by Tim Champlin
"You're aware of the danger, but agree to accept the risk?"
"If I'm not aware, you'll enlighten me."
"Of course, we'll do everything humanly possible to protect you from harm, but there's an element of real danger."
"Certainly. My knees were trembling when I came in here."
"I shouldn't wonder. It's better than being overconfident." He began to pace again. "You will act as a decoy to lure this man out of hiding, so we can arrest him."
"Or kill him if you must."
"Quite so. It's very possible this ploy won't work because we're not certain why he attacks some women and not others. There seems to be no pattern, although most of the attacks have taken place on weekends."
Annie nodded.
"We'll dress you appropriately and I'll have one of the East End prostitutes coach you on how to act."
"Okay." She looked directly into his eyes as he stopped in front of her. "This won't involve wing shots or long range shooting. Why select me?"
"I approached you about this because I think you have courage and won't panic in a moment of crisis." He shrugged. "And, of course for obvious other reasons—you're young, pretty, athletic and probably the world's keenest sharpshooter, with either pistol or long gun." He pivoted and paced away several steps, hands behind his back, head down. "If the man actually makes a move to kill you," he went on in a matter-of-fact way, "he'll try to strangle you first before using the knife. That's been the pattern. Based on the autopsies, the doctors have concluded his victims were unconscious before he slashed them. I'm sure it wasn't mercy on his part. It was just easier; the women couldn't scream or struggle if they were senseless."
"What makes you think I won't flinch under pressure?"
"Because I've seen you perform incredible acts of skill before thousands of spectators without losing your composure."
"Public performance is a different kind of pressure, inspector."
"Quite right. But if you won't panic when a misstep would let down your fellow performers and disappoint a grandstand full of people, including the queen and several crowned heads of Europe, I'm certain you won't panic when your own life is at stake. Your handling of firearms is pure instinct, honed to a skill by long practice. It's automatic now. You can get a revolver into play faster and more accurately than anyone alive."
Abberline's confidence in her was amazing. Was it too late to back out of this?
"Let me tell you what I have in mind," he said, pausing in his pacing and sitting down in the chair several feet opposite her. "A special, rigid collar will be made for you that you'll wear under a neck-high blouse. It can't be crushed by hands, nor cut by the slash of a knife. The rest of you will be vulnerable, but we'll fit you with a special corset that will deflect a slash, if not a direct thrust. The Chinese tongs wear quilted padding that protects their body from most knife wounds."
"Sounds as if I'll be in armor."
"In effect, you will."
"Will this hamper my mobility?"
"I don't think so, but we'll leave that up to you, once the protective clothing is in place."
"I'll be able to select my own weapon?"
"Of course."
"After I see what I'm supposed to put on, I might modify it to be sure my movements are not hindered by anything. I've designed and made many of my own shooting outfits."
"Those were for show, not for protection. But you'll have the final say. We'll be watching your every move from a distance, and I have some men who are most adept at staying hidden. If you should be approached by a normal customer, deceived by your…profession, you're free to get rid of him as you choose."
"That will be no problem." She thought for a moment. "Will I have any idea who he is when I see him?"
"An idea only. Nothing for certain. We've compiled a composite from all the eyewitness accounts, including that of Mister Hutchinson, who apparently had the closest view of him. We think he's a local Whitechapel resident, and was probably interviewed by the police and released for lack of evidence. He's between five-foot, five and five-foot, seven in height, slender to medium build, roughly thirty-five years old, wears a small mustache that could be waxed on the ends, might be wearing a soft hat or a deerstalker, sometimes known to wear a watch chain, dressed in wools and tweeds of good make, but very well worn. Soft-spoken and superficially charming, he presents no obvious threat to women."
"That'll at least give me a general description, so I can be on the lookout."
"When can you begin? It will take us a day or so to prepare. Once you're on the street, our fishing expedition might not get any bites the first night, so we'll continue for several nights. If nothing happens then, we'll agree our attempt was a failure."
