The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  I quickly entered Anderson’s laboratory, which was crowded with workbenches upon which rested various machines that were used to cut organs into thin slices that were transferred onto glass slides and stained for study under a microscope. At the rear of the large room, Anderson was examining a set of dissected-out lungs while he spoke into a horn-shaped device that carried his voice to a nearby recording apparatus. He must have seen me out of the corner of his eye, for he held up an index finger, informing me that he would join me in a moment.

  Like onstage, his voice had a majestic quality that captured one’s attention. “The lungs are dotted with black spots consistent with the polluted air of London. There is no scarring, but a hard, calcified nodule is present in the right apex, no doubt a result of healed tuberculosis. The great vessels are unremarkable.”

  Stripping off his rubber gloves, Anderson strolled over and asked, “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I was wondering about the identity of the corpse currently being dissected by Willoughby,” I replied.

  “As are we all,” Anderson said. “She has been named the anonymous Jane Smith, indicating they either do not know her identity or, for reasons beyond me, they wish to keep it a secret. I favor the latter, for even stranger measures are in place to ensure nobody learns who the corpse belongs to.”

  “I take it you are referring to the constables standing guard outside the autopsy room.”

  “Oh, it goes much deeper than that,” Anderson went on. “The removed organs are not to remain in the dissecting room until all are collected, as is the custom, but rather brought to me by Benson one at a time for study. We have just completed examination of the lungs and now await the intra-abdominal contents. Once all the organs have been studied, their remains will be discarded.”

  “But what if they require further investigation?”

  “Apparently that is of no matter, for my instructions from Willoughby were quite explicit.”

  “That course of action would have no bearing on her identity,” I thought aloud.

  “So it would seem,” Anderson agreed. “But my further orders are stranger yet. Under ordinary circumstances, I record my findings and have the wax cylinders taken to the stenographer who types up the report for my signature. But with the current case, I am directed to personally walk the wax cylinder to the stenographer’s office and make certain it never leaves my sight. I will then wait for the typing to be completed, read it carefully, and send it on to Willoughby for signing. Before I leave the stenographer’s office, the wax cylinder is to be destroyed, so that no shred of my report remains.”

  “What about notes you might jot down?”

  “Prohibited.”

  “Such extreme measures,” I commented.

  “To the point of being bizarre,” Anderson concurred.

  “All to hide the woman’s identity.”

  “It would be as if she never existed.”

  “But to what end?”

  “I have asked myself that very same question a dozen times in the past hour,” Anderson replied before giving me a lengthy look. “May I inquire as to why you are so interested in this particular case?”

  “Because there is a distinct possibility that I know her identity,” I said candidly.

  “Pray tell how?”

  “My reasoning revolves around the still-missing Pretty Penny.”

  Anderson nodded worriedly. “That is so unlike her, and we are all most concerned.”

  “What if I told you the corpse Willoughby is currently dissecting was discovered in the dark streets of Whitechapel?”

  A stunned expression came to Anderson’s face. “Do you believe it to be Pretty Penny?”

  “That possibility has crossed my mind.”

  “But if it is her, why all the secrecy?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Anderson blinked nervously as he, too, appeared to ponder the question. “Perhaps you should bring this to the attention of your friends at Scotland Yard.”

  “I am afraid my friendship does not extend to the office of the commissioner.”

  “How will you proceed, then?”

  “By taking other avenues,” I answered vaguely.

  “If it is Pretty Penny, you must let me know immediately,” Anderson said, with distress clearly written over his face.

  “I shall.”

  I departed from the laboratory and hurried down the corridor, taking another quick glance at the constables. Standing by them was Benson, who was no doubt waiting at the door to the autopsy room for more organs which would be carried away to be studied before being entirely disposed of. Such incredible secrecy, I thought again. From the standpoint of St. Bart’s, the woman’s name would remain Jane Smith and it would be as if she never existed.

