Deadly Anniversaries Page 13

  * * *

  THE ANNIVERSARY GIFT

  BY JEFFERY DEAVER

  “Sir, I am in an extreme situation. Could you possibly help me?”

  G. P. Gossett looked down at the woman, about his age of thirty-three and only a few inches over five feet. She was handsome, with a slim figure, and wore a simple tan skirt and stiff white shirtwaist, high to the neck, with billowy sleeves—fashion you saw less in the city than in smaller Midwestern towns. Although the day was not excessively hot—the temperature was around eighty degrees—sweat blossomed under her arms. She wore no color on lip nor rouge on cheek, though her fair skin was colored—with an angry bruise. Her long blond hair was bound into a bun with a thick blue gingham ribbon.

  He was intrigued, but cautious. Beggars and con artists in this part of Chicago, the downtown business district, were not unheard of. And Gossett was dressed like the person he was—a well-to-do businessman, a suitable gull to be tricked. “Madam, are you asking for money?”

  “My goodness, no, sir. I would never think of such a thing.” Her voice was melodic. He wondered if she sang in a church choir.

  “What is your trouble, then?” He instinctively straightened his four-in-hand tie. As a nod to the heat, he had chosen a light linen vest, in yellow. His jacket was dark brown and his trousers a complementing brown tweed. His favorite bowler was perched atop his head.

  Her desperate eyes swiveled back to the entrance of Hardwick Court, a cul-de-sac off State Street. It was here that Gossett’s club was located, and he had been inside taking lunch and a cigar.

  “A man has been following me and intends to do me harm.”

  “Why on earth?” Gossett took in the portion of the street she’d just glanced toward. He saw passersby but no one seemed to be a ruffian.

  She choked a cry. “He hasn’t seen me yet. I turned down this street by mistake. I didn’t see that it doesn’t go through. I need to get out of view, only for a moment or two. Please!” She looked up at the doorway of the Bankers and Merchants Club.

  Gossett frowned. “I’m sorry, madam, but women are not allowed inside. It’s a most serious violation of the rules.”

  “But... Oh no, there he is.” She stepped into the shadows of the stairs to the club’s entrance.

  Gossett noted a large man in a blue suit—too brash to be tasteful—and a bowler hat. He was speaking to a couple and appeared to be haranguing them. The couple walked away and it appeared that the man spat an unkind word or two after them. He gazed about him, as if trying to decide where to go next.

  “Please...” Her hands, clutching an embroidered bag, were trembling.

  The woman’s eyes, though troubled, were astonishing blue-green, the color that nearby Lake Michigan assumes when the air and wind and sun all conspire to beauty. On impulse, he said, “What’s your name?”

  “Annie Fowler.”

  “And who is he to you, Miss Fowler?”

  “It’s Mrs. And he’s my husband. Please.” She touched a bruise on her cheek. “He did this. And he intends to do worse.”

  Gossett brushed at his thin moustache. “Come inside.”

  They stepped into the large marble and oak entryway. Gossett removed his bowler, revealing thick dark brown hair, which he smoothed with a palm. The receptionist, John, a bulky man in a brown suit, eyed them with some alarm. “Well, Mr. Gossett. I...”

  He left Mrs. Fowler at the front, where she gazed out the window, her body hunched forward tensely. Gossett strode across the lobby, his shoe soles echoing in a familiar rhythm.

  “Please, Mr. Gossett, you’re a valued member here, but you know the rules. This is most irregular.” John’s voice dipped to a whisper. “It could be a scandal as serious as the Epstein matter.” He glanced into the club sitting room to see if anyone had noticed the impropriety. Not yet.

  Gossett chuckled. “John, no need to be distressed. Mrs. Fowler here, whom I know, was hoping to inquire about a maid’s position with the club. I know the back entrance is for the women and servants but I thought, as I happened to see her on the street, you might accommodate her.”

  John was nearly wringing his hands. “Mrs. Doyle would be the person to see, but she’s not in today.”

