.'

A carriage was coming down the street toward them.  It was a closed carriage, a black carriage, drawn by black horses.  The carriage lights glowed yellow, like the eyes of the black cat.  The horses nodded, almost sleepily, as if drugged by the fog.  The coachman was muffled in a black scarf, and a low black hat that covered his eyes. A hand pulled back one of the carriage curtains, as the vehicle passed them.  A white hand, slender to the point of emaciation.  No face appeared in the window.

'Why do you think the men were afraid of you?' he asked Starsky.

'Why were they afraid?  Because I had power over them, I think.  I had something they wanted.  I could grant it, or not, as I chose.  In France, it was not against the law, but many of the men were married, I imagine.  They would not want their wives to learn of the form of their infidelity.'

'I was never afraid,' Hutchinson confessed at last.  'Not with any of the men or the women I had relations with before you.  If one chose not to grant his favours, I could always find another.  I armed myself beforehand, against his gaining any power over me.  No one made it past my outer defences, let alone to the inner keep.'

'And what of me?' asked Starsky.  'Do I have power over you?'  There was a smile in his voice, a smile of confidence and trust, a smile that Hutchinson would not have discouraged to guard him from any amount of danger.

'You have power over me,' he acknowledged.  'You have all the power, all the passwords, and all the keys.  I am helpless before you. I surrender.'

Starsky laughed.  'Helpless?' he said.  'I have never seen anyone less helpless.  I should have an army at my back, to stand against you.'

'Oh you stand against me quite well,' Hutchinson answered.  'It is what you do best.'

The wind picked up again, and the rain turned colder.  The month of October was waning.  Whitechapel was a dark and inhospitable place.  But Hutchinson felt safe and warm. Starsky had breached all his defences, but they were rebuilding them together, he thought.  Rebuilding them higher, and stronger.  And now there were the two of them to stand guard.  He had no need to watch all the walls alone.


*************************

The beach stretched ahead endlessly, miles of the whitest sand, beside the bluest sea, under the bluest sky.  'This is Naxos,' he told Starsky.  'I lived on this island for a time, in a peasant's cottage.  I think not far from here.'

Starsky smiled.  'Take me there,' he said.

'We should visit the harbour, too,' said Hutchinson.  'There is the temple to Apollo.  It was never finished. The sun god is no longer worshipped.'

Above them, the sun beat down, unconcerned with the neglect of the god that ruled it. 'It is hot,' said Hutchinson.  'Why don't we bathe?  The sea is warm.'

He pulled off his clothes, and walked naked toward the sea.

'Should we be naked, out in the open like this?' asked Starsky.

Hutchinson laughed.  'Do you see anyone else around?' he asked.

Starsky undressed, and joined him in the sea.  Hutchinson pulled him close, and kissed him.  'There is no one else around,' he said.  'We are alone.  Let us go in deeper.'

'I don't know how to swim,' Starsky told him.

'You never learned to swim?' Hutchinson asked him.  'That is not right.'

'I grew up in Russia.  There were no beaches like this, available to us.  They were for the aristocracy.'

'Come.  I will teach you.  You must relax, first of all, and most of all.  Your body will float, if you relax, I promise.  I won't let you drown.'  He held Starsky close, and lay back in the water, letting the waves take them where they pleased.  'See,' he said.  'I am floating, even though I am carrying your weight, as well as my own.  Close your eyes.'

'Don't let go of me,' said Starsky, suddenly afraid of this new experience.

'I won't let go,' he replied.  'I wouldn't let you go, without warning you first.  I'll know when you're ready.  For now, just learn to trust the water.  It will bear you up.'

They drifted in the warm, blue waves for some time.  Hutchinson lost all sense of direction, and all track of time.  They were in deep water now, drifting with the currents, moving in a counter clockwise direction, around the Island of Naxos.  It was on this island that Ariadne was abandoned by Theseus, after she helped him kill the Minotaur.  She had despaired, until the god Dionysus found her, and loved her, and made her his wife.  Hutchinson figured she got the better deal in the end.  Despite being the god of wine, and of revels and orgies, Dionysus was faithful, once he knew love.

'Where are we?' asked Starsky.

Hutchinson lifted his head, and looked around.  They were drifting into a harbour, he now saw.  Above them, a great watchtower loomed.

'Look there!' he told Starsky.  'That is one of the castles built by the Venetians, when they ruled Naxos.  Why don't we swim to shore?  I'd like to see it.'

'Like this?' asked Starsky, indicating their nakedness.

'The castle is empty,' said Hutchinson.  'The Venetians have gone.  Naxos is part of liberated Greece, now, and has been for years.'

He pulled Starsky to shore, and they stumbled over the rocky beach.  The soft white sand had been left far behind.

'My legs are wobbly,' Starsky told him.  'I am like a baby learning to walk all over again.'

They clambered over the cliff face, up to the watchtower.  'I think this tower was built to watch for pirates,' said Hutchinson.  'The Venetians had to look out for piracy, and for rebellion by the Naxians.  That kept them busy.  Even after the Turks took over, they continued to manage the island.  The Turks collected the rent, and left the Venetians to do all the work.'

'It was the Naxians who were really doing all the work,' Starsky pointed out.

The watchtower was empty.  It was cold, and they shivered as they strode in through its heavy stone doors.  'I remember this place,' said Hutchinson.  'I think I lived here once.  Here, or a place like here.'

'Did you stay here for a time, when you lived on Naxos?'

'Not that I remember.  I visited some of these Venetian castles.  This is nothing like them.'

'Perhaps it was a prison?' said Starsky.

'Yes.  I think it was.'

The halls were growing darker, as they walked on.  'Why are we here?' he asked Starsky.  'We should turn back, before it is too late.'

'You wanted to explore this watchtower, my dearest,' said Starsky.  'You were the one who led us here.  It is not safe to turn back now. We must go on.'

'We are naked and defenceless,' he said.  'It is too cold and dark. I have been here before, or a place like here. This is not good.'

'I am not defenceless,' Starsky told him.  He bent down, and picked up a length of metal, that lay upon the dusty floor.  'Here is another,' he said, and bent to pick up a second piece. He handed it to Hutchinson.  'We will fight side by side, if anyone attacks.'

Now it was Starsky who led the way.  It reminded Hutchinson of his invasion of the villa.  Did the man possess no sense of propriety?

Far at the end of the hall, was a padlocked door.  Starsky swung his metal bar, and smashed the lock, with one blow.  The padlock fell to the ground, and the sound echoed throughout the watchtower.

'What do you suppose is inside?' asked Starsky.

'No.  No, don't open that door,' said Hutchinson.  'Some doors should never be opened, once they are locked.'

'But I want to see inside,' Starsky insisted.  He took hold of the door handle, and swung the door inward. A blast of cold air greeted them. In a far corner, was a single bed, without a mattress, and only one thin blanket.  In another corner, was a hard wooden chair.  Ropes dangled from the arms.

'I knew this was a prison,' said Starsky.  'What poor soul do you suppose lived here?'

'I did,' said Hutchinson.  'This was my room, when I lived with my father.  Let me out, don't lock me in again.'

He turned and ran, trying to find the way out of the watchtower, but now he was lost. He beat upon door after door, but not one would open.  At last he fell to the dusty floor, senseless.   He felt Starsky's arms come around him from behind, pulling him close.

'My love, my love.  Wake up.  I am here.  You are in our bed with me. You are safe.'  Starsky was murmuring love words in his ear, stroking his sweaty hair back from his brow.

Hutchinson turned in Starsky's arms, and clung to him. 'I was back in my father's house, locked in that room,' he said.

'No,' said Starsky.  'You are here with me. I can open any lock.'


*********************

'I want to tell you everything,' said Hutchinson.  'May I tell you everything?'

'Of course,' said Starsky.  'I want to know everything.  Which is not fair of me, because I kept things from you.'

'You had your reasons.  I don't resent that.  It makes me feel secure, that you can keep secrets.  I can keep secrets, too.  But now I need to tell you.'

They were nestled together in a cave of warm blankets.  Starsky had built up the fire, and made them tea.  He had raided the kitchen for the food which seemed to be a necessary part of their ritual of exchanging confidences.

'You must understand,' Hutchinson began.  'That to say my father had plans for me, is an understatement of almost incomprehensible proportions.  He didn't merely have plans for me.  I was his plan.  He had planned me out from the beginning, even before my birth, I think, and nothing was to get in his way.

'My mother came from an aristocratic French family.  She was part English, so that made her less inferior than she might have been if she were pure French, and a safer bet than an Englishwoman, from my father's point of view.  Englishwomen are very strong minded, and less subservient to their husbands, than he imagined Frenchwomen to be.  I say imagined, because it turned out that my mother wasn't subservient at all.

'Her family had fallen on hard times, but were not entirely impoverished.  My father helped to restore their fortunes, so that they would not shame him by bankruptcy.  He brought her to England to separate her from her family, and then set his plan in motion.'

Starsky listened to all this, as if listening to a legend from ancient times.  'And his plan was you?' he asked, and he smiled.  'I'm glad he fulfilled his plan by bringing you into the world, though I wish he hadn't hurt you so.'

'Are you glad I'm alive?' Hutchinson asked Starsky.  'There have been times I wished I had never been born.'

'I think everyone feels that way sometimes,' Starsky observed.

Hutchinson sipped his tea.  They were drinking it out of heavy mugs, so they didn't have to get out of bed to fill them quite so often.  It was warm in bed, and safe, and Hutchinson took a deep breath, before continuing.

'Well, I was born,' he said.  'And I suppose I seemed promising at first.  My father was away a great deal on business for my first few years.  My mother raised me, for the most part.  She played the piano very well, and taught me how to play, when I was barely able to read. She told me fairy tales, and we spent a lot of time together, for my father had given orders that I was not to play with other children.  He thought they would be a bad influence on me.

'All went well, but one day, my father returned home, and he and my mother had a terrible fight.  He told her she was making me effeminate, by teaching me music.  It must stop.  She agreed, but as soon as he left on business, she went back to the lessons.  She began letting me play with other children, and when he learned of that, he took me from her, and began raising me himself.  Her, he imprisoned somewhere, but would not tell me where.  He said she was a decadent Frenchwoman, but he would cure me of her influence.'

'I may be leaping to a conclusion,' said Starsky.  'But your father sounds insane.'

'In a way, perhaps,' said Hutchinson.  'He had an insane concept of how to raise children.  Other than that, he is perfectly sane.  He never loses his temper.  He has never committed violence, or behaved improperly in public. But to him, I am not a person, not a separate person in my own right.  I am something that he created from his own body, and his body only, and thus I owe him perfect obedience. He doesn't see me as half my mother's son, but wholly his own, to do with as he wills.  He planned me out beforehand, and when he decided to take me from my mother, he began to eradicate everything that didn't fit his plans.  Any part of me that was unacceptable, was discarded without mercy.'

'And the room you told me about?'

'That was where I was locked up, when I insisted on being myself.  Whenever I had an opinion, or a thought, or a feeling that was not part of his formula, that was where I stayed, until I agreed to conform.  And the conformity must not be outward only.  I must prove my conformity, over and over.  I was watched, and judged, every moment, to see if I was backsliding.  He didn't want a cowering slave, or a weakling.  He let me out of my room to be in the fresh air, and exercise on a regular basis.  He didn't starve me into submission.  He tied me to a chair and lectured me.  He tied me to my bed at night, with a contraption he'd invented that woke me on the instant if I had an erection.  It would set off a bell, and he would come to my room and lecture me about self control.'

Starsky choked with laughter, then was instantly apologetic.  'Oh, my darling,' he said.  'I didn't mean to laugh, and I'm not laughing at you.  That must have been terrible, and so humiliating.'

