Page 55 of If Looks Could Kill
“I’m bleeding!” she shrieked. “On my silks! You’ll pay for that, you wretched little cow!”
I stumbled backward down the stairs, holding up the wobbling pistol.
Mother Rosie’s silhouette hovered like a ghost at the top of the stairs.
“See you soon, chickie,” she called down. “Lucky for you, I never forget a face.”
Lower East Side, ManhattanJack of an Evening(Sunday, December 2, 1888)
Jack’s fellow lodgers at Mrs. McNamara’s guesthouse would say, if asked, that the tall medical man in their midst keeps to himself. He does not enter into conversation in the parlor, nor at supper. He isn’t friendly with the servants. He can’t be enticed into a game of dominoes, and at the mention of charades, his face turns green. Often, without any pretense of an excuse, he bolts upright and leaves the room, only to return moments later just as inexplicably.
He doesn’t care what they think of him. He’s on a mission, and there’s not a moment to waste. He’s got to get out of here without the detective seeing him go.
First, he checks the view from each front window that he can access. Is the beefy detective still visible? The setting sun and the cold likely drove him indoors eventually, probably to McKenna’s pub on the corner. Jack imagines him talking with the bartender.Don’t tell a soul—I know I can trust you, I can tell a good face when I see one—but I’m here following Jack the Ripper!
Jack takes several trips up and down the stairs of the house, learninghow quietly a person of his size must tread without attracting attention. Where are the noisy steps? Where are the supports? Staying closest to the load-bearing wall is usually his best bet. He takes the steps with his eyes closed, counting and testing his memory.
“Taking exercise,” he tells a fellow lodger who asks him what he’s doing.
Next, he fills a small vial with oil from the pantry and goes about covertly checking that he’s alone, then making sure door latches and hinges are lubricated and free of squeaks.
He slips through the rear of the house till he finds the door that opens onto the narrow alleyway behind and tests that doorknob. No one, it seems, watches him from out here. That’s not possible. It’s too easy.
Of course it is. He sees him now. The watcher in the window. Spy number two. Across the alley, down a dozen yards, and up a flight, someone watches his door. An agency man, no doubt. Some Pinkerton local on the payroll of Scotland Yard.
All right, then. Jack knows where they are and where they’re from. There will come a moment when both watchers’ vigilance will falter, and when it comes, Jack will know how to seize it. He won’t need long.
The Bowery, Lower East Side, ManhattanTabitha—What This Night Brings(Sunday, December 2, 1888)
I reached the pavement of the street below and slammed the door shut behind me, then whirled around, pitching myself headlong into Mike’s chest, pistol first.
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” he yelped. He gingerly pointed the gun away from his body. “What in the name of—Miss Tabitha, what are youdoing?”
“What areyoudoing here?” I said.
“I saw you enter Mother Rosie’s crib,” he said. “Alone.And you didn’t come out.”
“Youfollowedme?”
“I happened,” he corrected me, “to see you pass by.”
Pearl, Cora, and Freyda were already racing down Spring Street, away from the Bowery.
“I’ve got to go,” I panted.
“Can I, er, relieve you of that gun?” Mike asked me.
“I need it,” I told him.
“Then let me come,” he said. “I’ll wager I’ve got more experience with these than you.”
So would a Pomeranian. I handed it to him. He flicked a lever, then tucked it into his pocket. I took off running after my companions and soon heard him running at my side.
“You shouldn’t come,” I told him. “The men—weapons—coming—”
“Sounds to me,” he said, “like all the more reason why I should.”
I didn’t have enough breath in me to argue.
