Chapter 7
Artie was horrified, most of all over his own insensitivity. Had he paid a little more attention, he would have seen something was wrong.
"For now, let's just talk. When the dancing started, I heard Ivanovich and another man, an American this time, talk about bombing the city – the entire city – of San Francisco. "
"Good God, how is that even possible? Could the other man have been Warriner?"
"I don't know, I don't remember his voice. But whoever it was, he seemed confident that it could be done."
Artie whistled and shook his head.
"There's something even worse," Anna continued. "Mladepovich suspects that you're not Timofei Edviva."
"How do you know?"
"Oh, he went on and on in Russian when we were dancing – I guess it amused him, thinking that he could say these things, and I wouldn't understand."
Artie shook his head again. How was he going to take care of Anna, while keeping Mladepovich in the dark, and tracking Warriner down before it was too late? Right or wrong, Anna's well-being was his first priority. "How do you think they poisoned you?" As soon as the words left his mouth he remembered the wine. "Oh, no...
"If you're about to say 'the wine,' you're right. I can't believe I fell for it – what was I thinking?"
"I should have–"
"No, Artemus, I should have known – don't you dare blame yourself! In these situations I know never to take anything – food, water, anything – that are in anyway different or from a different source from the people around me. Stupidly, I drank what was handed to me, and everyone else drank from the bottle."
"Including me,." Artie replied in a pained voice.
"Artemus, if you intend to blame yourself for this, I guarantee you – I absolutely guarantee! – I'll never speak to you again. I am not some helpless female. I just made a very stupid mistake. Please recognize that. Please," she said as she reached for his hand. "It – well, it could just be a little food poisoning. There wouldn't be much reason for Mladepovich to kill his cash cow's honey."
"That's true." Not knowing what else to do, Artie attempted to embrace her.
"Darling, I'm a little too warm at the moment – would you mind?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry, sweet." He placed his hand on her forehead, then quickly dropped it. She was burning up.
"Don't apologize. I applaud your intent," she smiled.
Artie returned her smile. "When was the last time I told you I love you?"
"Oh, it's been hours."
"I love you. I adore you. I worship the ground you walk on. I worship your little feet that walk on the ground. I think you're the most beautiful, delectable–"
"Delectable, goodness," she laughed.
"Yes, delectable – where was I? Delectable, charming, brilliant thing I've ever laid eyes on."
"And you're all of those things, and then some. And quite a lover, Mr. Gordon."
With that, he grinned and kissed her hand.
Once back in their suite, Artie carried her to the bed, then reached over to straighten her tiara. "Just so you'll look nice for the doctor."
"Can you help me out of this dress first?"
"Avec plaisir, mon amour."
Once she was out of the dress and in a nightgown, Artie tucked her in.
"Are you comfortable, sweetheart?"
"As comfortable as I can be, considering that my stomach feels like it wants to turn itself inside out. I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow," she said, forcing a smile.
"Are you at all tired?" he asked.
"A little."
"Would you like me to stay until you fall asleep?"
"Would you do that for me? That's so sweet of you, Artemus."
"Anything for the girl I love. After you fall asleep, I'll go look for a doctor."
Once she was sleeping soundly, Artie got up and left. As he approached the rising room, the doors opened and Frankie, smoking a cigar, got off. "Going out without your whore? Whatja get tired of her?"
Artie raised a fist, intending to deliver another haymaker.
"Hey, bub, I wouldn't try that – I was a little loaded last time, but now I'm stone cold sober, and not somebody you want to tangle with, yeah."
In a rage, Artie pinned him to the wall. "Why were you attempting to buy our photographs?"
"'cause I think you're pretty," Frankie replied acidly.
"You know, it would be the easiest thing in the world right now to crush your trachea, and I would do it with great pleasure.."
Frankie saw that he meant it. "Hey, buddy, sorry!?"
Reluctantly, Artie relented. "Come tomorrow, you will no longer have a job," he threatened before the doors closed.
Frankie just laughed and shook his head as he rushed to the suite door, and opened it with the pass key. He walked silently to the bedroom – fortunately Anna was sleeping, so it would be easier to chloroform her. He succeeded without a struggle, and carried her to the rising room, leaving from the hotel basement, and then outside into a waiting carriage.
An hour later, Artie returned with the house doctor. Oddly, she was not in bed. "Anna, sweetheart, we're – Anna? Anna!" Where was she??
The doctor seemed unconcerned as he headed for the door. "Sir, if she comes back, you know where to find me."
Artie dropped onto the bed, wondering what had happened. Then he noticed on the floor a handkerchief which, when he picked it up, reeked of chloroform. He got up and ran to the rising room, and from there, to the front desk.
"Sir, did someone leave recently with a lady – tall, slender, dark hair? He may have been carrying her."
The night clerk looked up. "Leave? No, sir. Would you like me to keep an eye out?"
