Annie and the Ripper Read online

  "We've thought of that, and have put out some constables dressed as women. Didn't work."

  "I don't mean that. I mean a real woman."

  "We tried one woman with no luck. Couldn't try it again because the Home Secretary found out and banned that. Said if we got an innocent plant killed, it would be worse than if another prostitute died. In my opinion, he feared the bad publicity more than he wanted to catch The Ripper."

  "If you don't mind my being so frank, some women give off a scent, a musk, if you will, like some of the wild animals I've studied in Canada. If you can find the right woman, it could work."

  "And if you don't mind my being just as frank," Abberline replied, "this killer is not after sex. He's not normal."

  She blushed slightly. "It could be these killings give him some kind of sexual pleasure. I still think it could work if you find the right woman. Don't be chasing him; make him come to you."

  Abberline thought for a moment. "Let me give that some serious thought, Janelle. I think you might be onto something."

  "No charge for the advice, inspector." She gave him her sunniest smile as he waved and went out the door.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 13

  Inspector Abberline huddled down in his coat collar as a November wind gusted through the grandstand, blowing around old newspapers, showbills, and greasy fish and chips wrappings. The crowd wasn't bad for a chilly late autumn afternoon, but there were clusters of empty seats in the corners and near the top of the stands.

  He watched a dozen whooping, mounted Indians pursue a Concord stagecoach around the huge grounds, stirring up dust. Men atop and inside the Deadwood Stage were firing blanks at the Indians. It was all mildly amusing to him; he was sure it was only a shadow of the real American West.

  He reflected that the seasons were changing quickly; summer was only a memory and autumn was fading. He'd waited almost too long. Within a fortnight, the Congress of Rough Riders of the World, also known as Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show, would strike its tents, pack its tons of gear, load up hundreds of horses, mules and buffalo, and entrain for Southampton where the huge entourage would board a ship for the United States after a six-month run in London.

  By the time the performance ended to a roar of applause, Abberline was standing by the gate where the performers retreated behind hanging canvas walls.

  He stopped one of the stock handlers who was unsaddling a pinto. "Where might I find Colonel Cody?"

  "Wal, if he ain't gone off somewheres, he's likely in his tent up to the end of the row there." He pointed.

  "Thank you." Abberline started that way, dodging the costumed performers, both white and red, feeling conspicuous in his gray felt hat and black overcoat.

  He saw the famous man from a distance. Cody sat with both tent flaps open and tied back. He was at a folding table reading a newspaper, cigar clamped in his teeth. He still wore his leather leggings, tall riding boots and bright yellow shirt. His gauntlets lay on the table. Flowing, straw-colored hair swept out from under the white hat and over his collar.

  Abberline hesitated. How to approach this personage? He coughed. "Colonel Willaim Cody?" he said aloud. "Buffalo Bill Cody?"

  Cody lowered the paper and took the cigar from his mouth.

  "Might I have a word with you?"

  "If this is about the rent on the grounds, my business manager, Nate Salsbury handles all that."

  "It's not about the rent."

  Cody stood up and stepped outside, looking taller in his white hat than the reported six, one. "Then I'm all ears. What can I do for you?"

  "I'm Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline of Scotland Yard. Is there some place private we can talk?"

  "Sure. Right in here." He ushered Abberline inside. "Have a seat. Hope I'm not in any trouble for anything. Did I do something at the Duchess's party the other night I shouldn't have? I'll admit to having one more drink than I shoulda. But you know how it is when a man gets to socializing." He smiled under the sweeping mustache. This handsome American was like a gust of wind off the Great Plains.

  "No. It's nothing like that."

  "Have a cigar?"

  "No, thanks."

  Cody sat back on the opposite side of the table and crossed his legs, waiting.

  Abberline scarcely knew how to begin, although he'd been rehearsing it in his mind since morning. "I daresay you've read about these murders committed by a killer who calls himself, Jack the Ripper."

