Annie and the Ripper Page 16

  She recalled the thrill of being introduced to Queen Victoria and her royal party in their box. She, the poor little girl from Greenville, Ohio, the tomboy Phoebe Ann Moses, actually curtsying to the little elderly lady who headed the British Empire. How could such a thing have come to pass within a few short years? All because of her poverty and her need to hunt to help her family survive. Yet it was more than that. She'd been born with an extraordinary talent that few had been given. She had rare hand/eye coordination. It was a combination of talent, opportunity and necessity. Circumstances had meshed at just the right time for her to become Annie Oakley. Her marriage to Frank Butler, their touring show, the fact that Nate Salsbury had seen her shoot just as Buffalo Bill Cody had lost his sharpshooter. It was all too complicated for her. She would just continue to do the best she could in whatever situations she found herself, and pray that God would take care of the rest.

  She knew her Quaker mother, Ruth, would be horrified, scandalized if she could see her now—walking the streets like a common prostitute, trying to lure a killer. With any luck, her mother would never know.

  She shook her head. Forget all that. Concentrate on something else to fill the time until I can return to the pub and catch a cab back to Frank at the Metropole.

  She moved under the streetlamp and felt for the curb with her foot. She stepped off to cross, and her ankle rolled on a rounded cobblestone. "Oh!" She flung out her arms as she started to fall, but was suddenly caught around the waist by a strong arm.

  "Oops!" a male voice said. "I got you, Missie." Someone pulled her upright again.

  At the sound of the name, "Missie", she instantly thought of Cody's pet name for her. But this wasn't the tall, elegant Bill Cody. This man was hardly five foot, seven.

  Suddenly flustered, she struggled to find her voice. "I…thank you, sir. I…uh, turned my ankle."

  "Glad I was here to help." He doffed his soft felt hat.

  They still stood within the circle of dim light cast by the gas street lamp, and she saw a neatly groomed man with dark hair and mustache. A cape hid most of his clothing, except for a gold watch chain stretching from a vest pocket.

  Her stomach tensed as she looked at him.

  "Is your ankle all right?" he asked. "You can lean on me if you wish."

  A silent alarm bell rang in the back of her mind. Yet, this man was a gentleman, judging from his look and manners. He couldn't have been stalking her; the fog was too thick. He just happened to be at the right place at the right time to keep her from falling.

  "I…think I'm all right now. Thank you."

  "A woman shouldn't be on the street alone at this time of night," he continued. "It's not safe."

  While Annie was trying to form an answer, he said, "On the other hand, if you're a working girl, I might have a proposition for you."

  Was this the man? He fit the general description. She could not afford to turn him away, just in case. Her heart began to beat so forcefully, it nearly shook her frame, and she was sure he could see her trembling.

  "Actually, I'd like to hear your proposal," she heard herself saying.

  "I pay well if you're in the mood." His voice was smooth, cultured.

  "That's good," Annie said. Where was Abberline—and his constable? She coughed loudly, hoping to signal him, but knew the sound would be muffled within a few yards. "A tickle in my throat," she said. "Must be the dampness."

  "Do you have a room nearby?" the man asked.

  "No. It's a long way from here." She was thinking of her room at the Metropole, wishing she were there with Frank right now.

  "You're so very beautiful, I hate not being able to see you in the dark," he said.

  "We don't need to go into an alley or a courtyard," Annie said. "The fog is so thick, no one can see us."

  "Someone might come along the sidewalk," the soothing voice said.

  She nearly cringed when he took her hand and began leading her out of the gas lamplight.

  Then they were into the thick fog and he didn't slow down, moving as if he knew where he was going.

  A breeze stirred and shredded the heaviest fog, enabling her to make out a slight offset, or alcove, in the front wall of a brick building. "Here's a spot," she said. At least it was right on the street.

  "Yes, a good place," he agreed.

  She would have to pretend to go through with it to make him reveal himself—if this was the man.

  Just as she turned away from him to brace her hands against the wall, she noticed he carried something in a small leather packet in his left hand. Where was Abberline? She bent at the waist, and placed her palms against the bricks, but kept most of her weight on her feet.