'It was,' said Hutchinson.  'And it went on like that for years.  He never understood why I couldn't make my body behave, even in my sleep.'

'But... but how could he not understand?' Starsky asked.  'He is a man, he must know men have no control over their erections.  Especially young boys.  Especially in their sleep.'

'It made no difference what was natural to other men.  He wanted a son who had perfect self control, and that was the son he was going to make, no matter how long it took, or how much I suffered.'

'Well, I think you are perfect the way you are, and I wouldn't change one part of you, for all the world,' said Starsky.  He pulled Hutchinson closer, and stroked his body.  'I love your erections,' he continued.  'And you may have them as often as you like.'

'Thank you,' said Hutchinson.  'Do you think I am so very strange, sexually?  Sometimes, I am still afraid to explore that possibility, to see what might be hiding deep inside me, for my father told me I was beyond redemption, on the day I left home, for good.  He cursed himself then, for having helped my mother's family.  When my grandfather died, he left me lands, and money, and I have built on that ever since.  He did teach me how to run a business, though now I have no interest in doing so.'

'I love your strangeness,' said Starsky.  'You may explore it as much as you want, with me.'

 
************************

They were having breakfast together, in Madame Starsky's sitting room.  Nicholas had been behaving himself for some days now, and was sitting at the table with them, cheerfully discussing the weather, and his plans for that happy day in the future when his brother and Hutchinson set him free from slavery in the stables.

Jeffreys knocked at the door, and entered the sitting room, looking rather long faced.

'What is it, Jeffreys?' Hutchinson asked.  'Has my father decided to pay me another visit so soon?'

'No, sir.  There are two young ladies here to speak with you, and Mr. Starsky.'

'That is pleasant news, Jeffreys.  Why do you look so disapproving?'

'I'm not sure I do approve, sir.  Young ladies, paying visits to young gentlemen?  Such things were not done in my day.'

'Well, but there are two young ladies, are there not?  And Madame Starsky is here.  I'm sure Mr. Starsky and I will be quite safe.  If Madame Starsky approves, you may show them in here.'

Starsky grinned at Hutchinson, then turned to his mother.  'Would you like to meet our friends, Mother?' he asked.  'One of them is a friend, at least.  The other lady, she wishes to introduce to us.'

Madame Starsky looked up, her face lit with a sudden hope.  'Of course I would be pleased to meet your lady friends,' she said.

Wicked, wicked man, thought Hutchinson, to tease your poor mother so.  He frowned at Starsky, who continued to grin at him, quite unrepentant.

Jeffreys vanished for a moment, and returned with the lady friends in tow. 'Lady Rebecca Lorimer, and Miss Amy Levy!' announced the butler, in stentorian tones.

'Thank you, Jeffreys,' said Hutchinson.  'Please come in, Lady Rebecca, Miss Amy Levy.  Welcome to my home.  I would like you to meet Madame Rachel Starsky, Monsieur David Starsky, and Monsieur Nicholas Starsky.'

'I am very pleased to meet you,' said Lady Rebecca.  Amy Levy also announced her pleasure at the meeting.  Madame Starsky certainly appeared to be pleased, and Nicholas.... Nick was staring at Lady Rebecca as if he'd never seen a woman before.

Lady Rebecca was rather tall, and regal looking.  Her hair was approximately the colour of bronze, and her eyes were gray.  An Amazon, thought Hutchinson.  Beautiful, and distant.  The sort of woman who broke hearts, and moved on with no regrets. This was going to be a tricky situation, if Nick continued to be fascinated with her.  Perhaps a broken heart was what he needed, to shake him out of his self-centredness. Perhaps not.

Starsky was looking amused, he noticed.  Their eyes met, and Hutchinson felt filled with contentment, and satisfied love.  It was perhaps unworthy of his democratic ideals to feel so entirely superior, he realized, but it was a new experience for him, and thus one he could not resist.

'Would you like tea?' asked Madame Starsky, in English.  The ladies assented, and took seats at the table in the window.  Madame Starsky poured them tea.

After a few moments,  Lady Rebecca spoke up.  'Monsieur Starsky,' she said.  'Are you still as interested in the photography studio, as you professed to be the other day?  I have been making enquiries about rooms, which we might lease.  I would like to go to see them, and I thought we could save some time, if we went together.'

'I think that is a good idea,' said Starsky.  'And I am certainly still interested. Would you mind if Inspector Hutchinson joined us? He has been thinking of investing some capital in our business, if we decide to start one.'

'So you are no longer entirely disapproving?' asked Hutchinson.

'No,' said Starsky.  'Capital is necessary, to begin any new business.  If you start out looking prosperous, customers will trust you.  They will believe you know what you are doing.  Do you agree, Lady Rebecca?'

Lady Rebecca nodded, regally.  'I do agree,' she said.  'Unfortunately, I am rather short of capital myself.  I have a name,  and connections in society, and I still possess my reputation, despite my diminished circumstances. I studied history at Oxford, until the family money ran out, and my father died. I thought you should know all these things, before we went further in our plans.'

'I have no capital,' said Starsky.  'And no particular reputation, one way or the other. I have connections in Whitechapel.  My father died, leaving us poor, and bringing an end to my education, as well, which was rather spotty to begin with.'

'I am capital, personified,' Hutchinson announced.  'I studied science at Cambridge, but I prefer to ignore that as much as possible.  If you are willing to risk your reputations by dealing with me, the contracts may be drawn up at any time.  I am acquainted with lawyers and other such pests.  They bow when they see me coming, and do not dare to take advantage.'

'Inspector Hutchinson is a useful person to know,' Lady Rebecca observed.

Nick snorted, and turned it into a cough, quickly.  Madame Starsky smiled, looking a bit puzzled at the tone of the conversation, which appeared to be all business.

Starsky smiled, too.  'I think we will get along quite well,' he told Lady Rebecca.


***********************

To Starsky's amusement, and Hutchinson's amused irritation, Nicholas begged to be allowed to go along, when they viewed the rooms.  Hutchinson argued with Starsky over it, but that was mainly for show.  It was time to let Nicholas out of his prison for a while.  Punishment that went on too long, only broke the spirit.  And Nick looked entirely grateful, when Starsky argued on his behalf, and Hutchinson grudgingly gave in.

They had viewed two sets of rooms so far, neither of which had impressed them.  Regent Street was an excellent address, but the apartment was far too expensive, and far too small.  The Tottenham Court Road rooms were large and airy, and the rent was reasonable, but Hutchinson did not like the neighbourhood, as an area for Starsky to be working in.  When he murmured that fact in Starsky's ear, the man flashed him an amused smile.  'I will discuss that with you later,' he said.

Baker  Street was an exceptionally dignified street.  There were many fine shops, such as Messrs Duce & Company, and Madame Tussaud's Waxworks.  Both these establishments drew a large and varied clientele to the neighbourhood.  A good situation in which to open a business, thought Hutchinson.

Starsky seemed to agree.  'I've always liked this street,' he commented, as he pulled up before Number 117.  'It has a friendly atmosphere, and is not too fashionable.  The sort of neighbourhood where almost anyone might feel at home.'

Amy Levy and Lady Rebecca drove their carriage up behind theirs, and climbed down to join them on the street.  'I think I like this situation the best of all,' said Lady Rebecca.

'Just what I was telling Hutch,' Starsky commented.  'Let's see the rooms first, though.'

The landlady, Mrs. Grey, was motherly and friendly.  She showed no sign of distress, at the news that a Jew and a single lady were intending to open a business together.  'The apartments are on two floors,' she said.  'The top floor has rooms with skylights, which were used as an artist's studio, formerly.'  She led them up a broad staircase to the second floor.  'The rooms on this floor are quite cosy.  This is the sitting room.'

She opened the door to a large, well furnished room, with windows opening onto the street below.  Lady Rebecca went to the window and looked down.  'An interesting prospect,' she commented.

'There are two bedrooms,' Mrs. Grey continued.  'A bathing room,  and a private water closet.  There is another water closet upstairs, as well.'  She led them to the third floor.   There were two large, well lighted studios, and two smaller rooms, as well as the second water closet.

'What do you think, Lady Rebecca?' asked Starsky.

'I think this is excellent,' said the lady.  'We could each have our own studio, and our own workrooms.  But what about the rooms downstairs?  Were you thinking of living there, yourself?'

'Not at all,' said Starsky.  'I'm quite happy with where I am living at the present.'

Lady Rebecca appeared relieved.  'I have been planning on moving out of the situation in which I am living,' she said.  'And it would be an excellent economy if I could live here.  I have a sister, who could move in with me.  We have been living with our aunt and uncle, but I know she wants more freedom, as much as I do.'

A lady could not live alone, Hutchinson knew.  Women were attaining more freedom, and single ladies walking about alone were no longer the rarity they had once been, but any woman who lived by herself, was immediately suspected of being a prostitute, and her reputation was ruined forever.  'You must have a maid servant here, as well,' he said.  'To answer the door, and take the coats of the customers.'

'I'm not sure I can afford one,' said Lady Rebecca.

'You can't afford to be without one,' said Hutchinson.  'Begin as you mean to go on.  Impress customers with your respectability, and your prosperity.  They may at first think it is odd that you are a lady photographer, but if you make it clear you are indeed a lady, they will come around.  They will bring their children to you to be photographed, because ladies are less intimidating.'

'I don't intend to photograph children only,' said Lady Rebecca.

'Of course not, but you could make a name for yourself that way.  People, men especially, will see you as less threatening.'

'Do you see me as threatening, Inspector Hutchinson?' asked Lady Rebecca.  Starsky had strolled off to join his brother, and they were discussing something in Russian. Amy Levy was exploring on her own, as well, so they had a moment to themselves.

'Not at all, my lady,' said Hutchinson.

'But you are very protective of him, are you not?'

'Of whom, my lady?'

'Of Monsieur David Starsky, of course.  And he is protective of you.'

'What makes you say that?' asked Hutchinson.

'It is quite apparent, in everything you say and do.  I mean no insult by my words.  I approve.  We should wish to protect our friends, and our family.'

'If anyone hurt him, the body would never be found,' said Hutchinson.

'Ah. Thank you for being so frank, and open.  I prefer frankness, to circumlocution at all times.  One should always know where one stands.  I intend to deal honestly with your friend, and I insist on honesty in return.'

'You will receive it.  I wish to invest in your business, Lady Rebecca, if you still wish to work with my friend.  I will be a silent partner.  I have no time to run photography studios.  I expect a profit on my investment, though not immediately, of course.  I expect discretion, if any details of my private life should become known to you, and I will return such discretion, with complete generosity.  Your private life is your own.'

'Thank you, Inspector, though I have no private life to speak of, at present.  I am living with my aunt and uncle, and can barely draw a breath without accounting to them for it.'

'I can see why it is you want to escape,' said Hutchinson.  'If you have any trouble doing so, call upon me for assistance.'


*******************

Starsky rattled down the stairs, talking a mile a minute in French, with both Lady Rebecca and Amy Levy.  Hutchinson started after him, but Nicholas came up beside him, and laid a hand on his arm.

'Inspector Hutchinson?' he said.  'May I speak with you for a moment?'

Hutchinson turned, warily.  'Yes,' he said.  'I suppose you may.'

'I offered to help David and Lady Rebecca set up their studios.  David said it was all right with him, if it was all right with you.  He said they would pay me, but that I had to continue to repay you for your help with Silent Sam.'

'Well, if it is all right with David, then you have my permission to stop working in the stables.  You may give me a portion of your earnings from the studio instead, until the debt is repaid.  That should not take long.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Nick.

'Just a word in your ear.  Behave yourself, and don't get into trouble, or cause him grief in any way, or you'll spend the rest of your life shovelling horse manure.'

'That's fair enough,' said Nick.  'I didn't want to cause him grief.'

