Of Scotland Yardxx-xx-xx xxx Jackthe Ripper

How do you do? How often does it happen in serious crime, especially murder, that meekness, mildness, respectability, open kindness, intelligence and charm are the outward characteristic of a man who, as they say, would be the last person in the world you suspect. It happens crime and crime again. But how much more seldom does it occur that a murderer looks like a

ruckium, behaved like a ruckium, is recognized as a rascal of low mentality and meanwhile manages without resorting to the least craft or guile tool, get away with it over and over again without exciting suspicion. It is the story of such a man that I am going to tell you. But before I introduce our sordid cavalier, let us recall a contemporary of his in the London

of 1888, one who, like our gentlemen, moved in the east end of London during that year, moved and struck by night. There she is, sir. Did you ever go? Did you ever see such a sight, sir?

Rip to Redmond. Yes. Yes, that's his work, all right, Johnson. Come, mistake it. Jack, the ripper all over. We've got to get him. Of course, the whole world knows that they didn't get Jack to rip us, and yet I wonder.

Did they? I wonder. Take the year 1888. That's when the rippers razor began to flicker across the throats of some of the pretty girls of London's East End. And that is the year that there arrived from Poland to take up a job in a white chapel hairdresser shop, a black haired beetle-bout swagger named Tutsovsky.

Oh, Slofki, we used to call him in the shop. Well, it was near enough, anyway. Oh, for him he was. Of course, he was lots of foreigners turning up down more in chief away, didn't they?