"Yes. Her name is An– Arnaude DeRouisseau, but she answers to Anna as well. If you see her, please speak to her and let her know Timofei should be back shortly. Also, please, if she is with someone, get that person's name. And if you could commit to memory what he looks like, I'd be grateful."
"Yes, sir."
* * *
Anna awoke in a dark room, watched by a man smoking in the corner. When he saw her eyes open, he came closer. It was Warriner, dressed in a bellman's uniform.
"How's Anna this evening?"
Anna did not reply – it was pointless to make the effort, considering how ill she felt and how she desperately needed to focus on finding a way out.
"Didn't expect to see me yet, yeah? Funny, I thought you'd have noticed me at the hotel. Your friend Artemus sure did," Warriner said as he rubbed his jaw. "Got a good right arm on him. But I guess that's not the appendage you're interested in, yeah?"
Anna remained silent.
"Cat got your tongue, yeah? Or maybe too much poison in your drink – I tried to measure it out just right, but maybe my hand shook -- I get the DT's now and again. I'm disappointed, though – I thought you'd want to talk. Especially since we're now coming to the end of our long association. Before I decided to get into the explosives game, I had a lotta stuff left over from my chemistry days. I thought you'd be a good prospect for getting rid of it. And, if my calculations are correct, Mr. Gordon should be measuring you for a shroud some time within the next thirty-six hours. Unfortunately, I probably won't be around to witness it – gotta get myself cleaned up so I can present myself to Mr. Mladepovich as Francis E. Warriner, bomber extraordinaire."
Anna continued to stare at him. The room was windowless and smelled somewhat musty. It must have been a basement. There was also a strong smell of gunpowder.
"No questions, no questions at all?"
"Where am I?"
"On your way to meet your Maker. Any other questions?"
"Two: how have you been able to keep track of me all this time? And, do you really think you're going to get away with this?"
Warriner picked up a chair and sat next to the army cot on which she lay. "Let me answer in reverse order, yeah? The second question, my answer is a resounding yes. You are going to die – even as we speak your body is becoming less and less able to process oxygen. Mladepovich is gonna get what he wants, and your gentleman friend should follow you into the great beyond probably within the week. I'm not sure how I'm gonna do him in – maybe try out some new explosives, or maybe I'll let Mladepovich come up with something. He's a tough nut, that Russki. I gave Ivy proof that Gordon's not this Edviva, but Mladepovich doesn't seem to want to believe it. Now he's got this match safe with Gordon's name on it, I think his resistance is breaking down. "
Anna gasped. The thought of Artemus being killed....
"Your first question – now this surprises me, considering you're not as dumb as the average woman. I've done my share of raping and pillaging, so I have a considerable bank account, yeah? And a great brain – couldn't get into any university, but that didn't stop me from my scientific pursuits, yeah? A certain Mrs. White knows this, and then she gets it in her head to blow the whistle on me. Problem is Mrs. White is one of those moral types – can't be bought at any price. See, that's unfortunate – if she were a little more realistic she wouldn't be here dying alone on a dirty cot in the basement of an old flophouse. Anyway, sharp she is, but naive. Lotsa war vets no longer employable due to war wounds – at least they can be paid to watch a certain lady. And telegraph operators – I bet you didn't know the average telegraph operator earns about twenty dollars a month. I pay a little better, two hundred dollars a month if I'm given copies of every telegram that this Mrs. White sends or receives. Including the ones that name – or rename – Artemus Gordon as Timofei Edviva."
"I see."
"Oh, where are my manners? That telegram you sent me a couple weeks ago? See, it was just re-routed – I only received it today, since I've already been working at the Palace for over a month now, in anticipation of your arrival."
* * *
Artie was back at the mansion, this time with his shoulder holster on. He was met at the door by Mladepovich. "French lady alright?"
"Yes."
"Good, then come in. So many ladies to dance with.."
"First, I wonder if I can talk to Mr. Ivanovich. I did so enjoy that Russian wine, I'd like to know more about it."
Mladepovich was puzzled. "Russian wine? Russian wine is vodka!"
"He brought around a bottle of a fruity-tasting red wine – it wasn't Russian?"
"Mr. Edviva, all things Russian not good, only most things. Russian wine worse than worst thing."
"Well, I must know where he got that wine. Can you tell me where I can find him?" Artie persisted.
"Ivanovich only here to serve dinner. He's gone now. "
"Gone where? Gone home?"
"I don't know. Maybe. What does it matter, we've music and dancing and vodka, and glorious future?"
"Is there any place else he might likely be? Please, sir – I am a wine enthusiast of the highest order and, although you have your own ideas of Russian wine, whatever it was he served was pure nectar. I simply must find out how to get more."
"Maybe saloon near guest house - Mermaid's Tail, he's there often. But that's for later. Now sing, dance, be merry."
