“Excellent, Watson.” With effort, Joanna extracted two thick multifolded sheets of paper from her purse and carefully unfolded each. She spread them out separately on the desk, holding down their edges with books and binders and a nonfunctioning clock. Written on the sheets were long columns, with individual letters of the alphabet atop each. “I counted eighteen tables in the restaurant, which means that for each date there will be eighteen reservations between the hours of nine and ten. Since we now know there were fifteen performance dates at the playhouse during the past month, we must multiply fifteen times eighteen, which will tell us the total number of patrons present during the supposed times that Pretty Penny and her lover could have dined here. We shall go through the three ledgers and list alphabetically the visit of each patron. We are seeking an individual who has visited Alexander’s more than once in the past month, for we know that Pretty Penny and her companion frequented this establishment from her conversations with the Widow Marley. Thus, the names of those who made multiple reservations may well include the name of Penny’s secret lover.”
My father did the arithmetic and announced, “Eighteen times fifteen equals two hundred and seventy reservations, which is a most arduous number to sift through. It may well take hours.”
“But it could turn out to be most productive,” said Joanna. “Now, as I call out the name of each reservation, please note it under the correct alphabet column.”
“Will you be giving first and last name?” I asked.
“Just the last for now,” she replied, and began to list the patrons in the first black ledger. “Bacon … Whitaker … Everest … Albright … Lewis … Ellington … Marcus … Covington … Marshall … Lord Bremmer … Dalton.…”
I was responsible for getting down the names that started with the letters A to K, while my father noted those that went from L to Z. After a half hour and listing seventy patrons, there was only one match. Mr. Marcus had visited twice, but the entry had two different first names—Charles and Lawrence.
“I fear we shall not be successful,” my father predicted. “For the odds are against us. After all, the couple may have only visited the restaurant once.”
“I suspect it was far more than once, Watson, and there are several reasons to back up this assertion,” Joanna said. “First, Pretty Penny treasured her matchbook cover from Alexander’s, which indicated their visit was most memorable, and such memories often result in frequent revisits. Secondly, this restaurant is located on St. Martin’s Lane, which is the main theater district of London. It represents the dreamworld of the actress Pretty Penny, for it is the world she aspires to become part of. I can assure you she would beg to return time and time again.”
“There is the possibility the secret lover used aliases to make the reservations and thus keep his true identity unknown,” I suggested.
“If that were the case, he would use the same alias over and over, for he would be familiar to the maître d’ and staff because of his many visits.” Joanna reached for the second black ledger and handed it to me. “If you will, John, please call out the names as your father and I list them alphabetically.”
“We shall begin with the tenth of the month,” said I, and began naming the patrons. “Merriman … Graham … Grover … Jackson … Clement … Albertson … Mendel … Boyle … Poole … Rood—”
“Rudd!” Joanna interrupted abruptly. “Rudd, you say.”
“It is spelled R-o-o-d,” I corrected. “With the first name Samuel. He is not our surgeon.”
“Underline it nonetheless, for it could be a clever, phonetically similar alias,” she instructed.
“Done.”
“Pray continue,” Joanna requested, as the excitement of discovery faded from her face.
“Devlin … Courtney … Broadstreet … Duke … Isaacs … York … Colleton … Baron Rothman … Oliver … Dunleavy … Bayswater … Dubose … Dunbar … Anderson.…”
“I have a match!” Joanna cried out.
I blinked several times in disbelief and reread the name to make certain my eyes were not deceiving me. “The first name is Maxwell.”
“Aha!” said she triumphantly. “And so we have our secret Romeo.”
“But why go to such lengths to hide the romance?” asked my father. “After all, she is a quite beautiful, talented young actress.”
“It is a matter of class distinction, I would guess,” Joanna surmised. “But let us be absolutely certain that Maxwell Anderson is our secret Romeo. We should continue to review this ledger and the next to determine how many times Anderson’s name appears. There is no need to call out the other patrons as we search for additional visits by the couple.”
We hurried through the remaining ledgers that held the reservations for over a hundred and fifty patrons. Maxwell Anderson’s name came up five times between the hours of nine and ten in the evening. On several of the latter visits, a small asterisk appeared next to the reservation.
“What do you believe the asterisk notes?” I asked.
“That this particular patron requires special attention,” Joanna replied. “The maître d’ will give us the specifics.”
On that note we closed the ledgers and reentered the restaurant. As we reappeared, heads turned and the loud hum of multiple conversations quieted for a moment, then quickly resumed. The maître d’ rushed over to us to inquire, “May I ask if all was in order?”
“Quite so,” Joanna assured. “You should have no concern about Scotland Yard paying a visit.”
“Excellent,” the maître d’ said, relieved.
“But I do have a question,” she requested. “I noticed an asterisk by the name Maxwell Anderson. What significance does that carry?”
“Dr. Anderson wished to be seated at one of the corner tables for more privacy,” he replied, and gestured to the farthest corner of the restaurant.
“Where there would be less noise and distraction,” Joanna added.