'Didn't you?  That was not my impression.'

'Inspector Hutchinson, may I speak freely?  You never really let me explain myself.'

'Is there an explanation for your behaviour, Nicholas Starsky?'

'Yes.  There is, sir.  First my father got himself murdered....'

'That was a miraculous event indeed,' Hutchinson commented.  'Every murder victim I ever came across had help.'

'Then David decided to sell himself to other men.'

'I see,' said Hutchinson.  'And you resented that.'

'Of course,' said Nicholas.  'Wouldn't you?  I mean, if you had a brother, or a sister, who became a whore, how would you feel?  Would you be happy?'

'Surely I would not be,' said Hutchinson.  'I would be very unhappy.  I would be angry, and likely I would say things that hurt my sister or brother, at first.  Then, I hope that I would try to understand.  Why did your brother become a whore?  Do you know?'

'Because we had no money,' said Nicholas.

'And is that not answer enough for you?'

'But... but how could he do that with other men?  He came to us, and told us he'd found work.  I asked him if he could get me a job, as well, and he put me off.  That made me suspicious, so I followed him.  I saw what he did with those men.  It disgusts me.  And, I know I should not say this to you, because you have been so much help, and David has ordered me to say nothing, but it disgusts me that he does those things with you, as well.'

'We haven't asked you to watch,' Hutchinson informed him.  'And your disgust means nothing to me, so you are wasting it.  Use it for something useful.  Use it on people who deserve it, not on those who love you, like your brother.  Or on those who are helping you for your brother's sake.'

They had reached the bottom of the stairs.  'What your brother and I do together, is a private matter,' Hutchinson continued.  'It is not the concern of any other being on this earth.  Some people think it should be their concern.  They are wrong.  There is so much evil in this world, that they could put right, if they used their energy to do so.  Why don't you use your energy for useful things? Help your brother to make his business a success.  Help Lady Rebecca, as well, for she could use a friend.  Forget about the relationship between your brother and me.  Do you think I am harming him in any way?  Does he seem unhappy to you?'

'No,' Nicholas admitted.  'I have never seen him look so happy.'

Hutchinson barely restrained a sigh of relief.  'There is your answer,'  he said.  'Why not protect that happiness, rather than try to destroy it?'

'I suppose you are right,' said Nick, and opened the door.  Starsky was standing by the horses, laughing with Lady Rebecca, and Amy.

Of course I am right, thought Hutchinson.  Starsky saw them standing in the doorway, having obviously made peace of a sort, and sent them both a loving smile.

'I suppose you are right,' said Nick, again.  'I will behave, and mind my own business.  But if you hurt him, I will have my revenge.'

'Then we have an agreement,' said Hutchinson, and offered his hand.  Nick took it, and nodded.

'We have an agreement,' he said.

 

**********************

'Lady Rebecca told us you believe she should make herself appear less threatening to men,' said Starsky, as he drove to Scotland Yard.  'She was amused by you, I think.'

'But it's true, if she wants to be a successful business woman,' said Hutchinson.  'Men control business.  Men like my father, who think women are good only for one thing.  If a woman appears to threaten them, they will squash her like a bug.'

'I think she knows that, but she wants to change the world.  She doesn't want to hide who she is.'

'Ah, but with men like my father, you must hide who you are, unless you are just like them.  They are always on the lookout for differences, which they see as dangers.  When they find one, they attack.  I daresay my father taught me some valuable lessons, despite his insane methods of doing so.  One of them, was how to appear invulnerable.  Another, was how to appear to fit in.'

Starsky turned the chaise down Oxford Street.  'I am a Jew,' he said. 'For most Jews, appearing to fit in is frowned upon.  We tend to despise those of our brethren who assimilate.'

'I know,' said Hutchinson.  'Like Benjamin Disraeli.  He was baptized a Christian, making his political career possible.  I don't think he could have become Prime Minister, if he had remained a Jew in every way.'

'That was his father's doing, wasn't it?' asked Starsky.

Hutchinson smiled.  'Yes,' he said.  'His father had plans for him, and the son fulfilled them.'

Nicholas turned toward Hutchinson, from his contemplation of the passing scenery.  'You sound as if you know about such things,' he said.  'Did your father have plans for you?'

'Oh, yes indeed,' said Hutchinson.  'And I have been an exceeding disappointment to him.'

'I suppose he would be very angry if he learned of your relations with David,' Nick continued.

'Nicholas!' Starsky warned.

'No, Starsky, it's all right.  I want to clarify this matter.  It's important that Nick understand something, and the sooner the better.'  Hutchinson turned in the seat to look Nicholas in the eye.  'My father would be very angry if he were to learn of my perfidious relationship with your brother.  He would be grateful to anyone who told him of it, so that he could rectify the situation. David and I would be separated immediately.  I would be married to a suitable woman, and forced to father children, until I had produced a son and heir. Then, I would be locked in Bedlam, or better yet, in an attic somewhere, until I died.  How does that sound to you, Nicholas Starsky?  Would that make you happy?'

Nick appeared to consider the matter seriously.  'Well, you have committed an abomination with my brother,' he said.  'You do deserve to be punished for it, and you should marry and father children.  That is the proper life for a man.'

'I'm glad you would be pleased.  Of course, you wouldn't have much time to enjoy your victory.  You would find yourself at the bottom of the Thames, with a rock tied around your neck.  You, and David, and your mother, and anyone else who knew the truth.  My father would never allow you to go on living, and blackmailing him.  He would never allow the least chance that the truth might emerge, and damage the reputation of our family.'

Hutchinson continued, in a dreamy voice.  'I can see you now,'  he said.  'Anchored to the bottom of the river, swaying in the current.  Back and forth, and back and forth.  The fishes eating you, the fishes and the snails.  Until your bones are picked clean, and fall apart, and litter the river bed.  Perhaps someday, they might dredge up your clavicle, or your thigh bone, or maybe even your skull.  "What a pity," they will say.  "He died so young.  I wonder what happened."  And no one will know the truth, that it was because of your own stupidity.  That you might have had a long and happy life, and married and raised children of your own.  But it was your own choice, wasn't it?'

There was a long silence in the chaise.  Hutchinson could feel Starsky shaking in silent laughter beside him, but he made no sound.  At last, Nicholas spoke up.

'I'd like to have four children,' he said.  'Two girls and two boys.  And my own horses, so it's good that I'm learning how to take care of them.  What do you think, David?'

'I think that sounds like a good plan.  Why don't you take the omnibus back to the villa, and get in some more practice with the horses this afternoon, and we'll talk about fixing up the studio tomorrow?'

'Fair enough,' said Nicholas.


****************

Starsky shook his head sadly, as they watched Nicholas walk toward the omnibus for St. John's Wood.  'I thought we were making progress,' he said.  'You seemed to be getting along well there, for a time.'

'We are,' said Hutchinson.  'He backslides every few hours.  I suppose he moves two steps forward, and one step back. But we're getting there. Wherever 'there' is.'

'You're very patient with him, and I love you for it.'

'I'm accustomed to dealing with difficult people,' said Hutchinson.

'Difficult people like me?' asked Starsky.

'No,' said Hutchinson, fondly.  'You aren't difficult.  A bit hard at times, but I find you easy to take.'

'Shh. Don't tease.  We have to go to work, and won't be home for many hours.'

'I know.  I need something to keep me going.  Something to look forward to.  And I've been thinking.'

'Heaven defend me,' said Starsky.  'You are planning something.'

'Yes.  I think Nicholas should meet my father, now that the threat of Silent Sam has begun to wear off.  He should see for himself that I am not joking.  And so should you.  I think sometimes you do not believe me, when I tell you what he is capable of.'

'I loved my father,' said Starsky.  'I still love his memory.  He was not perfect, but he was a kind father.  He only beat us when we needed it.  Perhaps he didn't beat Nicky often enough, in fact. He was faithful to my mother, and treated her with respect.  So it is difficult for me to understand that a father might behave as yours did.'

'Believe it,' said Hutchinson.  'I will introduce him to you, under controlled circumstances, in a safe place.  After that, you may tell me your impressions.  And now that I think of it, I might be able to kill two birds with one stone.'

'Kill two birds?  What are you planning, my love?'

'I am tired of waiting for him to come to me,' said Hutchinson.  'He has been the one in control long enough.  All our meetings follow the same pattern these days.  It is time to shake him up a little.'

'He is your father,' said Starsky.  'If you think that is wise....'

'It is never wise to have any sort of dealings with my father, Starsky.  But I cannot escape him, unless I move to the Antipodes, and take up sheep farming.  I tire of being on the defensive.  It is time to attack.'

*********************

'I still don't know why you want me along tonight,' said Nicholas, as they drove up to Scotland Yard.  'How can I help?'

'Stop whining, Nicky,' said Starsky.  'You were complaining that you were tired of the stables, and never going out in the evening.  So we take you out, and what do you do?  Complain about that.  Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch.'

'Trailing along behind Inspector Hutchinson isn't my idea of a good time,' said Nicky.  'Especially dressed as he is.'

'Look at it this way,' said Hutchinson.  'Perhaps we'll catch Jack the Ripper, and you'll be famous.  You may brag to all the young ladies that you helped to save them from the terrible monster.  In fact, even if we don't catch him tonight, you may still tell the young ladies that you have been trying.  That you are working with Scotland Yard.  I know for a fact, it will attract their attention.'

Nicholas looked interested, for the first time.  'Do you know any young ladies?' he asked.

'Yes, as a matter of fact I do.  And in fact, I know some young ladies who are not at all maidenly and modest, and who would not faint away at the mention of lying with a young man.'

'More prostitutes?' asked Nick.

'Not all of them,' said Hutchinson.  'Some of them merely have no interest in marriage, but still enjoy the company of men.   Here we are.  Behave yourself.  This is a police station, so I don't have to look far for a cell in which to lock you up.'

'Yes, yes, yes. Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch.'

'Nicky!' warned Starsky.

Starsky waited with Nicholas, in the outer lobby, while Hutchinson checked in, and rallied his troops for the evening assault.  Everyone was tired, thought Hutchinson.  They had been chasing the monster for months now, with nothing to show for it.  Jack the Ripper might well be a ghost, for all that they could lay their hands upon him.  He might well have psychic powers, for all that they could lay plans to trap him.  Indeed, Hutchinson suspected at times, that he might well be a police officer, and thus completely conversant with their plans.  It was a terrifying thought, but a not impossible one.

At six o'clock of the evening, precisely, Hutchinson led his men out of the meeting room.  They marched down to the lobby, a few half-hearted laughs following them.  No one really found it amusing any longer that the constables, and sergeants and inspectors of the CID should be dressing as women, but the tradition was kept up to give them a parting chuckle, as if for luck.

Just as they reached the lobby, Hutchinson could hear his father's voice.  'Where might I find Inspector Hutchinson's office?'

'Down that hall, sir.  On the left,' said Constable Perkins.  'Oh, wait.  There he is now, sir.  Inspector Hutchinson, sir.  There is a gentleman to speak with you.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'Thank you, Constable Perkins,' he said.  'Good Evening, Father.  I see you are on time, as usual.'

His father turned, and saw his son, and his face turned white, then red.  'Kenneth?' he demanded, in a voice of ice.  'What do you think you are doing?'

'Doing, Father?  I am doing my job.'

'And it is now your job, to dress as a woman?  What are you?  One of those sick men, who think they are women, and sell themselves on the streets?  Is there no end to what you will do to bring shame upon our family?'

There was a murmur of anger among the men, his men, who had been dressing as women for weeks now, in the course of their work, and had never seen it as shameful.  Amusing, yes. A bit of a nuisance at times, to be sure. A number of them had expressed sympathy for what women had to endure all their lives. 'All those petticoats!  And you can't raise your arms proper, sir.  No wonder some of 'em want to wear trousers.'

