An East End Murder

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“Poor chap, Lenox murmured, walking up toward the scene of the crime. The still body sprawled along the cobblestones below him was cast over with the jaundice of evening lamplight. “You don’t know what his name was, do you?”

“Phil Jigg, according to one woman. I asked something like eight people about him.”

“Did she say anything else?”

The young bobby shook his head. “That was all, and she rushed off right quick.”

“It looks like strangulation.” Lenox pointed out the ring of deep scarlet around the man’s neck. “His head is at that slightly unnatural angle, too. Was there anything in his pockets?”

“Probably, Mr. Lenox, but of course the beggars and the boys would have given it the thrice-over and taken anything worthwhile. I only arrived here half an hour ago. Nothing was left.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not even the buttons of his waistcoat.”

Lenox looked down and saw the man’s bare feet. “How about where he lived?”

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