  "Read about it? Our show has had to compete with him for coverage in the papers for weeks," Cody said, not quite as jovial.

  "Then you also know he's still at large."

  Cody nodded. "I was just reading in the paper here where the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews, says you're on the verge of making an arrest in the case."

  "As a showman yourself, you know everything is not always as it's portrayed."

  "That means you have no idea who he is or where he is."

  "That's about the size of it, as you Americans might say."

  "I assume you're here for a reason."

  This man wasted no time coming to the point. "Frankly, Scotland Yard and the Metro Police have nearly exhausted all our ideas about how to capture this lunatic. He follows no pattern, has no obvious motives, such as robbery, since these women he so cruelly mutilates are among the poorest of the poor. He has it in for prostitutes, but we don't know why. Some personal vendetta of his own. Because this man is obviously deranged or operates on some sort of perverse logic we can't understand, we need to use some unconventional means to capture him—some method we don't normally use on other violent criminals." Abberline paused, arranging his thoughts.

  "Go on."

  Abberline took a deep breath. "You have in your show a woman—Annie Oakley—who's probably the world's greatest marksman."

  "She's a wonder, a true phenomenon."

  Abberline plunged ahead. "No sense beating about the bush. We want her to be a lure to trap the Ripper."

  Cody didn't reply or change expression. He looked across at Abberline with his luminous eyes that stared out from so many posters and photographs, had seen so much of the world, both good and bad.

  The drawn out silence became unnerving for Abberline who said, "We would take all precautions to ensure her safety, of course."

  "No one can ensure that, if she's to be used as bait for a trap," Cody said.

  "She can handle any weapon with speed and accuracy."

  "That's like putting your head in an angry lion's mouth," Cody observed, "and hoping you have the speed and reflexes to yank it out again before he chomps down."

  Before Abberline could reply, Cody went on. "You're either going to scare off the Ripper with too much protection. Or, he'll kill her and then your men will kill him. In either case, it's a bad idea." Cody sat silent, staring directly at him with a gaze that had probably cowed many a poker adversary.

  "No telling how many of these women might be killed," Abberline said. "He's worse than a rabid dog. He must be stopped. And, frankly, we've about run out of options."

  "You know I can't let my star attraction take a chance like that," he said in a voice as matter of fact as if he were negotiating to buy a horse. "I pay her a handsome salary, but not to be used as a lure for a madman."

  "I realize how you feel, but…"

  "My answer is No. Do you realize what would happen to this show if she were killed? We'd lose at least half our revenue. You've seen the way she draws crowds since we've been in London. She's become the darling of the Brits. Certainly there are other marksmen, some of them men, who are almost as good. But she has a girlish charm, athleticism combined with a giant talent that just draws people to her—both men and women. People are fascinated by a petite, pretty woman who can beat a man in a man's sport. 'Little Missie' has it all." He paused and relighted his cigar that had gone out. "However preposterous this request to turn her into a manhunter, I won't give you a final answer until I call her in here and let you ask her yourself."
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  Abberline felt a resurgence of hope. Perhaps he could persuade her in person.

  "Just a minute." Cody got up and threw back the tent flap. "Frank!" he called. "Frank Butler! Go get Annie and you two come in here a minute." He came back inside and opened two wooden folding chairs.

  In a few minutes, Annie Oakley entered the tent followed by her manager/husband, Frank Butler. She was even prettier up close than Abberline had remembered when she performed at the shooting club—lustrous, dark hair and eyes, straight nose, regular features. She was still dressed in her white blouse, dark, short jacket, pleated skirt and leggings she'd performed in a bit earlier.

  The couple sat down and looked curiously at Cody and Abberline.

  Cody made the introductions. "Inspector Abberline has something to say, and I want you to hear it directly from him. Go ahead, inspector…"

  Abberline repeated his proposal. He finished with the statement, "You'll be adequately compensated for your services whether the venture is successful or not. If we succeed in capturing this man, you'll have the gratitude of the British people. I can't think of a nobler way to end your tour here."