  In a whisper, leaning forward, Gossett spun the tale he’d just concocted. “She’s fallen on hard times, John. She’s a war widow and has had to resort to scullery work.”

  The story was more than credible. The War of the Rebellion, which ended eleven years ago at Appomattox Court House, had seen the deaths of hundreds of thousands of young husbands, populating the country with such women. John, a veteran himself, nodded, his face softening as he offered a pen and piece of paper. “Have her write her name and address on this. Mrs. Doyle will contact her. But have her come no farther inside. And, please, sir, be quick about it.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  Gossett carried the paper and implement to Mrs. Fowler and explained the sham. She rewarded him with a smile. “You’re a clever one, sir.”

  He tipped his head. “By the way, G. P. Gossett at your service.”

  She surprised him by shaking his hand firmly. She nodded to the door. “He’s past. I saw him walk this way and gaze about. Then he returned to State Street.”

  Gossett was infinitely relieved. He’d foreseen an incident, possibly fisticuffs—and he knew he was no match for the hulking Mr. Fowler. The woman jotted down her name and lodgings and Gossett returned the sheet and pen to the panicking receptionist. “Bless you, John.”

  They stepped outside and, donning his bowler, he gestured for her to wait, while he walked to State Street and looked up and down. He waved for her to join him.

  She did so.

  “At least the fellow wears such a gaudy suit that can be spotted a mile away. What is his name?”

  “Thomas.”

  “He’s a big fellow.”

  “Indeed he is. His fists especially.”

  “What is the reason he’s angry? If that’s not too forward a question.”

  Mrs. Fowler said, “Oh, you’ve earned an explanation, sir. No, no, I have no hesitation to answer. Matters like this, well, they’re always complicated. To cut it short, I tend to be an independent woman. That does not sit well with him. I travel by myself, often to regions that are, we could say, less than felicitous to women. He wanted me to stay at home and dote on him.” A scowl. “Like an indentured servant.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “No. The Lord has not blessed us. And a good thing that is, I know now. He would treat a child no differently than he treats me.”

  “His temper can’t always have been this foul.”

  “No, of course, I never would have married him like this. He changed over time. He was a good son to his mother, and was a brave soldier. He served with the 17th Indiana Infantry and distinguished himself at the battle of Vicksburg. He was a kind husband for some years after, but he made bad business decisions, squandering his parents’ inheritance. And much of my parents’, as well. It certainly is no help that he has a love for whiskey. Two days ago, when drunk, he delivered this.” She gestured toward the bruise.

  “And that was one blow too many?”

  “I took what I could—just one valise—and fled. Thomas must have terrorized the stationmaster and learned where I went. His temper and the drink get the better of him, but when he’s on his game, he’s a bloodhound. I came to Chicago, thinking I would get lost in a city of this size. But that hasn’t seemed to work.” She turned her eyes toward him. “And what of you, Mr. Gossett? You certainly dress smartly, even on such a hot day. And you’re a quick thinker. What is your profession...if you’re not a professional rescuer of damsels in distress?”

  “Nothing glamorous. I manage the station operations for a railroad.” He hesitated. Then Gossett decided he might as well tell her: “The C&WRR.”

 
She gave no reaction, other than to appear politely interested. Her head scanned about once again.

  He added, “The Chicago and Western?”

  She focused on him, as she tried to recollect the name. “Yes, an incident, recently? Out West.”

  “Two months ago. Early May. It caused quite a stir. But in fairness the facts were poorly presented in the newspapers.” He felt uneasy, defensive. “We had every right to relocate the village. The savages resisted and our employees and the soldiers merely defended themselves.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you were justified. Why, have you heard the rumors about Colonel Custer’s regiment at the Little Bighorn? The accounts are saying he and hundreds of his troops were massacred by Sioux warriors. The beasts!”