  She felt him fumbling with her skirt and voluminous petticoats.

  She was quickly trying to plan her next move, but he struck before she was ready. Throwing his weight against her bottom, he knocked her headfirst into the brick wall, bending her wrist and scraping her forehead. She sucked in a breath to scream, but his hands shot out and he locked his fingers around her throat.

  "Damned dirty whore!" he hissed as the wooden ring in her collar stopped his grip, giving her a couple of seconds. "HELP! MURDER!" she shrieked. The fog muffled her scream like a feather pillow.

  His grip crushed the wooden ring as easily as an eggshell, driving splinters through the collar and into her neck. She felt a stinging sensation and then the horrifying pressure of his fingers like iron bands.

  She twisted away from him, stumbling on her long skirts and falling onto her back next to the wall. He was on top of her like a striking cobra, yet not before her hand shot inside her coat and gripped the pistol. But his weight landed on her arm and she couldn't draw the weapon. His incredible strength was squeezing her windpipe and she saw spots before her eyes.

  He wasn't a big man. Adrenaline strength rushed through her and she bucked like a wild horse. Her third lunge threw him upward a few inches. In that instant she yanked out the gun, thrust the short barrel into his gut and pulled the trigger.

  A muffled explosion and she felt the air rush out of him. He rolled off sideways. She hesitated for a heartbeat, knowing she'd just shot a man. When she fired blindly again, the bullet hit a trash can, but the muzzle flash lit up a pair of glittering eyes and a descending knife blade. The blade slashed through her corset, but thick padding and whalebone stays caught the blade and saved her abdomen. She fired instinctively where he should have been, but the bullet smashed a window, and the muzzle flash showed only empty space. He was gone into the fog.

  Something whizzed past her head and she heard a gasp, then the clatter of a blade into the corner. She whirled toward the gasp and fired again. But he wasn't there and she heard a pair of shoe soles slapping on wet pavement, receding.

  She fired once more, emptying the gun at the sound, but the running steps continued, fading into silence.

  Ten minutes earlier:

  "Damnation! I lost her, Carrington," Abberline said.

  "Stand still and listen."

  The two men stopped and Abberline strained to hear any sounds of footsteps. But the cottony tendrils of fog encased them in a soundless cocoon.

  "There!" the constable said, pointing. "Under the streetlight."

  He couldn't see her distinctly, but knew it was Annie by her uncovered head and the glossy dark hair. She paused in the light and looked around, as if reluctant to move on.

  "Wish she'd stay right there," Abberline murmured.

  "It'd be easier for The Ripper to find her, too."

  "I wouldn't be surprised if he could see in the dark like a cat," Abberline replied.

  They fell silent, watching her dark silhouette. Finally, she stepped off the curb, took two steps and started to fall. A man appeared out of the dark and caught her before she went down.

  "Ah!" Abberline was startled.

  Standing just at the outer edge of the circle of light, partially obscured by the fog, the man and Annie appeared to be engaged in conversation, although their
voices couldn't be heard from a half block away.

  "She's attracted a client," Carrington said.

  "Wish I could tell if it's the client we're looking for."

  A minute later, the man took her hand and they moved away across the street and disappeared.

  "Quick! Let's move closer," Abberline said. "But be very cautious. We don't want to walk right up on them if they stop."

  The lawmen carefully advanced forty steps down the street in the general direction of the vanished couple.

  Finally Abberline put out a hand to stop his companion. They backed up against the wall to allow a lone woman to pass them. Then voices sounded and two workmen passed, one of them smoking a pipe. The men passed, deep in conversation. Aromatic pipe smoke perfumed the air.

  A few seconds passed. "Come on!" Abberline whispered. "We have to find her."

  Sounds of a scuffle reached them. BOOM!—a muffled gunshot. Then, BOOM!…BOOM! Two louder blasts. A hesitation. BOOM! BOOM!

  Before the last shots were even fired, Abberline and Carrington were dashing toward the explosions. Abberline saw the last two muzzle flashes dimly through the murk.