Now, one or two of them were starting to mutter.  'Who does he think he is?  Shameful, my arse!  Bloody cheek, that is.'

Hutchinson stood calmly, while his father berated him.  He could see Starsky watching, and growing worried, probably wondering where all this would lead.  The door to the lobby opened, and two senior officers walked in.  Chief Inspector Swanson, and Chief Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, in their dress uniforms.  They noticed the crowd ahead of them, and strode over.

'Inspector Hutchinson,' said Sir Charles.  'I see you are out hunting the Ripper once again.  Good work, man.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Hutchinson, with great humility.  'All my men are working very hard.  But you have not met my father, have you?  Sir Charles, Chief Inspector Swanson, would you allow me to introduce my father, William Hutchinson?  Father, I would like you to meet the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, General Sir Charles Warren, and my superior officer, Chief Inspector Donald Swanson.'

His father bowed, coldly, but his eyes were on the medals decorating the front of Sir Charles' uniform.  'I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Charles, Chief Inspector Swanson,' he said.

Swanson declared himself pleased as well.  'You must be proud,' he said.  'Your son is an excellent police inspector, and we think he will go far, don't we, Sir Charles?'

'Indeed we do, Mr. Hutchinson.  There is no inspector who puts in more hours, or works harder, I assure you.  One day, your son will be filling my post, and doing a good job of it.  I'm very sorry to have to cut this pleasant conversation short, but we have a meeting with the Prime Minister, and we only dropped by to pick up some important papers. Good evening, Mr. Hutchinson.  Inspector Hutchinson.'

'Good evening, Sir Charles, Inspector Swanson,' said Hutchinson.  'And thank you.  Both of you.'

Sir Charles smiled, but Swanson gave him a suspicious look, which Hutchinson ignored.

'Well, Father, as Sir Charles said, I'm sorry to cut this pleasant conversation short, but I have work to do.  I'm not meeting with the Prime Minister, but my work is important, nevertheless.'  He waved Starsky and Nicholas over.  'David, Nicholas, allow me to introduce my father to you.  Father, this is David Starsky, and Nicholas Starsky.  They are working with me this evening.  We have to leave, if we're going to take up our patrol on time.  Good evening, sir.'

Hutchinson bowed, and stalked off, his skirts swirling around him.  Starsky, and Nicholas followed in his wake.  For the entire evening, Hutchinson kept himself warm with his memories of the shock on his father's face.  The shock and the outrage, that his son had introduced him to not only Sir Charles, who was a general as well as a knight, and thus his social superior, but also to a mere police inspector.  And then, he had been introduced to two younger men, and Jews besides.  Hutchinson had committed an unforgivable social gaffe with that action, he well knew.

His father had a mind of mechanisms, and balance sheets.  Everything, and everyone, had a proper place and a proper function.  He was incapable of understanding anything that did not conform.  He would be angry now, and looking for some way to repay his son for the insult, but also, he would be incapable of suspicion of Hutchinson's motives.  His revenge would be simple, and direct.  An insult of his own, perhaps.  An attempt to buy out one of his son's companies.  He would be busy planning that for some time.

Go right ahead, thought Hutchinson.  Waste your time on trivialities.  You are welcome to any company of mine, which you can succeed in buying out.  Enjoy your revenge, when you achieve it.  I have found more pleasant ways to spend my time.

**********************

'What did you think of my father?' Hutchinson asked Starsky, as they settled down in their bedroom, on a sheepskin rug, before a roaring fire.

'I thought he was a cold and limited man.  I have been in his company twice.  The first time, I only heard his voice, so I have not much information to judge him by.  But both times, he seemed to spend every moment berating you.  Does he do nothing else?'

'With me?  No,' said Hutchinson.  'I suppose he has other subjects of conversation with other people.  But he is a very limited man. I studied him, as if my life depended on it, because it did, in a way.  If I had not escaped him, I would have died.  He puts people into categories, like objects, according to their usefulness to him, and to his business.  He has no subtlety.  No unplumbed depths, to speak of.  After a time, he lost all capacity to surprise me.'

'He does not strike me as evil, though, Hutch.  I must say that.  I cannot picture him committing murder.'

Hutchinson smiled.  'I didn't expect you to,' he said.  'Truly evil people do not look like stage villains, who twirl their mustachios, and chuckle wickedly.  They are ordinary.  So very ordinary, it is terrifying.  Jack the Ripper is likely to be the most unassuming man, and so no one who knows him suspects what he is.'

'He looked at me, and at Nicky, as if we were insects,' Starsky said, at last.

'Yes.  To him, you are.  You are poor, poorly dressed, and Jews.  He deals politely enough with wealthy Jewish businessmen, I know.  But people such as you, are beneath his notice, unless you draw his notice to you.'

Starsky shuddered.  'I do not want to draw his attention,' he said.  'In fact, the more I think about him, the more he worries me.  Do you think it was wise, offending him so completely?  It seemed amusing at the time, when you presented him to us, as if we were the gentlemen, and he a peasant.  But how will he react, once he has time to think about it?'

'He will seek some way to punish me,' said Hutchinson.  'You are beneath his notice, as I said.'

Starsky slapped Hutchinson's hand, like a mother punishing a small child.  'That is what worries me, you dolt.  That he will punish you.  Pay attention!'

'Don't let it worry you,'  Hutchinson told him.  'I know exactly what he will do. His behaviour never varies, and is perfectly predictable. I will not be invited to a social function that I would not want to attend in any case.  Or he will steal some business prize out from under my nose.  A company I care nothing for.  He judges all the world by his own standards. What is important to him, must be important to everyone else.  Especially to me, because he raised me to accept his standards.  He still believes that I only live the way I do to punish him for some mysterious reason of my own, and that eventually I will relent.  You mean nothing to him, and so you are safe, until he sees you as a threat.'

'But if he should see me as a threat, he will kill me?'

'If the threat is large enough, yes.  If he knew that we lay together, and that I have no wish to marry and raise an heir for his empire, the threat to his peace of mind would be high enough.  You would be rid of in some fashion, that would not implicate him as a murderer.  An accident.  An illness.  A runaway carriage.  Poison.  Never doubt it, my darling.  It happens, in more families than you would ever imagine, that someone inconvenient is disposed of.'

'Like Cain killing Abel,' said Starsky.

'Yes,' Hutchinson agreed.  'Any police officer can tell you how much evil the most ordinary person is capable of committing. My father is capable of much more, in the pursuit of his interest.  But enough about my father.  Come here.  You are far too far away.'

'I'm practically lying in your lap.'

'That is still too far away.  I want you wrapped around me.  I want you inside me.  I want your heart beating in my breast, and mine in yours.  Can you do all that?'

'Your slightest wish is my command,' said Starsky.

'Good,' said Hutchinson.  'And then tomorrow, you will take some of that money I'm investing in your studio, and you will go to a good tailor, and buy a decent business suit, so that the rest of the world will see how beautiful you are.  Will you not?'

'Hutch!  You are wicked, and I should spank you for tricking me.'

'You may spank me if you like.  I'd probably enjoy it, under the right circumstances.  But you're still buying that suit. Tailor made.  Not off the rack.  Bond Street.'

'Stop! I'll buy a suit.  That's all I'm promising.  But tell me more about this spanking. What would you consider the right circumstances?'

Hutchinson laughed.  'Let's experiment, and find out,' he said.



******************

Nicholas looked rather pale at breakfast the next morning.  'I didn't sleep well last night,' he told them.

'You are just trying to get out of working in the stables,' Madame Starsky said, unsympathetically.

'That is all right with me,' said Hutchinson.  'David is going shopping this morning, to pick out a new suit.  Why don't you go with him, and pick out one for yourself, at the same time.  In fact, why don't you all go shopping for new clothes, and send the bills to me?'

'Hutch!' said Starsky.  But his objection was automatic, and lacked its usual spirit.  David Starsky had not slept well, either.  He had woken in the night, from some nameless nightmare, and clung to Hutchinson, like a child.

'You all deserve a reward, for living with me these weeks.  It is November, and cold, and the November fogs will be setting in.  None of you have warm coats for the winter.  Do you think I wish to see my family stumbling about, freezing, and getting chilblains?  Looking like paupers just out of the workhouse?  Please don't embarrass me.'

'Your family, Mr. Hutchinson?' asked Madame Starsky.

'Yes.  My family.  I consider you part of my family, Madame.  That one good dress you bought when you started working here, is well enough, but it won't stay nice forever, if you must wear it every day.  Surely I don't have to spend much time convincing a woman to shop for new clothes, do I?'

'Well, if you insist, sir,' she said, with a smile.

'I do insist, and please take your sons along, and make sure they do buy something.'

'If you insist, sir,' she said again.

'What about you?' asked Starsky.

'I have enough clothes,' said Hutchinson.

'Oh, no,' said Starsky.  'If I have to suffer, so do you.'

'You think I haven't suffered enough?' Hutchinson asked him, with a meaningful smile.

Starsky frowned, reprovingly.  I'll make you suffer more tonight, his eyes said.  'Come on,' he said out loud.  'Get your coat.  You are coming with us.'

Higgins drove them to Bond Street, since Hutchinson declared himself incapable of shopping for clothes anywhere else.  'If you want my company,' he told them.  'It will be on my terms.'

'Is no one else entitled to state their terms?' asked Starsky.

'Of course,' said Hutchinson.  'But mine are the terms that count.'

Madame Starsky smiled, and Nicholas actually laughed pleasantly.  'Give in, David,' he said.  'It is a waste of time to fight him.'

'Well, someone in the family has some sense,' Hutchinson told him.

There were preparations underway all over the City, for the bonfires that night.  Children were running about already, singing songs about the Gunpowder Plot, and the Fifth of November.  Some were collecting pennies for the Guy, even if it was only morning.

'Getting an early start, are you?' he asked one small child.

'Aye,  Guv'nor. That I am,' said the little boy.  And he laughed up at Hutchinson.  The world seemed so much friendlier these days, Hutchinson thought.  Not just because Jack the Ripper seemed to have disappeared, either.  Starsky walked beside him, most days. His smile lit even the darkest night.  His warm voice was like music.

Music.  A strange, rather tinny music was emerging from the doorway of one expensive furniture shop.  Hutchinson stopped to investigate.

'That is an odd phonograph,' he commented to the shop keeper.

'Yes, sir,' said the proprietor.  'It plays flat discs, rather than cylinders.  They call it a gramophone.'

The man picked up a new shellac disc, and placed it on the turntable.  He placed the needle at the outside edge of the disc, and the record began to play.  It was a recording of 'Casta Diva'.

Hutchinson was trembling all over, he realized, but he couldn't stop.

'Hutch?' asked Starsky.  'Are you well?'

'Yes, quite well,' Hutchinson managed, after a moment.  'Who is that singing, if you please?' he asked the shop keeper.

'That is Marcella Sembrich,' the man told him.

'Ah. I never had the chance to hear her in person.  I would like to buy one of these gramophones,' he said.  'Show me your most expensive model, please.  And do you have more copies of that record?'

'I have one other copy, sir.  I will give it to you, if you like.  Come this way.  Here is our very best gramophone.  The base is mahogany.  And the bell is the best quality of brass.  Let me play that record for you on this machine.'

'No need,' said Hutchinson.  'I will take your word for it. Please have the gramophone delivered to my house, by this afternoon.  Do you have more recordings by Marcella Sembrich?'

'No, sir.  I have only a few records, to use in demonstrations.  But I know of an excellent sheet music store, that has a number of the new records in stock.  Here is their business card.  And thank you, Mr. Hutchinson.  You have made an excellent purchase, sir.'

'What was that all about, Hutch?' asked Starsky, as they resumed their walk down Bond Street, toward the tailor shops.

