The Other Teddy Roosevelts Read online

  Constable Jamison stepped aside immediately, staring at the young American in awe.

  “Now, why did you say that, John?” asked Roosevelt in low tones.

  “It will establish respect and obedience much faster than if I told him you were an expert on birds.”

  The American sighed. “I see your point.” He paused. “Just what am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “It’s back here,” said Hughes, leading him behind the building to an area that had been temporarily lit by flaming torches.

  They stopped when they were about ten feet away. There was a mound beneath a blood-drenched blanket.

  “Steel yourself, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Hughes.

  “After all the monographs I’ve written on taxidermy, I don’t imagine you can show me anything that can shock me,” answered Roosevelt.

  He was wrong.

  The blanket was pulled back, revealing what was left of a middle-aged woman. Her throat had been slit so deeply that she was almost decapitated. A bloody handkerchief around her neck seemed to be the only thing that stopped her head from rolling away.

  Her belly was carved open, and her innards were pulled out and set on the ground just above her right shoulder. Various internal organs were mutilated, others were simply missing.

  “What kind of creature could do something like this?” said Roosevelt, resisting the urge to retch.

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell us,” said Hughes.

  Roosevelt tore his horrified gaze from the corpse and turned to Hughes. “What makes you think I’ve ever encountered anything like this before?”

  “I don’t know, of course,” said Hughes. “But you have lived in America’s untamed West. You have traveled among the aboriginal savages. You have rubbed shoulders with frontier cowboys and shootists. Americans are a simpler, more brutal people—barbaric, in ways—and I had hoped…”

  “I take it you’ve never been to America.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Then I shall ignore the insult, and only point out that Americans are the boldest, bravest, most innovative people on the face of the Earth.”

  “I assure you I meant no offense,” said Hughes quickly. “It’s just that we are under enormous pressure to bring Saucy Jack to justice. I had hoped that you might bring some fresh insight, some different methodology…”

  “I’m not a detective,” said Roosevelt, walking closer to the corpse. “There was never any question about the identities of the three killers I went after. As for this murder, there’s not much I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

  “Won’t you try?” said Hughes, practically pleading.

  Roosevelt squatted down next to the body. “She was killed from behind, of course. She probably never knew the murderer was there until she felt her jugular and windpipe being severed.”

  “Why from behind?”

  “If I were trying to kill her from in front, I’d stab her in a straightforward way—it would give her less time to raise her hand to deflect the blade. But the throat was slit, not punctured. And it had to be the first wound, because otherwise she would have screamed and someone would have heard her.”

  “What makes you think someone didn’t?”

  Roosevelt pointed to the gaping hole in the woman’s abdomen. “He wouldn’t have had the leisure to do that unless he was sure no one had seen or heard the murder.” The American stood up again. “But you know all that.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Hughes. “Can you tell us anything we don’t know?”

  “Probably not. The only other obvious fact is that the killer had some knowledge of anatomy.”

  “This hardly looks like the work of a doctor, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Hughes.

  “I didn’t say that it was. But it was done by someone who knew where the various internal organs belonged, or else he’d never have been able to remove them in the dark. Take a look. There’s no subcutaneous fat on the ground, and he didn’t waste his time mutilating muscle tissue.”

  “Interesting,” said Hughes. “Now that is something we didn’t know.” He smiled. “I think we should be very grateful that you are a taxidermist as well as an ornithologist.” He covered the corpse once more, then summoned another constable. “Have her taken to the morgue. Use the alleyways and discourage onlookers.”

  The constable saluted and gathered a team of policemen to move the body.

  “I assume we’re through here,” said Roosevelt, grateful that he no longer had to stare at the corpse.

  “Yes. Thank you for coming.”

  Roosevelt pulled his timepiece out of a vest pocket and opened it.

  “No sense going back to sleep. Why don’t you come back to the Savoy with me and I’ll buy breakfast?”

  “I’ve quite lost my appetite, but I will be happy to join you for a cup of tea and some conversation, Mr. Roosevelt.”

  “Call me Theodore.” He shook his head. “Poor woman. I wonder who she was?”

  Hughes pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “Her name was Annie Chapman. She was a Whitechapel prostitute.”

  “Whitechapel?”

  “Whitechapel is the section of the city we are in.”

  Roosevelt looked around, truly seeing it for the first time, as the sun began burning away the fog. “I hope New York never has a slum like this!” he said devoutly.

  “Wait until New York has been around as long as London, and it will have this and worse,” Hughes assured him.

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” said Roosevelt, his jaw jutting out pugnaciously as he looked up and down the street.

  Hughes was surprised by the intensity of the young man’s obvious belief in himself. As they stared at the broken and boarded windows, the drunks lying in doorways and on the street, the mangy dogs and spavined cats and fat, aggressive rats, the endless piles of excrement from cart horses, the Englishman found himself wondering what kind of man could view a woman’s mutilated corpse with less distaste than he displayed toward surroundings that Hughes took for granted.

