The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Hmm,” the director made a low-pitched guttural sound indicating the pleasant exchange was over. “Now, in regard to the slides you wish to borrow, I am afraid I unintentionally left them on my desk at home. I had placed them there while I took the quiet opportunity to answer correspondence which had accumulated over the past week. Time slipped by and the next thing I knew it was past three thirty. I dashed from my house and neglected to take my slides with me.”

  “No worries,” said I. “I will come by your office in the morning for them.”

  “Very good.” He checked his timepiece with a glance and turned for the door. “I must now attend to other matters which await me.”

  I waited for Willoughby to be well gone before asking Anderson, “Did he put up a big brouhaha over the spilled wine?”

  “And some,” he replied. “It required several minutes for him to finally calm down. But then he recouped and made a bit of a jest over it during his presentation. However, his fury returned when he left the conference and walked to his automobile.”

  “So I take it you two had come to the meeting in separate vehicles.”

  Anderson shook his head. “We drove over in the director’s automobile. But when he was forced to return home, I was obliged to hire a hansom and enjoy a pleasant ride back to St. Bartholomew’s.”

  “While Willoughby hurried home, where he spent a relaxing, yet productive, afternoon.”

  “So it would seem, but he complained about losing two hours of laboratory time the moment he returned.”

  “It was around four o’clock, then.”

  “A little after.”

  Docketing that final piece of information, I departed Anderson’s laboratory with a singular thought going through my mind. Both Willoughby and Rudd had seemingly solid alibis, but there was a difference. Rudd’s could be verified. Willoughby’s could not.

  CHAPTER 23

  Fading Hope

  Red-eyed and grief-stricken, Joanna managed to push her heartache aside as she listened intently to every word I spoke without interruption. But I could tell from her expressions that there were several points of the report which did not register well. My father sat in his chair by the fireplace, hanging on to every syllable, with his Webley revolver close at hand. The weapon served no purpose at the moment, other than to remind the three of us we had let our guard down with disastrous results.

  “We should begin with Rudd, for I believe he has the firmest of alibis,” Joanna said finally. “However, you say there was only one confirmed eyewitness.”

  “Actually two and no doubt a dozen more if we wish to pursue it,” I replied. “A second surgeon present in the amphitheater at the start of the surgery commented that the patient would have died on multiple occasions but for Rudd’s heroics.”

  “I take it he was never absent from the operating room.”

  “Never and certainly not for the hours required to carry out a kidnapping.”

  “Which leaves us with Peter Willoughby, whose alibi is obviously contrived but most difficult to disprove.”

  “We could of course question his wife to document her absence from the house,” I suggested.

  Joanna flicked her wrist at the notion. “She would not in all likelihood bear witness against her husband and under the law could not be forced to do so. Moreover, he could conjure up a story of having crept into the house without her being aware. And today might well be the servants’ day off. You must keep in mind that he is a very clever fellow.”

  “I must say the spillage of wine was a cunning ruse indeed, which allowed him to absent himself from the hospital,” my father added.

  “Oh, that was well orchestrated,” Joanna agreed. “Even the clumsiest of waiters does not set a filled wineglass on a napkin. You will also note the manner in which Willoughby openly displayed his freshly laundered shirt and new tie for all to see. This behavior is so unlike that of a man who routinely dresses so poorly it causes others to wince.”

  “He seemed to go out of his way to exhibit his stylish attire to his secretary as well,” said I.

  My wife nodded. “This man is beyond clever and knows how to cover his tracks. Even his timing was precise, with every hour of his absence accounted for.” She paused to light a Turkish cigarette and gave the matter more thought, before turning back to me and asking, “Are you absolutely certain of the time sequence?”

  “Quite so,” I assured. “On my return from St. Bartholomew’s, I hired a taxi and clocked the time required to travel from St. George’s to Belgravia, then to Whitechapel and onto Hampstead Heath, and finally back to the hospital. My estimates were spot-on.”

  “Well executed,” Joanna grumbled under her breath.