"The show closes in two days, inspector. Then we pack up and entrain for Southampton where we catch our ship. Two more performances, then I'm all yours."
Abberline rose. "Excellent. The moon is full this coming weekend. Perfect timing. Police records show there are always more crimes and bizarre behavior around the time of the full moon. The ancient Romans even noted that their 'luna' had an obvious negative influence on men's actions. Hence, our word, 'lunatic'. If a full moon can pull tides in the ocean, it can certainly pull an unbalanced mind over the edge. The full moon might just be the final bit of bait we need."
TWANG!
The Bowie knife quivered in the barn wall, its point buried an inch deep in the crudely painted target.
Matt and Crowfoot moved up and the Indian wiggled the knife loose from the splintered wood.
"Okay, lemme try it now," Matt said, holding out his hand. Crowfoot handed over the knife, haft first.
The two young men backed off to a line they'd scuffed in the dirt fifteen paces from the rear wall of the horse barn.
Matt hefted the knife, feeling its considerable weight and realizing the blade and the handle were nearly balanced. He was adept at throwing a baseball, but this was an entirely different skill. He grasped the weapon by the end of the blade, being careful not to wrap his fingers around the sharp edge. He leaned forward slightly at the waist, whipped the knife around in a sidearm motion and let fly.
THUD!
The Bowie rattled off the planks to the ground.
"Damn!" he muttered. "I can't seem to get the hang of it."
They walked up to pick it up. "You put some kind of spin on it?" Matt asked.
Crowfoot shrugged. "A natural skill. The Sioux had knives long before we had white man's guns.”
"Indians had guns long before your time," Matt countered. "Besides, you don't inherit a skill; talent, maybe, but not skill." He picked up the knife and wiped off the dusty blade on his pants leg before handing it over. "Lemme see you do that again."
They retreated to their mark, about forty feet away. "You reckon it would help if I moved closer?" Matt asked.
Crowfoot shook his head. "Start this way," he said, whipping the knife downward into the ground about three feet from his foot. The blade buried itself three quarters of its length. The Indian retrieved it, wiping off the dirt. "Practice this. The knife makes only one and a half turns before it sticks." He handed Matt the weapon.
Matt whipped it down and managed to make the point stick two out of three attempts.
"Better," Crowfoot said. "Blade’s heavier than the handle, so it should land first."
Matt moved up to thirty feet from the back wall of the barn and took aim at the lopsided chalked circle on the boards.
CLANG!
The knife hit, handle first, and bounced off. "Lemme try it a few more times," he said, running to pick it up. "Felt like I almost had it that time."
He worked his way closer and threw from twenty-five feet, then eighteen. One of his throws hit point first, but without enough force to stick. "I think I got it now."
"No wonder white men had to have thundersticks," Crowfoot observed, standing with his arms folded and lapsing into his faux dialect.
Matt ignored the condescending grin. He thre
w three more times with the same result. He had yet to make the knife stick in the dry, splintered wood. "What am I doing wrong?"
"Like this," Crowfoot said, taking the knife. He cocked his elbow. "Throw from the ear--not sidearm." He whipped the knife forward with an arm motion that was a blur. The point stuck. "More speed."
Matt tried again, throwing with a short elbow pivot and all his strength. The knife stuck and quivered. "Ahhh! Like an overhand pitcher!"
"Now you got it," Crowfoot said, walking up, placing the fingers of one hand on either side of the blade and wrenching it loose with his other hand. "You keep practicing. Someday you’ll be as good as I am."
"Not in a hundred years," Matt conceded.
During the next half hour, before his arm grew tired, he managed to make the Bowie stick in or near the target a dozen times.
Crowfoot glanced at the sun. "I must go put on my warpaint for the show," he said, finally taking his knife and wiping off the blade and elkhorn handle and shoving it into its beaded sheath at his belt.
