Lured

John.

Good evening, I'm Blue Eyes.

Oh yes, so it is.

Good morning.

Good morning, sir.

Morning.

Maxwell.

Yes.

Look.

Another poem.

Indeed.

"Elephants circle her smooth white arm.

"Good luck tokens to guard her from harm."

"A beauty that only death can enhance."

Let's see the chief.

And get off at TX to Edinborough.

Very good, sir.

Oh, and tell Parrington to stand by.

Stand by, sir.

Well, what is it?

We've just received another poem, sir.

It was posted last night.

"Beauty that only death can enhance.

"What a night, my friends,

"is her final dance."

The P keys have fallen out of alignment.

The serif of the R

is sometimes not clearly visible.

The small broken curve is found in all the letters E.

There can be no doubt that this poem was typed

on the identical machine used for the previous verses,

classified under file Q-140X.

Thank you.

Typewriter paper of cheap common bond.

81/2 by 111/2.

No rare content.

Manufactured by the Stanton Mills.

Watermark, Victoria.

Again, Victoria.

No smudges.

Typewriter ribbon probably three months old.

No fingerprints.

As usual.

Ah, what's this.

Glove prints.

Probably suede gloves.

Typewriter analysis, chemical analysis, fingerprints.

Huh, we have precisely the same information

on the other seven letters.

And the other seven girls disappeared.

Exactly.

There's a homicidal maniac loose somewhere

in the vast honeycomb of London.

A maniac with a weakness for young, pretty girls.

And not a thing we've done has brought us

one inch nearer his apprehension.

There's not a man in the department, sir,

who's not been racking his brains over this case.

Racking his brains?

That's a mistake.

We can go on racking our brains 'til doomsday,

and young innocent girls will keep on disappearing

as will this one.

Whose fate has been sealed by this poem.

No, it's not our brains we should rack.

It's the brain that wrote this.

"A beauty that only death can enhance,

"for tonight my friends,

"is her final dance."

Fifty'll give all rubbish enlavourish dance, pop theirs.

50 girls of your dreams to hold in your arms.

Short dreams, tall dreams,

blond or brunette.

Dance with one, or dance with 50.

Only six pence a dance, gentlemen.

Six pence.

Thanks very much, Mister.

Don't want to stop, do we?

Oh, now wait a minute, I'm busy, sorry.

Have something to drink.

Come on that's enough of that.

Move on.

Oh, my aching toes.

Thank goodness it's only two more hours.

Two hours in this cement mixer

are longer than a six day bike race.

In flew a dead duck.

Come on, take a turn, beautiful.

What is it tonight?

A sweepstakes for zombies?

I hope you two will be very happy.

Thank you.

Strike me pink if you aren't the prettiest little girl

in the whole place.

The minute I laid me eyes on you,

I said to meself, Oswald Pickering, that's me name,

there's the prettiest little girl in the whole place.

Take it easy, I don't dance.

Milton's the name.

Harry Milton, just want a word or two.

Well, you can't take me home.

I don't finish 'til 2 a.m.

We can't go somewhere for a little drink.

And I loathe etchings.

What's that? Oh no, no, no.

I'm theatrical agent, Miss.

Been watching you all evening.

You've got personality.

How'd you like to work in a really fine place?

Oh, now don't tell me Buckingham Palace

is installing a taxi dance wing.

No, no, no, one of Fleming and Wilde's nightclubs.

You've heard of Fleming and Wilde.

The brightest spots in London.

You're too beautiful for a slaughterhouse like this.

I seem to have heard that before.

Not from me, Miss.

I'm bonded.

Mr. Fleming's scouring the town for beautiful girls.

Ten quid a week, and bonuses.

Ten quid?

Audition next week.

Monday, 9 o'clock.

I'll be there 9 a.m. sharp.

Not morning, Miss, evening.

Whoever heard of Mr. Fleming being up

at nine in the morning?

Look an agent for a nightclub.

Ten pounds a week.

Oh, I'm not interested.

What?

Tonight's Little Lucy's last dance, Sandra.

Me and my big blue eyes are going bye-bye for good.

What are you talking about?

A man.

Oh, he's so handsome.

And he's got the charm of the devil, himself.

I'm going away with him.

But who is he, Lu?

His name is John,

and he comes from a very distinguished family.

Oh, who's the luck girl this time?

Me, oh.

Don't be jealous.

There goes six pence.

Yeah?

Spin around sweetheart.

Let's have a turn, deary.

Strike me pink if you aren't the prettiest little girl

in the whole place.

The minute I laid me eyes on you,

I said to meself, Oswald Pickering, that's me name,

there's the prettiest little girl in the whole place.

I thought the cat got your tongue, sweetie.

Come along, let's warm up.

Lucy, John who?

Where's he from?

Here, who's paying for this dance?

I'd like to know.

Me or your lady friend.

Eh, shut up.

Where'd you meet him?

In the personal column.

What are you two talking about?

Oh Lu, not that way.

It's dangerous.

Not when I have my precious little friends to protect me.

"Elephants circle her smooth white arm."

Professor Harkness, I've been reading that stuff

until I'm blue in the face.

I've had the best cryptographers in London

search them for some sort of code or cipher

or any kind of hidden meaning.

I'll be surprised if you find any code.

Whatever the criminal reveals in these jingles,

he won't be aware of it.

Subconscious?

Nothing simple, or direct.

Inspector, I'm happy to say I've been able to identify

this tile.

You mean, you've got a line on him?

He's actually a poet?

He'd like to be.

He's imitating one.

Almost copied, in fact.

Who? Which one?

The poet that your man must know by heart,

is Charles Baudelaire.

Baudelaire was obsessed with the notion

that death is beautiful.

Listen to this,

"A beauty still more beautiful in death."

Your criminal has the same delusions.

"A beauty that only death can enhance."

I see.

But Baudelaire died years ago.

Yes, quite horribly.

In Paris, 1867.

Hmm.

Your murderer, if he's at all a Baudelaire,