The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Which may have been true,” I opined.

  “We shall never know, for she is now a creature of the dark streets, who depends on lies and deceit to survive,” Joanna chimed in. “And it is on those streets she will shortly die unless we intervene.”

  “Do you have a plan?” I asked.

  “Several come to mind, but none are very appealing,” she replied vaguely.

  “Perhaps she will return to the doss-house, at which time Luther will notify us,” my father hoped.

  “That is wishful thinking, Father,” I said.

  “Her return or Luther informing us?” my father asked.

  “Both,” I answered candidly.

  “Oh, Luther will notify us if she returns,” Joanna predicted. “For he would expect your next half crown to end up in his pocket, which would ensure that Annie Yates will continue to sleep in his bed for a month or more, with no fee required or collected by the establishment. Thus, he would be richer by a half crown, which he would find irresistible.”

  “What a dreadful man,” I noted.

  “He is a product of his environment, nothing more and nothing less.” Joanna reached into her purse and extracted a set of copper earrings which she examined at length, both with and without a magnifying glass. “Let us put Annie Yates aside for now and concentrate on fingerprints which could help identify Jack the Ripper.”

  “Do you believe Anderson has uncovered a complete, clear print on the metal sliver?” my father asked.

  “In all likelihood, that is not the case,” she replied. “If The Ripper attempted to remove the metal sliver, and I suspect he did, he would have taken hold of it between his thumb and index finger in a pincer grasp, thus leaving behind partial prints. He would have no doubt gripped it firmly and avoided the sharp edge, for not to do so could have resulted in a laceration. So I would predict we have partial prints which could prove useful, assuming Anderson did not muck them up while removing the blood.”

  “Holmes did not place much value on partial fingerprints,” my father recalled.

  “The science has improved greatly since the days of my father,” Joanna informed. “I refer you to a monograph written by Sir Francis Galton, in which he describes the arches, loops, and whorls that give fingerprints their distinctive patterns. An expert does not look for an exact match but rather a specified number of characteristics in a given print and determines if they are identical to another. According to Sir Francis, you must find at least twelve identical points to consider it a match. The French demand fifteen.”

  “No easy task when dealing with a partial fingerprint,” I presumed.

  “Nevertheless, worth a try,” said she.

  “Perhaps the copper earrings will be more revealing,” I ventured.

  “That is unlikely,” Joanna went on, holding up an earring for inspection. “Notice how I grasp the earring by its edges, as any woman would in order to prevent leaving smudges behind. Also, please recall the instructions given to us and The Ripper by the jeweler. The earrings were to be shined with a dry cloth to bring out their luster. I am certain our killer followed these instructions to make them even more attractive as gifts. And of course he would hold the copper earrings by their edges to avoid leaving any smudges on their surfaces.”

  “You make him sound so careful and deliberate at the moment,” my father opined. “But it seems to me that a keen killer like The Ripper is leaving entirely too many clues behind. I am referring to the copper earrings which are a telltale sign of what he has done and will do. And then there were the daylight visits to the sweet shop and jewelry store where he was seen in public and noticed, even in his disguise. Certainly you have noted these inconsistencies.”

  “I have indeed, Watson,” said Joanna. “And I believe he does so purposefully.”

  “But to what end?”

  “To taunt us and show us how clever he is.”

  Our carriage pulled up at a side entrance to St. Bartholomew’s and we hurried up and down a long corridor to Maxwell Anderson’s laboratory. But Benson was standing outside the door and held up a warning hand.

  “You may not wish to enter at the moment, Dr. Watson, for Dr. Rudd is in the midst of one of his terrible tantrums,” said he.

  “What has set him off this time?” I asked.

  “Something was lost, from the sound of it.”

  “Step aside,” I directed, and entered, with Joanna and my father close behind.

  Thaddeus Rudd was furiously pacing around the laboratory, ranting and raving at the top of his voice. For such a large man, he moved quite nimbly, and his footsteps made little noise. Rudd paused briefly to give us a mean look, then went back to shouting.