"Yeah, Annie will be looking for me, too," Matt said as the boys started back toward the tents and corrals. "Meet me after supper."
Crowfoot nodded.
"Crofe! Crofe! Come here!"
The 19-year old Sioux looked around, then threw down the handful of straw he was using to wipe down the sweaty flanks and back of his paint pony. "What?"
Matt gestured again. "Got something to tell ya."
Crowfoot moved toward his friend and the two of them stepped out of the busy staging area behind a stack of hay bales. "What’s so important?" the Indian asked. "I must cool down and water my pony before we go to the mess tent."
"This won't take a minute." Matt looked around to be sure they were out of earshot of everyone. "You gotta promise on whatever you hold sacred you won't breathe a word of this."
Crowfoot's obsidian eyes regarded him curiously.
"You promise?"
"My word is good."
"I just overheard Annie and Frank arguing."
"So?"
"You'll never guess what it was about."
Crowfoot didn't try.
"Annie told him she was going to help Scotland Yard trap Jack the Ripper."
Crowfoot's eyes went wide. "She’s lost her mind, or she’s drunk."
"She doesn’t drink. Frank was really hot about it. Called her all kinds of an idiot and a fool. But she stood her ground and didn't back down an inch. She went to see the Chief Inspector this morning."
Crowfoot shrugged. "No matter. Cody will not allow it."
"The show ends after tomorrow's performance, so all he can do is threaten to cancel her contract."
"How will Annie help the police?"
"The inspector came here a few days ago and asked her to act as a decoy to lure this killer out of hiding. She and her husband and Cody all turned him down. But she's been thinking about it. I knew something was on her mind yesterday; she didn't act right."
"The Ripper's knife is sharp and quick," Crowfoot said.
"Yeah, but Annie's determined to do it."
Crowfoot was silent for a moment. "We can’t let her do this alone."
"She told Frank the police'll be watching her."
"Ripper is fast and good with a knife," the Indian said. "We must follow her, too."
"What if we get in the way, and she gets killed?"
"We won’t let that happen. Find out when and where. We'll be there in the shadows."
Beth Hampton and Annie Oakley sat alone at a table in The Three Bells two nights later. Chief Inspector Abberline leaned on the bar, sipping a bitters, apparently ignoring the nearby women.
"Now listen, Annie, you have to forget you're gentry," Beth said. "For now, you're just a common working girl, like the rest of us. Pretend you have to attract a man or two to earn your doss money tonight, or you'll be sleeping in some doorway."
Beth was pushing forty, graying blond, short hair, rosy cheeked and tending to plump, although with a full figure that even Abberline could eye with appreciation.
Annie nodded. This might prove more complicated than she imagined. Maybe Abberline should have hired an actress from one of the music halls to play this part.
"All of us can accept or turn away any man we want," Beth was saying, leaning across the table. "So don't feel that you must say 'Yes' every time you get a proposition." She hesitated. "A bit of advice, just between us girls. In case you think you have a bite from the killer, and want to continue bringing him on, you have to play the role out—or nearly so. If you flip up your skirts and lean up against a wall, these men don't know where they're sticking it. Most of them have been at the sauce and their sails are luffing into the wind, anyway. Grip his pizzle between your thighs. It's usually over in a minute. I've been working the streets for ten years, and I doubt I've actually been penetrated more than a dozen times."
"Really?" Annie tried not to look surprised. There were certainly tricks to every trade. She glanced at Abberline and noticed him eyeing her critically from the bar over a foamy glass of beer. She was embarrassed by this conversation, even though he was certainly too far away to hear their words above the noise in the pub. She knew when she volunteered to assist that it would take a great effort of will to suppress her extreme modesty. Frank was the only man she'd ever been intimate with. In public, especially when she was performing, she even went to the trouble of hooking the hem of her skirt to her leggings. This tether ensured that her skirt would not fly up in the windy arena even if she were turning flips, walkovers, standing on her head to shoot, or drilling targets from her bicycle or horseback.
