“It was not just the statement, but the manner in which Lurie’s eyes darted while denying their closeness,” Joanna informed. “It is a revealing sign of a liar, every bit as telling as a facial twitch. Now we must wonder what else he is being less than honest about.”
“Surely he would not withhold information on Pretty Penny’s disappearance,” said I. “I cannot see how that might serve his interests.”
“Allow me to illustrate how it might,” Joanna continued on. “We are now aware that Emma Adams is Pretty Penny’s agent and Lionel Lurie her director, and the two of them thick as thieves and then some. They decide that the talented actress is their way out of Whitechapel, so they arrange for her secret abduction, but only after setting the table with a phantom stalker and written note. We have been called in as will Scotland Yard eventually, and the story of a beautiful, talented actress who has gone missing will appear in all the newspapers. It is Juliet who has disappeared. Has she eloped with her Romeo? Has she been harmed or worse? The story is captivating and brings with it more publicity than a thousand pounds could ever purchase. Then she reappears, having somehow escaped her captors, and our scheming Emma Adams and Lionel Lurie ride her coattails to fame and fortune.”
“That is beyond diabolical,” my father protested mildly.
“When it comes to vast sums of money, my dear Watson, the depth of greed has no limits. Keep in mind that an actress starring at a theater on St. Martin’s Lane can earn fifty pounds a week, which is more than Emma Adams’s pub would profit in a year.”
“But Mrs. Adams as agent would only receive a fraction of the actress’s fee,” my father noted.
“Ten percent to be exact, which comes to five pounds a week, twenty per month, and two hundred and forty per annum,” Joanna calculated. “A rather tidy sum, wouldn’t you say?”
“Quite tidy indeed.”
We passed through the side entrance and found Harry Sanders sitting on a stool in the alleyway. He quickly got to his feet and gave us a half bow, having been forewarned of our presence in the playhouse. Even in the dim lighting we could see that he was a short, thick man, balding and just over five feet tall, with muscular arms that seemed oversized for his body frame. As we came closer, I noticed the physical signs which told me he had once been a boxer. There was heavy scar tissue around his eyes, most notably on his brows, together with a bent nose and huge knuckles, which no doubt had become calcified from repeated trauma.
“Did you box as a featherweight?” I asked.
“A flyweight, guv’nor,” Sanders responded, with a crooked smile. “I have put on a few pounds since those days, you see.”
“As a professional, I take it.”
“For nearly ten years.”
“A most difficult way to make a living.”
“But it was in my blood, and to this day I still train with the weights and punching bag.”
“Which your arms clearly demonstrate.”
Harry Sanders flexed his arm to produce a bulging biceps muscle, which seemed to please him. “It comes in handy in my line of work.”
“Do you remember much trouble about the playhouse?”
“Very little, guv’nor. Every now and then a fellow or two will try to sneak in via this door, but they take off when they see me.”
“Are any of them older chaps?” Joanna asked.
Sanders hesitated and carefully studied Joanna for several moments. “Am I talking to the daughter of Sherlock Holmes?”
“You are.”
“It is an honor, madam,” said he, with another half bow.
Joanna nodded at the bouncer’s deference before inquiring again, “Were any of the intruders middle-aged or older?”
“Only one that I remember,” Sanders recalled. “He was a tall drunk who demanded to see Pretty Penny and actually threw a punch at me.”
“Was he wearing a fisherman’s hat to cover his long gray hair?”
“No, madam. The bugger was hatless and bald as an apple.”
“From your description, it sounds as if you promptly sent him on his way.”
“With a reminder not to return.”
“Very good,” Joanna continued on. “Now tell us, do you remain at this station throughout the evening?”
“I am here on the nights of every performance from five in the afternoon until ten when we lock up. And only those I know are allowed to enter. These include all the players, stagehands, and workmen who keep the building running and in good shape.”
“Do they all exit through this door as well?”
Sanders shook his head. “Most leave through the front entrance, madam. The players, however, usually exit here, so they can reach their motor taxis and avoid the autograph seekers and such.”
Joanna squinted an eye as if attempting to envision the scene late at night. “Are the taxis waiting at the end of the alleyway?”
“Oh, no, madam. They only come up when I signal them.”
“So the players take the next available taxi in a random fashion.”
Sanders nodded at the description. “The drivers do not know who their passenger will be, with the exception of Pretty Penny. Her ride is set up previously, and that particular taxi is meant for her only.”
“Does she have the same driver every time?” Joanna asked at once.
“No, madam, it varies. You see, the fare to the west side is quite hefty and the gratuity received is most generous, so I believe whoever sends the taxi must rotate it to keep the drivers happy. They consider it a real plum to carry Pretty Penny.”
“Who sets the schedule for Penny’s taxis?”
“I would guess the taxi company.”
“But you are not certain.”
“No, madam.”
“Is there a way to determine this?”
“You would have to talk with one of the drivers.”
“Anyone in particular?”
Sanders considered the matter at length, rubbing his chin as he did. “The only driver I know for sure who drove Pretty Penny is Tommy Maguire, an Irish lad who bragged about it for a week. He is a good boy who trains at the same gym I go to.”