  Just ahead was the department’s photograph section, in which photos of all hospital personnel were taken and kept on file. These included doctors on staff, nurses, technicians, orderlies, and maintenance workers. But photos were also taken of all corpses on the autopsy table, with particular attention to the faces of unidentified John and Jane Smiths who might later be recognized by family or friends.

  On entering the section, I was greeted by a wave from Robbie Connery, a middle-aged Scotsman who learned his trade from his father, a well-known photographer for an Edinburgh newspaper. “And what brings Dr. Watson to these dark corners?” he asked.

  “A photo,” I replied.

  “Of yourself?”

  “Of the corpse Willoughby is currently dissecting.”

  “No photographs allowed,” Connery said, obviously not pleased with the situation. “When I was told by Benson that a Jane Smith had arrived, I immediately assumed a photo would be required, which is always the case for an anonymous corpse. So down I go to the dissecting room and am promptly turned away.”

  “Most unusual,” I remarked.

  “Most unusual indeed,” Connery agreed. “I have seen only one similar case in my over twenty years here.”

  “Was the identity ever revealed?”

  Connery nodded. “It was a royal who did himself in, with a gunshot to the head. It was very messy, I was told.”

  “Eventually the true identity leaks out, then.”

  “It always does.”

  I strolled out and down the corridor, uncertain about my next step in my quest to learn if the corpse was the missing Pretty Penny. Asking Willoughby was out of the question, for he would take delight in not disclosing any identifiable features. It would be a way of him demonstrating his superiority, which existed only in his imagination. He was a small man in both frame and behavior, for he seemed most content when belittling a lesser individual who had no recourse but to stand and endure it. As I approached the constables, they seemed to straighten up in a stance of attention which I considered somewhat odd. But it soon became clear that their sign of respect wasn’t for me, but for the incoming Inspector Lestrade.

  He tipped his derby in greeting me. “Ah, Dr. Watson, I am surprised at your presence, for I was told you were on sabbatical leave.”

  I nodded. “I am taking some time away.”

  “A bit of a rest, then.”

  “To the contrary, my time is completely consumed writing a chapter for a forthcoming textbook on pathology.”

  “Most important work,” said Lestrade, obviously impressed. “I shan’t keep you from it.”

  “I can spare a moment or two if you’d like, for I have information that could influence your secretive investigation,” I divulged.

  “Such as?” Lestrade asked at once.

  “I came in to fetch a reference book, but I now find myself here for a different and more important reason which may relate to the identity of the Jane Smith corpse currently being autopsied.”

  Lestrade was instantly on guard. “How do you come to this knowledge, might I ask?”

  “My wife, father, and I are at this moment involved in a search for a missing actress.” I recounted the story of Pretty Penny in det
ail, emphasizing the fact that she both performed and lived in Whitechapel and had recently been threatened by an unknown stalker. “Since this Jane Smith was found in Whitechapel, I could not help but wonder if she is our Pretty Penny.”

  “Can you give me a description of this actress?” Lestrade requested.

  “Better yet, there is a poster advertising the play which contains a picture of Pretty Penny.”

  “Where can we obtain this poster?”

  “From the manager of the Whitechapel Playhouse.”

  “Excellent! And most helpful.”

  The door to the autopsy room opened with such a loud bang that it caused the constables to jump aside. Out strode Peter Willoughby, with blood splattered over his dark apron. He gave me the sternest of looks and demanded, “What brings you here, Watson? This matter is none of your concern.”

  “It is about to be,” I said curtly, giving the mean little man short shrift before coming back to the inspector. “The playhouse will not be open today, but the manager, Mrs. Emma Adams, owns a pub nearby which we can visit to view the poster I mentioned.”

  Lestrade glanced at his timepiece. “Will it be open at this early hour?”

  “If not, she will be available in the rooms above the pub where she lives.”

  Another officer raced in and urgently beckoned Lestrade over for a private conversation. “A moment, please, Dr. Watson,” the inspector said over his shoulder as he hurried away.