  They climbed into Hughes’ carriage, and the driver set off for the Savoy at a leisurely trot. Before long they were out of Whitechapel, and, Roosevelt noted, the air instantly seemed to smell fresher.

  ***

  Roosevelt had eaten the last of his eggs, and was concentrating on his coffee when an officer entered the dining room and approached Hughes.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said apologetically, “but they said at the Yard that this is of the utmost urgency.”

  He handed a small envelope to Hughes, who opened it and briefly looked at what it contained.

  “Thank you,” said Hughes.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” asked the officer. “Any reply?”

  “No, that will be all.”

  The officer saluted, and when he left Hughes turned back to Roosevelt.

  “What are your plans now, Theodore?”

  “I have two more speeches to give on ornithology,” answered Roosevelt, “and one on naval warfare, and then I board the boat for home on Friday.”

  “Let me tell you something about the murder you saw today,” began Hughes.

  “Thank you for letting me finish my breakfast first,” said Roosevelt wryly.

  “We have a madman loose in Whitechapel, Theodore,” continued Hughes.

  “That much is obvious.”

  “We knew that before today,” said Hughes.

  Roosevelt looked up. “This wasn’t his first victim?”

  “It was at least his second.” Hughes paused. “It’s possible that he’s killed as many as five women.”

  “How can he still be at large?”

  “We can’t watch every Whitechapel prostitute every minute of the day and night.”

  “He only kills prostitutes?”

  “Thus far.”

  “Were they all this brutally mutilated?”

  “The last one—a girl named Polly Nichols—was. The first three suffered
less grievous damage, which is why we cannot be sure they were all killed by the same hand.”

  “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you,” said Roosevelt. “I certainly don’t envy you.” He paused. “Have you any suspects so far?”

  Hughes frowned. “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  Roosevelt shrugged. “As you wish. But the subject of Saucy Jack is closed. Either you confide in me or I can’t help.”

  Hughes looked around the half-empty dining room, then lowered his voice. “All right,” he said in little more than a whisper. “But what I tell you must go no farther than this table. It is for you and you alone.”

  Roosevelt stared at him with open curiosity. “All right,” he said. “I can keep a secret as well as the next man.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You sound like you’re about to name Queen Victoria.”

  “This is not a joking matter!” whispered Hughes angrily. “I am convinced that the man who has been implicated is innocent, but if word were to get out…”

  Roosevelt waited patiently.

  “There are rumors, undoubtedly spread about by anarchists, that are little short of sedition,” continued Hughes. “Scandalous behavior within one’s own class is one thing—but murders such as you witnessed this morning…I simply cannot believe it!” He paused, started to speak, then stopped. Finally he looked around the room to make certain no one was listening. “I can’t give you his name, Theodore. Without proof, that would be tantamount to treason.” He lowered his voice even more. “He is a member of the Royal Family!”

  “Every family’s got its black sheep,” said Roosevelt with a shrug.

  Hughes stared at him, aghast. “Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “You think royalty can’t go berserk just as easily as common men?”

  “It’s unthinkable!” snapped Hughes. He quickly glanced around the room and lowered his voice again. “This is not Rome, and our Royals are not Caligula and Nero.” He struggled to regain his composure. “You simply do not comprehend the gravity of what I am confiding in you. If even a hint that we were investigating this slander were to get out, the government would collapse overnight.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Roosevelt.

  “Absolutely.” The small, dapper policeman stared at Roosevelt. “I would like to enlist your aid in uncovering the real murderer before these vile rumors reach a member of the force who cannot keep his mouth shut.”

  “I don’t believe you were listening to me,” said Roosevelt. “My ship leaves on Friday morning.”

  “Without you, I’m afraid.”

  Roosevelt frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Hughes handed the envelope he’d been given across the table to Roosevelt.

  “What is this?” demanded Roosevelt, reaching for his glasses.

  “A telegram from your President Cleveland, offering us your services in the hunt for the madman.”

  Roosevelt read the telegram twice, then crumpled it up in a powerful fist and hurled it to the floor.

  “Grover Cleveland doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about your murderer!” he exploded.

  Hughes looked nervously around the room and gestured the American to keep his voice down.

  “He just wants to keep me from campaigning for his Republican opponent!”

  “Surely you will not disobey the request of your president!”

  “I can if I choose to!” thundered Roosevelt. “He’s my president, not my king, a difference that I gather was lost on you when you manipulated him into sending this!” He glowered at the telegram that lay on the floor. “I knew he was worried about Harrison, but this is beyond the pale!”

  “I apologize,” said Hughes. “I wanted a fresh outlook so badly, I seem to have overstepped my…”

  “Oh, be quiet,” Roosevelt interrupted him. “I’m staying.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “Americans rise to challenges. I’ll rise to this one. I’m just annoyed at the way you went about securing my services.” He frowned again. “I’ll show that corrupt fool in the White House! I’ll solve your murder and get back to the States in time to help Ben Harrison defeat him in the election!”