  “You had better find that specimen and find it now, if you value your position here!” he roared at Anderson, who was standing off to the side in front of two frightened technicians.

  “I am certain it will be found,” Anderson said in a calm voice.

  “You spoke those exact same words an hour ago,” the surgeon replied angrily. “And have yet to produce that specimen. What am I to tell the patient and her family? That the specimen has gone missing, so we cannot determine if it was cancerous or not? Or perhaps I should suggest we operate once more and look for additional tissue to study. But then again, you would lose that specimen as well.”

  Rudd paused, waiting for a reply, and when none was forthcoming he gave Anderson a hostile stare and demanded an answer. “Well?”

  “Well, what?” Anderson asked.

  “Well, where is the missing specimen?”

  “We are searching.”

  “Then search harder,” Rudd insisted, and kicked at a tin bin, sending it flying across the room. “And I mean now.”

  “It is impossible to do so in the midst of your outburst,” Anderson said tonelessly. “I suggest you leave and allow us to carefully comb through all of our specimens once again.”

  “I stay until it is found,” the surgeon said before glaring over at us. “Whatever your business here, it will have to wait.”

  “I think not,” Joanna said firmly. “And Scotland Yard will be here shortly to explain why.”

  “They, too, can wait.”

  “Tell that to Inspector Lestrade.”

  “Better yet, I will contact my dear friend Sir Charles Bradberry and have the commissioner intercede,” Rudd coerced.

  Joanna pointed to a telephone on the nearby desk. “Call him.”

  Rudd’s face reddened as he moved toward Joanna in a most threatening manner. “You had better take leave of your own volition while you still can.”

  “Please keep your distance,” she requested.

  “I will do as I wish,” he snarled, and took yet another step forward.

  I was prepared to intervene and put an end to his threat, but my wife held up a hand for me to remain in place.

  Rudd suddenly lunged.

  In the blink of an eye, Joanna effortlessly incapacitated the surgeon with a stunning move of jujitsu, a Japanese martial art at which she was most proficient. Joanna held his arm in a joint-locking technique that totally immobilized the extended elbow and caused agonizing pain to an opponent who tried to resist. Rudd struggled to break free, which brought on even more pain, as evidenced by his loud groans.

  “When I release you, you are to back away,” Joanna instructed. “Another threatening move by you could result in permanent injury.” She released her hold and kept a close eye on Rudd as he rubbed at his elbow.

  I hoped the surgeon would not do anything stupid, for I once accompanied my wife to her jujitsu class where she was awarded a brown belt, which is the second-highest level of proficiency in the art, superseded only by the black belt. The beauty of jujitsu was that it used an attacker’s energy against him, rather than directly opposing it. A persistence in resistance could result in permanent damage, particularly in a joint as vulnerable as the elbow.

  The door to the laboratory opened and Lestrade entered, followed by a tall, slender man wi
th close-cropped gray hair. The inspector glanced at the obvious standoff between my wife and Rudd before asking, “Is there a problem?”

  “It has been resolved,” Joanna replied.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Rudd warned.

  “For your sake, I hope I have.”

  Rudd gave Joanna a final glare, then spun around and brushed by Lestrade on his way out.

  “A rather unpleasant fellow,” Lestrade commented. “Was there a dispute?”

  “A misunderstanding which has now been put to rest.”

  “Let us get to work, then,” Lestrade said, and introduced us to Henry Overstreet, who was Scotland Yard’s foremost fingerprint expert. “Where is this item to be examined?”

  Maxwell Anderson led us to a laboratory bench upon which rested a metal tray. In the center of the tray was an inch-long sliver of metal that was clear of all blood. As we moved in front of the two female technicians, I could not help but notice the adoring smiles they bestowed on Joanna for the magnificent manner in which she dealt with the disgusting bully Thaddeus Rudd. Word of her heroic deed would no doubt spread throughout the hospital, much to the displeasure of the ill-tempered surgeon.

