The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  Drawing up to the most impressive of the structures, we were greeted on the steps by Inspector Lestrade, who introduced us to the superintendent at Hanwell, Dr. Charles Marshall Ellis, an elderly physician with snow-white hair and a kind, welcoming face. As we walked down a long, quiet corridor, we encountered expressionless inmates, with dazed, faraway looks in their eyes, which was characteristic of the mentally ill. They, however, nodded to us and seemed pleased that we were visiting. Some even spoke a few cordial words, which we returned.

  “We encourage them to walk about and interact with others,” said Ellis. “It seems to make them feel they are part of the outside world.”

  “Are drugs used as well?” my father asked.

  “Not as much as before,” Ellis replied. “We employ bromides which help soothe the most agitated and paraldehyde to quiet those at bedtime.”

  We passed by a very large room that was filled with row after row of empty bedsteads which were no more than three feet apart. But unlike the beds at the doss-house, these were covered with clean sheets and pillows, all neatly arranged.

  “May I ask where the inmates are?” I inquired.

  “We refer to them as patients, for it gives them a bit more dignity,” Ellis corrected gently. “In answer to your question, we have a very tight schedule for those housed here, which for the most part keeps them occupied. They are awakened at six, at which time they are washed, their hair combed, and their skin inspected. At nine they are served breakfast, after which they begin their day’s work. Men work and farm the garden for the food we consume, while women are employed in the laundry and needle room. By eight in the evening, all are in bed.”

  “It is not what I anticipated,” my father admitted. “Back in my days in medicine, the mentally unstable were not treated nearly as well, with filth, violence, and restraints being the order of the day.”

  “Fortunately, we have changed and progressed, Dr. Watson,” Ellis said, as we approached a clearly agitated patient in a straitjacket being accompanied by an attendant. “But on some occasions, we have no recourse other than to keep the violent ones restrained.”

  The patient glared at us as we passed, and snarled menacingly while making a sudden, aggressive move toward our group. His attendant held him back with a gentle tug on his straitjacket, much like he would do with a mean dog on a leash.

  “Walter is one of the unfortunate exceptions,” Ellis said unhappily.

  “What of the man who claims to be Jack the Ripper?” Joanna asked.

  “He, too, is one of the exceptions.”

  We came to the end of the corridor where a burly attendant and a constable stood guard in front of a padded door. Within, there were no sounds to be heard. A slow-moving overhead fan provided scant ventilation, for the air held a musty odor.

  Reaching for the doorknob, Ellis cautioned, “I should warn you that psychotic patients can quickly transform from absolute compliance to excess motor activity and excitement, which may end in acts of violence.”

  “So those around them must be protected,” Joanna noted.

  “They must also be protected from themselves,” Ellis added.

  “I take it they may also have false beliefs and delusions, which can intensify this violence,” said she.

  “Sometimes to extremes,” the superintendent agreed, and opened the door.

  We entered a narrow, rectangular room whose floor and walls were covered with canvas pouches, which we were told had been filled with horsehair to prevent patients from harming themselves. In the center of the padded room was a heavyset middle-aged man, with gray, unruly hair and dark brown eyes that stared at you without even a hint of a blink. He didn’t seem bothered by his straitjacket as he conversed with an imaginary figure.

  “I tell you there is no excuse for it, Thomas,” he said. “Such behavior will cause you to be expelled from Hanwell.”

  The delusional man nodded at the silent response.

  “Good, then,” he went on. “Play it on the straight and you will do just fine.”

  “Artie, there are people here who wish to speak with you,” Ellis said in a comforting voice.

  “Can’t you see I am involved in a most serious conversation?” Artie shouted, suddenly agitated.

  “Forgive me, but I would very much like you to hold that conversation in abeyance while you speak with the police. I know you are most interested in telling them of your recent activities in Whitechapel.”

  “As long as it doesn’t take too long,” Artie conceded.