Artie went back into the party and danced with a number of women who, speaking to him in Russian, propositioned him, often with a dig at Anna.. He remained smiling, but kept saying over and over, "Sorry, dear, I don't speak Russian." Those who knew enough English to understand that either switched to English or French. Had he not been on duty – and in love – he'd could have had an assignation with a different Russian woman – all of them married – every day for the following two weeks.
After about an hour, he approached Mladepovich. "Tovarich, I'm so tired and my lover is so demanding, and .. Well, I'm sure you know," he said with a wink.
Mladepovich knitted his bushy eyebrows. "Before you go, may we sit and talk?"
"Of course."
Mladepovich put his arm around Artie's shoulder, and lead him to his library. Mladepovich indicated the two oxblood leather wing chairs near the fireplace. He took one; Artie, the other.
"Do you know Artemus Gordon?"
"What's an artemusgordon?" Artie asked. "Is that like a jereboam?"
"Is person. Is person Ivanovich says you are. Has friend who claims this is so."
"Of all the cockamamie names --'Artemus?' Must be a joke," Artie chuckled.
"He says no joke. Is government agent working to stop foundation of my empire."
Artie laughed bitterly. "No one in their right mind, if they understood what you're working toward, would attempt to stop it. And the government – the U. S. government? – too stupid to understand anything."
"True, but am expecting proof you are this person, not Timofei Edviva," Mladepovich said calmly. "I hope, friend, that you are not. For your sake."
"I am confident that whoever it is who is attempting to libel me, will be proven to be an enemy of yours."
"Good. Now other news. Mr. Warriner will arrive in two days. Would like you to meet with him and myself."
"Yes, indeed, tovarich," Artie said as he rose. "And thank you again for your hospitality. Miss DeRouisseau and I had a wonderful time."
* * *
Artie walked the mile-and-a-half to the guest house. The Mermaid's Tail was at the end of the block. As he had hoped, Ivanovich was at the bar. Approaching from behind, he put the business end of his revolver against Ivanovich's spine. "Mr. Ivanovich, would you like to come outside and talk?"
"Indeed, sir" Ivanovich had no idea who was holding the gun. It didn't matter.
They left the bar with Artie still pointing the gun at Ivanovich's back. None of the rest of the crowd at seemed to notice; gunplay was a nightly event.
Out on the cobblestone street, Artie pushed Ivanovich into a street lamp and ordered him to turn around.
"Mr. Edviva??"
"My sister is sick," Artie said coolly.
"Am sorry to hear, sir." Why was Mr. Edviva holding a gun to him, if only because that woman of his was sick? Was he mad?
"Not as sorry as you're going to be. Who put you up to it?"
"Sir?"
"The wine – who put you up to serving her poisoned wine?"
"Wine poisoned?" Ivanovich noted the malevolence in Artie's stare and in his terror, he began to shake.
"You didn't know?"
"No, sir. No, sir! Frankie, he wanted to come along tonight, help in kitchen. He said give glass of wine to French lady, Russian wine."
"You knew nothing of poison?" growled Artie. "Swear to me – if I find out you're lying, I won't hesitate to kill you."
"Sir, please – am telling truth, all truth! Frankie is very –" Panicked, Ivanovich struggled to find an appropriate English word. "Is bad man... is...is violent man! "At last the right word turned up. "Starts fights with weak people. Very bad."
"Where can I find him?"
"I don't know. Today was last day at hotel. He gave only two days notice."
"Did he have any hangouts?"
Ivanovich thought a moment. There was that flophouse in the Tenderloin he liked to go to, so he could beat up drunks. "Is rooming house, Sixth and Market Street. He goes there. I don't know where he lives."
Artie put the gun back in its holster and walked away without another word. It turned out that the flophouse was, for the most part, empty according to the desk clerk. Men fitting Frankie's description – middle-aged, unkempt, jaundiced – were in and out at all hours. "They all look alike to me, pal," the clerk said. He did not offer the information that someone fitting that description had signed a one-month lease on the basement the week before.
With only dead ends, he returned to the Palace. The empty room was cold – a sad reminder that Anna was missing.
The following day was another litany of frustration. Hotel management didn't know where Frankie had gone, and the address he'd given them upon taking the job turned out to be non-existent. Ivanovich shook whenever Artie passed by the front desk, but Artie had already removed him from consideration. He visited every flophouse in the Tenderloin, either nobody remembered Frankie or they remembered dozens of men who fit his description. Upon his return to the Palace, Cornelius gave him two telegrams – one from Jim, the other from Mladepovich.
The one from Jim was very heartening. The communication cutoff resulting from the destruction of Mladepovich's telegraph system left his troops scrambling like confused roaches. Another forty had been brought in, and there was no sign that any, other than stragglers, remained at large. Mladepovich's telegram was an invitation to have lunch with him and Warriner at an estate outside of the city the following day.
