by Jan Burke
Perhaps, I thought, I could disappear at sea, in a boating accident. But would there be some lengthy delay in paying the benefit to Emma if my body were missing?
I had walked some distance by now, and I grew thirsty. Looking for some place to find refreshment, I began to take note of my surroundings. I was in a part of town not wholly familiar to me, a commercial district of some sort. I saw a fellow in neat attire step into a nearby bar. I took out my pocket watch, the one my grandfather gave to me, and saw that it was now just past noon.
As I entered the bar, I was pleased to note that the customers were not by any means loutish. Clean and decently dressed, they were neither as wealthy as those of our own set, nor common laborers. It was not a rowdy group; most were quietly talking to one another as they finished simple lunches of sandwiches and beer.
As I moved closer to the bar, one of the patrons standing at it turned to me and said, “Stopping in one last time before your journey, Fontesque?” He soon realized his mistake and quickly said, “Pardon me, sir. I mistook you for another.”
“Well, I’ll be—” the man next to him said, looking over his shoulder. “You can’t be blamed, Bill.”
“Don’t put the gentleman to the blush, you two,” the bartender said, perhaps wary of losing my custom. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Now, Garvey, admit he looks a bit like Fontesque,” the second persisted.
“You’ve something of his build and coloring, sir,” Garvey said, “but you’re by no means his twin.” Then nodding at the second man, he added, “I’m sure Jim here meant no offense.”
“None taken,” I said, feeling a desire to camouflage myself among these men. I would, for a few moments, pretend to be one of them, step out of the odious role of being Jenkin Hardwick of Hardwick Chemical and Supply. None of these men would look to me for advice or guidance, none of them had the least dependence upon me.
“Good of you, sir,” Garvey was saying. “What’s your pleasure then, sir?”
“Same as my eagle-eyed friends, here,” I answered, smiling.
The one called Bill smiled back and said, “On me, Garvey.”
I extended a hand and said, “Harry Jenson,” as naturally as if that were the name my mother gave me.
Bill Nicolas and Jim Irving introduced themselves in turn, and we chatted amiably. Bill was an accountant, Jim, a purchasing agent for a manufacturing concern. I easily convinced them I was just returning from Seattle—which I had visited often enough to describe—and vaguely referred to an exporting business there. My appetite returned as I banished Jenkin Hardwick and became Harry Jenson, and Garvey brought me a beef sandwich. I had a nervous moment when Jim, admiring my suit, said that the job must pay well. I took refuge in smiling silence, and Bill, the more circumspect of the two, colored and quickly changed the subject.
My new friends left not long after, wishing Harry Jenson the best of luck, but saying they must get back to their offices. I nearly said that I must do the same, but caught myself in time. The place had emptied out, the lunch rush over, and I was swallowing the last of my beer when I looked up to see the very man I had been mistaken for enter the establishment.
It was an odd moment to be sure, Gussie. Garvey had told the truth when he said Fontesque was not my twin. Fontesque’s eyebrows were a little heavier, his mouth a little larger. But he and I were of the same height, of the same build, and our other features were not altogether different. His nose was as straight as mine, his eyes as blue, his hair was the same dark brown—only cut a little shorter.
He was as shocked as I, or perhaps more so, because I had the benefit of a warning. Upon seeing me, he nearly dropped the drummer’s case he was carrying. An idea which had begun to take seed in my mind caused me to linger; I wanted the opportunity to study Mr. Fontesque.
Garvey smoothed the way, saying, “Louis Fontesque, as I live and breathe! I was hoping you’d come in before Mr. Jenson left!”
Fontesque brusquely rejected the bartender’s theory of our likely (if perhaps distant) relation to one another. He said he had no time for foolishness, giving the bartender some disgust of him. Garvey served his surly customer in a similar fashion, then was all politeness to me, filling my glass with his compliments before he withdrew to clear the tables at the back of the room.
Attempting conversation with my near look-alike, I remarked that I would not be surprised to learn that we were distant cousins, or some such. This was met by Mr. Fontesque with a shrug and a return to the contemplation of his suds. I was not daunted. Augustus, I ask you—how many would not see this fellow’s entering that establishment at that moment as an opportunity unlikely to present itself again?
He was wholly uncommunicative until, seeing that he carried a drummer’s case, I expanded on the tale I had told his fellows, and said I was the buyer for Hardwick Chemical and Supply, just back from a trip to Seattle. His attitude underwent an immediate change. He told me that he sold hardware especially designed for the mechanical needs of factories like Hardwick’s—pulleys, cleats, slings, shims and such. I encouraged this line of talk. After some moments, he blushed to confess that he had once called at my company but was turned away.
“Why, I regret that I was not on hand to speak to you then!” I said in tones of outrage. “If you remember the name of the fellow who refused you, I’ll see him reprimanded. Only a fool could fail to see the value of your merchandise to our company.” At this Fontesque puffed up. While he agreed with me (at length) that the fellow who had turned him away was a fool, I schooled my features into an expression of grave consideration.