  “Thank you,” Ellis said, and stepped aside.

  Joanna studied the patient carefully, paying particular attention to the straitjacket covering his torso. For a moment, he seemed to be attempting to wiggle his way out of it. “That restraint must be very uncomfortable,” she said.

  “It is,” Artie answered.

  “Would you like it removed?”

  “I would.”

  “With the understanding that should you misbehave, it will immediately be placed back on you.”

  “That is a lot to ask.”

  “Yes or no?” Joanna pressed.

  “I will behave,” Artie promised reluctantly.

  Ellis quickly interceded. “That would be most dangerous, for he can turn violent in an instant.”

  “If the removal were not important, I would not have requested it,” Joanna said, unconcerned. “Besides, should Artie become violent, your burly attendant and the constable, along with the inspector, will have no difficulty subduing him.”

  “Still, you do so at your risk,” the superintendent warned.

  “So be it,” she replied. “Please call in your attendant.”

  Artie was surprisingly compliant when the attendant freed him from the straitjacket. He moved his arms about in a circular motion to relax the muscles and increase the circulation. Finally, he stretched his back and uttered a sigh of relief. “I hope this doesn’t take up much time.”

  “That depends on your answers,” Joanna said, and asked that he hold his arms out in front of him, so she could examine his bloodied hands. He did so without hesitation but had difficulty maintaining the outstretched position with his left arm. “Your left arm seems a bit weak,” she noticed.

  “It was the result of an accident,” Artie explained.

  “Did this accident occur while you were Jack the Ripper?”

  “Oh, no. It occurred some years ago.”

  “I would like to hear the details of the accident.”

  “It is not important.”

  “It is to me.”

  Artie hesitated and for unknown reasons sniffed at the air. He did so again, moving a little closer to the group of visitors. “I smell tobacco smoke.”

  “I smoke,” Joanna said.

  “Cigarettes?”

  “The Turkish variety.”

  “I would dearly love one.”

  Joanna looked over to Ellis, who nodded his approval. She extracted a cigarette from her purse and, after handing it to Artie, lighted it with a strike-anywhere match. The patient inhaled deeply to soak up every trace of nicotine and did so yet again.

  “There is nothing quite as delightful as a strong smoke,” he said happily.

  “Which Turkish tobacco always delivers,” Joanna added.

  “They must be expensive.”

  “Not so when you consider one smoke from them is worth two or more from an ordinary cigarette.”

  “I shall have to remember that,” Artie said, and took another deep inhalation.

  I was struck how Joanna and Artie were now chatting like old friends. He appeared completely at ease and sane as he told her of the brands of common cigarettes he once so enjoyed. She of course knew of not only these brands but also the type of ash they left behind, which Artie found most interesting. Even the good Dr. Ellis seemed surprised by the ease of conversation between the two, for he was unaware of Joanna’s ability to sound nonintrusive while being the exact opposite.

  “How do you come to kn
ow so much about tobacco?” Artie asked.

  “My father instructed me,” Joanna said truthfully, then waved her hand to end that portion of the conversation. “Now, please tell me about your unfortunate accident, which must have been horrific.”

  “It was indeed, madam,” he commenced, now walking around the padded room with a noticeable limp. “I was a butcher’s assistant in Whitechapel and pushed a large cart to deliver beef and poultry to various addresses. Everything was going quite well that day when a horse suddenly bolted from the backfire of a lorry. The bloody animal ran over both me and my cart, knocking both of us to the cobblestones. The accident crushed my left leg, which left me with a hobble that I have to this day.”

  “I see your shoulder was injured as well,” Joanna observed. “It must have been very painful.”

  “Oh, the pain eventually passed, but the complete use of my left arm never returned.” Artie lifted his left arm up to shoulder height, but it quickly dropped down to his side. “The weakness cost me my position at the butcher shop, and from that moment on things went badly for me.”

  “A terrible handicap,” she commiserated. “Can you perform any functions with your left arm?”