“He’s a boxer, then?” asked Joanna.
Sanders nodded again. “Who drives a taxi at night.”
“So deep down he’s a boxer.”
“In the making.”
“Can I find him at your gym?”
“You can find him across the street, for later on we will travel to Hackney to view a heavyweight bout.”
“Please signal him, for we require a taxi to Baker Street.”
“Done!”
Minutes later we were riding toward the West End of London, with Tommy Maguire as our driver. Like most Irishmen, he was quite talkative and seemed to enjoy conversing about his work and how the schedule to pick up Pretty Penny was determined. “Some person calls the company’s headquarters and requests a taxi be sent to the Whitechapel Playhouse at a given time, where it will wait for the actress Pretty Penny. The destination is set beforehand and we are instructed only she and she alone will occupy the taxi. We will be paid once we arrive.”
“By whom?” Joanna asked.
“If it is a fancy restaurant, by the doorman, or the maître d’ might step outside with the fee in an envelope. You see, the charge and gratuity are both calculated ahead.”
“Where was your destination?”
“Alexander’s on St. Martin’s Lane.”
“Who paid the fee?” Joanna queried. “Was it the doorman or the maître d’?”
“Neither. It was the gentleman waiting for her.”
The three of us abruptly leaned forward, ears pricked at our good fortune. An important piece of the puzzle was at hand. “Can you describe the gentleman?” my wife asked. “We require as much detail as you can recall.”
“I truly did not have a good look at him,” Tommy Maguire said in an honest voice. “For as soon as she exited, she was in his arms and kissing him. A brief kiss, mind you, but it blocked my vie
w. Being low down in the driver’s seat, I only caught a glimpse of his jaw and suit, which I might add was well cut and expensive. Then he gave me an envelope with the fee and the couple entered the restaurant.”
“But you must have had a rear view of him.”
“I did.”
“Was he tall or short?”
“Not short, for he was a head taller than Pretty Penny.”
“And the color of his hair?”
“Dark.”
“Was there gray in it?”
“Not that I could notice.”
“From the fit of his suit, would you say he was thin or stout?”
“Average.”
Joanna breathed a sigh of disappointment before asking, “Did you by chance hear him speak?”
“There was very little conversation between them,” Maguire replied. “All he said was, ‘You performed brilliantly as always,’ and then inside they went.”
A thin smile crossed my wife’s face. “Very good, very good indeed.”
We remained silent for the remainder of our ride, although the words spoken by the secret lover obviously had special significance to Joanna. But their meaning escaped me. So she performed brilliantly, so what? That would seem to be on a par for the remarkably talented actress.
On reaching 221b Baker Street, we stood outside our door and watched the taxi disappear into the black night. More seconds ticked by as I waited patiently for Joanna to explain the importance of the secret lover’s message to Pretty Penny at the entrance to the restaurant. But she continued to tap a finger against her closed lips, as if distracted by some thoughts. Finally, I could hold my curiosity no longer and asked, “Why was the secret lover’s greeting to Pretty Penny so noteworthy?”
“I saw nothing of particular interest, either,” my father chimed in. “The statement ‘You performed brilliantly as always’ seemed innocent enough.”
“It was the words as always which should draw your attention,” Joanna instructed.
“As always?” my father queried.
Joanna nodded. “Those words inform us that the secret lover has seen Pretty Penny perform not one or two times, but on a multitude of occasions. With this in mind, tell me who would be expected to be in attendance at the playhouse on such a frequent basis.”
The answer came to my father immediately. “The cast, of course!”
“Or perhaps an agent or manager visiting repeatedly to assess Pretty Penny’s talents,” I added.
“Or perhaps an individual who has paid the entrance fee evening after evening to watch his beloved,” she proposed. “And when he cannot see her onstage, his fixation is such he must stalk her.”
“Like a man possessed,” I muttered to myself.
My father turned quickly to Joanna and asked, “Are you suggesting we may be dealing with a Dr. Jekyll–Mr. Hyde personality?”
“That thought has crossed my mind,” Joanna said ominously, and reached for the door as rain began to fall.
CHAPTER 4
The Secret Autopsy
On my arrival at St. Bartholomew’s the following morning, I encountered a most unusual sight. Standing guard outside the entrances to the autopsy room were two uniformed constables, with a sign on the door behind them that read ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE. I had never before experienced a similar situation in the department of pathology and began to mentally list the reasons for an autopsy being performed in such secrecy. The most likely cause would be a personage of lofty rank who had died under bizarre circumstances. Or perhaps the corpse was believed to carry a highly contagious disease. But then again, the latter was unlikely, for the constables were unmasked and positioned too close to the entrance.
As I approached, the taller of the two constables held up a hand and said, “Sorry, sir, but no admission other than Dr. Willoughby is allowed, on orders from the commissioner.”
“Very well, then,” I said, and walked on, for it was obvious from the officer’s tight-lipped expression that there would be no further conversation.