  A running figure sprinted along the edge of the street light and into the fog again.

  Carrington opened his shuttered lantern and the two men slid to a stop by Annie who was still sitting on the sidewalk.

  "You hurt?"

  "No. He's getting away!" she rasped. "I shot him in the stomach.

  "Stay here and help her, constable," Abberline snapped. "I'm going after him."

  He dashed away, drawing his Adams from its holster. He sprinted across the street, dodging a carriage that nearly ran him down. Which way? He slid to a halt on the wet stones and listened. The faint smacking of shoe soles on pavement. To his left. He sprinted toward the sound, wishing he had a bullseye lantern, but then realized the light would only reflect from the thick fog—not penetrate it.

  He paused again, and the sound of running steps grew fainter. How could a man gutshot run so fast? Or was it the fog shifting the sound?

  Abberline took off again. It had to be The Ripper. No one else would have reason to be running so fast this time of night in a dense fog. The man had only a twenty or thirty-second head start. Abberline turned down the next street, and saw the fleeing man, black cape flying like batwings, flash past the gas lamp on the next corner.

  Abberline holstered his pistol and redoubled his efforts. His hat flew off, but he ignored it and kept running. The Ripper could duck into some dark corner or alley and ambush him as he flew past. But he apparently was armed only with his infamous knife, or he would've defended himself with a gun when Annie fired. All the shots Abberline heard were from the same gun.

  At the next corner he paused to listen, trying to hear over the sound of his own harsh breathing. Hollow thunder of feet pounding on wooden stairs—close by. Abberline whirled and raced back a few yards. He found an outside stairway to the second floor and roof of a building he'd just passed. A dim figure was moving over the top of a ladder onto the roof.

  He sucked in a deep breath and leapt up the stairs two at a time, but paused when he reached the ladder that was fastened to the wall beside the second story door. Thumping of steps across the flat roof above. He climbed the six steps up the ladder and peeked over. Blackness. But he heard the flutter of a cape on the far side. He threw a leg over the brick balustrade and carefully crept across the tarred roof toward the spot he'd heard the flapping. Damn the fog! He was like a blind man. But it had to be just as bad for The Ripper. How could anyone keep going like this with a lead slug in his belly? He had to be running on pure adrenaline. And he wouldn't be fleeing so fast if he didn't know he was being pursued. Apparently trying to reach a safe haven before he collapsed from his wound.

  Abberline reached the far side of the roof and paused again. Nothing. He put his hands on the brick parapet to climb over, and felt something warm and sticky. He sniffed his fingers. Fresh blood. Then he heard the sounds of someone scuffing along a ledge a few feet below.

  "Hold it! You won't get away!" he yelled into the fog.

  No reply. He heard a thud and a clatter, followed by the sibilant sliding of dislodged roof tiles just before they smashed on the courtyard below.

  "You're under arrest!" Give up while you're still alive!" Abberline yelled. A window banged open in the building across the narrow gap. "What's going on out there?" a voice shouted.

  Had The Ripper fallen? No. Someone was scrambling up the opposite roof.

  "This is crazy!" Abberline muttered, throwing a leg over the edge of the brick balustrade. He climbed over and let himself down onto the narrow ledge.

  His quarry wasn't far ahead; he could hear him scrabbling up the slick tiles on the next roof, and then saw a flicker of the cape disappearing behind a chimney pot. He could even hear heavy, harsh breathing. Got you now! Abberline thought.

  But maybe not. He didn't fancy leaping across to that steep pitched roof. Instead, he opted to slide down the drain pipe and head him off. But what if the man continued on across the rooftops, and didn't descend? Or just stopped to rest where he was, and then retraced his steps? The fog was The Ripper's ally. There were hundreds of places he could hide. Unless the man was dying of his gunshot wound, he'd get away again and never be found.

  All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he paused to figure his next move.

  There was no sound. The Ripper must have stopped as well.

