A Study in Terror by Ellery Queen Read Free Book Online

Street and had progressed only a few steps when Holmes halted. “Aha! What have we here?”
    My glance followed his to a sign over an archway of ancient stone, displaying a single word, Mortuary . I do not see myself as especially sensitive, but as I gazed into the murky depths of the tunnel-like entrance, the same depression of spirit came over me that I had experienced at first sight of the Shires castle.
    â€œThis is no hostel, Holmes,” said I. “Unless a sanctuary for the dead can be called such!”
    â€œLet us suspend judgement until we investigate,” replied he; and he pushed open a creaking door that led into a cobbled courtyard.
    â€œThere is the smell of death here, without a doubt,” said I.
    â€œAnd very recent death, Watson. Else why should our friend Lestrade be on the premises?”
    Two men stood in conversation at the far side of the courtyard, and Holmes had identified the one of them more quickly than I. It was indeed Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, even leaner and more ferret-like than I recalled him.
    Lestrade turned at the tramp of our footsteps. An expression of surprise came over his face. “Mr. ’Olmes! What are you doing here?”
    â€œHow good to see you, Lestrade!” exclaimed Holmes, with a warm smile. “It is heartening to find Scotland Yard dutifully following where crime leads.”
    â€œYou needn’t be sarcastic,” grumbled Lestrade.
    â€œNerves, man? Something seems to have you by the short hairs.”
    â€œIf you don’t know what it is, you didn’t read the paper this morning,” said Lestrade, shortly.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I did not.”
    The police officer turned to acknowledge my presence. “Dr. Watson. It has been a long time since our paths crossed.”
    â€œFar too long, Inspector Lestrade. You are well, I trust?”
    â€œA bit of lumbago now and again. I’ll survive.” Then he added darkly, “At least until I see this Whitechapel maniac dragged to the gallows.”
    â€œThe Ripper again?” asked Holmes, sharply.
    â€œThe very same. The fourth attack, Mr. ’Olmes. You have, of course, read about him, although I haven’t heard of you coming ’round to offer your services.”
    Holmes did not parry the thrust. Instead, his eyes flicked in my direction. “We draw closer, Watson.”
    â€œWhat was that?” exclaimed Lestrade.
    â€œThe fourth, you said? No doubt you mean the fourth official murder?”
    â€œOfficial or not, ’Olmes—”
    â€œWhat I meant was that you cannot be sure. You have found the bodies of four of the Ripper’s victims. But others may have been dismembered and thoroughly disposed of.”
    â€œA cheerful thought,” muttered Lestrade.
    â€œThis ‘fourth’ victim. I should like to view the body.”
    â€œInside. Oh, this is Dr. Murray. He is in charge here.”
    Dr. Murray was a cadaverous man, with a deathlike complexion, and a poised manner which impressed me favourably. His attitude reflected the inner resignation one often finds in those who deal intimately with the dead. He acknowledged Lestrade’s introduction with a bow, and said, “I do officiate here, but I had rather posterity remembered me as director of the hostel next door. It affords greater opportunity for service. The poor creatures who come here are beyond it.”
    â€œLet’s get on with it,” interrupted Lestrade, and conducted us through a door. A strong carbolic-acid odour greeted us, an odour I had grown to know too well in her Majesty’s Indian service.
    The room into which we were shown demonstrated how little is ever done to confer dignity upon the dead. It was less a room than a long, wide passageway, each inch of whose walls and ceiling was tastelessly whitewashed. One entire side consisted of a raised platform, upon which rude wooden tables jutted out at intervals. Fully half