* * *
Prior to leaving for the luncheon, Artie planted weapons all over his person – his gun, smoke bombs, knives, acids in vials so tiny he could fit nearly ten in his breast pocket. The carriage arrived at the estate at eleven a.m. It appeared to have been long neglected – strange that Mladepovich would have scheduled their meeting in such a place.
He was met by Mladepovich on the porch and ushered into the dining room where sat Frankie, well-dressed, clean-shaven and without his usual stink.
"Mr. Edviva, I would like to introduce Mr. Francis E. Warriner. Is demolitions specialist, as previously mentioned."
Artie extended his hand. "I believe we've met, sir."
"Yes, I believe we have, Mr. Gor–... Mr. Edviva."
"Let's commence then," said Mladepovich, snapping his fingers at the footman who stood by a cart on which sat bowls of beet salad and mushrooms in sour cream, plates of red caviar sandwiches, and apple vareniki. "Following our meal, I have scheduled light entertainment."
"How nice," Artie deadpanned.
The conversation that followed centered on Mladepovich's immediate plans: restore the telegraph system, appoint his supporters to positions that would help bring about the imminent take-over of the West Coast, perhaps consider Mr. Warriner's suggestion that bombing large swaths of San Francisco might serve notice to the U. S. Government that he was in earnest and not to be trifled with.
Artie applauded every suggestion, until it came to the bombing of San Francisco. "How could this be achieved? To effectively plan such an operation –"
"Mr. Edviva, plans are complete," Warriner said with a sickly grin. "All I have to do is enlist some of my associates to set off my bombs at the right time."
"And your associates are?"
"A number of gentleman who, you may say, have seen better days. For the promise of a few bottles of rotgut, they make the very best employees. I'm hoping to kill at least two or three thousand people on the first day, and badly injure a few thousand more," he said, with his eyes bright with excitement.
"Sounds like fun. But don't you think the government will come down rather hard on you and on Mr. Mladepovich?"
"Bomb them as they come off the trains! Bomb them on horseback, bomb them on foot! After a few tastes of it, they'll turn tail and run back eastward. I have no doubt of this. The golden west, littered with dead and bleeding bodies – what a thing to look forward to!"
The meal was over, and glasses of port were offered. Smelling his glass before taking a sip, Artie asked, "So what is our entertainment going to be?"
Mladepovich laughed heartily. "You, Mr. Edviva – or Mr. Gordon, whichever you prefer – you are going to be entertainment."
* * *
Artie's hands were tied behind his back, shackles clanged from his ankles. Mladepovich walked along his left side, Warriner on his right.
"I purchased estate for – how do Americans say it? – ah, for song. Purchased for song. Will use to test bombs. Then maybe rebuild, make summer palace here."
Artie was led to one of the outbuildings, with double doors facing the house, and a single door on the opposite end of the building. Probably it originally held the larger farm equipment.
The double doors were opened and he was pushed to the dirt floor.
"I'm going to blow up the entire building with a single charge of my new design." Warriner showed him a small box, no bigger than a deck of cards. "Now, you might not blow up with it, but any injuries you sustain will probably kill you shortly after. I'm very proud of this innovation – we can now carry hugely effective bombs just in our pockets! In a few days we'll place these all over San Francisco, kill at least two, three thousand people, maybe five thousand, thousands more injured. Blood everywhere," he said delightedly.
"Congratulations," said Artie dryly. "One day you'll be up there with Gutenberg and Ben Franklin."
Warriner gave him a swift cuff across his face, which set Artie's nose and mouth bleeding. "I've waited to repay you. And maybe – if you survive the explosion – I'll really enjoy myself by beating you to death."
"You know, that doesn't really sound enjoyable to me."
"Be assured, it won't be" Warriner laughed, with Mladepovich joining in.
Just then, Tereschevsky ran to them. "Ivanovich is here with news. Bad news. Hurry!"
Mladepovich ran in the direction of the house, calling behind him, "Wait to explode when I come back!"
"Wait? I don't want to wait, yeah. But I suppose I could beat you to death now, eh, Mr. Gordon? I hate to waste time." Warriner said with a grin, while he looked around the building for a two-by-four or something similar.
Artie was sure he could get out of this somehow. Luckily, the only thing in this building was the dirt floor. Warriner was disappointed, "I guess I have no choice but to wait, then."
"While we're waiting, why don't you tell me where Mrs. White is?"
"'Mrs. White?' How gentlemanly. Well, Anna's dying or maybe she's dead already – it's definitely one or the other."
"Where is she?" Artie persisted.
"What do you care – you'll never see her again.'
"Where is she??" Artie roared.
"I won't say. I can't hurt you physically yet – I really want to see what you look like after the bomb goes off – but I can hurt you mentally. It's not as much fun, but it'll do for now."
Tereschevsky peeked through the double doors. "Mr. Warriner, leader must talk to you. Many problems." Warriner left, and Artie hoped Mladepovich could hold his attention for at least ten minutes.