She was far too young to be thinking of death, but she'd put herself in a position where she might never see her next birthday. She made a silent resolution that the very next day she would seek out a female mortician—if such a thing existed in London--and sign a contract, if necessary, to ensure that a woman would prepare her body for burial if the worst happened and The Ripper should get her. The image of her nude, mutilated body would not be splashed all over the tabloids. And no male undertaker would touch her. She would extract a promise from Inspector Abberline that no autopsy would be performed on her. The panicky thought of being seen immodestly in public, dead or alive, terrified her nearly as much as being murdered by this insane killer.
"Since this is your first night, I'll walk out with you if you want," Beth was offering.
"What?" She was jarred back to the present. "Oh…yes, thank you. That would be good, just to get the hang of it," Annie said.
Beth glanced at the big clock above the bar. "Shall we go? It's nearly eleven."
Annie rose and the two women sauntered outside. The streets of Whitechapel were still crawling with many pedestrians, most seemingly bent on some errand or other, but others just loafing in doorways or under gas lamps, talking, smoking.
A cool, damp breeze was blowing and Annie noted the full moon overhead, being shut off and on by scudding clouds. She swallowed. Her mouth and throat were dry. "Do you have a mint?"
"Sure do. They make your breath sweet. Glad you thought of that."
Beth nodded and spoke to several women and a couple of men she knew. "Don't walk so fast, Annie," she whispered. "You can't seem to be in a hurry. You don't have anywhere to go. You're just out for a stroll. You can look interested, open, but not too eager."
"Like this?" Annie slowed and affected a seductive walk.
"Almost. Not so obvious."
Annie tried to flow along the sidewalk, allowing her body to flex and bend easily, but it was difficult with the padded corset gripping her midsection.
"Don't worry, dearie, it takes practice."
"Somehow, I don't think I'll be at this long enough to get good at it."
Beth giggled. "I can't believe I'm training the famous Annie Oakley to be a prostitute."
"Sshhh! Not so loud," Annie whispered, head down. She couldn't bend her head very far because of the rigid wooden neck ring sewn into the stand-up collar o
f her frilly blouse. The voluminous petticoats made her feel overdressed, and she almost wished she'd left off the pantaloons beneath. But every additional layer of clothing would help protect her, should it come to that. The thin frock coat over the blouse hid the shoulder holster strapped beneath. Instead of leather, the strap and holster were fashioned of a heavy white canvas whose color blended with the blouse, so as to be nearly invisible in dim light. Even the bird's head pistol grip was ivory. After much study and deliberation, she'd selected a nickel-plated, five-shot, .44 caliber Merwin Hulbert, made by Allen & Hopkins Company. It had a three-and-a-half inch barrel, and the hammer spur folded down to keep from snagging when the gun was drawn. It could be fired as single or double action. She'd greased the inside of the canvas holster to facilitate a faster draw, but had to be careful she didn't bend over too far and allow the gun to slip out.
Two years earlier she'd bought it to use in her act, but then discovered it was too short and powerful to make a good target pistol. She admired the beautiful design and workmanship. A gunsmith with the show told her it was probably the best revolver made. With her natural skill, it didn't take long to become thoroughly accustomed to its heft and feel. She practiced for two days until she had complete command and it felt as natural in her hand as her other show guns. She'd carefully oiled it until the action was smooth and effortless. She was certain it would perform flawlessly if she could get to it quick enough. That would be the critical factor. Would she have enough warning? Knowing when to draw and fire would be crucial. She dared not shoot some unoffending customer who was trying to rent her body. Yet, if she hesitated only a split second, it could be too late.
She licked her dry lips, wondering how this deadly game would end.
Chapter 16
The two women sashayed along Hanbury Street, then turned right onto Spital Street.
"Ah, Ruth," Beth said, pausing to greet a friend.
"Not much going tonight," Ruth said.
"Ruth, this is my friend, Constance, a new girl who just moved here from America."