“It is a preferred table for those very reasons,” the maître d’ agreed, and waited for more questions. When none were forthcoming, he assumed his professional demeanor and asked, “May I show you to your table?”
“Please.”
We were seated only briefly before a waiter appeared and inquired, “Would you care for cocktails?”
“We shall do with just wine,” Joanna responded. “When he has a moment, have the sommelier come over.”
“Very good, madam,” the waiter said, with a half bow, and disappeared amongst the tables.
My father whispered under his breath, “I take it you believe Anderson ordered a most expensive bottle of wine.”
“What better way to impress a young beauty from Whitechapel?” Joanna said.
“Would Pretty Penny truly know the difference between an expensive and inexpensive wine?” my father asked candidly.
“It is not the wine alone which would impress her, but the large, shiny medallion that the sommelier wears around his neck.”
“Does it have a function or is it simply meant for ornamentation?” asked I.
“I favor the latter,” said my father.
“As do I,” I ventured. “What say you, Joanna?”
“You are half-right.” My wife winked at me playfully. “For, as a matter of fact, it serves two purposes.”
“How so?”
“It is not actually a medallion, but a shallow silver cup used for wine tasting,” Joanna described. “It is called a tastevin, which is the French term for ‘taste wine.’ But its gleaming silver not only catches the eye, it accentuates the color of the wines, particularly the reds, which makes them even more appetizing.”
I found myself smiling at my dear Joanna, whose wits easily matched her beauty. “How in the world did you come by this information?”
“My guess would be that it was mentioned in a monograph on expensive wines which she acquired for our visit here,” my father surmised.
Joanna shook her head. “I learned of it from a French murder case, in
which the sommelier was strangled using the ribbon around his neck that held the tastevin.”
For the hundredth time I had to remind myself that my wife seemed to have boundless knowledge on so many subjects, but only when it could be applied to a criminal activity. I would be willing to wager that not one detective in a thousand would know what a tastevin was.
The sommelier approached our table, wearing a large silver medallion that hung from a red ribbon around his neck. He was an obese man, with a protuberant abdomen upon which rested the tastevin. “How may I be of service, madam?”
“We have learned from a friend of ours, Dr. Maxwell Anderson, that you serve a most excellent Chardonnay.”
The sommelier smiled, seemingly pleased with the selection. “Oh, yes. It was a fine Louis Latour.”
“And the year?”
“A 1915. The best in recent memory.”
“Did he always request a 1915?”
“Always, madam, for it is obviously a favorite of his.”
“Did his companion enjoy it as well?”
“So it would seem, for they tasted more than a few glasses together.”
Joanna nodded and lowered her voice. “I am delighted to hear that, for as you may know, Dr. Anderson is a confirmed bachelor and his family is concerned he will remain so. I would be more than happy to inform the family that the couple appeared quite affectionate and fond of one another.”
The sommelier hesitated, clearly not willing to go into the particular behavior of a highly valued patron. “That I cannot comment upon.”
“Oh, but you can,” Joanna said forthrightly.
“It is simply not possible, madam.”
“Do you know who I am?” Joanna asked in a neutral, nonthreatening tone.
“Yes, madam, but you are asking me to compromise my position.”
“My questions are of no small matter and you must answer them honestly and completely, for not to do so may well make you become part of an official investigation.”
The sommelier’s face reddened. “I most certainly do not wish that.”
“Then answer my questions to the best of your ability, with the assurances that every word you speak will be held in the highest confidence and not go beyond this table.”
“Very well, madam,” the sommelier spoke in a barely audible voice. “For I suspect you will learn of their quarrel from others.”
“I take it all was not loving between the couple,” Joanna assumed.
“There was a bit of a tiff on their last visit,” the sommelier confided.
“Oh?”
The sommelier glanced around nervously, with his eyes coming to rest on the maître d’, who seemed most interested in their conversation. The wine steward pasted a smile on his face and nodded at nothing. “Our talk is taking too long and I am drawing too much attention. Allow me to fetch the Louis Latour, and when I return I will slowly remove the cork and you shall slowly taste the Chardonnay. That will give me the time necessary to tell the details of the quarrel.”
Once the sommelier departed, Joanna commented in a quiet voice, “It seems that all is not well in Camelot.”
“Particularly when the stir occurs in public,” I thought aloud. “Maxwell Anderson is usually a very calm, collected individual. It is difficult for me to envision him misbehaving in such a fashion.”
“Perhaps the behavior was on Pretty Penny’s part, and not his,” suggested my father.
“I wonder what set off the lovers’ quarrel,” I pondered.
“More important, was it verbal or physical?” Joanna asked. “For if it was the latter on his part, we have a man who can be aroused to violence.”
We abruptly stopped our quiet conversation as the sommelier returned to our table, carrying a bottle of wine with a bright yellow wrapping around its cork.
“A 1915 Louis Latour,” he announced proudly, for the benefit of the tables closest to us. As he pierced the wrapping, he began his tale in a voice just above a whisper. “It was more of a shouting match than anything else. Their words were loud, but only became angry later on.”