  “You’ll stay?” said Hughes. “I can’t tell you what this means! And of course, I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  “You can start by checking me out of this palace and finding me a room in Whitechapel.”

  “In Whitechapel?” repeated Hughes with obvious distaste. “My dear Theodore, it simply isn’t done.”

  “Well, it’s about to get done,” said Roosevelt. “I saw the way the onlookers stared at you, as if you were the enemy, or at least a foreign power. If they’re going learn to trust me, then I’ve got to live like they do. I can’t look for a killer until dinnertime, then come back to the Savoy, don a tuxedo, and mingle with the rich and the powerful until the next morning.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do. I just want time to send a wire to my wife Edith, explaining why I won’t be on the ship when it docks.”

  “We can send for her, if—”

  “American men do not put their wives in harm’s way,” said Roosevelt severely.

  “No, of course not,” said Hughes, getting hastily to his feet. “I’ll send my carriage by for you in an hour. Is there any other way I can assist you?”

  “Yes. Gather all the newspaper articles and anything else you have on these murders. Once I’ve got a room in Whitechapel, I’ll want all the material sent there.”

  “You can have everything we’ve got on Saucy Jack.”

  “Some name!” snorted Roosevelt contemptuously.

  “Well, he does seem to have acquired another one, though it’s not clear yet whether he chose it himself or the press gave it to him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Jack the Ripper.”

  “Much more fitting,” said Roosevelt, nodding his head vigorously.

  ***

  My Dearest Edith:

  I’m having Mr. Carlson hand-deliver this letter to you, to explain why I’m not aboard the ship.

  Let me first assure you that I’m in perfect health. My extended stay here is due to a pair of conscienceless culprits—the President of the United States and someone known only as Jack the Ripper.

  The latter has embarked on a rampage of murder that would shock even our own Western shootists such as Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo. You do not need to know the details, but believe me when I say that this fiend must be brought to justice.

  An officer from Scotland Yard has read of my experiences in the Dakota Bad Lands and asked Grover Cleveland to “loan” me to the British until these murders have been solved—and Cleveland pounced on such an excuse to remove me from the upcoming campaign.

  With luck, I’ll have things sorted out and solved in time to see Ben Harrison give his victory speech in a little less than two months.

  My best to Alice and little Ted.

  Your Theodore

  ***

  Roosevelt sat on a rickety wooden chair, his back to the window, thumbing through Hughes’ files.

  It was clear that Polly Nichols was a Ripper victim. He doubted that the three who preceded her—Emma Smith, Ada Wilson, and Martha Tabram—were. They’d been brutally murdered, but the modus operandi differed appreciably from the two most recent killings.

  The files were very circumspect about the Royal who had come under suspicion, but Roosevelt deduced that it was Prince Eddy, more formally Albert Victor, son of the Prince of Wales and, quite possibly, the future King of England.

  Roosevelt put the papers down, leaned back on his chair, and closed his eyes. It just didn’t make any sense. It would be as if Grover Cleveland had walked into a Washington slum and killed a pair of women and no one had recognized him. It was true that Prince Eddy was a dissolute and depraved man, and Roosevelt held him in total contempt—but there
was just no way he could walk fifty yards in any direction, in or out of Whitechapel, without being recognized.

  He removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, and then stood up. It was time to stop hypothesizing and go out and meet the residents of the area. He needed to talk to them, get to know them, and learn their opinions, which, he was sure, would be worth more than the police’s.

  He walked over to a decrepit coat rack, then paused and smiled. He crossed the room to his steamer trunk, opened it, and a few moments later was dressed in the fringed buckskin he wore at his Dakota ranch. (It had been designed by his favorite New York haberdasher, since all the Dakotans were busily trying to look like New Yorkers.) He took off his shining black shoes and pulled on a pair of well-worn boots. Then he tucked a knife and a pistol into his belt.

  He considered a coonskin hat, but decided to wear a stetson instead. He looked at himself in the fly-specked mirror and grinned in approval. As long as he was going to be identified as an American the moment he opened his mouth, he might as well dress like one.

  He walked out the door of his shabby building and was immediately aware that he had become an object of notoriety. Every pedestrian within sight stopped to stare at him. Even horse-drawn carriages slowed down as they passed by.

  He grinned at them, waved, and began making his way to the Black Swan, next to where Annie Chapman’s body had been found. A number of curious onlookers had followed him, and most of them entered the tavern when he did.

  He walked up to the bar, staring approvingly at his image in the mirror that faced him.

  “I didn’t know the circus had come to Whitechapel!” laughed a burly man who was standing a few feet away.

  Roosevelt smiled and extended his hand. “Theodore Roosevelt. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Hey, you’re a Yank!” said the man. “Ain’t never met one before.” He paused and frowned. “Don’t rightly know if I like Yanks.”

  “Them the duds you fight Indians in, guv?” asked another.

  “We don’t fight Indians any more,” answered Roosevelt.

  “Killed ‘em all, did you?”

  “No. Now we live side by side with them.”