  "I can't do it," Annie said, without hesitation. "I'm a performer, not an undercover policewoman."

  Frank Butler also shook his head. "I can't let my wife expose herself to such danger. If the police have had no success dealing with this maniac, how do you expect Annie, with no law enforcement experience, to do it?"

  "You would be paid…" Abberline began.

  "Compensation is not the issue. I would do it for nothing, if I decided to do it. I don't need the money. The fact that I can handle rifles, pistols and shotguns and can hit most everything I have a mind to, doesn't mean that I could ever shoot a human being."

  "We must think of this person, not as a human being, but as a wild beast, possibly a rabid wolf or a crocodile that, once having tasted human flesh, cannot be weaned from it. No…that's not a good metaphor. Animals kill to eat. This monster kills for no reason that we can discern. Yet he kills and mutilates. I'm sure, if you read the papers, you've seen all the gory details."

  "Mister…er…Inspector, Abberline, we would surely like to help out the police, but this is something that is just too far-fetched for us to consider," Butler said.

  Annie cast her husband a sharp glance. "Frank, I can speak for myself. I know you're my manager, but this is something personal."

  Butler sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, opting out of the conversation.

  Abberline felt uneasy in the presence of this domestic disagreement. Apparently, what he'd heard about Annie Oakley being a very self-willed woman was true.

  "Inspector, this is a very unusual request," Annie continued. "I've had many strange offers in my life, including proposals of marriage from strangers, challenges to shooting matches, including a challenge to shoot a cigarette out of the mouth of Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany. But this tops them all. This is also the most dangerous, if what I've read about Jack the Ripper can be believed."

  "Believe it," Abberline said. "The details of his killings have not been exaggerated in the tabloids."

  Cody was looking from one to the other of them. "Just so you'll know, Little Missie, I told the inspector 'No' when he first came in here. First off, because of the danger to you, and lastly, because it would hurt the show if something—God forbid—should happen to you in the attempt to capture this madman. You can be darned sure it wasn't the money I was thinking about."

  Neither Annie nor Frank responded to this. Abberline wondered if he'd gotten himself into the middle of a personality or money clash between these two parties. "Well," he said, rising, "it was worth a try. And I thank all of you for taking the time to listen to me." He bowed to Annie and nodded to Cody and Frank Butler. "Good day to you."

  He ducked out the tent door and replaced his hat.

  "Oh, inspector," came Annie's voice behind him. "How would I contact you if I should have any more questions about this?"

  He felt a slight ripple of hope as he fingered a business card from the pocket of his waistcoat. "Scotland Yard, ma'am. There's the address."

  CHAPTER 14

  It was former Commissioner Sir Charles Warren who'd first hinted that Abberline might try some unconventional approach to trapping The Ripper.

  Only now had this hint taken root when Abberline, in desperation, appealed to Annie Oakley for help. But his appeal was in vain, so it was best forgotten, he thought as he rode alone in a Hansom cab back to his office. She'd turned him down, flat, and been backed up in her decision by husband, Frank Butler, and her boss, Colonel William F. Cody--probably the two most influential people in her life at present. Yet, Annie'd shown she was her own person. She'd left the door ajar, and a glimmer of hope shone through the crack.

  What if everything he planned came to pass? Just the thought caused a sinking feeling in his stomach. If Annie accepted, and was able to lure the Ripper to attack her, but then was severely wounded or killed, it would haunt him the rest of his life. He could be fired and even jailed for such a foolhardy attempt. Only if the effort were successful would he be praised. It was all or nothing.

