The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

“Thank you, James,” Joanna said. “By chance, do you recall how the lovely jewelry box found its way to the card table?”

  “It was delivered by messenger, madam.”

  “Did you recognize the messenger?”

  “The package was taken at the door by one of the staff,” James replied.

  “Was a signature required?”

  “No, madam.”

  “Do you recall the time the package arrived?”

  “Only a few minutes ago, madam,” James answered, and glanced at his pocket timepiece. “I would say as the clock was about to strike two thirty.”

  Perfect timing, I thought, for the gift was delivered at the height of the festivities when little attention would be paid to the delivery. I waited for the head butler to be out of earshot before asking Joanna, “Is there any hope to track the messenger?”

  “None, for he is far too clever to leave that trail.”

  “And now there can be no doubt that our Johnny is his next intended victim,” my father chimed in. “The meaning of the gift is crystal clear.”

  “He is sending us another message that is equally as clear and even more sinister.”

  “Which is?”

  “That he can reach my son and take him captive whenever he wishes.”

  At that very moment, whether it was maternal instinct or happenstance, Joanna abruptly began to glance back and forth across the Blalock garden. A worried expression came to her face as she spoke. “I do not see Johnny.”

  “Perhaps he is still participating in the game of charades,” I suggested.

  We quickly walked over to the playing children and could immediately see that Johnny was not amongst them, nor was he hiding behind a tree as before. Joanna approached a pretty teenage girl and asked, “Is Johnny no longer with you?”

  The lass pointed to an area between the fountain and tall hedge. “He dashed over there for a better view of the intruder, ma’am. But he promised to return shortly.”

  Our eyes went to the far section of the garden beyond the fountain, with its water now running smoothly. Not a soul was to be seen and from a distance there was no apparent opening in the hedge.

  My father asked, “You are quite familiar with the garden, Joanna. Does it contain a rear gate?”

  She responded with a shake of her head, “Only a high hedge.”

  We rapidly surveyed the entire garden end to end, searching behind every tree, fixture, and piece of furniture that had been placed on the lawn for the birthday party. A butler was instructed to enter the manor and determine if the lad had retired to use the bathroom. He had not.

  Joanna was desperately trying to maintain her composure as her brain sought an answer to explain the disappearance. Once more she gazed around the garden, now peering between the closely gathered guests. Her son was not amongst them.

  “Let us examine the place where he was last seen,” she said finally, and led the way to the high hedge behind the fountain.

  I saw nothing which was noteworthy, but apparently Joanna did, for she was now on her knees examining the bottom of the tall hedge. As she leaned in even closer, her attention seemed riveted on several protruding slender branches. “Broken,” she announced, and, using both hands, parted the thick base of the hedge for a better view. It was at that instant my dear wife uttered a primal shriek, the likes of which I had never heard before. “Oh God! The Ripper has my Johnny!”

  “What?” I asked with alarm. “How do you know this?”

  Joanna gestured to a pair of drag marks through the lush grass beneath the hedge and next to them was one of Johnny’s shoes. “The Ripper was secluded here, watching and waiting for his chance.”

  “And he used the disturbance of the repairman as a perfect distraction,” I stated the obvious.

  My wife waved the deduction aside. “Kick through the hedge, John! Hurry! Hurry!”

  The branches were quite thick and required more than a few boots to reach the outer side of the hedge, which revealed only grass and no additional clues. There were no further drag marks and thank goodness no bloodstains. Joanna continued to study the ground, searching for the most trivial of signs, but found only indistinct footprints in the soft, wet grass.

  “A single set of prints which were made by a man’s shoe,” she said, more to herself than to us. Her gaze next went to the surrounding area and, in particular, a narrow paved back road that was free of vehicles. Step by step, with her head down, she walked over to the road and at its curbside found Johnny’s other shoe. “This is where he parked his automobile.”

  “Or his carriage,” I ventured.

  Joanna shook her head. “That would be too slow and require a driver.”

  Next, her gaze went to the adjoining manor which was also surrounded by a tall, thick hedge that was being trimmed by a middle-aged gardener who was perched on a wooden ladder. He turned and stared at us, obviously curious as to our presence.

  “A possible witness,” said she, and hurried over to the gardener, noting that he was not wearing spectacles. “And one with good vision, I would think.”

  As we approached, the workman descended from his ladder and respectfully removed his hat. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Did you happen to see a young lad with an older man pass through a short time ago?” Joanna asked anxiously.

  “Yes, ma’am, I did. It was no more than ten minutes back, if that. And they seemed in a rush because the lad was ill.”

  “Ill? How so?”

  “The gentleman was carrying the lad in his arms, with the boy’s head hanging down. He must be sick, I thought to myself.”

  “Did he continue walking?”

  “Until he reached the motor vehicle which was parked over there.” The gardener pointed to the place where Johnny’s second shoe was discovered.

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “No, ma’am. He was too far away.”

  “What was his attire?”

  “He was wearing a hat and overalls, but I could not tell their brands,” he answered. “I could, however, tell it was a boy he was carrying. The lad looked so ill that he was not moving at all. I began to wonder—!”