  “Very few, madam, for it tires so easily.”

  “Are you able to hold up a pint of bitters?”

  “Not for long, but that is of little matter, for I am naturally right-handed.”

  Lestrade decided to intervene, now seeing where the conversation was headed. “But his right arm is quite powerful, for he uses it for all things and thus its strength even grows. I will wager you can hold your own in a fight, eh, Artie?”

  “That I can, guv’nor, as more than a few men will testify to,” Artie replied, now looking longingly at the very last of his cigarette. He attempted to draw a final puff, but the burning end was too close to his lips. “I wonder, madam, if I might have one more of your Turkish cigarettes.”

  Joanna gave him another cigarette, which he lighted from the one he was smoking before stamping out the latter on the canvas-covered floor. “Please be good enough to tell me of your attacks on the Unfortunates,” she probed in a neutral tone.

  “It was easy, for they were weak.”

  “Surely they resisted.”

  “But to no avail, for my strength was overwhelming.”

  “Did they scream?”

  Artie chuckled inappropriately. “It is most difficult to scream through a slit throat.”

  “Did you leave them there to die?” Joanna queried.

  “I enjoyed watching them bleed to death,” Artie replied. “It reminded me of my days at the butcher shop, where we would slaughter the animals and watch their blood flow into the street. It was similar to a flowing red stream, you see.”

  “Did you take anything from the Unfortunate’s body?”

  “Her organs?”

  “Which?”

  “Any I wished.”

  “And what did you do with them?”

  “I offered them up to God to show him that I was accomplishing my mission on earth.”

  “What was the mission God assigned to you?”

  “To rid the streets of Whitechapel of dirty prostitutes who cause decent men to sin.”

  “Does God give you a name?”

  “He calls me his Angel of Death.”

  “How many Unfortunates have you killed?”

  “A great number.”

  “And this pleases your God?”

  “Quite so, for he encourages me to kill more and more until we have cleansed all of Whitechapel.”

  “Perhaps he will tell you to stop.”

  Artie suddenly turned angry and began to move his arms in a threatening manner. “He would never! I am his special servant.”

  “But suppose he does?”

  “You are planning to talk with him, aren’t you?” Artie’s voice was now a menacing shriek. “I will not allow you to speak with him, and I will harm you if you attempt to do so.”

  Joanna responded with only a silent stare.

  Artie suddenly lunged for her throat with outstretched arms, which caught the constable and attendant by total surprise. In an instant Joanna effortlessly swept Artie’s arms aside and, using her foot, kicked his legs from under him. Artie hit the canvas floor headfirst, with a loud thud which rendered him dazed and powerless. The attendant had no difficulty reapplying the straitjacket.

  “I say!” Lestrade said, astonished by Joanna’s martial art skill. “What type of fighting is that called?”

  “Jujitsu,” Joanna replied. “It comes in handy for self-defense.”

  “So I noticed,” Lestrade said, stepping around the still-stunned inmate.

  Out in the corridor, Joanna firmly pronounced, “He is not Jack the Ripper.”

  “But you have not seen the evidence which clearly states he is,” Lestrade argued.

  “I have seen enough,” said she. “To begin with, we know from the pattern of the victim’s wounds that The Ripper is left-handed. Artie is right-handed, and his left is so weak it can barely support a pint of bitters. He, for all intents and purposes, is a one-armed man. It is beyond the realm of reality for him to subdue an alert Unfortunate and slit her throat simultaneously.”

  “Perhaps he first rendered them unconscious,” Lestrade proposed.

  “That is not The Ripper’s modus operandi, for he wishes to see their final fear and agony,” Joanna countered. “Even Artie was aware of this, for he took some delight in telling us that his supposed victim could not scream through a severed windpipe. Moreover, Artie has a permanent limp whereas The Ripper, as described by Sally Hawkins, appeared to be feigning such a disability. It is also rather odd that neither Annie Yates nor Sally Hawkins mentioned that The Ripper had a palsied arm, which both would have noticed. And finally, Artie could not name the female organs that were dissected out of the victims, which Jack the Ripper would have had no difficulty describing. Thus, I believe you have the wrong man, Lestrade.”