'The record.  The song.  My mother used to sing Casta Diva.  She was not so great an opera singer as Marcella Sembrich.  But she had a lovely voice, and for a moment, I thought it was her.  It could not be, of course.'

'And you want to listen to that record again?  Hutch, you turned white as a sheet.'

'I will recover,' said Hutchinson.  'That is why I bought the gramophone, and the recording.  I cannot afford such weakness, and I won't allow it.  I will listen to the record, until it no longer troubles me.'

'You are a very strange man, Kenneth Hutchinson,' said Starsky.

'But you like my strangeness, remember.  Ah, here we are.  An excellent tailor's establishment.  Oblige me by purchasing something decent to wear.  Something that fits you properly.'

Starsky sighed, as if the prospect were torture.   He should be fitted for a woman's dress, thought Hutchinson.  That would teach him what suffering is.


********************

Remember, Remember
The Fifth Of November
Gunpowder Treason and plot.

We see no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

*********************

'Guy Fawkes was a traitor,' Hutchinson told Starsky and Nick.  'He conspired with Robert Catesby and others, to blow up the Parliament Buildings, kill the King and all Parliament, and bring the Spanish Catholics to rule England.  The plot was discovered, and Guy Fawkes was executed.  A richly deserved death, I must say.  The very idea!'

'You do not like the Spanish?' asked Starsky, with a grin.

'I have nothing against the Spanish, I merely do not want them ruling England.  Nor do I have anything against Catholicism.  But I am Church of England -- when I go to church.  I do not wish to be told what to believe, by a man who is supposed to be infallible.  No human being is infallible.  And the traitors wanted to bring an end to democracy.  I am a democrat.  I might not agree with every law that is passed in Parliament, but I would not exchange Parliament for any other form of government.'

The churches were all ringing peals of joy, that the infamous Guy Fawkes had been captured and his plot laid bare once again.  Children were tossing fire crackers, bought with the pennies collected earlier in the day.  Processions of torch bearers wound their way through the streets.

'Remember, Remember
The Fifth of November
Gunpowder Treason and plot.'

There were so many bonfires in London, that the City appeared to be entirely on fire, and the firecrackers were so numerous that it sounded as though they were under siege.  Madame Starsky had gone home long before, in a Hansom cab.  She had declared herself worn out by the shopping expedition, and not too enthusiastic about crowds lighting bonfires and burning effigies.  That was understandable, thought Hutchinson.  She had probably witnessed mass scenes of burning during the pogroms.

Starsky seemed to be enjoying himself, though, and had clearly forgiven Hutchinson for making him buy new clothes.  Nick seemed happy, as well.

'We see no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.'

A procession passed by, carrying an elaborately dressed Guy.  They were heading for the bonfire.  They crossed paths with another procession, and for a few moments there was a scuffle, as the two Guys fought for supremacy.  Hutchinson was about to intervene, lest some heads be broken, but the two Guys declared an armistice, and went their ways.

'If only all wars could end so easily,' said Hutchinson.  Another effigy, this one of the Pope, passed them.  Then a third.  The Czar of Russia, this time.

'Ah!' said Starsky.  'The Russians are getting in the act.'

'A lot of this is only in fun, these days,' said Hutchinson.  'But many times, there is a meaning to the burnings.'

A fourth procession wended its way past.  The effigy was of a man in black, with a moustache, and a sign around its neck.  Jack the Ripper.  The crowd cheered.

Hutchinson moved closer, watching for any sign of trouble.  Sometimes, the crowds still got out of hand, though the celebrations had become more peaceful over the years.  He watched, as the celebrants tossed their Guys into the bonfires.  Guy Fawkes.  Another Guy Fawkes.  The Pope.  The Czar.  Jack the Ripper.  The last one drew the biggest cheer, as it caught fire.

Off to the side of the crowd, Hutchinson noticed a figure, in black, hooded and wrapped in a long black scarf.  It was the man he had seen before, but not in some days, or nights.  The man had returned to haunt him, it seemed.

'Starsky?' he whispered.

He felt Starsky's hand on his arm.  'What is wrong, Hutch?' Starsky whispered back.

'I can see him.  Jack the Ripper.  He's come back.  I must follow him, Starsky.'

The man was disappearing in the crowd.  Hutchinson pushed through the noisy celebrants, who seemed oblivious to the danger that stalked among them.  Did they think that the crowds and the lights and the noise kept them safe?

Hutchinson kept his eyes on the black, hooded figure, and followed it, off the public thoroughfare, into the dark and silent alleys of London Town.



*****************

He had been following the man in black for some miles, through the streets of Whitechapel.  Whitechapel was strangely silent now, he thought.  Had Jack the Ripper so affrighted the inhabitants that they cared not for bonfires and processions?  Up ahead, he could hear singing.  Light shone through stained glass windows.

He strode up the steps of the church, and pushed open the door.  The quire was singing.

"They have laid a net for my feet, and pressed down my soul: they have digged a pit before me, and are fallen into the midst of it themselves... Great is our Lord, and great is His power: yea, and His wisdom is infinite... The Lord setteth up the meek: and bringeth the ungodly down to the ground... Let thy hand be upon the man of thy right hand: and upon the son of man whom thou madest so strong for thine own self... And so will not we go back from thee: O let us live, and we shall call upon thy Name."

This was the ancient liturgy of Thanksgiving for deliverance from Guy Fawkes and his evil crew, he thought.  But it had been abolished before his birth.  He had read the service in an old prayer book, and so he recognized the words.  Some of those words had been deemed insulting to Catholics, and so the whole service had been thrown out.

Priest: O Lord, save the Queen
People: Who putteth her trust in thee
Priest: Send her help from thy holy place
People: And evermore mightily defend her
Priest: Let her enemies have no advantage against her
People: Let not the wicked approach to hurt her


The priest turned to face the altar, and prayed.

"O Lord, who didst this day discover the snares of death that were laid for us, and didst wonderfully deliver us from the same; Be thou still our mighty Protector, and scatter our enemies that delight in blood: Infatuate and defeat their counsels, abate their pride, assuage their malice, and confound their devices. Strengthen the hands of our gracious Sovereign Queen VICTORIA, and all that are put in authority under her, with judgment and justice, to cut off all such workers of iniquity, as turn Religion into Rebellion, and Faith into Faction; that they may never prevail against us, or triumph in the ruin of thy church among us: but that our gracious Sovereign and her Realms, being preserved in thy true Religion, and by thy merciful goodness protected in the same, we may all duly serve thee, and give thee thanks in thy holy Congregation, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

'Amen!' said Hutchinson.  The congregation rose to their feet, and filed out past him, in silence.  Would they be arrested, he wondered, for partaking in such a service, contrary to the law?

He was now alone in the church. Candles flickered in the side chapels, and the Lady-chapel, and the chancel and upon the altar.   He approached  the sanctuary, and bowed, then knelt upon the steps.

'O Lord,' he prayed. 'Be thou still our mighty Protector, and scatter our enemies that delight in blood.  For this I cannot do, alone.  I am appointed to protect the people, from the evil ones who walk among them.  And I have failed.'

A laugh echoed down the nave.  He turned.  The man in black was waiting by the church door.  Hutchinson sprang to his feet, ready to give chase, but the hooded man opened the door and fled into the night.  Hutchinson followed once again. He thought he heard his name being called, but he ignored the entreaty.

It was cold outside, after the warmth of the church.  He trailed the dark, hooded man for many blocks, down many dirty alleys.  Always, the figure stayed too far ahead to be caught. It reminded him of a dream, he thought.  A nightmare rather.  A nightmare, in which all the inhabitants of London had been murdered, save himself, and one other.  The one he loved.

At last even the hooded man disappeared from view, and he was alone in Whitechapel.

"Let thy hand be upon the man of thy right hand: and upon the son of man whom thou madest so strong for thine own self."

'Starsky!' he called.  'Has he killed even you?'

'No.  No, Hutch.  I am here.  I followed you, though you are hard to keep up with when you start moving.  I wanted the chaise for that.  Why are we here, Hutch?  What is here?'

Nicholas had followed as well, Hutchinson discovered.  The younger man looked bewildered, and out of breath. He stuck close to his brother, and looked around the alley nervously.

'I thought I was following Jack the Ripper,' Hutchinson told them.  'But it was another of my dreams.'

'A dream?' asked Nick.  'You are awake.  How can you be dreaming?'

'I do that sometimes,' said Hutchinson.  'It is a talent I possess.'

'You mean you are insane?' asked Nicholas.

'I suppose you could say that,' Hutchinson admitted.  'If you like.'

'Oh!' said Nicholas.   'We had an uncle who was insane.  He thought he was a rabbit, and would go hide in the woods, in the thicket.  His nose would twitch, just like a real rabbit's.'

'Nicky!' said Starsky.

'If my nose starts to twitch, I hope you will point that out to me, before I start chomping on raw carrots,' said Hutchinson.  'In the meantime, where are we?'

'I was hoping you could tell us,' said Starsky.  'You led us here. We weren't paying attention to where we were going.  It was hard enough to keep up with you.'

Hutchinson looked around.  'This is Crispin Street,' he said.  'On the corner of Dorset Street.  Why did Jack the Ripper lead me here?'

'If it was Jack the Ripper,' said Nicholas.

Hutchinson ignored the comment.  It didn't matter if it was Jack the Ripper or not, he realized.  He had been led here by someone, or something, for some reason.  Dorset Street, he thought.  Perhaps the hooded man had turned down Dorset Street?  He led the way to the corner, and was about to turn down the street, when he heard loud voices behind them.

'There they are!  The filthy Jews.  Get them, lads!'

He turned.  It was a gang of young men, all brandishing clubs of some sort.  They were well-dressed.  They looked, all of them, like the scions of noble families.  They had nothing better to do with their time, he supposed.  Guy Fawkes Day did not have enough excitement left in it.

'Why don't you go home?' Hutchinson asked them.  'Do your mothers know you're out?'

'Hutch!' Starsky objected.  'I don't think that's going to....'

What Starsky didn't think was drowned out by the bellow of rage that followed.  The gang was upon them.  Starsky punched one of the men.  Nick was knocked to the ground and kicked.  Hutchinson flung himself on the attackers, and pulled them off.  He dragged Nick to his feet, and pushed him between himself and Starsky.

'Jew lover!' screamed one of the young gentlemen.  He swung his club at Hutchinson's head.  Hutchinson swung his walking stick upwards just in time.  The heavy metal connected with the wood, and the metal won.  An ear piercing crack echoed through the night.  The young man stepped back, and looked down at his broken club, in consternation.  Hutchinson took the opportunity to punch the man in the face.  He heard a second satisfying crack, as his fist connected with a nose.  The young man fell over, in a heap.  The other men ran off.

'Here, now.  What's going on here?'

It was one of the constables patrolling Whitechapel.  'Inspector Hutchinson, sir.  Do you need my assistance?'

'That would be kind of you, Constable Perkins.  Please see that this person is arrested and taken to the police station.  Charge him with assaulting a police officer.'

'Of course, sir,' said Perkins.

Hutchinson could hear shouts down the street.  'See if you can round up his friends as well, can you?  I'm calling it a night.  I'll be in tomorrow to make a statement about this incident.'

'Of course, sir,' said the constable.  'I think they are already being arrested, sir.  They were involved in another incident, just down the block.  That's why I'm here.'

'Well, I'm glad you are, Constable Perkins.  I might have committed more violence, if you hadn't interrupted.'

'No one would blame you, sir.  Being attacked like that. Is your friend well, sir?'

'No,' said Hutchinson.  'He was punched and kicked. We're taking him to a doctor. Come on, Starsky.  Let's find a cab.'



