United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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crimes. And why unsolved? Because they were the devilish work of—Jack the Ripper”. JOHN—His hands clutched my desk, the knuckles white with tension; beads of per¬ spiration lined his forehead. This had gone beyond the bounds of mere obsession; it had become a neurotic phobia. How, why it was there I did not know, yet—a childhood scare, perhaps, had started it all. But first I had to explode his theory beyond any reasonable doubt. “You say that you believe Jack the Ripper is alive and still active today. All right: when did the London slayings occur”? ROBERT—“Why, in the Fall of 1888”. JOHN—“And it is now Autumn of the year 1950”? ROBERT (brusquely)—“That’s right”. JOHN—“So 62 years have elapsed since then. Now if Jack the Ripper was an able-bodied man in 1888, say, 25 years old, he would be 87 today—an old man, surely incapable, granting that he still lives, of committing those cries”. That was that, there would be no further argument. ROBERT (slowly and solemnly)—“What if he did not get any older”? JOHN—That hit me hard—an ageless man. I forgot who I was dealing with when I said a reasonable argument: psychopaths don’t argue logically. ROBERT (insistently, then wildly)—“What if Jack the Ripper didn’t grow old. What if he stays the same age forever? Call it anything you like, black magic, voodoism—a drop of warm blood drunk when the moon is right, prayers to the dark gods—sacrificial offerings. That’s what the killings were, sacrificial offer¬ ings in return for—eternal youth!” JOHN—Was the man completely out of his mind? This is the twentieth century, things like that don’t happen any more. It was im¬ possible—or was it? A fantastic thought struck me and I shuddered at the implications. Suppose he’s right, suppose Jack the Ripper still lives, suppose eternal youth, suppose—oh, Lord! I grabbed my hat and coat. “Come on with me. We can talk about this over a drink. Personally—I need one”! That started it. We went, literally, pub crawling. After the second round we were Robert and John to each other. Each drink loosened his tongue more, until finally I had the whole background—the shocking threats to the child, the attraction of horror, the gradual fascination, hours of study, sleepless nights—all leading to this dreadful mania. There was another problem, he couldn’t hold his liquor. He was staggering as we left the third bar, totally inebriated at the fifth. Patient or not, I was getting thoroughly fed up. “Let’s walk!” I grabbed his arm and we made it to the door. A dreary Chicago mist covered us and it seemed to sober him up a bit. We walked I don’t know how far when a single, naked light bulb beckoned from an alley-way. He nudged me towards it. “All right, one more, then both of us are going home”. As we approached the door he pulled a revolver out of his pocket, and began bran¬ dishing it about wildly. ROBERT (somewhat unsteadily)—“I’m ready for him. I’ll get him if he shows up. There’s silver bullets in this gun”. JOHN—The man was certainly in no condition to pack a gun, probably unlicenced. “Here, give me that—don’t be a fool” 2 I pocketed the weapon and we entered the place. The bar¬ tender leaned across a table illuminated by a solitary bulb. He was the only one in sight. BARK—“What’ll it be, gents”? JOHN—“Rye, and leave the bottle; we’ll sit in a booth”. I took a back booth, as far from the light as possible. Two drinks and he started again: the whole sordid, miserable story— mutilated bodies, witch doctors, warm blood. Finally he passed out completely. I had an¬ other drink, lit a cigaret, and thought. An im¬ possible story, certainly, but what if . . . I threw the third smoke away half-finished, grabbed his shoulder, and shook him roughly. “Come on, get up, we’re getting out of here”. ROBERT (who has been mumbling unintel¬ ligibly for some time now, stirs, and lifts his head)—“But . . . what about . . .” JOHN—“Later, Robert, later. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now, you need some sleep”. 15

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Yours Truly Jack Ripper By MORLEY SPEIGEL I N the Fall of the year 1888, an unseen killer prowled the foggy streets of London’s East End. His trademark was a knife—a weapon he handled with sadistic skill; his handiwork—the slashed and mutilated bodies of women. For three months his malignant presence struck terror into the heart of London: a terror which only those who have felt can know. Nor was this merely some insane killer, for at the height of the growing panic the following poem ap¬ peared for three days in a newspaper: “I’m not a butcher, I’m not a kid, Nor yet a foreign skipper; But I’m your own true loving friend, Yours truly, JACK THE RIPPER”. They found the young lady lying quietly in her room, limbs neatly arranged; and at the foot of the bed—her head. Then the killer dis¬ appeared—he disappeared; he was not caught. What has become of Jack the Ripper? Is he alive today? If so, when and where will he strike next? Ladies and gentlemen, we present an adaptation of Robert Bloch’s short story, Yours truly, Jack the Ripper. A bar in the Chicago slums—the back booth; the unsteady clink of bottle and glass—a trickle of liquid; a slight gasp; the striking of a match, the glowing tip of a cigaret, a stream of bluish smoke drifts into tlie shadows—drifts into and merges with the gloom which envelops the back booth like a shroud. JOHN CARMODY—As I