  “Your points are well taken, but I am convinced that your opinion will change once you see the all too convincing evidence,” the inspector insisted.

  “We shall see,” said Joanna.

  Following Lestrade and Ellis down the corridor, I whispered to Joanna, “That was a clever move to have the suspect’s straitjacket removed, for it certainly put him at ease.”

  “That was not the purpose of the removal,” she whispered back. “I noticed that his right shoulder was overly developed and his left withered. To make certain this apparent finding was not a distortion caused by the straitjacket, I had it taken off. This allowed me to clearly demonstrate that he was right-handed for the most part and had a palsied left.”

  “I missed that,” I said regretfully.

  “You must learn to observe more carefully, John,” Joanna said, with a playful smile.

  Ellis led the way into a musty room which was used to store cleaning equipment. On a large, centrally located table Lestrade had spread out all the evidence taken from the suspect. I could detect the stale blood and the even stronger aroma of formaldehyde which emanated from the garments removed from Artie upon his readmission to Hanwell. The evidence included shoes and socks, trousers, shirt, coat, pieces of bloodstained glass, and the feathered leg torn off a bird, most likely a chicken.

  “Allow me to tell you how the suspect was apprehended earlier today,” said Lestrade. “He was seen by more than a few to be walking around Mitre Square, wearing bloody clothing and crying out, ‘I am Jack the Ripper and you will never catch me.’ When approached by police officers, he drew a large, bloodied knife and dared them to come closer, so they might join the company of the dead Unfortunates. A prolonged struggle ensued before he was shackled and returned to Hanwell for examination.”

  “How was it determined he was an inmate at Hanwell?” Joanna asked.

  “He told the officers and produced a card stating this was the case,” the inspector replied.

  “How convenient,” she commented, and carefull
y eyed the items of evidence on the table. “Where is this large knife you just spoke of?”

  “I am afraid it has been lost,” Lestrade said unhappily.

  “I would do my very best to find that knife, for it may carry more evidence than all the other items put together.”

  “Such as?”

  “Its purpose, other than to be used as a weapon,” Joanna replied. “You may wish to determine its origin and in particular whether it came from the butcher shop where he once worked.”

  “What relevance would that hold?”

  “Would you not like to learn whether that very same knife was used to dissect out organs from slaughtered animals?”

  “Excellent point,” Lestrade admitted, and appeared to be making a mental note.

  Joanna reached for the suspect’s trousers, with their pockets turned inside out, and carefully sniffed at them from belt to bottom. She did so yet again before performing the same act on Artie’s shoes. “Formaldehyde,” she said finally.

  “Which no doubt splashed on him when the bottle slipped from his pocket and broke open on the cobblestones,” Lestrade construed.

  “Well considered,” Joanna said, “except for the fact that the formaldehyde is concentrated on the knees of his trousers and nowhere else.”

  He gave the matter thought before saying, “I fail to see the significance to that finding.”

  “If the bottle of formaldehyde had broken open near the suspect’s feet, it would have splashed up onto his shoes and the entire lower portion of his trousers, which it did not. The aroma of formaldehyde was for the most part limited to the knees of his trousers.”

  “How did it get there and nowhere else, then?”

  “There is only one explanation,” Joanna informed. “The suspect knelt down in a puddle of formaldehyde which was made earlier by the genuine Jack the Ripper.”

  “But you found the same aroma on his shoes,” the inspector challenged.

  “Only on the soles when he stepped into the already-formed puddle,” she responded, and turned her attention to the torn-off feathered chicken leg. “What are we to make of this?”

  “I suspect Artie was starving and scavenging for anything edible,” Lestrade answered.