********************

'How is Nicholas this morning?' Hutchinson asked, as Starsky joined him in the breakfast room.

Starsky shrugged.  'Much better than he pretends to be.  He wants Mother's sympathy.'

'Of course,' said Hutchinson.  'But I'm sorry about what happened.'

'You're sorry?  Why do you keep saying that?  It wasn't your fault, what happened.'

'Of course it was.  We wouldn't have been there, but for me.'

'Now, that is nonsense.  We had a perfect right to be there.   We were doing nothing to provoke the attack on us.  Except for being Jews, of course.  We used to live in Whitechapel, if not on Crispin Street, and so we might have been attacked by a gang at any time.'

'I was in a bad temper,' Hutchinson went on.  'I might have used my authority as a police officer to discourage the gang.  Instead, I provoked them, because I wanted a fight.'

'Have it your way,' said Starsky.  'If you wish to feel guilty, do so.  I'm having breakfast.  But I wouldn't worry too much about Nicky.  His head is solid marble, like mine.  And he deserved a few knocks, after that remark about you.'

'Which remark?' asked Hutchinson.  'He's made so many.'

'Oh, take your pick.  I was thinking about the insanity remark myself.'

'Ah,' said Hutchinson.  'Your uncle, the rabbit.'  He twitched his nose.  Starsky was buttering a muffin, and didn't notice.  Hutchinson made a snuffling sound, and twitched his nose again.  This time, Starsky caught him at it.

'Hutch!  Stop that!'

'Stop what?' asked Hutchinson, with great innocence.

'Never mind.  I'll ask Mother to lay in a stock of fresh vegetables for you.  Are you going to grow long furry ears?'

'Perhaps,' Hutchinson admitted.  'By the by, I received a letter from my father this morning.  Here.  Peruse it at your leisure.'

He tossed a formal looking missive across the table.  Starsky picked it up by one corner, as if it carried smallpox.  'What does he have to say for himself?' he asked, glancing down the tightly written sheet.

'He informs me that he is disinheriting me.'

'Hutch!'

'I know.  I was happy and excited as well.  But it turns out, only by half. He's leaving the other half to the church, which is welcome to it.  I'm still encumbered with the rest.  And he tells me I might win back the lost inheritance by making amends.  Behaving as a proper son.  Marrying and giving him grandchildren.'  Hutchinson yawned.  'I think I will try out my new gramophone.  Do you want to come along?  When you've finished breakfasting, of course.'

'Hutch,' said Starsky, in mild reproof.  'Your behaviour was rather improper.  He is your father, whatever else he might be.  You do owe him a certain respect, especially in public.'

Hutchinson sighed, and took Starsky's hand.  'I know that I do,' he said.  'And I know that my behaviour is reprehensible at times.  But I spent so many years conforming to his dictates on the slightest matter.  And I suppose I keep hoping that he will come to a realization, and stop treating me like an extension of himself.  That he will see me for what I am.  Kenneth Hutchinson. Not William Hutchinson, Junior.  Perhaps it is a childish belief, and that is why I behaved childishly.'

'I don't think you behaved childishly at all,' Starsky told him. 'When you asked him to meet you at Scotland Yard, weren't you offering him an opportunity to treat you with respect?  You were among your colleagues, and he insulted you.  I just don't think that insulting him in turn is wise.  But I shouldn't say anything.  It is not my business.'

'It is your business, now.  Especially since you were there and witnessed it.  And you are in some danger from him, if he ever should learn who you are.  That has been troubling you, the last few days, hasn't it?'

'Yes.  I can't get the memory of his eyes out of  my mind.  They were so cold, so calculating.  At first, after I met him, I thought you had been exaggerating when you told us he was dangerous.  I've changed my mind.  So has Nicky.'

'Good,' said Hutchinson.  'If you continue to live with me, you are going to meet him again.  It was inevitable that you would, and so I wanted to be the one in control at that moment.  He will associate you with Scotland Yard, now.  He's put you in a category, in his own mind.  One of my colleagues from the police station.  You should be safe, as long as you do nothing to alter his first impression.  Now, if you've had enough to eat, why don't we open that box waiting in the library? See if the most expensive gramophone available is worth the money?'

'Are you going to play that recording of Casta Diva?' asked Starsky.

'Not this morning,' said Hutchinson.  'I'm leaving that for tonight.  Then you may comfort me afterwards.  I'm in the mood for some of those more cheerful selections.  The music hall songs, maybe.'

'That's more to my taste, I must admit,' said Starsky.



*******************

The good thing about November, thought Hutchinson, was that the nights were longer, and colder, and it was very pleasant to lie snuggled in bed with your lover.  Which was a comfort to think about, when one was patrolling alone, in the fog, and feeling lonely.

Starsky was busy setting up his new photography studio.  This was an important matter.  It was important for Starsky.  It was important for their future together.  It was an important part of Hutchinson's own plan, which he had urged on Starsky most ardently.  Which meant it was childish for Hutchinson to resent Starsky's absence, as he walked the streets of Whitechapel alone yet again.

No, he thought.  Resent was not the right word.  Starsky's absence hurt, as the absence of one of his own limbs would hurt.  It was strange to feel that way, for he had known Starsky only a short time.  It was strange to feel that way at all, about anyone and anything, for all affections and natural human needs had been ruthlessly exterminated from his personality.  Or so he had always thought.

He must become accustomed to working without Starsky eventually, though.  That part of their life together was to be sacrificed, so that they could maintain the rest of their association.  Once Starsky was a successful business man -- as a photographer he would be almost a professional man, or an artist, Hutchinson thought proudly -- then their friendship would no longer excite speculation and comment.  That was the most important thing, far more important than the loss of his company on patrol.

And yet.

November was cold.  The streets of Whitechapel were dark and lonely.  He found himself listening for Starsky's footsteps behind him.  He found himself hoping to hear Starsky's voice, calling his name.

It had been long and long since Jack the Ripper struck.  Perhaps his dream of the other evening had been like the draining of a wound, and not prophetic after all.  Tomorrow night at sunset was the Sabbath.  Starsky was not a seriously observant Jew, but he kept the Sabbath, and most of the dietary laws.  The last few weeks, Hutchinson had not worked on Saturday, so that he could spend the time with his lover at home.  Chief Inspector Swanson had approved, saying that his new housekeeper was a gem, and should be given an increase in her salary.

Or perhaps my dream was true, he thought.  This is the eighth of November.  Starsky had noted that the murders often occurred at the end of the first week of the month, or right at the end of the month.  It had been pointed out by others that they also often happened on a Thursday or a Friday.   The murderer might be employed on one of the cattle boats which came to London on Thursdays or Fridays and left for the Continent on a Sunday or Monday.  Tonight was a Thursday.

Footsteps echoed down the street behind him.  They were too light and quick to be Starsky's though.  It sounded like a woman's steps.  Hutchinson turned, slowly and carefully, not wanting to alarm any lady out alone, near midnight, in Whitechapel.  She must be desperate for a customer, he thought.

The woman was tall, and slim, and Hutchinson recognized her when she lifted her face, and called his name.

'Inspector Hutchinson!' she said.  She sounded happier than the last time he had met her.

'Mary.  How are you?'

'I am well enough, sir,' she answered.  'Times being a little better.  I have a room now, close by.  On Dorset Street, in fact.'

Dorset Street, thought Hutchinson, and a chill went through him.  'That is good, Mary.  You are safer indoors than out.  But take care who you invite to it.'

'You are out alone, sir.  Would it be that you would accept an invitation?'

Hutchinson smiled.  'Ah, Mary.  At one time I would have taken you up on that invitation, you know.  But now, you see, I have fallen in love, and I cannot be unfaithful.'

'Fallen in love?  Oh, sir!  And you told me that could never happen, and that you would not even consent to kiss a poor soul, no matter how hard she begged.  What has happened?  And how fortunate a lady she is, to be sure.  I envy her, I do.  For you are a gentleman, and always treated me and the other girls like ladies.  So polite.'

'Thank you, Mary.  I don't know what happened.  One moment I was walking down the street, and the next, I was in heaven, and have been there ever since.'

Mary sighed.  'Sure, and that is the way it should be.  I always thought you had romance in your soul, for all that you claimed to be heartless.  It serves you right it does, and I hope your lady leads you a merry chase, but then makes you the happiest of men, in the end.'

'I think that will be the way of it, Mary.  I hesitate to ask, lest I offend you,  but are you all right for money?  Do you need any help? For we are friends, are we not?'

'Friends, sir, yes.  Always friends.  And some day, I'm going to make my way out of this neighbourhood, and find a better life.  But I'll always remember your kindness.  I'm well enough, sir.  I don't need any money, not tonight.'

'But take this, for friendship's sake.  As a good luck piece, then,' said Hutchinson, giving her a shilling.

Mary curtseyed, and smiled up at him, as she had the last time they met.  He watched her walk away, feeling a little easier in his heart.


************************

Dawn was breaking, as Hutchinson drove up to the villa.  Jeffreys greeted him at the door, and took his coat.  Hutchinson was relieved, for he had worried that Starsky would stay up to welcome him home.  A treacherous part of him was disappointed, though.

'Is Mr. Starsky asleep, Jeffreys?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.  But not in your chamber.  He fell asleep in the library, sir.  He said he wanted to stay up, for you.  I attempted to point out that you did not want that, but he insisted that you did, sir.'

Hutchinson shook his head.  'The man is wearing himself out, Jeffreys.  What am I going to do with him?'

'I don't know, sir.  I have been trying to point out to you that you were killing yourself with too much work for some time now, to no avail.'

'And what of you, Jeffreys?  When do you sleep?'

'I can sleep at any time, sir. I am asleep right now, as a matter of fact.  If you ask me tomorrow, I won't recall a word of this conversation. Or indeed any other conversation that takes place under this roof.'

'Excellent, Jeffreys.  The very sort of butler I need.'

'Yes, sir.  Will you be wanting anything to eat, sir?'

'Yes.  You had better bring something to the library.  Mr. Starsky is always hungry.'

'Of course, sir,' said Jeffreys, with a mysterious smile.

Starsky was curled up on the sofa, before the fire, asleep.  On the floor beside him were several books, all of them gothic novels or mysteries.  Wilkie Collins's The Moonstone, and The Woman in White.  Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.

Hutchinson chuckled to himself.  Starsky stirred, and opened his eyes. 'I'm awake.  I'm awake,' he said.

'After reading like this, how can you sleep?' asked Hutchinson, waving Frankenstein under his nose.

'That?' asked Starsky.  'That is nothing, after my life of the last few weeks.  Walking foggy London streets with you? Looking for the most savage murderer in history?  Meeting your father?'

'Now that last part is scary, I must admit.  Even Mary Shelley couldn't invent a mad scientist to match him.  Edgar Allan Poe, maybe.'

'I take it your patrol went well tonight?' asked Starsky.  He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and trying not to look more than half asleep.

'It went well, in the sense that all was peaceful,' said Hutchinson.

'I know,' said Starsky.  'You would rather catch the killer.  But at least some poor woman is not lying in the morgue, sliced in pieces.'

'Yes.  That is a mercy.  Perhaps the best we can hope for, is that Jack has given up in despair, because we are too close on his trail.  Perhaps he will hang himself, and save us the expense of doing it for him.'

'Perhaps,' said Starsky.  'I'm sorry, Hutch. I meant to cheer you up when you got home, not make you sadder. I'm not properly awake yet.'

'You always cheer me up,' said Hutchinson.  'And you shouldn't have waited here for me.  I told you to get some sleep.  You aren't my wife, you know.  You don't have to wait upon my every whim.'

'Then what am I?' asked Starsky, teasingly.  'Your husband?'

'Oh, yes.  That's it. Turn everything to your advantage.  I will punish you for that.'