  “The motor vehicle,” Joanna interrupted. “Can you describe it?”

  “Long and black.”

  “Do you know its make?”

  The gardener shrugged. “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Was it chauffeured?”

  “It did not appear so, for no one opened the rear door for the gentleman.”

  “Had you ever seen that car before?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  As we turned and headed back to the Blalock manor, Joanna made no effort to hide the tears that gushed down her cheeks. Her voice cracked pitifully when she finally spoke. “My Johnny must be so frightened, so terribly frightened.”

  “I should have never taken my eyes off the lad,” my father berated himself.

  “That holds true for all of us,” said Joanna, sniffing back her tears.

  “I shall notify Sir Charles, who I am certain will place the full force of Scotland Yard behind—”

  Joanna made a loud dismissive sound. She took a deep breath and regained some measure of her composure. “It will be up to us to find Johnny, not those bumblers at the Yard.”

  “But where do we begin?” asked I.

  “By determining if either Peter Willoughby or Thaddeus Rudd has an alibi for this time period,” she instructed, as her face suddenly hardened and her deductive mind took over for the moment. “John, you must hurry to St. Bartholomew’s and question the two as to their whereabouts between the hours of two and four.”

  I looked at my wife quizzically and asked, “Why the time period between two and four?”

  “Because my Johnny was taken from us at two thirty,” she explained quickly. “If you consider the entire kidnapping sequence, it requires two hours to bring it to a successful completion. Do the math on your journey to St. Bart’s
. And while questioning the two main suspects, demand precise answers and, even if they provide alibis, double-check and verify with eyewitnesses.”

  “And if they are not present at the hospital?”

  “Then we shall have them tracked down.”

  “What if they use each other as an alibi?”

  “That would be most unlikely, for only one of them is guilty,” said she. “Remember, verify with eyewitnesses and if needed written statements. Now go!”

  Before I could move, my wife’s intense anguish returned as tears again poured out and streamed down her cheeks. She flew into my arms and embraced me tightly, saying, “Leave no stone unturned, for my son’s life hangs in the balance.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The Alibis

  There being no motor taxis outside the manor, I hired a waiting hansom and instructed the driver to make haste to St. Bart’s, for an emergency awaited me at the hospital. As we rode by St. James’s Park, I mentally calculated the time frame necessary for the kidnapping to be successfully carried out. The birthday party began at 2:00 PM and The Ripper had no doubt secreted himself in the thick hedge earlier, waiting for the opportunity to snatch young Johnny, which occurred at 2:30 PM. The Ripper would then have to travel to Whitechapel to deposit and secure the lad in the hidden dwelling, which would have taken an hour or so. Then he would hurry back to St. Bart’s to resume his usual activities and establish an alibi. That would require another thirty minutes. Total time elapsed two hours. Next, my mind went to the two prime suspects and their alibis, which I believed I could predict. Thaddeus Rudd would claim to be either performing surgery in the main amphitheater or seeing patients in the clinic during the hours between two and four. In both places, eyewitnesses would abound. Peter Willoughby would also seemingly have a sold, verifiable alibi, for he was scheduled to attend a noon luncheon-conference on neuropathology at St. George’s Hospital in Knightsbridge, which was only a stone’s throw away from the Blalock manor in Belgravia. The renowned conference that I was invited to and spoke at a year earlier would conclude at 2:00 PM. Willoughby and Maxwell Anderson had in all likelihood traveled together from St. Bart’s to the meeting, since both were scheduled to present their work on traumatic brain injuries. That being the case, they would then travel back to St. Bart’s, reaching the hospital at 2:30 PM, which was the time of the kidnapping. If this time reference was correct, Peter Willoughby could not be The Ripper. And he had a perfect eyewitness to account for all his time away from St. Bart’s.

  We passed through Trafalgar Square as I again went over the predicted time sequences. They were absolutely correct, which meant that neither Rudd nor Willoughby, our prime suspects, could be Jack the Ripper, and that depressing fact would demand we begin our investigation anew. And this would consume entirely too much time, which we had precious little of. But then again, I had to remind myself, all of my calculations were based on assumptions and one of Joanna’s cardinal rules was to never bank on assumptions until they can be verified by firsthand accounts.

  Ten minutes later we drew up to the side entrance at St. Bartholomew’s. Hurrying down the corridor in the department of pathology, I cleared my mind of all preconceived notions and decided to begin my investigation with Peter Willoughby. The door to the director’s office was closed, so I rapped gently and entered to find Willoughby’s meek, but ever-efficient, secretary sitting behind her desk struggling with a typewriter ribbon.

  “Good afternoon, Rose,” I greeted her.

  “And good afternoon to you, Dr. Watson,” said she, looking up from her task. “May I be of help?”

  “I need to speak with the director on an important matter,” I replied.

  “Oh, I am afraid his schedule is rather full,” the secretary informed. “Can you wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’d rather not,” I urged. “Has he returned from his luncheon-conference at St. George’s?”

  “I suspect so, for the affair was due to be over promptly at two.”

  “Did he stop by his office on his return?”

  “Not that I noticed, but then I was away from my desk for a while dealing with a problem at the stenographer’s station,” said she. “Shall I notify the director of your request once he is done with his other meetings?”

