Mr. Schmidt lends a hand

The Daily Telegraph, located on Fleet Street in London, is a decorative five-story building of brick and mortar, topped with cornice along the roof line; a solid structure, built to stand against the wear and tear of time.
Standing across the street, Norman peers up at this container of people, knowledge, and information. Some of the answers he seeks should be in there and he doesn't have any more time to waste now. Zigzagging across the dusty street, avoiding carts and horse shite, Norman enters the building and puts on the charm, which comes so easy for him...like sleep itself, natural and a habit of a lifetime. Tipping his hat along with a slight bow, using an open manner, asks, Could you kindly direct me to your news archive? The harried attendant, unaffected by the requester, waves his hand toward the stairs. Yessir, third floor, last door on the left, ask for Schmidt. Feeling like the cat among the pigeons, Norman makes his way to the archive and finds Mr. Schmidt; a short and stout man with greying curly hair, whats left of it, standing in the isles of shelves stacked with papers. With bulging eyes, Schmidt takes measure of this tall, thin young man standing in his domain; there is something aristocratic about him, but his eyes do not give away any further information. An interesting persona no doubt and in the old days, he would have invited him for a drink to uncover the secret depths of this man's character. A game most sublime. Coming back to reality, he asks, in a gruff tone, What are you needing here sir? Norman assess this man and determines the best approach is to be overtly friendly, this individual is tired of being stuck in this job and would enjoy a congenial diversion. Well, kind sir, may I call you Schmidt? I find using names so much more...personal. Norman steps in closer and sets his hat down on the man's desk and unbuttons his coat. You may call me Norman. Schmidt's curiosity peeked, also closes the gap between them. How can I assist you today, Norman? A smile begins to appear on his face as he waits for his reply; this may be interesting after all, he thinks. My dear Schmidt, I need to find the obituary of an old family friend, for I am unable to locate him at his last residence, which sits vacant, leading me to believe my fears... he may have died in the last two to four years. I really don't know what to do and it was so important you see. Norman begins to act as though he were just a bit desperate and play on the sympathy of the elder man. Oh, certainly, I can help you with that, Norman. Yes, yes, certainly. Please have a seat, at the table in back; I'll pull the volumes for you. Would you care for a cup of tea? As he saunters back to where he was directed, Norman pours on the charm and replies, Only if you have it with me Schmidt, I would enjoy your company. Norman glances back, grinning widely, this is too easy.
Large books piled in his arms, teetering from his haste, Schmidt makes it to the table with a loud thud. The volumes slide in all directions and he scrambles to keep them on the wooden surface. Without lifting a finger, Norman sits and watches this animated creature in front of him. An amusing thought creeps across his deviant mind...What ever would this man think, if he knew The Ripper was seated at his table... It takes all his effort not to laugh out loud at the thought. Schmidt had assembled the bound volumes of newspapers covering 1882-1887 and trotted off to put the kettle on. Norman realizes this could be tedious and time consuming; he had to get Schmidt to help him search. Opening 1887 he started reviewing all the deaths, it would be so much easier with a digital archive!
Soon the tea cups were clanking in his direction and he deployed phase II of his plan. Schmidt was an easy and eager mark, especially when Norman reached out and patted his hand in gratitude for the tea. Ah, my dear Norman, it is my profound pleasure to assist you in this important endeavor. It is rare to find a man, such as yourself, and I am all too pleased to help you. Smiles exchanged all around by this comment and Norman's eyes twinkled with success. Whom, may I ask are we searching for? Oh, didn't I say, my apologies, of course, the family friend I am searching for is Doctor Jeykell.