  “Really, Watson,” Willoughby snapped. “This is most irregular.”

  “And most important, for the corpse you were dissecting may belong to Pretty Penny.”

  “I am afraid any identification will be quite difficult regardless of this poster, for her face is badly mangled, with deep, disfiguring cuts all about and her lips sliced through and spread apart down to the gums.”

  “Can the lips be sutured back together, which will restore some semblance to the face?”

  “That is not your affair, for unless the commissioner decides to involve you and your wife in this matter, you have no place here and should be on your way.”

  “You don’t seem very upset that the corpse you dissected may well belong to Pretty Penny,” I noted, now aware of the senior pathologist’s change in appearance. His face seemed gaunt and fatigued, with the lines far more obvious. Perhaps the stressful years of being director were finally taking their toll.

  “I am as upset as anyone, but I will not cry over a nameless corpse until it is positively identified,” said Willoughby, after giving me yet another stare of disapproval. “It is most unprofessional to do so, and I would expect more from you.”

  Lestrade rushed over and spoke to me in a most urgent voice. “I would like for you to ride with me over to a crime scene in Whitechapel where your wife and father will join us shortly.”

  “Another murder?” I inquired.

  “Of the worst sort,” Lestrade said darkly, guiding me away and down the corridor. “You are about to witness the return of an evil monster.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Evil Monster

  We drove directly to Mitre Square, a small, open area surrounded by large warehouses, empty houses, and a few shabby shops which were still closed. It was accessible by three long, dark passageways that had narrow entrances. Spectators were lined up three deep on the far side of the square to watch the ongoing investigation.

  “Word travels fast when there is a murder, and always draws a crowd,” Lestrade commented.

  “Even in crime-ridden Whitechapel?” I asked.

  Lestrade nodded. “If the killing is gruesome enough.”

  Our motorcar stopped in front of the middle passageway where Joanna and my father were conversing with Sir Charles Bradberry, the commissioner of Scotland Yard. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with neatly trimmed hair and a thick mustache, he was widely respected by his officers and the public as well. He was known to be a strict disciplinarian, who would not abide by any wrongdoing at the Yard, and those found guilty were either discharged or summarily punished.

  As I approached, Sir Charles greeted me with a firm handshake and said, “Thank you for joining our investigation, Dr. Watson.”

  “I only hope that I can be of some assistance,” I replied.

  “As do I,” Sir Charles said, and waited for a pair of croaking ravens to pass overhead. “I was about to explain the need for absolute secrecy in the earlier murder, which I know you must be keenly interested in.”

  “Like everyone at St. Bart’s,” I added.

  “So I would imagine,” he went on, but not before taking a deep breath. “When I was a young officer at Scotland Yard some twenty-eight years ago, we faced the most grotesque murders one could ever envision. The victims were young prostitutes who had been sliced open in ways so gruesome I hesitate to describe them. Their faces were cut down to bone, their abdomens carved so deeply they could be disemboweled. It was all the work of a maniacal killer called Jack the Ripper. These horrific murders continued on for some months, then suddenly stopped and never recurred. It was believed that Jack the Ripper had died or gone brain-dead, and that we were rid of him once and for all. We took some comfort in that thought until two evenings ago when a young woman was so brutally murdered it brought back memories of The Ripper. Now, there were two considerations at that point.” He turned to Joanna and asked, “With all this in mind, what possibilities would you deem most likely?”

  “Either The Ripper has returned or you have a copycat killer in your midst,” she answered.

  “Precisely,” the commissioner agreed. “It could very well be The Ripper, for we believed he did his earlier work while in his twenties, which would now make him in his late forties or fifties, and certainly capable of returning to his maniacal ways. Thus, we feared the worst.”

  “So you kept all aspects of the murder in absolute secrecy in order to avoid frightening the public and causing undue panic. You were hoping all the while it was the work of a copycat killer.”

  “I was indeed.”