sat and watched the man opposite me turning restlessly in his drunken stupor, a feeling of disgust mixed with pity filled me with a sensation I could not attempt to analyse. A few short hours ago this person was a reasonably sane and intel¬ ligent man. I said reasonably because he has an obsession—an obsession which has left the mark of phobia on his mind. He came to me, John Carmody—eminent psychiatrist, for help. ROBERT NELSON (stirs, mumbles a few un¬ intelligible words, then subsides once more into drunken stupidity) JOHN—It began very simply—these things al¬ ways do. It was quiet at the office this after¬ noon, and I was preparing to leave early, when . . . NURSE—“A gentleman to see you, Dr. Car¬ mody—a Mr. Robert Nelson. He says it’s very urgent”. JOHN—“All right, send him in; and you may go now, Miss Jones”. He came in. Urgent was scarcely the word—desperation was written on every line of his face and in his nervous, erratic gestures. “Please sit down, Mr. Nel¬ son. What seems to be the trouble”? ROBERT (voice is strained)—“Doctor, have you ever heard of—Jack the Ripper”? JOHN—“Mmm . . . yes, vaguely”. I was try¬ ing to be sarcastic but it passed overhead ROBERT (impatiently interrupting)—“Do you know his history; do you recall what hap¬ pened to him”? JOHN (sarcastically)—“I believe he disap¬ peared after his infamous crimes; they never did catch him. Is that correct”? ROBERT (intensely)—“Dr. Carmody, I believe that Jack the Ripper is alive—right here in Chicago—and will kill again tonight”. JOHN—I got serious, fast. The man’s face was distraught—his mind, his whole being was ob¬ viously wrapped up in what he was telling me. My first impulse was to recommend a sanatorium for a long rest, but I had to hear his story. “I must admit you’ve startled me, Mr. Nelson. Could you give me a few more details”. ROBERT—“I’ve studied everything I could get my hands on about Jack the Ripper: his every known move. And I deduced those that are unknown. I’ve followed a trail of blood across two continents, a trail marked by the Ripper’s specialty, the slashed and mutilated bodies of women. Right here in America—the Cleve¬ land torso slayings, and other unsolved 14

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ROBERT (very unsteadily)—“But, one more drink, John—(the bottle and glass clink) — just one more”. JOHN—“No; you’ve had more than enough al¬ ready; that’s all. Out we go”. I half led, half dragged him out the door. The damp air hit him like a wet towel and he straightened up perceptibly. The mist had given up and left in its place a thick, almost impenetrable fog. Just like a London pea-soup, I thought, then shuddered at the thought. We walked along silently, and the inky blackness poured in upon us; it gressed against you, permeated every pore of your being, became a part of you, until you feel yourself one with the night and the darkness and . . . ROBERT—“My gun, give me back my gun, John.” JOHN—He lurched against me unsteadily. “You’re still in no condition to have a weapon. Wait until you sober up a little more”. ROBERT (hoarsely)—“My gun, John, I want my gun”! JOHN—He was insistent as only a drunk can be. There was no arguing with him. “All right”. ROBERT—“That’s good, John. I’ll feel a lot better with my gun. You are going to give it back, aren’t you”? JOHN—We stopped by a doorway. “Yes, yes, I’ll give it to you”. ROBERT—“Thanks, John, I really need it, you know”. JOHN—I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out.. . ROBERT—“But that’s not a gun—that’s a knife”! JOHN—“That’s right, Robert; it’s a knife”. I pushed him against the door. ROBERT (screaming)—“No, don’t’” JOHN—His face was a mash of horrified sur¬ prise. I lunged at him. ROBERT—“John”! (a screaming gasp ending in a gurgle). JOHN—“Don’t call me John; call me JACK”! Lower Fort Garry In evening the dying sun Spills light like blood upon the stone Of the old fort which stands Beside the river’s curve; it is alone The sole survivor of a vanished time, All else forgotten; only it is known. A hundred years ago this river was A highway for the empire of the North , Which stretched from towering mountain ranges Across the burning prairie steppes, and down Into the smiling hills of Pembina. This was the kingdom of the Hudson Bay, And on the river’s muddy, turbid flow Commerce and produce of this far-flung land All poured into the storehouse at the fort, Its walls a pattern in the wilderness. Here were huge piles of beaver pelts brought from The northern forests, vast and echoing With sounds of silence, potential emptiness. What feasts were here, of smoking venison And gold-eyes steaming on the silver trays Brought from the land across the stormy sea; And parties here, when silk-clad girls and officers Danced reels and polkas on the polished floors. Out on the trail the men were happy with A lump of pemmican washed down with rum; The only music was the throbbing chant Of Indians wearing paint and eagle plumes, Who made a war dance on the frozen plains, While lonely coyotes howled up at the moon. The happy freedom of this wilderness Was shattered by the single rifle shot Which first began the internecine feud Between the Metis and Englishmen; The bands of steel which spread across the plains Were grasping tentacles to bind it down, And take away its birthright—liberty And so the fort still stands, But now the curious people come To see the dregs of power Of an empire built with furs and rum. Its stone will stand until The river ceases to run. —WILDA REYNOLDS. 16