  Gossett was relieved at her words of sympathy. “Exactly. You appreciate the hard spot my company was in. Our mission is to bring civilization to the West, for everyone’s benefit... Ah, but forgive me. It has been a heated topic of discussion and I tend to be defensive about it. I’m glad you do not think less of me.” He’d meant to say “less of the railroad,” but his tongue had slipped.

  “Certainly not.” Mrs. Fowler turned her head about, with a faint, anxious frown. No sign of the bully in the blue suit. She said softly, “Mr. Gossett?”

  “Please, call me George.”

  “I will. And the P?”

  “Pendleton.”

  “George Pendleton Gossett. A distinguished name. And I’m Annie. I know no one in this city. Other than Mrs. Briggs, my landlady, and the Ginellis, an immigrant family who live beside me and don’t speak a word of English. So I don’t know who to turn to, to acquire what I need.”

  “And what is that?”

  “A pistol.”

  “My goodness. Do you know how to use one?”

  “I have some experience. Thomas allowed me to shoot a few times in our backyard. It turned out I was quite good—which made him irritated, until I began to miss on purpose.”

  “I must say, Mrs... Annie, I must say my firearms experience is limited to taking bird with shot. I don’t own a pistol, but...well...”

  She regarded his face. Gossett knew he was considered a handsome man, and suave in some ways. He knew too that he exhibited a boyishness, in that his face transmitted his feelings as if by the sure hand of a telegraph operator.

  She laughed. “You needn’t worry, George. You made me a widow in your fiction. And though I wish I were one in this real life, I’m not a murderer. I have no desire to go to prison.” Her voice dipped in timbre. “But I will say this. If he does find me and raises his hand once more, I won’t hesitate to kill him.” She put her long fingers around his arm. “If it troubles you to hear that and you don’t want to help me, I more than understand.”

  “No, no, Annie.” He enjoyed the musical ring of her name, as much as he enjoyed the sensation of her hand on his arm. “I’d be honored to assist you. It may take a few hours. I’ll make inquiries.”

  “There’s a small park near my boarding house. Jefferson Park, are you familiar with it?”

  He was. It was in a not very pleasant part of town. He was going to suggest another location, but decided it might not be a smart idea to be seen delivering a weapon to a beautiful woman in a locale where Gossett’s friends, family, or associates might spy him. None of whom would ever take a constitutional through Jefferson Park. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  She lifted a pendant watch and opened the case. His eyes strayed to her bosom. He looked away quickly. She said, “It’s now noon. Shall we say three?”

  “That should be enough time.” He already knew several men who could help him.

  “George, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Again she gripped his hand with as much strength and confidence as any man, though with one very grand difference: the sense of electricity that flowed through him as palm met palm.

  * * *

  Thomas pounded hard on the door of the hardware store.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Hello!”

  A half hour ago, he had left the decrepit portion of the city where Annie had taken up quarters, and was now in a modest working neighborhood—the 800 West block of Adams.

  The plan was coming together and he now needed some things to bring matters to a tidy conclusion.

  His fist slammed into the door again. The glass shook.

  Still no response, though he could smell cooking—the aroma of meat. It was coming from the apartment above the small shop.

  Once more, fist upon wood.

  A curtain in the back fluttered and then a man in trousers and a wrinkled white shirt pushed through. He was large and balding and he sported an elaborate moustache—not unlike Thomas’s own, though he himself was far from bald; his black hair was a mane, and was presently swept back with tonic. He’d learned this gave him an ominous look and made people fearful of him.

  “The devil, sir!” the shop owner snapped, opening the door. “The shop is closed.” He pointed unnecessarily to a sign that reported that very fact.

  “I need something,” Thomas said in a monotone.

  The shopkeeper sputtered, “Come back tomorrow!”

  “I can’t wait until tomorrow.”

  “We.are.closed!”

  Thomas unbuttoned his coat. He withdrew his wallet and extracted a bill, held it up. The man’s eyes went wide. It was a five-dollar U.S. note, featuring Andrew Jackson gazing inscrutably to the right.