Warriner left the building and locked the double doors behind him. As soon as he was gone, Artie tried to raise his jacket so he could get to the breast pocket. He was successful, and was able to get the case out of the pocket with his teeth With his teeth he also opened the case, and ten vials of acid rolled onto the ground. He picked up one, again with his teeth, and dropped it in the center of the shackles. He then took the case in his mouth and shattered the vial with it. Within a few seconds the acid ate the metal and his legs were free.
Next he did the same with another vial, trying to get it to rest on the center of the rope tying his hands. This was far trickier, since he could only feel, but not see what he was doing – his hands were still behind his back. He'd have to break the vial by crushing it somehow with his hands, and move them away quickly enough so the acid wouldn't burn them. After sending up a brief prayer, Artie succeeded on the first attempt, and his hands were free. As quickly as he could, he collected all the vials but one, put them back in the case and the case back into his pocket. That last vial he used on the backdoor lock.
He could hear Mladepovich talking now, something about fresh recruits sent up the coast in a fishing boat and the boat capsizing with all lost, and then something about an escapee from Vancouver who claimed that since commucations had ceased, the remaining troops ran about like frightened cockroaches, and ultimately were seized. Warriner spoke up and said he was ready to test his bomb.
Artie scrambled out of the back door and crawled as fast as he could in the high grass. When he was about fifty feet from the building, it blew up, covering him in sawdust and rubble. He reached into his jacket, took out one of the knives and stopped moving. Eventually Warriner would want to see if he were in one piece and killable or not.
After picking through the mess on the site where stood the building, Warriner started rooting through the bordering area. When he came close enough, Artie reached out and buried the knife into his ankle. Warriner fell screaming. Artie shot up out of the rubble and kicked him in the side, then sat on his chest, holding another knife to his throat.
"Where is Anna?"
"Not gonna tell, you, yeah." Warriner said through clenched teeth.
"Let me explain cause and effect to you." Artie said in an eerily calm voice. "Cause: you don't tell me where she is. Effect: I slice your throat from ear to ear."
Warriner replied by leering at him. Artie ran the knife for a few inches below Warriner's left ear, deep enough to draw blood.
"You talk or I finish the job." Warriner didn't respond, so Artie reached back to the knife still protruding from his ankle and jiggled it a bit. Warriner screamed again.
"I tell you where she is, you have to let me go."
"Now we're getting somewhere. Where is she?"
"You promise –!
"Sure, promise. Now spill."
"Flophouse, Sixth and Market, in the basement."
"Not good enough. I need proof."
Warriner struggled to get his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a key with a plate dangling from the ring on which was engraved 'Everick Smith Hotel, 6th & Market, S. F., Cal.' "You got your proof, now get off my chest."
"Warriner, how many people have you killed in your life?"
"Not including the war? Two hundred and fifteen. You and Mrs. White were to be numbers 216 and 217, which is why I wanted the photographs. I like to have photographs in my records," he said proudly.
"You know you'll get the death penalty if you're caught."
"I won't get caught," Warriner said defiantly.
Artie laughed. "You are caught. And rather than take the time to submit you to the authorities, round up witnesses, and hold a trial, I'll hand the sentence down now: death."
"You promised!"
"I lied." With that, Artie buried the knife in Warriner's heart.
Artie got up and ran in the direction of the house. He was shocked to see Tereschevsky holding a bleeding and dying Mladepovich. Tereschevsky looked up at him and said, "Stood too close to exploding building. Is great tragedy – now persecuted Russians have no savior! No hope!"
Artie said nothing, and sped toward the carriage, yelling at the driver to take him back to the city as fast as he could.
An hour later he was at the front desk of the flophouse. "The basement – how do I get down there?"
The clerk looked up from the dime novel he was reading and cocked his head in the direction of a door next to the stairs.
* * *
Artie flew down the steps. The door to the room at the bottom of the stairs was unlocked. He opened it to see Anna lying on the cot. Her eyes were closed, her breathing was very labored. Rushing to her side, he checked her pulse, then embraced her in an attempt to listen to her heartbeat. The signs weren't good.
As her eyes fluttered open, she broke into a smile. "Artemus," she whispered. "Oh, Artemus... I ... I didn't... think... you would... He... he... said you... would... be killed"
"Shhh, everything's alright, sweetheart," Artie murmured as he stroked her forehead.
"Artemus... I... I'm afraid.... I'm might... break... my promise."
"Anna, that's impossible. You'll always be with me. Always." He was beginning to break down.
With great effort, she tried to lift her hand to his cheek. Hot tears dropped onto her fingers. "Artemus... please... don't cry."
He took a deep breath, then said, "I'm not crying... it's just that I'm so happy to see the woman I love."
"Then... smile... for me."
He took her hands in his and smiled warmly at her. Soon the light went out of her green eyes, and her heartbeat ceased.