  "Who's there? What's going on?" came a tremulous voice from a window hardly a dozen feet away. Startled, Abberline slid along the narrow ledge to the corner of the building, hoping the man in the window didn't see him. He felt for the downspout, found it and eased himself over the ledge, gripping the metal pipe and began to slide down. Nails screeched in protest as the drain pipe tore loose from the wall. He let go and dropped the last ten feet, turning his ankle when he hit and rolled on the cobblestones in the narrow alley.

  "Aahh!" He grimaced, but ignored the pain and rolled over, springing up. Barely sprained. He was still in the chase. Another dislodged roof tile clattered on the stone barely ten feet from him. His quarry was still just above. Abberline dashed around the building on his nearly silent rubber soles, and stopped on the opposite side, listening. Maybe he could confuse this man.

  In the distance a shrill police whistle gave the alarm. Just as he turned his head toward the sound, he heard a slight noise above him. He leaned back to look up. A solid weight hit him in the midsection and knocked him sprawling. His pistol skittered across the stone courtyard. Flat on his back, he couldn't breathe; he couldn't move. The stunning impact to his solar plexus was like a blow he'd once received in a rugby match that paralyzed his diaphragm. He heard someone above him take three or four ragged breaths, then a cape brushed his face as the phantom whipped away into the fog.

  The pain and paralysis in his chest slowly subsided, and he began to breathe again. He got to his hands and knees and crawled away, looking for his gun. He found it a few feet away, holstered it and rose, unsteadily, to his feet. Voices of awakened residents in the windows above sent him out into the street before someone lit a lantern. Again he heard the shriek of a police whistle, but couldn't tell from which direction, or how far away.

  He walked a few steps, trying to regain his breath, and listened. But he heard nothing. "Lost him!" he gasped aloud. He'd gotten himself fit at the Athletic Club, but to no avail. The club! It was less than a block from here. He jogged toward it, guessing that was the direction The Ripper was still headed. He looked between buildings as he went, in hopes the man had passed out from loss of blood, but no luck. He'd duck into the club that was open all night and get a lantern, maybe pick up any constable who might be there.

  The back door of the club was standing open, the frame smashed. Abberline tensed, gingerly pushing open the door. He heard the shiver and tinkle of smashing glass and leapt inside, Adams in hand. A cabinet full of vials and jars of lotions and salves had just hit the f
loor, splattering its contents.

  A woman screamed, but it was cut short by a blow. Abberline ran toward the light of a lantern he saw bobbing in the next room. The Ripper, pale as death, had flung off his cape and was holding a bloody towel to his midsection that was covered with blood. Janelle Stafford lay on the floor. "Get back, inspector!" she cried.

  Abberline fired, the thunder of the .45 deafening in the room. But the man was too quick and dropped behind a heavy table.

  Janelle sprang up and cowered behind Abberline.

  From in back of the table came a horrible, wild animal cry, a cross between some jungle cat and a screech, full of pain and fury.

  Hair prickled on the back of Abberline's neck. But the cry was followed by the lantern, flung end over end. Abberline barely had time to yank Janelle out of the way as the lantern hit the floor, sliding until it smashed against the wall, spattering burning coal oil. The whole room lit up with flames crackling and licking up the wall toward the ceiling.

  The man hurled a chair through a window behind him and leapt through the opening.

  "Janelle, ring the fire bell, and keep ringing it until someone comes. I have to go after him."

  The last thing Abberline heard as he vaulted through the broken window pane and dashed away was the clanging of the big brass bell, waking the neighborhood and hopefully, bringing the fire brigade and police.

  He'd seen with his own eyes that The Ripper was severely wounded and losing blood. He had to slow down soon. There was no way he could keep up this pace.

  A noise drew his attention upward. The man had taken to the rooftops again. Abberline had to stay close on his trail or this monster could disappear through a window or roof opening into one of those buildings and lose any pursuit.

  Following the sound of footsteps, he ducked into an alley and found an iron fire escape. Up he went, his lungs beginning to labor. He could taste the sulfurous coal smoke in the back of his throat. And his thighs were burning. How could that wounded man keep going?