  “This is yours to keep. On top of my purchases.”

  The man blinked. His voice a whisper: “What do you need?”

  Thomas said, “I have to put down a swine of mine. It’s ill and I’m concerned about contamination. I need lime to reduce the body. A shovel, as well. And rope.”

  A woman’s shrewish voice carried from upstairs. “Henry! Return here this minute. I need more water for the pot. Now!”

  The man grimaced, as he looked ceilingward. “All right, but let’s be quick about it.”

  Thomas stepped inside, handed the bill to the man, who stuffed it quickly into his pocket. He selected his shovel and a coil of rope. The shopkeeper walked behind the counter to the place where the chemicals were kept. “How much lime?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  The man hesitated for a moment. “I’d think you wouldn’t need that much for one animal. Five pounds should do the trick nicely.”

  Thomas lowered his head and gazed at the man from under his bushy, black eyebrows—a look that was as much a weapon as the Colt Peacemaker revolver tucked into his back waistband.

  The man turned quickly and snagged a ten-pound container of lime. Thomas tucked it under his arm as if it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. “How much?”

  “A dollar ten for everything. No, make it a dollar even.”

  Thomas dug from his pocket two single notes. These he tossed onto the counter, then hefted the shovel and rope.

  Irritated that the man didn’t seem to understand that their transaction was over, he shot a dark glance at the door and the shopkeeper scurried to open it for him. Thomas stepped into the hot, rank street without another word.

  * * *

  Annie sat on an ancient bench that had not seen a coat of paint for at least thirty years.

  The air in Jefferson Park was foul, oppressive. The smells were smoke and manure from the nearby stockyards. The place was bordered by abandoned and burned-out commercial buildings interspersed with squatters’ shacks and tents.

  Annie divided her time between city and wilderness. On the whole, she probably preferred the more rustic locales. A passion of hers was photography, and she’d had the good fortune to learn not only from Mathew Brady, the famed photographer of the War of the Rebellion, but from the frontier photographers L. A. Huffman and Stanley J. Morrow. Annie loved those times, traveling on horseback with a small “dark tent,” in which
she developed her plates and printed the images. Her preference was portraiture and she had perhaps a hundred photographs of a wide variety of characters—good and bad—throughout the Midwest, South, and the territories. They were all black-and-white, not sepia or hand-tinted, as was currently fashionable. Someday, perhaps, an inventor would devise a way to capture and print color photographs. She would wait for that.

  “Say there, Mrs. Fowler... That is to say, Annie.”

  She turned and observed George Gossett walking toward her through the park. Annie rose and shook his hand. They sat once more on the bench. Two women walked by. They wore their skirts above the knee, as clear an indication of their profession as if they’d been wearing advertising posters front and back. When they were gone and no one else was in sight, Gossett withdrew from his pocket a small revolver, dull nickel in color and with yellow bone or horn grips.

  “Ah, thank you!”

  She looked down and spun the cylinder slowly. It was loaded with five cartridges. He fished a box from his pocket. “Here are more bullets, though I sincerely hope you don’t need a single one, let alone dozens.”

  She closed the weapon and examined the gun. It was silver and featured a handle that was made of polished yellow bone. His finger touched the grip. “I asked for a pretty pistol for a pretty lady.” His skin brushed hers.

  A laugh. “Ah, but you flatter me, George.”

  He withdrew his hand. Slowly.

  She put the gun into her bag.

  A beggar approached and a stern glare from Gossett deflected him. He gazed about at the troubled neighborhood. “Your accommodations are here?”

  “Around the corner. I have a monthly rental for three dollars. I will move to nicer quarters but I have little cash at the moment. When I fled, I took the only thing of value that I had—jewelry my mother left me. It pains me but I’ll need to sell some of it. If you know of a reputable jeweler...”

  She opened her purse and withdrew a velvet pouch. She tugged the top apart and showed him dozens of rings, bracelets, necklaces. The diamonds and emeralds sparkled.