Almost immediately, the floodgates opened and his body was wracked with sobs. Before long, he was crying so hard he began to hyper-ventilate. With that, he attempted to calm himself. He'd have the rest of his life to cry.
* * *
The telegram to Jim had been all business. "Mladepovich, Warriner dead. Associates in custody. A.. White resting. Visit Sept. 10, 435 Union St. 10 a.m." In the Service, to say that an agent was "resting" meant that he had been killed in the line of duty: "visit" meant funeral. When he met Jim and Colonel Richmond at the train station, he merely offered the facts. He couldn't have told them of his feelings for her, first because it wasn't seemly, and secondly because he could not have done so without going to pieces.
Only Artie, Jim, and Colonel Richmond attended the service. Just before Jim and the Colonel were scheduled to arrive at the funeral parlor, Artie asked the undertaker for some time alone with her. As he wept, he whispered over and over, "Forgive me." He found it impossible to tear himself away, until the undertaker gently took his arm, and led him out of the room.
Although he didn't realize the significance until much later, the first inkling Jim got was at the gravesite. When the parson finally closed the book, he and the Colonel walked to the waiting carriage, Artie bringing up the rear – at least that's what Jim thought. As they got into the carriage, Artie seemed to be missing. Then Jim saw him standing at the grave, with his back to him. Jim noted that Artie's shoulders seemed to be heaving and, when he finally did get to the carriage, his eyes were red.
In the coming weeks, Jim was puzzled about the changes in Artie's behavior. He never seemed to sleep, for one thing. Jim would wake in the middle of the night, disturbed by the light still burning in the hallway, and from there he'd see Artie at the dining table staring at photographs or reading a journal that didn't look anything like his own. Something about his demeanor said that these were very private moments and Jim's questions – or even presence – were extremely unwelcome. His eyes were always puffy and bloodshot. He'd stopped eating, and his clothes began to hang on him. He worked like an automaton, always very seriously, but seemingly without interest. Any attempt Jim made at non-work-related conversation was politely rebuffed.
Artie had been through rough times before – he'd been wounded and nearly given up for dead more times than Jim could remember. They'd lost colleagues before. Yet even in the worst situations, Artie retained his good humor and did whatever he could to keep despair at bay. But he was slowly turning into a person Jim did not recognize.
After several stops across the country in order to tie up loose ends from previous missions, the Wanderer arrived in Washington. Both men were invited to advise President Grant about an upcoming meeting with representatives of the Russian government. The day of the meeting, Grant was shocked by Artie's appearance.
"You've been ill, Gordon?"
Artie was surprised by the question, as he'd been oblivious to the changes to his appearance. "No, sir."
Grant was unconvinced. The man had lost at least thirty pounds since he'd last seen him, his face was deathly pale. His normally buoyant manner was not in evidence; rather, he seemed to be in a great deal of pain. Perhaps he was dying and attempting to hide it for fear of losing his job.
"Gordon, I'd like to speak to Jim alone for just a few minutes. Would you excuse us?"
"Certainly, sir." Artie left the office, and began to pace around the anteroom, while trying to figure out why the president would want to speak to Jim without himself being there.
"Jim, I can see he's very ill. What's wrong with him?"
"Honestly, sir, I don't know. He hasn't told me anything – he won't talk about anything other than work. I've tried asking him, but he shuts me down every time."
"How long has this been going on? I saw you both in early July, you remember. He looked perfectly fine then. And here we are at the beginning of November, and it's not the same man."
"It started right after we closed the Mladepovich case. At first I thought it might have been from the strain of the case – it's always hard to lose a fellow agent – but now I don't know. If he is ill, I don't think he's seen a doctor."
"I could order a physical. Or I could ask him to take a leave of absence, to get his affairs in order, if... " It was very painful to think that Gordon might be mortally ill. Grant had always been fond of him, and few in his employ had Gordon's abilities and dedication.
"Yes, sir."
"Jim, you know him better than anybody – what would you suggest?"
Jim shook his head. "I can only suggest that you talk to him, and maybe let him decide, sir."
"Alright then. West, go get him, then wait out there."
"Yes, sir." Jim beckoned Artie to come in, while he waited in the ante-room.
"Gordon, take a seat. Now, you tell me you're not ill, and I guess I have to believe you – you've never lied to me. But your appearance says something very different, so I'd like to propose that you take some time off."
"Sir, I couldn't – there's so much work to do." Artie couldn't believe this was happening – did he really look that bad?
"We're none of us irreplaceable, Gordon. The work will get done. I don't want to force you to take time off; I want it to be your choice. But, as you know, I do have the final word."
"Yes, sir. I suppose I could take off a couple of days."
"No, not a couple of days. I'm thinking a month, minimum. And I expect you to see a doctor." Grant said with conviction.