With the commissioner of Scotland Yard’s involvement, I thought to myself, the matter had to be criminal and no doubt sensitive. That being the case, I would have surely been the pathologist consulted by the police, for the field of forensics was my specialty. But for the past month I had been on sabbatical leave, completing a chapter in a soon-to-be-published textbook, and was thus believed to be unavailable. Of course I could have been called in with little bother, but Peter Willoughby took advantage of the situation and was undoubtedly performing the autopsy, for he craved the publicity which would eventually arise from such a case.
I entered my small office and went directly to the shelves for the monograph I had come to fetch. It dealt with factors influencing cooling of the body after death, the subject of the chapter I was currently writing. But the monograph had been published ten years ago and the topic needed updating. For example, the older version did not discuss the effect of ventilation on the corpse’s temperature, which turns out to be a most important factor. It is now well known that a body cools far more rapidly in a ventilated room as opposed to one which is closed off.
I hurried from my office, monograph in hand, and could not help but notice the constables standing guard and again wondered what purpose they served. My very best guess was that their presence ensured the secrecy of a royal who had died in a most unroyal fashion. I moved aside as the head orderly pushed an empty gurney by me. He nodded in a somewhat peculiar manner. More side to side than up and down, for his cervical spine had been badly damaged in a childhood accident.
“A word, Benson, if you have a moment,” I requested.
“Of course, sir,” replied William Benson, a longtime valued employee who kept everything shipshape and running smoothly in the department.
I gestured subtly with my head to the constables outside the autopsy room. “Strange business, eh?”
“Very strange indeed, Doctor,” Benson replied in a low voice. “I have seen a bit of cloak-and-dagger in my time, but nothing like this. The entire area had to be cleared, from the police ambulance and down the corridor right up to the autopsy room. Only the good Dr. Willoughby, the constable, and myself were allowed to be present.”
“Did you actually see the body?”
“I did not, sir, for it arrived in a wooden shell, the type the coppers use to transport their corpses. Of course its lid was closed, so no one peeping about could have a look.”
“Did you alone push the gurney carrying the corpse?”
“Only me.”
“And did you by yourself unload the body onto the autopsy table?”
“I did.”
“Now, I want you to describe every aspect of the corpse, head to toe.”
“I could only see the head, for the rest of her body was wrapped in a blanket,” Benson reported. “But her face definitely belonged to a young woman.”
“Was it that of a teenager?” I asked at once.
Benson thought back for a moment before answering. “I could not be certain, for her face was covered with mud and blood, with some deep cuts, like those you see in a knife fight.”
“I take it that the wounds had even edges.”
“Straight as can be and made with a sharp knife, I would say.”
“What about their depth?”
“I could not be sure, for most of them were coated with dried blood. So was her hair, for that matter.”
“Was her hair long or short?”
“Quite short.”
“Was it ruffled?”
Benson shrugged. “I couldn’t tell.”
“Did you notice its color?”
“Light brown, with a nice sheen to it.”
“Very good,” said I. “So we have a young woman with short light brown hair and multiple facial cuts, probably made with a sharp knife.”
“Exactly right,” Benson agreed.
“Now let us estimate her weight,” I went on. “Did you alone lift the body from the shell?”
/> “All by myself.”
“What would you approximate her weight to be?”
“No more than a hundred pounds.”
“Did she have an unusual smell?”
“Nary a whiff. She was freshly dead, for sure.”
“One last question, Benson, and please give it careful consideration,” I requested. “Did she have any distinguishing features? A facial scar? Perhaps a crooked nose or disfigured ear?”
“Her ear wasn’t disfigured, but held a dangling earring,” the head orderly recalled.
“Were there any gems in it?”
“Oh, no, sir. It was quite cheap, as one might expect to be worn by a working-class woman.”
“The earring by itself doesn’t designate a working-class woman.”
“But the area in which the body was found surely does.”
“Which area?”
“Whitechapel, according to the ambulance driver.”
Pretty Penny! Everything about the corpse now pointed to the missing actress. It had to be her.
Benson stared at my expression, which I suspect included a dropped jaw. “Are you all right, sir?”
“I am fine,” I lied. “It is just a bit of a tooth pain that comes and goes. Not to worry.”
“Then I shall go about my business, sir.”
“Very good,” said I, regaining my composure. “Carry on.”
It all fit, I continued to think to myself. A young actress goes missing one day and her mutilated body is found the next, all occurring in the district of Whitechapel. Yet I had to remind myself that absolute proof was lacking. A positive identification would require certain recognition by an individual who knew her well, such as Emma Adams or Lionel Lurie. How should I go about arranging that?
But as I walked on, there were other questions about the identity of the corpse I found baffling. If the body was Pretty Penny, why was an autopsy necessary for what seemed to be a straightforward murder that occurred in a crime-ridden area? And why was it being done in secret under police protection? Those extraordinary measures would not take place unless there was something particularly noteworthy about her death or the way she died. Ahead, I saw the entrance to Maxwell Anderson’s laboratory, which received all tissues removed at autopsy for microscopic study. He would certainly be notified regarding the incoming organs and what special stains might be required. And most important, he might have the name of the individual from whom the organs were taken. He would be particularly interested if the corpse belonged to his Juliet, Pretty Penny.
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 5