'If you think,' said Starsky, haughtily.  'That you are going to spank me, you can think again.  That is not to my taste.'

'How would you know?' asked Hutchinson.  'You haven't let me try.'

Jeffreys tapped at the library door.  He had a tray with him, which he set down on a table beside the sofa.  'Will that be all, sirs?' he asked.  'Would you like me to build up the fire in your chamber?'

'Thank you, Jeffreys.  That would be kind.  I'm going to try to have a few hours sleep, then work a long shift tonight.  I'm taking Saturday off, as usual.'

'Very good, sir.  Pleasant dreams, sir.'

Jeffreys closed the library door behind him.  Starsky slid his arms around Hutchinson, and pulled him down on the sofa.

'Let me show you the way to pleasant dreams,' he said.



**************************


He wanted to stay in the harbour, but the bowline broke, and the ship began to run before the wind, as her sails filled.  He took the tiller, and steered her down the Thames, toward the open sea. 'That is Greenwich,' he told Starsky.  'Where East meets West.'

Big Ben tolled the hour.  Hutchinson counted the notes.  One. Two.  Three.  Four.  Five. They passed The Tower.  Hutchinson thought of all the men and women over the centuries who had spent the last remaining days of their lives there, awaiting the final word on whether they would live, or die by the sword, or the axe.  Anne Boleyn.  Lady Jane Gray.  Sir Walter Raleigh.

'But it was not used as a prison only,' he told Starsky.  'I will take you there, soon.  Show you the paintings, and the displays of ancient weapons.  The bears, and the flightless ravens.'

'Flightless ravens?' asked Starsky.

'Yes,' said Hutchinson.  'There must be six ravens at the Tower at all times, or the White Tower and the British Commonwealth will fall into ruin.  There are always six ravens with one wing clipped, so they cannot fly far away.  Six ravens, and a spare.  In case one does succeed in escaping.'

They sailed under London Bridge.  Six. Seven.  Eight.  Nine. Ten.

'London Bridge is falling down.  Falling down.  Falling down.  London Bridge is falling down.  My fair Lady.'

'What is that?' asked Starsky.

'Children singing,' said Hutchinson.

'I know. But what is the song.'

'London Bridge is falling down,' said Hutchinson.

If she does,' said Starsky.  'She will take all of London with her.  For look!  She is tied to London on each side.'

They passed the Isle of Dogs, and headed out to open water.  Ships were passing them, heading in to the Port.  Among them,  the cattle boats. 'This is the eighth of November,' said Starsky.  'If Jack the Ripper is indeed a worker on one of those boats, he might be sailing in now.'

Eleven.

A cattle boat passed them, on its way up the Thames.  A lone man stood upon the deck.  He wore a black hood, and a long black scarf.

Hutchinson grabbed the tiller, and began to tack, slowly bringing the ship around.  'This ship is too slow,' he said.  'I wish we could fly.'

'A dirigible?' asked Starsky.

'No.  Even that is too slow.  We must fly.'

'Hutch!  Hutch, slow down.  You cannot run off like that.'

'Like what?' he asked.  'There is no time.  We must stop him.'

'Hutch.  Look at me.  Listen to me.  We will go together. But you must wake up properly.  And put some clothes on, too.'

'Clothes?'

Hutchinson looked around, then down at himself.  Starsky was right.  He was not aboard his sailing ship, but in his own hallway.  Naked. 'Starsky.  Listen to me.  This is the eighth of November.'

'The ninth, Hutch.'

'The ninth?  It is Friday?  It is too late then.  Oh, God.  Starsky.  He has killed already.  We are too late.'

'It's morning, Hutch.  He always kills in the early hours before dawn.  The body would have been discovered by now.  They would have called you on the telephone, or sent a runner with a message, surely, by this time.  You were very definite they should do that.'

'The body would have been discovered if he killed outdoors, as usual.  Starsky, he has changed his methods.  We had bobbies on every street corner, patrolling night and day.  That's why it has been over a month since he killed.  He had to change his methods, or he'd be caught.  It happened indoors.  We have to go.  Now.  Where are my trousers?'

'Mr.  Hutchinson!  What is wrong?'  Hutchinson turned.  Jacques was behind him, looking shocked at the state of his master's undress.

'Find me something to wear, Jacques.  Something for Mr. Starsky, too.  Quickly, man.   And find Jeffreys.  Have him send a message to Higgins to get the chaise ready.  We're leaving for Whitechapel in five minutes, whether we're dressed or not.'

*******************

Higgins took one look at his master -- hastily dressed, unwashed, unshaven, white faced -- and handed the reins to Starsky.  'You want to drive, Guv'nor?' he pleaded.  'When he's like this, there's no arguin' with him.'

'I can handle him, Higgins,' said Starsky.

'Just handle the reins, Starsk,' Hutchinson snapped.  'We don't have all day.'

Starsky was raising his whip, when Nicholas came running out, and jumped up into the chaise. 'Mother told me to come with you,' he said.  'I don't want to, but she insisted.  Don't argue with me.'

'Just drive,' said Hutchinson.

He wondered why he had spent so much time berating Starsky for driving too fast.  It seemed his horses could not run fast enough, on this day. He knew he was being foolish.  He knew that Jack the Ripper had already killed, and moved on.  And yet, there was still the faint chance, that they might catch him before he had finished his grisly work.  It was that chance that drove him.  

And if I don't actually find him at the crime site, he thought, at least I will be there before anyone else.  I can rope it off. Keep the spectators from tramping over everything, in their desire to see blood.

'Can't you drive faster,' he asked Starsky.

'If you like,' said Starsky, calmly.  He snapped the whip again, and lashed the horses with the reins.  There was no noticeable improvement in their speed.  They were already about at their limit, he thought.

'Where are we going, do you even know?' Starsky asked.

'Dorset Street,' Hutchinson told him.

'Why Dorset Street?'

'I don't know, Starsk,' Hutchinson snarled.  'I'm insane, remember?  Humour me.'

Hutchinson rarely lost his temper.  When he did, everyone around him backed down.  Always.  Except for one person.  It seemed that Starsky was another, in the same league as his father.  Only Starsky was not in the same league.  He didn't flinch, but neither did he castigate him for his lack of control.  He smiled, and shook the reins again.

'Dorset Street it is,' he said.

Dorset Street was calm and quiet, seemingly unaware that it was the scene of Jack the Ripper's latest crime.

'Where do we start?' Starsky asked, as he turned the corner, off Commercial Street.

'I don't know,' Hutchinson admitted.  'He led me here the other night.  It's a place to begin .  If there's nothing here, we'll move on.  Let's start at the corner, and knock on doors.'

'Good enough,' said Starsky.  He turned to his brother.  'Nicholas.  Stay with the horses.  No matter what happens.  Do you understand?'

Nicholas actually appeared shaken.  The last few days, his attitude did seem to have altered.  Hutchinson had seen him eyeing both his brother and himself, almost hopefully.  As if he were willing to grant them a grudging respect, thought Hutchinson, if they proved to be worthy.

'I'll stay, David.  How far are you going?'

'We're knocking on every door, this side of the street, then back up the other,' Hutchinson told him.  'That could take some time, unless we find what we're looking for.  If that happens, I might send you for help, to the nearest police station, or the nearest constable on patrol.'

'I can do that, sir,' said Nicholas.

'Good man,' was Hutchinson's reply.  Starsky nodded, and they started off.

It was ten thirty, of the morning.  There were many people about in the streets, and most homes were emptied of their occupants.  Hutchinson knocked on door after door.  Some were opened, and he explained his mission.  No one turned him away.  No one had heard anything untoward, or noticed anyone running from the area. When there was no answer, he made a note of the address.  He would search out the landlord later, and have the door opened.

Number 24, Dorset Street, was a large tenement building.  Many ladies lived here alone, and appeared to have been out a good part of the night.  They opened their doors with sleepy eyes, and gazed at the two gentlemen, curiously.  Let them in to search their rooms.  Explained that they had neither seen nor heard anything unusual.

'I heard some shouting, around dawn,' said one lady.  'But we hear shouting all the time, sir,'

'Shouting?' asked Hutchinson.

'Oh yes, sir.  You know.  Words I can't repeat.  Not to gentlemen like you.'

'Try,' said Hutchinson.  'You'd be amazed at the words I've heard.'

The prostitute actually blushed.  She looked down at the dirty floor, and stammered.  'Fu-fuck, and cunt, and something about shove it in.  That's all I remember.'

'Thank you, ma'am,'  said Hutchinson, to the red faced prostitute.  'You've been a lot of help.'

'It's not funny, Starsky,' he reminded the man, as they walked on to the next apartment.

'I'm sorry,' said Starsky.  'But the look on the poor woman's face!'

They had checked the last inhabited apartment, and were moving on to Number 26.  This turned out to be a courtyard, called Miller's Court.  At the entrance to the courtyard, was a chandler's shop.  Hutchinson opened the door to the shop.  No one was on duty.

'Hello!' he called.  'Is anyone here?'  There was no answer.

No answer, but a shout from outside.  'Police!  Someone go for the police.'

Running footsteps.  More shouts.

Hutchinson stepped out of the shop, and caught the arm of a man who was starting down the street.

'Here!' he said.  'I am Inspector Hutchinson, with Scotland Yard.  Who are you, and what are you up to?'

'Bowyer.  John Bowyer, sir.  There has been murder committed here, sir.  Terrible murder.  One of the women who rents a room.  Right over there, sir.  I only saw a little through the window, but I lost my breakfast over that.  We've read the papers, sir, and we touched nothing.  The door is still locked.'

'Thank you, Bowyer.  Good man.  Starsky, send Nick for the nearest constable.  Then come back and find me.  Stick with me, today.  Will you do that?'

He looked into his lover's eyes.  There was the tenderness and the strength that he had seen that first night.  There was the resolute determination to do whatever was needed, no matter the cost.  There was the other half of his soul.  The man of my right hand, thought Hutchinson, whom God has made strong for me.

'I'll be right back, Hutch,' said Starsky, as simply as if he were agreeing to a pleasant stroll in Hyde Park.

 
******************************


Hutchinson watched Starsky walk away, to pass on his instructions to Nicholas.  Thank God he is with me, he thought.  He steeled himself for the coming trial.  It never got easier, but fortunately never harder.  Most people thought him cold, that he knew.  He was not cold.  It hurt him, it always hurt him, to see the pain of others.  His pain did not show, it would never show, but it was there.  A distant pain, thrumming along his nerves, like a toothache.

Even a stopped clock was right twice a day, which explained why his father was occasionally correct.  It was of no use to allow oneself to become overwhelmed with pity.  Not for the reasons his father espoused, but because then one could not help others.  And to help others was the first and most important thing.

'You are certain nothing in the room has been disturbed?' Hutchinson asked Bowyer.

'No, sir.  The door is locked from the inside.  That's why we went round to look in the window, see?'

'No, Mr. Bowyer. I don't see.  Why were you looking in the window?  Isn't that an odd thing to do, unless you have some perverted interest in a lady's private affairs?'

'Perverted, sir?  I am offended.  There was no perversion.'

'Then kindly explain what there was, sir,' said Hutchinson.

'Well, sir.  You see, it was like this.  Mr. McCarthy is the man entrusted to collect the rents in Miller's Court, and they are due today.  He owns the chandler's shop behind you, and I work for him.  He came to me this morning, not a few minutes ago, and said to me that Mary Kelly is behind in her rent.'

'Mary Kelly?' asked Hutchinson.

'Why, yes, sir. It's her room, the one with the dead body.  And dead it is indeed, sir.  No doubt about that.'

'Mary Kelly,' said Hutchinson.

'Hutch?' It was Starsky's voice, calling to him from a distant shore.  Calling him back from the darkness, and the pain which had leapt like wildfire on the mountains, and burnt all in its path into ash.