Artie's heart sank. To be idle and alone with his pain for a month would be pure torment. But if he resisted, Grant might decide for a longer stretch of time. "Yes, sir – a month, then."
"Effective as of tomorrow morning, son."
"Yes, sir."
* * *
Artie returned to the Wanderer with a heavy heart. Jim and a few other associates had invited him out to dinner, but he begged off. Jim, in particular, looked disappointed. He knew that it was hurtful to keep Jim guessing about what might be wrong, but he simply couldn't bear the thought of sitting him down and explaining, while unavoidably falling apart into a sobbing mess.
He couldn't sleep because he couldn't bear to wake up and know that one more day separated him from her, and face the fact that, eventually, the days would turn into months and the months into years. Sometimes pure exhaustion would take over, but he never slept more than two or three hours. He had no appetite at all; the only time he ate anything was to get rid of the throbbing headache that would come after a few days without food.
Worst of all, far worse, was the guilt. He'd failed her. There was no other word for it.
Jim returned from dinner long after midnight. Artie was at what had become his usual spot – the dining table – where he was studying the photograph of Anna laughing. Although it was very late, and he was tired, Jim said, in a calm voice, "Artie, what's that you're looking at?"
"Nothing," Artie replied, as it slipped the photograph into his pocket.
"Artie, I need to talk to you.."
"No, it's really too late to get into conversation, what with all you and I have to do tomorrow."
"Yes, it is late. But I know that you're not going to sleep anyway, and I can stay up a little longer."
"Well, I'm just too busy." Artie rose and walked to his room. Jim followed.
"Artie, President Grant thinks you may be dying. I've been aware of your transformation, but today I saw it through his eyes and I'm wondering the same thing. You do look....." Jim hesitated to go on – this was probably the hardest thing he'd ever had to say "You do look very ill and, if that's the case, I'm more than willing to help in any way I can."
"No, I'm fine."
"Artie, you are not fine."
"I'm fine, I told you!"
"Artie, I went past your room today, and caught a glimpse of you putting on your shirt. I could count your ribs. And I've seen corpses who looked healthier than you do at the moment.."
"Why don't you just leave me alone? I told you I had things to do!" Artie spat angrily.
"Artie, look at yourself in the mirror. If I looked that bad, would you leave me alone?"
Artie felt cornered, and regretted not heading to his room and closing the door the minute he heard Jim come in. After a few deep breaths, he said, "Jim, it's late. I can't talk now."
"Artie..."
"No, I can't. I can't." He shook his head, and took another deep breath, silently praying Jim would leave before he lost control and started to cry. He pressed his palms over his eyes, but they was futile in holding back the torrent of tears.
"Artie! Please -- talk to me!"
Artie put his hand up and shook his head.
Jim thought a moment and, in those few seconds, the light finally went on. "You were in love with Anna," he said quietly.
Artie nodded, his face still buried in his hands.
"I'm so sorry, Artie."
"She... she saved my life. And I didn't save her's..." Artie sobbed bitterly. "I left her alone – I left her! And when I came back, Warriner already had her."
"Artie, you couldn't have known," Jim said patiently.
"I should have known! I shouldn't have let her drink the wine! It's all my fault. All my fault!".
"Artie, you need some rest. You can't keep torturing yourself, or else... or else we'll end up losing you, too. If she loved you – and I'm sure she did --, she wouldn't want you to be in this condition."
Artie shook his head. "What I did,,, it was unforgiveable."
"Artie, listen to me. You did your best, your very best – both of you did. And sometimes, even when we do our best, things... well, sometimes they don't turn out the way we hope. I think having been through the war you'd understand that. I'm sure Anna understood it."
"Alright... alright," Artie choked between sobs. He remembered that Anna was adamant that he not blame himself.
"I'm really sorry, Artie."
He nodded once more and Jim left. He then stretched out on his bed and slept, fitfully, until morning.
* * *
He was awakened by the smell of fresh coffee. After dressing, he came into the parlor to see Jim eating breakfast.
"Artie, some steak and eggs?"
"No, just coffee. I have to get going soon."
"You can stay, you know – I don't have to take the train out of Washington until the eleventh."
"No, I... I really need to clear my head. I figure getting away might be a good first step."
"Sure." Jim was heartened by the hopeful sound in Artie's voice. "Where are you going?"
"No place far, I'll just kick around the area, maybe make a trip up to Annapolis. Anna, she... she had a house there."
"Uh huh." Jim wasn't yet sure how to handle himself when her name came up.
"Listen, Jim – I gotta apologize."
"No, you don't."
Artie raised his hand for Jim to stop. "I do. You didn't deserve... well, I've been pretty uncommunicative for awhile now. It just wasn't right."
"Artie, now that I understand, I'd probably have done exactly the same thing."
"You're a great friend, one of the best I ever had" Artie said, his voice trailing off.
"You, too Artie – you, too."