Recalling that when Bill had mistakenly greeted me as Fontesque, he had also mentioned something about a journey, I took a gamble. “Allow me to make it up to you, Mr. Fontesque,” I said, in the tone of one hitting upon a grand idea. “You shall see Mr. Hardwick himself! Will you come by our offices in two days’ time?”
Fontesque looked so immediately dejected, I nearly laughed. “No, sir. I regret I won’t. I’m leaving for San Francisco on the morning train.”
My relief was vast, but I dared not show it. I frowned as if in concentration. “Hmm. Mr. Hardwick is out of his office today, but will return this evening. I am scheduled to see him in his office at eight. I know it is rather late, but would you be prepared to come to his office at that time? I feel we have done you a wrong, and would not like you to leave town with such a poor impression of our company. I should very much like Mr. Hardwick to meet you.”
“Hardwick himself?” he exclaimed.
“Yes. I wouldn’t want others to know I had given you such special treatment, but if you are willing to be discreet about this invitation—”
He readily agreed to it, swearing that no one could keep a secret like Louis Fontesque.
I made one other stop before hurrying back to the factory. As I sat in the barber’s chair, watching the beginnings of a transformation, I refined my plans. I ignored the sullen pouting of the barber. Over that good man’s objections, I had instructed him to cut my hair in a style identical to Fontesque’s; as I left, I assuaged his outraged sensibilities with a tip more handsome than my haircut.
The journey back to the factory was, I knew, a journey that would forever change my fate. I found my courage in this thought: while the task before me was distasteful, it was nothing in comparison to the image of Emma living in shame and deprivation.
At four o’clock, as usual, I called Higgins into my office and asked him to report on the day’s work. He remarked upon my haircut, as I had hoped. He then proceeded in his customary fashion and gave the day’s production figures without looking at notes. Higgins, I have long known, has a remarkable head for numbers.
I found myself thinking that if Higgins were better educated, he might have achieved any position. Perhaps he would have been sitting where I did, owning a factory of his own. Or planning a murder.
My quest
ions to him were nothing out of the ordinary, but I made a show of stacking the coins in my pocket on my desk as he spoke. I lined them up, six twenty-cent pieces, two dimes, two three-cent pieces, three two-cent pieces and a single, worn large cent piece. “One dollar and fifty-three cents,” I announced, scooping them off the desk and returning them to my pocket. I pulled out my watch then, and said that I must send a message to Emma, telling her that I would be late. I told Higgins that I had thought about the silk process and was fairly sure that I had hit upon the answer to our problems. I would run some experiments in my laboratory that night.
Higgins asked if he might be of any assistance, or if there was anyone else who should be asked to stay and help me. I thanked him, but said no, it would not be necessary. There was nothing remarkable in this. My employees were used to my odd hours and solitary work in the laboratory.
• • •
In the hours between four and my appointment with Mr. Fontesque, there were many moments when I nearly abandoned my scheme. On several occasions, I thought of hurrying home to Emma, to see her one last time before I was forever parted from her. Nothing was more difficult than to contemplate leaving her without so much as a last word of good-bye. But I knew I could not hide from her the strong emotion I was feeling then, and all depended upon my remaining calm and presenting a picture of normality.
Just before eight o’clock, I went into the laboratory, and made my simple preparations. I could not bring myself to stay there, though, and began to walk around the building, making sure I was alone. The factory was empty, the machinery still. I recalled the pride I felt when I had walked through it earlier that same day. Would it die with me? Or would Higgins and the others contrive to keep it running? I thought the latter might be the case, and oddly, that made me all the more proud of the place. I turned my back on it and moved to wait in the reception area.
When Fontesque arrived, I had calmed myself. I took his coat and hung it on a hall tree near the front door. I told him that Mr. Hardwick was working in the laboratory. “He’s about to conduct a rather fascinating experiment,” I said, and offered to take him there. As we walked, I expressed my hope that Mr. Fontesque had not been forced to travel far from his hotel for this appointment.
“No,” he said, “I’m staying at the Charles.”
When I said I did not know of it, he happily supplied its location. Good of him.
I opened the door to the laboratory, and stood slightly behind it as he walked in. The display of beakers and glass tubing enthralled him long enough for me to reach for the short, thick board I had left behind the door, to raise it, and—forcing myself not to shut my eyes as I did so—to deliver the blow which killed him instantly.
I felt for his heartbeat to be sure I had not merely stunned him. There was none. Perhaps this is why there was very little bleeding.
I exchanged the entire contents of his pockets for my own, even sacrificing my watch. I picked up his drummer’s case. I carried it to the front door, setting it near the coat, and walked back to the laboratory. I moved the body to the place where I might have stood working, taking care not to let his heels drag on the floor. I went into my office, to my private safe, used the combination known only to me, and took most of the petty cash I keep on hand there, leaving some cash behind to avoid suspicion should the police break the safe open at some later date. I then had with me enough money to sustain me in a modest way for a few weeks.
I returned to the laboratory, started the fire and hurried out, putting on Fontesque’s coat and hat, carrying his large and battered drummer’s case.