  “But deep down you knew otherwise. From my reading of The Ripper, his method of killing and dissecting was rather exact, and repeated in victim after victim. I am afraid you were aware from your past experience, Sir Charles, that this murder was the doing of Jack the Ripper.”

  “Might not a copycat killer read of The Ripper’s past exploits and accurately replicate his kills?” my father suggested.

  “Possible, Watson, but unlikely,” Joanna rebutted mildly. “Reading about a method and repeating it in a convincing fashion are two different matters. Furthermore, I suspect there were other indications that told Sir Charles this was yet another performance by The Ripper.”

  “There were,” the commissioner told us. “In particular, the dissection was so neat and clean, as if done by an individual skilled in anatomy. More important, this very morning I received a letter from The Ripper which was virtually identical to the letters written by him nearly thirty years ago. And the letter could not have been copied by another, for all The Ripper’s letters to Scotland Yard are now stored away in the Public Record Office on Chancery Lane. There is limited public access to them and any search is subject to inquiry about the purpose and extent of the research. Some random copycat killer could have never gained entrance. For all these reasons, I am now convinced we are dealing with Jack the Ripper.”

  “May we see the letter?” Joanna requested.

  “Of course,” said Sir Charles, reaching into his coat pocket for an envelope. “For your information, the envelope and letter have been examined for fingerprints, of which there are none. You will also note that the letter begins with the cordial salutation ‘Dear Boss,’ which was the very same greeting The Ripper used in his earlier messages to the commissioner.”

  Joanna carefully opened the envelope and held the letter up for all to see. It was written in block letters, except for the initial R at the end, which was done in script. It read:

  DEAR BOSS,

  YOU MIGHT BE OBLIGED
TO ME FOR KILLING SUCH A PIECE OF VERMIN. WHAT A PRETTY NECKLACE I GAVE HER. DO NOT FRET, FOR THERE WILL BE MORE TO COME.

  R

  “What is this necklace he speaks of?” I asked.

  “You will see it when we view the body,” Sir Charles said grimly.

  Joanna slowly reread the letter aloud before saying, “It is unlike the initial letter he sent.”

  “What letter?” Sir Charles asked at once.

  “We believe there is another, unaccounted-for victim of The Ripper,” she replied.

  The commissioner’s brow went up. “Tell me about this supposed victim.”

  Joanna recounted the story of Pretty Penny, with particular emphasis on the stalker and the threatening note that appeared to be written by an individual pretending to be illiterate.

  “The most current note shows no evidence of illiteracy,” Sir Charles interrupted. “If anything, it is the product of a well-educated person.”

  “I suspect he is playing games with us.”

  Sir Charles nodded at her assessment. “I should add that a few of the original letters were similarly constructed, with some words spelled phonetically to leave the impression of an uneducated sender.”

  “Old habits are hard to break,” Joanna noted.

  “But this new feature of taking a victim captive would be so unlike The Ripper of old,” the commissioner argued, then paused to reflect for a long moment before speaking again. “Unless former commissioner Abernathy was correct in his opinion that The Ripper had not truly gone into hibernation.”

  “Was there evidence to back up this assertion?” Joanna asked at once.

  “It was circumstantial, but nevertheless compelling.”

  Sir Charles recounted a chilling story which was unbeknownst to all except those deep within the confines of Scotland Yard. It appeared that Jack the Ripper had ceased his terrifying activity, with no further mutilation-murders occurring, yet there continued to be instances of Unfortunates—a term by which prostitutes were commonly called—disappearing without reason. It was known of course that Unfortunates frequently moved on to other districts or died of illness in a hidden alleyway, but some of the missing were of a better class and stayed in rented places with roommates or boyfriends who reported their sudden absence. A few of them actually worked part-time as charwomen, which were valued positions from which they were unlikely to leave without explanation. Abernathy was convinced that The Ripper had decided to do his killing in private where there was little chance of being apprehended.