* * *
After a few weeks of wandering around Washington, seeing a few plays, making side trips to Alexandria and Norfolk, Artie took the train to Annapolis. During the Mladepovich debriefing, he'd caught a glance at her personnel file – her address was 435 Pinckney Street.
On a bright Saturday morning, warm for November, he walked up Pinckney Street and soon found himself at her front door. From the outside, he could see it was just as tiny as she said, but it was also very charming. There were a few purple asters still blooming in the window box. He was comforted to see something that she'd still living.
He was about to try the doorknob when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it lightly and it flew open. "Hello?"
No answer came.
The downstairs had only two rooms, a parlor and kitchen, both very simply and appealingly decorated. The windows were especially nice and the rooms were flooded with sunshine. Upstairs was a single bedroom, furnished with a bed, writing table and a very large wardrobe cabinet. A key dangled from a string on the latch. Artie unlocked it and as soon as the door opened Anna's scent – honeysuckle – came wafting out. Artie breathed it in deeply, then buried his face in her dresses, weeping, yet so happy to feel close to her.
"Hello? Somebody in here?"
Artie wiped his eyes and came downstairs. He was met by a well-dressed man carrying a clipboard.
"You're the gentleman I was supposed to meet?"
"Uh, no. I'm a friend of the deceased."
"I'm the executor of the estate, Morris Fearne." the man said, extending his hand.
"Artemus Gordon, pleased to meet you."
"There's supposed to be somebody here today to look at the house, prospective buyer."
"I'll buy it," Artie said impulsively.
"Sir? Do you know anything about the property, the asking price?"
"I said I'll buy it." Artie repeated.
"It's twelve hundred dollars, and–"
"Give me your card, I'll come to your office on Monday with a bank draft – full amount."
"You're not toying with me, Mr. Gordon?" Fearne had been in the business for over thirty years, and nothing like this had ever happened.
"Absolutely not. What time does your office open on Monday?"
"Here, it's on the card – eight-thirty."
"I'll be there. Here's my card."
"Secret Service, huh? Must be an interesting life."
"It is"
"Well, then – that's that. See you on Monday, I'll have all the paperwork drawn up" said Fearne, his face breaking into a smile.
"Good, see you then." Both men shook hands, and Fearne left, still with a smile on his face. The fellows in the office would love this story.
Artie returned to the bedroom to once again fill his lungs with the honeysuckle scent. A sunny room smelling of Anna and honeysuckle – he'd never been so sad and so happy at the same time. Having walked miles from the train station, began to feel a little tired, so he laid down on her bed and looked out the window, the roofs of the neighboring buildings reflecting light into his eyes. He completely lost track of time, but the light had become a little too much – his eyes began to burn, so he closed them for just a moment.
Suddenly he felt a warm presence. "Good morning, you handsome, adorable thing."
There stood Anna in her green dress, her face radiant with happiness.
Artie felt as if his heart would jump out of his chest.
"I'd have come to you sooner, but you see, I do keep my promises. As long as you wallowed in guilt, I stayed away."
"Anna!"
"Yes, Artie darling."
"You're alive!"
"Artemus – no one ever really dies," she said soothingly. "We just move. Some day you'll move from this house you're now living in," she said as she patted his chest, "and you and I will be together again."
"We will?" Suddenly he burst into tears. Happy tears.
"I promise," she smiled. "May I give you this?" She handed him half of a mizpah token. "'The Lord watch between me and thee, while we are absent one from the other.' When you move, bring it with you."
"I will."
Anna began to kiss him, and she felt solid and warm in his arms. The kiss seemed to go on forever, he wanted it to go on forever. Then he opened his eyes. She was gone. It had only been a dream – a wonderful dream. Yet he looked down to see the mizpah token in his palm.
* * *
The Wanderer pulled into Washington on a raw, rainy night in mid-December. Artie was scheduled to come back around eight p.m. and, on this depressingly cold night, Jim was wondering how he'd be.
From the platform, Artie came bounding into the car, his face ruddy and with ten pounds added to his frame. "Jim!" He quickly embraced his friend in a bear hug.
"How was your vacation?" Jim asked tentatively. He'd hoped Artie was better, but he wasn't quite expecting this.
"Wonderful, wonderful! I'm now a property owner. Bought Anna's house, a fine place for when I'm an old bachelor retiree. Saw a number of plays – let me tell you, the American theatre has really been negatively impacted by my absence from it. Had dinner with Jeremy – he's in Richmond for the next six months, he sends his regards. Let's see, what else? Oh, I had a tooth pulled – you know, that one way in the back that was bothering me? And I spent a weekend with Charlie Cornwell. He tried to teach me golf – stupid game, but fine for the unathletic, I suppose. Um, wanna go out to dinner? "
"That'd be nice."
"So, how are you, Jim?" Artie asked.
"I could not be better – just couldn't be better," Jim said. His best friend was back.
*end*