• • •
The lamplighter had already passed through the streets by the time I began to make my way toward Fontesque’s hotel. I hurried along the cobblestones, trying to turn my thoughts from the destruction of all I had built. I could not look back, Augustus, not even as I heard the cries of alarm when I was several streets away. No scent of acrid smoke reached me; only Fontesque’s scent. It was the scent of his cologne and his tobacco and his sweat, his very body, some part of his skin left to line the coat, an obscene lining made to fit over my own skin. I was uncomfortable in it.
• • •
I pulled the hat low and averted my face as I passed into the hotel. It was a modest but clean establishment. The room key I found in his pocket was stamped with the number 114, and I used it to open that door.
I had not taken a liking to Fontesque, but I was struck forcibly with a sense of the monstrousness of my crime as I stood in his room. The detritus of his daily life—a lonely life, it seemed—moved me more powerfully to a sense of shame than had his lifeless body. Scattered about the desk and dresser were various small wooden and metal objects, small tools and pulleys and gears, the items by which he earned his living.
His living. The irony was not lost on me.
On the bed were a few more of the objects, and an open leather satchel with a stained handle. It contained a pair of dark stockings, one with a hole in the toe; a set of garters; a nightshirt; two cotton handkerchiefs; undergarments; a pair of black suspenders; two neatly folded shirts; a pair of trousers and two small wooden objects not unlike the others on the bed. Near the washstand was a dampened and crumpled towel, a bottle of hair oil, a simple shaving cup and brush, a rubber comb (I could not help but miss my ivory comb and its silver case), a small bottle of inexpensive cologne and a little leather kit. The kit held a razor and strop, and a pair of scissors.
There were a few sheets of paper on the desk, among them a carbon copy of a list of his company’s wares. He had evidently puzzled over some sums, for one page held crossed out numbers and columns of figures; eventually I saw that he was trying to work out his commission on an order.
Knowing I would not sleep that night—I had no desire to lie where he had lain—I began to study the list of objects, and opened up the drummer’s case. The case was much neater, being partitioned off into numbered slots. I began matching the objects to descriptions on the list of wares, and was able to place almost every item strewn about the room back into the case. In this way I occupied the worst hours, those when I most clearly realized what I had done, what I had lost. I concentrated on these objects instead of my sins.
In the end I had replaced everything but the two wooden objects I had found in his satchel. These were stained and worn, and were, I decided, most likely some sort of shim that had been returned by a customer, or which was no longer in use.
I looked with pride at the case. I did not recognize all of the various implements, but this was of little concern to me. I had already decided that I would not take up Mr. Fontesque’s business. Sooner or later I might meet someone who knew him well enough to reveal me as an impostor.
Still, it would be best if Mr. Fontesque was thought to be alive, at least until I was safely out of town.
There was no trouble on that score. I changed into his clothes, packed my own with his belongings, and waited until the last moment before leaving the room to settle his account. The desk clerk was more concerned with the faces on the crisp bills than that of a departing guest, and so I escaped undue notice. I did not want to be recognized while waiting at the station, so I timed my appearance on the platform just as the seven o’clock train pulled in with a loud whistle and a squeal of brakes, bellowing cinder-filled smoke from its stack. As the noise of its arrival subsided, I heard a paperboy calling out a headline: “Hardwick Factory Fire Kills Owner!” I kept my head lowered, purchased a paper and tucked it beneath my arm.
I boarded the train, praying that no one who knew me or Fontesque would be riding in the coach cars. The train was not crowded, and I set the cases on the seat next to me to discourage unwanted company. Oh, for a private car as I was used to! But no one molested me.
That no man greeted me as Fontesque could not surprise me. He had been a surly man, and of no importance to our community. I, on the other hand, felt sure that I might
be recognized at any moment, even in Fontesque’s sorry raiment. Imagine my feelings, then, when I opened the newspaper to hide my face behind it and was greeted with what was meant to be my own likeness on the front page!
It was, to be sure, a rather poor engraving copied from an old photograph. (You remember the one in the small wooden frame which stood above the mantle in the library? Perhaps you would be so kind as to discover if some Johnny Lightfingers from the Clarion stole it from my home?) As I calmed myself, I decided that the too thin lips and enlarged nose in this depiction would be of help; perhaps I would benefit from the artist’s lack of attention to detail.
I am sure you saw the headline:
J. HARDWICK KILLED IN FIRE
Aside from my growing dislike of the engraving itself, the two articles on the front page were all I could want them to be. I studied the article on the fire first. Although the pumping crew had arrived in time to douse the fire before much damage was done to the factory itself, the laboratory was destroyed. The fire was thought to have been the result of some experiment gone awry. The body found within the laboratory was burned nearly beyond recognition. (More thoroughly than I had hoped.) My coat had been found in the undamaged entry, still hanging on the hall tree. On the body, an object believed to be my watch was also found. But the prime piece of identifying evidence was supplied by Higgins, who indeed remembered that I had counted out $1.53—exactly the amount of heat-damaged coins found on the deceased.
Blessing Higgins, I moved to the other article; a touching tribute to my achievements that nearly had me weeping over the loss of myself.
And so I went on to San Francisco, and booked a room at this establishment, the Linworth Hotel, which is neither mean nor luxurious. For the better part of two days, I slept, exhausted by events and emotions.