'Mary Kelly,' said Hutchinson.

'You know her, Hutch?' asked Starsky.

'I knew her, Starsky.  I knew her, and now she's dead. I saw her last night, only a few streets away.  She was happy.  She had a room, you see, and she felt safe there, because I told her she'd be safe indoors, and now she's dead.  That's my fault, Starsky.'

'No, it is not,' said Starsky.  'Listen to me, Hutch.  It is not your fault.  Yes, you told her she'd be safe.  That's what everyone thought, because the man only murdered out of doors, until now.  And do we even know it was Jack the Ripper?'

'Aye,' said Bowyer.  'It was Jack the Ripper, all right.  I looked in the window, and the body was ripped, to be sure.'

'I see,' said Starsky.  'But that still does not make it your fault, Hutch.'

'No, it surely does not,' said Bowyer.  'It is the fault of whoever was in the room last night with that poor woman, and no one else's.  As I was saying, sir, I went round to her room, Mary Kelly's room, and knocked upon her door.  There was no answer.  I went round the side of the house, and noticed that a pane of the window glass was broken.  I reached in, and lifted the blind.  Then, I saw blood on the glass.  I called Mr. McCarthy, and told him there may have been violence committed in the room, and we looked inside.  McCarthy sent me to fetch the police, on the instant, sir.  He's guarding the door, so that no one may get inside.'

'Good,' said Hutchinson.  'As soon as the constables are here, we can block off the court to all visitors.  I will not have this site become an attraction for sightseers.  Then, I want you and McCarthy to account for everyone who lives here.  We will want to interview them all, as soon as possible.  And we will need to interview you in more depth, as well.'

'Very good, sir,' said Bowyer.

'Starsky?' said Hutchinson.

'I'm here, Hutch.'

'I'm going to have to go into that room.'

'I know, Hutch.'

'I won't force you to go inside, with me.  You're not a trained police officer.'

'I'll be there with you.  It's what I'm here for.'

'Just remember.  She's dead.  She's beyond all pain.  Probably she felt little pain at all.  He kills them quickly, you know.'

'Yes,' said Starsky.  'He's very merciful.'


*************************

Mary Kelly.  Mary Kelly was dead, and so beyond all pain.  Hutchinson was certain she was in Heaven.  He comforted himself with that thought, as he waited to enter the room in which she had died.

He had been waiting for some time.  They had broken down the door, on his orders, and he had taken a quick look in.  Not quick enough, he thought.

Dorset Street was cordoned off, by lines of constables permitting few people to enter.  They were waiting for the bloodhounds.

Bloodhounds.  How would they react to the bloody scene before them?  It was getting late.  If they didn't arrive soon, it might be too late.  They might be unable to pick up the track of the inhuman perpetrator of....

Starsky pressed his shoulder against Hutchinson's, and he drew a deep breath.  Miller's Court was swarming with police officers of every rank.  He had been the first on the scene, however, and he had insisted on his primacy.  He sent Nicholas to bring Charles Winston to take fingerprints, and examine the room for whatever other evidence might be available.  He must remain calm, or he would lose his authority, and thus would be no help to Mary Kelly.  Mary Kelly was beyond all pain, and in Heaven, but her murderer still walked the earth, a free man.  That was an injustice that must be dealt with.

First, the bloodhounds.  The room must not be disturbed before that.  Once the bloodhounds had picked up a scent, he would have the room photographed, from every angle. He would insist upon that.  Of what use was a simple photograph of the body?  It didn't show the context.  Context was important.  Context might reveal the purpose, the reason for a word, an action, an object.  If there was a reason to be revealed for this action, Hutchinson wanted to know it.

Then, the police surgeons would examine the body.  They would declare Mary Kelly dead.  They would take away her remains.  Charles Winston would begin his investigation of the room.

Perhaps, in the meantime, the bloodhounds would have tracked Jack the Ripper to his lair.  Should he stay here?  Should he watch to make sure the investigation is thorough and  uninterrupted?  Or should he follow the bloodhounds?  I want to be there, when they find the killer, he thought. I want to be the one to bring him in.  But what I want, is not important.  Where would I be of the most use?

The other officers were becoming impatient.  They had been waiting for the bloodhounds for hours now.  They were pacing up and down, some of them.  Talking softly among themselves.  A few had taken a look in the window, very carefully so as not to leave traces of their own scent inside.  They had left hurriedly and made trips to the bushes to vomit.  These were seasoned police officers, many of them with many years of experience behind them.  It was only Hutchinson's education at Cambridge, and his training at the Surete, that gave him the advantage in rank.

He remembered his first days working at Scotland Yard.  He had not started out in the lower ranks, but had been taken on as an Inspector from the first.  This had happened before, with officers hired from other agencies, and so Hutchinson had not been unique in that.  But some officers had considered him a spoiled, rich aristocrat, though he had no title.  They thought he would turn and run at his first dead body.  Hutchinson smiled, as he remembered the scene.  His coolness had won him the respect of the entire CID, and he must not lose that now.

There were voices out in the courtyard.  Perhaps it was the bloodhounds, at last.  Hutchinson stood up straight, from his reclining position against the door, in preparation for opening it, and letting the dogs inside.

A young constable approached the group of inspectors and sergeants waiting by the door.  He looked like a messenger, thought Hutchinson.  A messenger expecting to be shot, after he had delivered himself of his message.

'Excuse me, sirs?' he asked.

'You're excused, Constable,' said Hutchinson.  'What do you have to tell us?'

'It's about the bloodhounds, sir.'

'What about them, Constable?  Where are they?  Why aren't they following behind you?'

'That's just it, Inspector.  They're not coming.'

'They're not coming, Constable?'

'No, sir. They're not.'

'And why not, Constable?  Are they asleep?  Go wake them up, immediately.  Is it that there are so many people outside on Commercial Street that the dogs can't get through?  Shoot them.  The crowds, I mean, not the dogs.  Bring the dogs here to me.  I have been waiting for hours, and I grow impatient, Constable. I am not to be trifled with in this manner.'

'No, sir.  And I would never trifle with you, sir. Never. The dogs are gone, sir.  Gone home, sir.'

The young constable was white.  The other inspectors and sergeants were demanding in loud voices to know what he meant.  He seemed not to hear the inquiries, his eyes being fixed upon Inspector Hutchinson's cold face.

'Explain this event, Constable,' Hutchinson asked, softly.

'It was just now discovered, sir.  Something about money, sir.  The government questioned the cost of the dogs upkeep.  For food and such.  Sir.'

The young constable swallowed.  The room had fallen silent.  Starsky stirred.  He seemed to wake up from some dream of his own, and look around him.

'I understand that the bloodhounds aren't coming, Hutch?' he asked.

'No, Starsky.  They aren't coming.  It costs too much to feed them, so they were sent home.  No one thought to inform us, until now.  If someone had mentioned it to me, I might have been able to come up with a few pounds for beef.  But no one did.  Well. Let us do what we can, shall we?  Where's the photographer?  Or has he been sent home, too?'

'I'm here, sir,' said the man in question, lifting his camera case.

'I'm gratified, Mr. Spencer.  And relieved that you don't eat too much,' said Hutchinson.  He turned, and opened the door.  'I require you to take pictures.  Pictures, let it be noted, Mr. Spencer.  Many pictures.  As distressing as the prospect is, I want it photographed from every side, and every possible angle.  I want there to be no question afterwards, where this object was, or that portion of the victim's anatomy.  Is that understood?'

A moan was his only answer.  It came from out in the hall.  Hutchinson was in the room alone, it seemed.  Then, he felt an hand on his shoulder.

'Your photographer is throwing up, Hutch.  Give him a minute to recover,' said Starsky.

'I've been waiting for hours, Starsky,' he answered.  'Get him in here now.  It's his job. If he can't do his job, he should go home.  The dogs would have done their jobs, I am certain.  Is he worth less?'

'I'm sorry, sir,' said Spencer, from the hallway.  'I'm truly sorry, I am.  But I cannot take pictures of that scene.  I thought I'd seen everything, but that is too much.'

Hutchinson turned, and walked out of the room.  He looked at the white face of the photographer.  The man's hands were shaking.  He'd never be able to handle the job, that was clear.  What am I going to do, he thought.  Every plan I have made is falling into ruin.

'Hutch?' asked Starsky from the doorway.  'I will take the pictures, if you like.'

'Can you do that?' Hutchinson asked.  'Are you certain?  You know what I want.'

'Every angle, yes.  Give me the camera.  I'll do it.'

'Wait just a minute,' said one of the inspectors.  'This man isn't a police photographer.'

'He's a photographer,' said Hutchinson, with satisfaction.  'He has a studio on Baker Street.  He's been working on this case with me for some weeks now.  Chief Inspector Swanson authorized it.  I hereby deputize you, David Starsky.'

Spencer handed Starsky the camera case.  Starsky met Hutchinson's eyes.  If you can handle that scene, his look said, then so can I.

Starsky opened the camera case, and examined the camera carefully.   'I've used one like this before,' he said.  His hands appeared steady, as he inserted a plate. 'I'm ready,' he said.

Hutchinson entered the room again, Starsky behind him.  Several other detectives followed.  Starsky drew a deep breath.  One of the detectives moved, and Starsky turned white.

'Hutch,' he whispered.  'I can't do this...'

'That's all right,' said Hutchinson.  'I'll find someone else.'

'... with other people in the room.  I've never done something like this before, Hutch.  I've seen dead bodies, but not like that one.'

'You're doing very well,' Hutchinson assured him.

'How can I be doing well,' Starsky snapped.  'I haven't done anything yet.  Please, Hutch?  Ask the others to leave?  Just until I'm finished.'

'Certainly,' Hutchinson agreed.  'Everyone please leave.  You're in the way, until the photographs are taken.  I don't want anything touched.  Wait outside until then.'

Everyone backed out, with admirable speed.  Hutchinson shut the door.  He heard Starsky sigh, and then say something in one of his languages.  It sounded like Hebrew.  Perhaps he was praying.  Hutchinson added a prayer of his own.

'Tell me what to do, Hutch.  Tell me what to do.'

Hutchinson looked all around the room.   This was the first time he'd had the chance to examine one of Jack the Ripper's victims, at the actual crime site, before the body had been touched by others, or moved.  And here, there was no audience, except for Starsky.  He could tell Starsky his pain, and his lover would not despise him.  That knowledge was liberating. Rather than weakening him, it gave him the strength to go on.

He studied the body from every angle.  'I want a photograph that includes as much of the body as possible,' he said.  'Take one from this point.  It seems to offer the best view.'

Starsky moved the camera stand to the spot Hutchinson indicated.  He looked through the lens, and agreed.  He disappeared behind the shelter of the black photographer's curtain.  'Something must be done to speed up the process of taking photographs,' said Hutchinson.  'This is far too slow.'

'Don't be so impatient, Hutch,' Starsky muttered.  'The body isn't going anywhere.'

'Thank you for that piece of information.  Are you finished?'

'Yes.  Unless you want another shot from this angle?  To be safe.'

'No.  I trust your ability.  Take one from the other side, instead.  From here, you can see the piles of flesh on the table, and how they're arranged.'

'Very artistic of him.'

'Yes.  Still Life With Bones.'

'Why is there so little blood?'

Hutchinson looked more closely at the body.  'He cut her throat first, as usual,' he said.  'The blood spurted out.  Here.  And here.  Make sure that shows in the picture.  Then, you see, he settled down to enjoy himself.  He had the time, as he never had before, to do a thorough job.'

'Hutch,' said Starsky, reprovingly.

'I'm sorry,' said Hutchinson.  'I'll be quiet.'

'No.  Keep talking.  You're in the way.  Move.'

'Oh!  Is this better?'

'Y