“Do you recall what was actually said?” Joanna whispered back.
“Not their complete sentences, madam, but phrases such as she demanding, ‘You must tell them,’ and he responding, ‘The time is not appropriate.’ I did not hear the subject of their conversation, but the word family kept recurring.”
“Did they eventually quiet?” asked Joanna.
“No, madam. If anything, their voices grew louder, to the distraction of our other patrons,” the sommelier answered. “I believe Simon, the maître d’, was about to politely intervene when, in the heat of the argument, Dr. Anderson’s hand tipped over a glass, with the wine spilling out and onto the lady’s dress.”
“Intentionally?” my wife asked at once.
“I could not tell.”
“She must have been furious.”
“Quite so,” the sommelier went on, now slowly removing the cork from the wine bottle and carefully examining it. “She abruptly arose from the table and, rather than retire to the ladies’ room, she stormed out of the restaurant, informing Dr. Maxwell to ‘never bloody call me again, until you stand like a man.’”
“Did Dr. Maxwell follow her?” Joanna queried.
“He did, but only after apologizing profusely to the other patrons,” the sommelier replied. “By the time he reached the street, the lady had departed in a taxi.”
“Did he attempt to follow the taxi?”
“She had too much of a head start, according to the doorman.” The sommelier filled our glasses, then stepped back and watched us sip and enjoy the most delicious Chardonnay. “That is the story to the best of my recollection.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Joanna said, and waited for the sommelier to move away. When he was well out of earshot, she turned to us with a mischievous smile. “Well, my dear Watsons, what do you make of that?”
“A lovers’ quarrel,” I assumed.
“What of her demand that he must tell them?”
“She must be referring to his family and their relationship,” said I.
“You would think they would eventually come to accept her,” my father joined in. “After all, she is a very pretty and talented young woman who carries the trait of being instantly likable.”
“You are dreaming, Watson,” Joanna rebutted mildly. “Recall the disaster of the Winchester family from not long ago.”
Our collective minds went back to the sad saga of the Winchesters, a distinguished family whose lineage could be measured in centuries. Their eldest daughter fell in love with a Belgian musician of great promise. The family threatened to disown her unless she ended the relationship, which she did not. A very mysterious accident took the life of the young violinist, which gave the family some comfort. Unfortunately, it drove the daughter into a deep depression and she took her life in a well-publicized suicide.
“Make no mistake,” Joanna interrupted our thoughts, “those people will do anything and everything to protect their precious family names.”
My father’s brow went up. “Are you suggesting that Maxwell’s family knew of the relationship and arranged for Pretty Penny’s disappearance?”
“Or perhaps Maxwell Anderson himself was responsible because of her threat to go to his family and disclose their affair,” Joanna proposed.
“But why would she do such a thing?” my father countered. “It would only bring pressure on Maxwell to end the relationship.”
“Perhaps she believed she could charm them, much like she charms everyone she meets.”
The waiter approached and took our order of dover sole prepared with lemon, butter, and parsley, accompanied by side dishes of rice pilaf and sweet peppers. We waited for the sommelier to refill our glasses and depart before continuing our conversation on the motives behind the disappearance of Pretty Penny.
“Surely you are not serious about Maxwell Anderson being somehow involved,” said I.
“I have not excluded him,” Joanna responded.
“But it seems too farfetched.”
“Not when you consider what is at stake,” Joanna explained. “Please remember that St. Bartholomew’s is a distinguished medical center, with a sterling reputation. They will allow no one nor any event to place even the slightest blemish on its name.”
“True enough,” I agreed.
“Now, tell me what transpires when it becomes public knowledge that Maxwell Anderson is romantically involved with a common, amateur actress, who was once homeless in Whitechapel. With their marriage a distinct possibility, the family is enraged and threatens to disinherit him. The story is a scandal in the making, the type the newspapers love. The public would of course side with Pretty Penny, while the powerful aristocracy sees her as an adventuress seeking status and fortune. With all this in mind, tell me how well it would sit with those who control St. Bartholomew’s.”
“He would in all likelihood be dismissed,” I concluded.
“So Maxwell Anderson has plenty at stake, and disclosure of the affair could harm his professional status irreparably.”
“But the affair might not become public knowledge and thus no scandal would exist,” I argued.
“Ha!” Joanna forced a laugh. “Word would surely leak out, if it hasn’t already, for the aristocracy enjoys a good gossipy love story as much as anyone, if not more. In addition, Anderson was escorting Pretty Penny to the finest restaurants, where he was bound to be seen and recognized by others in his class.”
“Particularly if one was present the night of the quarrel in the restaurant,” my father interjected.
“Amen,” Joanna said with a firm nod.
“Then Maxwell would have been wise to end the affair as soon as possible, assuming he had all this in mind,” I opined.
“That is easy to say, but difficult to do when one is in love,” said she.
“Nevertheless, I could never envision Maxwell Anderson arranging the disappearance of Pretty Penny,” I contended. “For to do so, he would have to be Jack the Ripper.”
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 12