  The now-gloved Overstreet picked up the metal sliver with tweezers and carefully examined both sides with a magnifying glass under a bright overhead light. He made a tut-tut sound before reexamining the end of the blade Jack the Ripper had used on Carrie Nichols.

  “Anything worthwhile?” Lestrade asked.

  “One side has only a smudged print of no value,” Overstreet reported. “But the other has a definable partial print.”

  “Is there enough to determine a match?”

  “Unlikely, but we shall see.”

  Overstreet reached into a small kit for a tin container and sprinkled fine powder onto a brush to dust the fingerprint, explaining that the powder clung to the oil in the print and thus made it more readable. Examining the sliver once more with a magnifying glass, he proclaimed, “Ah! Much better, and if I were to hazard a guess, I would say we are looking at part of a thumbprint.”

  “Will there be enough points to match with another fingerprint?” Joanna asked.

  “Possibly,” he hedged. “But we shall know more when the print is magnified and photographed.”

  Anderson produced an envelope and handed it to Overstreet. “Perhaps we will have better luck with the copper earrings the two victims were wearing.”

  The Scotland Yard expert examined both sets, both with and without dusting powder. “They are spotless other than a scratch or two.”

  Lestrade sighed disappointedly. “So we are left with a partial fingerprint which may have little value.”

  “I am afraid so,” Overstreet agreed.

  “Then we shall be on our way,” Lestrade said, and, tipping his derby, departed with Overstreet at his side.

  “It is unfortunate we could not be more helpful,” Anderson said before turning to the technicians with further instructions. “Put all of your efforts into finding the missing surgical specimen. I want you to examine every organ and tissue we have received in the past two days. Check their origin and physician, paying particular attention to the name Harriman, the patient who until yesterday possessed the abdominal mass we are searching for. No one leaves this laboratory until the specimen is found and Dr. Rudd notified.”

  The door suddenly opened with a bang and Peter Willoughby stormed in. He gave us at best a hasty nod before approaching Anderson. “Dr. Rudd has lodged an official complaint against you and plans to take it to St. Bart’s board of trustees.”

  “Will it not have to go through your office first?” Anderson asked.

  “It will, but I shall have no recourse other than to send the complaint to the hospital director,” Willoughby said unyieldingly.

  “I would very much appreciate you keeping the complaint on your desk until tomorrow morning, by which time I hope to have discovered the missing specimen.”

  “You hope?” the director of pathology snapped. “Do you have any idea of the consequences arising from your sloppiness? The patient we are speaking of is Martha Harriman, the wife of the chancellor of the exchequer.”

  “I shall find it,” Anderson vowed.

  “You had better, for your position here may very well be at stake,” Willoughby threatened, and angrily stomped out.

  Once the door closed, I approached Anderson and suggested, “If I were you, I would have the technicians open every jar and container and make certain the specimen was not inadvertently mixed in with another specimen. This happened to me some years ago.”

  “A capital idea, John!” he said appreciatively.

  “Good hunting, then,” said I, and departed, holding the door for Joanna and my father.

  We walked at a brisk pace down the corridor and out the front entrance, where chances of hailing a taxi or carriage were greater. The traffic outside the hospital was heavily congested, but we were still able to observe Thaddeus Rudd riding by in his chauffeured limousine. He, too, saw us and rudely turned his head away.

  “I must say, Joanna,” my father remarked. “That was a bloody good move you put on Rudd.”

  Joanna smiled thinly. “Jujitsu does come in handy now and then.”

  “It was a pleasure to see Rudd put in his place, although this does not bring us any closer to resolution.”

  “Perhaps it does, for although I believe beyond a reasonable doubt that these horrific murders were committed by Jack the Ripper and not some clever copycat, a skeptic might wish to point out we have no definitive proof in that regard and that mutilated bodies by themselves are not enough.”