  “No need,” I responded. “I will catch up with him later today.”

  “Very good, Dr. Watson.”

  On leaving the director’s office, I spotted Benson, the head orderly, pushing a cart loaded with dissected specimens. I waved and walked across the corridor. “A moment of your time.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  I glanced down at the coils of large intestines, upon which lay a lacerated spleen. “Are these from an autopsy?”

  “No, sir. They come from an ongoing surgery being performed by Dr. Rudd,” he answered. “Multiple stab wounds to the abdomen, you see.”

  “A knife fight, I presume.”

  Benson shook his head. “It was a revenge stabbing, so I am told, that inflicted terrible damage. The patient was indeed fortunate to have such a fine surgeon on hand, who is at his best in these situations.”

  “I think I will have a look-see myself, for such cases of trauma interest me.”

  “I am afraid you will find the amphitheater’s seats filled, as the good Dr. Rudd always draws a large audience.”

  “That will present no problem, for I will stand at the rear if necessary to watch a surgical genius at work,” I exaggerated, and turned away but then remembered a final most important question. “Benson, have you by chance seen Dr. Willoughby this afternoon?”

  “Briefly, as he was entering Dr. Anderson’s laboratory.”

  “What time was that?”

  “A little after four.”

  I hurried down the corridor and took the brass elevator to the third floor where the operating rooms were located. I had to squeeze my way into the main amphitheater, which was filled to the point of being overcrowded. At the base of the amphitheater, a woman with long brown hair lay on the operating table, her face covered with an anesthetic cone. Thaddeus Rudd, gowned and masked, was cursing loudly as he went about his delicate dissection.

  “Hold the bloody retractor steady,” he growled.

  “Sorry, sir,” said a gowned surgical nurse.

  “Don’t be sorry; be proficient,” Rudd snapped. “It is impossible to tie off a bleeder if one cannot see it.”

  I turned to a nearby surgeon, Harry Askins, and inquired, “Horrendous case, eh?”

  “The worst, with the patient going in and out of shock,” he answered quietly. “Rudd has been on his feet for the better part of three hours, dealing with one complication after another.”

  “No rest break at all?”

  “Not for a second, and I have been in the amphitheater from the very start. I tell you, Rudd has the energy of ten.”

  “Make that twenty,” said a young surgeon who had overheard our conversation. “Rudd had to open her up the moment she was anesthetized. Blood was spurting everywhere, and had he not stopped the hemorrhaging immediately she would have not lived a minute longer. I tell you that poor woman should have died a dozen times, but Rudd refuses to let her do so.”

  I had seen enough. Despite being covered with cap, gown, and mask, the surgeon in the operating room was Thaddeus Rudd, who had been in place since one o’clock and would remain there for hours more. Thus, Rudd could not have been responsible for the kidnapping, which also meant he could not be Jack the Ripper.

  As I dashed down the stairs to the pathology department, I decided to question Maxwell Anderson next, for he in all likelihood could verify Willoughby’s alibi. And what if he did substantiate it? Then we had no suspects, I thought miserably, and no hope of rescuing Joanna’s son. As I reached for the door to Anderson’s laboratory, a chilling picture of a bound and gagged Johnny came into my mind, which reminded me how terrified the poor lad must be at this moment.

  On entering the histopathology section, I spotted Anderson and
Willoughby standing near a machine that was churning out slices of tissue and placing them onto glass slides. Both men were attired in long white laboratory coats and appeared to be chatting amiably above the noise of the machine. If there was an expression of concern on the director’s face, I could not detect it.

  He glanced at me for a long moment, now apparently annoyed by my intrusion. “Rose tells me you wish to speak with me.”

  “If you have a moment,” said I, caught off guard but quickly fabricating a reason. “I was interested in borrowing your excellent neuropathology slides for a talk I have been invited to give.”

  Willoughby eyed me suspiciously. “Are you now an expert in neuropathology?”

  “Hardly,” I explained. “The symposium deals with generalized trauma and your slides will simply demonstrate its effect on the brain.”

  “I will allow the lending as long as they are carefully looked after and returned in the same condition they were given.”

  “They shall be,” I promised. “By the way, did your conference at St. George’s go well?”

  “Quite well, until the accident occurred.”

  “Accident?” I inquired.

  “A splash of red wine was spilled onto the director’s shirt and tie,” Anderson interjected.

  Willoughby growled at the unpleasant memory. “Some clumsy waiter placed a glass of wine on the edge of a napkin and it tilted over.”

  “It must have resulted in a most untidy appearance,” I said sympathetically, but saw no such spotting on his attire.

  “I covered it with a fresh napkin as best as I could, and as soon as the conference ended I hurried home to change into new garments.”

  “Your wife must have been surprised to see you away from the hospital so early in the afternoon.”

  “She would have been indeed, but she was out shopping and it was the servants’ day off, so I had the entire house to myself. In any event, I quickly changed into fresh attire, which I must say brightened my day.” Willoughby ran a hand across his freshly laundered collar and striped red tie. “Even Rose noted the change and complimented me on it.”

  “Very stylish,” said I.