  He let his imagination run, uninhibited, through the details of the setup: She'd have to work alone. Yet, how could he or the police possibly be close enough to protect her at the critical moment? A long-range rifleman? Too many things could interfere—darkness, surprise, speed of the attacker, obstacles such as fences or buildings. He began to perspire even in the open cab. It was one thing to risk his own life, but to risk the life of an international well-loved celebrity, quite another. He'd be lynched. He began to wish he hadn't even mentioned such a crazy scheme. But he couldn't let go of it. Perhaps she could wear a rigid, protective collar, as some letter writers had suggested. It would be concealed by a scarf. That way, if The Ripper got his hands around her throat, he couldn't choke her, and the collar would also protect her from a slashing knife.

  But it didn't really matter; she'd said "No", so that was that. Perhaps he'd been influenced by Janelle Stafford and her talk of female musk attracting males. What foolishness! Dealing with Jack the Ripper was like a child playing with explosives.

  Annie Oakley was flustered. But as she bowed and skipped out of the arena the next afternoon, nobody would have known it, least of all her husband/manager, Frank Butler. The bloom in her cheeks could have been from the chill and from exertion.

  But Frank was more perceptive than she knew. "Did you miss those targets on purpose?" he asked.

  "Don't I always have to miss now and then?" she asked, brightly. "If I'm too perfect, the crowd will begin to think our act is rigged. "It was only one clay pigeon and one coin."

  He nodded, apparently satisfied, then gestured toward the continuing applause. "Curtain call."

  She skipped out, waved to the crowd, curtsied and skipped back behind the hanging tarp. Audiences liked to think of her as a little girl excelling in a grown man's sport. Her diminutive size and characteristic skip accentuated this juvenile, playful image. She started toward her tent, Frank following with three of the long guns.

  Matt Vickers, casually known as her "gun boy", or just "her boy", finished loading the traps, the shotgun shells, the boxes of glass balls, stacks of clay pigeons, a small sack of silver dollars, a mirror, apples, playing cards, three holstered revolvers and other small items into a padded wheel barrow and trundled it after Butler.

  Annie stepped into her floored tent, knowing her misses had not been intentional, but the gasp and the groan when the clay pigeon fell, unbroken, let her know the audience was with her, that they realized she was still human, after all. She hesitated to admit to Frank the misses were accidental, the result of lack of concentration. She was distracted, but had to let on everything was fine.

  She was a performer—an actress. She felt a bit guilty about keeping anything from her husband. After all, she and Frank had only each other. And it had been so since she'd bested him in a shooting match on Thanksgiving Day a
t Cincinnati in 1875 when she was only fifteen years old. The Irish born Butler, ten years her senior, was surprised, then fascinated, charmed and in love. They were married only a few months later, then went on the road, she acting as an assistant to Frank and his male shooting partner as they performed one-night stands and week-long exhibitions all over the Midwest and East. Then, one fateful night, Frank's partner fell ill and Annie stepped in replace him for the evening. She never left. The partner recovered, but left the show, while Annie and Frank became a team, moving on with their own husband-and-wife shooting exhibition. Later, when they joined Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, Annie became the star and Frank willingly gave up his own career to act as her manager and assistant.

  The spacious two-room tent was their home on tour, and she'd grown very fond of it. She pulled off her embroidered jacket.

  Frank laid the guns on a long table. "Nate Salsbury and Doc Carver want me to play poker for a couple hours before supper," Frank said. "I'll load the rest of those shotgun shells this evening."

  "Fine," Annie replied. "I need to do some sewing. Might even take a nap. Didn't sleep too well last night."

  "Not riding your bicycle today?" he asked.

  "Too chilly."

  He came up and slipped his arms around her. They'd long since come to consider Matt Vickers as their surrogate son and thought nothing of showing affection to each other in front of him.

  "You look a bit tired," Frank said.

  "It's been a long season."

  "Maybe we should take next year off," he suggested.

  "And do what?"

  "Whatever we want, and at our own pace. We could always hook up with a small show, or go on the road by ourselves part of the summer."

  "I don't know…"

  "I'd miss all our friends in this show too, but variety is the spice of life." He looked around at Matt who was laying out the weapons ready for cleaning.