  My father looked at Joanna oddly. “But one would have to catch The Ripper in the act for such undeniable proof.”

  “Unless he left a marker behind, like a fingerprint.”

  “But all we have is a partial thumbprint and no prior print to match it against.”

  “Are you speaking of an earlier fingerprint that was known to come from the original Ripper?”

  “Yes, but one does not exist.”

  “Oh, but I think one does,” Joanna said mysteriously, and hailed a passing carriage.

  CHAPTER 10

  Alexander’s

  It had been a long, tiring day, but we carried on, for the lives of Annie Yates and Pretty Penny hung in the balance. Thus, we obtained dinner reservations at Alexander’s on St. Martin’s Lane and arrived at nine sharp, which was shortly before the scheduled time that Pretty Penny and her secret lover would have been expected to make their entrance. A doorman helped Joanna from our taxi and greeted us with a warm welcome.

  “Good evening, madam and gentlemen,” said he.

  “And to you,” Joanna replied, and glanced over at the long line of taxis waiting in line outside the restaurant. “Are the same taxis here each and every night?”

  “No, ma’am,” the doorman answered. “They come and go in a random manner. After dropping off passengers, they continue on their way in search of other fares. Those you see are here for our patrons who are preparing to depart. The exceptions are the few waiting limousines.”

  “Very good.”

  Joanna took my arm as well as my father’s and we entered a most splendid restaurant. It was relatively small, with no more than twenty tables, all nicely placed so that nearby conversations would not be overheard. The chairs were high backed and upholstered in fine, full-grain cordovan leather which gave added comfort. High above, a sparkling glass chandelier provided soft lighting except for the corner tables where shadows allowed for more privacy.

  “Good evening,” a tall, handsome maître d’, with a thin mustache, welcomed us. “The name under which your reservation was made, please.”

  “Dr. John Watson,” I replied.

  “Your table awaits you, sir,” the maître d’ said before giving Joanna a rather long, curious look. “Excuse me, madam, but your face seems familiar.”

  “That’s because it belongs to the daughter of Sher
lock Holmes.”

  The maître d’ was taken aback momentarily but quickly regained his composure. “Is your visit official?”

  “If you wish it to be.”

  “I would prefer not.”

  “Then we shall keep it unofficial, but I do have one request before we are seated,” said Joanna. “I would like to see your reservation books for the past month, excluding this week’s.”

  The maître d’ hesitated as the last trace of cordiality vanished from his face. “Should that not require a search warrant?”

  “I do not have one at present,” Joanna responded. “But I can return tomorrow evening with such a warrant, and with Scotland Yard at my side to assist in the investigation.”

  “That will not be necessary, madam,” the maître d’ said at once, and led us past a well-stocked bar that was made of mahogany. The barkeep as well as some of the fashionably attired patrons recognized Joanna from her photograph in the newspapers, where it had appeared on a number of occasions during the past year. A few of those seated nearby commented to each other in hushed tones as we walked by.

  My father whispered, “I am afraid Joanna’s recognition may work to our disadvantage.”

  “Only if we allow it to,” she whispered back.

  We followed the maître d’ into a small, cramped office that had no windows and a slow-moving overhead fan for ventilation. A cluttered desk, with a battered swivel chair, rested in the center of the room. On a side shelf were thick ledgers with black covers that were stamped with the restaurant’s engraved seal.

  While handing over the reservation books to Joanna, the maître d’ asked, “If the patrons inquire as to the purpose of your visit, what shall I tell them?”

  “The truth,” she replied.

  “But I do not know the purpose.”

  “That is the truth,” said Joanna, opening the initial ledger. “Please see to it that we are not disturbed.”

  Once the maître d’ departed, my father reached in his coat pocket for a folded sheet of paper. “Here is the list you requested, which contains the dates of all performances at the Whitechapel Playhouse during the past month. I obtained the dates from Lionel Lurie, but checked them with Mrs. Adams to make certain there were no inaccuracies.”