  “But I see a possible flaw,” my father argued mildly. “It would still be daylight when the kidnapper reached Whitechapel. There would be a real chance the pair would be seen by his neighbors.”

  “Not so,” she disagreed immediately. “He could conceal Johnny in a blanket or roll of canvas, which would not arouse suspicion. And stage actors can change their appearance in a matter of minutes, being the gentleman one moment and a shabbily dressed commoner the next.”

  “And he would have the lad bound and gagged so he could not move or cry out,” I surmised. “That of course assumes The Ripper has not already done the worst.”

  My father sighed sadly. “I must admit that at times I am troubled by the feeling that Johnny is gone from us.”

  “I think not,” said my wife. “The Ripper enjoys his work too much to hurry through it. He will wait until he can perform it at his leisure.”

  “So there is some hope he remains with us,” my father tried to inject a note of optimism.

  “But he will not be for long,” Joanna warned. “The very last thing The Ripper wants is a sharp-eyed witness.”

  The phone rang. We all went silent, wondering who would be calling at this mid-evening hour. Deep down we expected the worst as my father reached for the phone.

  “Yes … good evening, Commissioner,” he greeted, pressing the receiver to his ear. “No luck there, eh?… Any additional witnesses?… Of course, that might be helpful.… What of the fingerprints on the lad’s shoes?… A worthwhile thought … We know you will do your best.”

  My father placed the phone down, his face now holding a grim expression. “There is no promising news. Additional witnesses in and about the manor could not be found. The lad’s shoes did contain fingerprints, but they do not belong to our main suspect. They will now be checked against known pedophiles and suspected kidnappers.”

  My wife shook her head firmly. “This is the work of The Ripper, with all evidence pointing directly at him.”

  “Sir Charles is simply covering every possibility, but, like us, he believes The Ripper is responsible and feels certain the madman will soon return to his dwelling in Whitechapel, if he has not already done so. Accordingly, the commissioner has doubled the number of constables patrolling the district and has detectives in motor vehicles circling the entire area. In addition, Scotland Yard has more than a few snitches in the community who are on alert as well, with the promise of a handsome reward should their information lead to a rescue.”

  “They will all be of little use, for Johnny is now well concealed in The Ripper’s secret dwelling, where he will remain until his life is ended,” Joanna said glumly.

  “But for how long will he keep Johnny alive?” my father asked.

  “It is impossible to say, but certainly for no more than a day or two,” she predicted. “He will plan the awful deed so as to gain the most notoriety from it. The Ripper will wish it widely publicized that he killed the son of the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “The effect being that since you carry the Great Detective’s genes, he has in fact bested Sherlock Holmes himself.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And all we can do is sit in our comfortable chairs and worry.”

  “To the contrary, Watson, I believe we can do much better than
that.” Joanna crushed out her cigarette and, after lighting another, began to pace the floor of our parlor, head down, with each step more determined than the last. Minutes passed before she spoke to us, without looking our way. “This criminal, like all criminals, has made a mistake and I shall find it.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The Scent

  I attempted to sleep that night, but slumber would not come, and the best I could do was to twist and turn and doze fitfully before I awakened to the living nightmare we were facing. Finally, shortly after daybreak, I arose and entered the parlor to find my father fully dressed and awake, but the dark circles under his eyes told me he had not slept. Joanna gave me the slightest of glances, then continued to pace through a cloud of smoke so dense it was difficult to see her completely. But as she drew closer, it was obvious her face was drawn and fatigued.

  “You should rest, my dear, if only for an hour or so,” I advised.

  Joanna ignored my suggestion and continued to pace. “The answer will not come with my eyes closed.”

  “Father, please instruct my wife that the brain will not function well without at least a modicum of respite,” I urged.

  My father lighted his cherrywood pipe and added to the smoky air before commenting, “She will do fine, for she is like her father, Sherlock Holmes, who could go days without sleep when the answer to a difficult problem escaped him. He simply could not rest until the solution came.”

  “It is there, directly in front of my eyes, yet I cannot grasp it,” Joanna said without inflection.

  “I take it you are speaking of a clue,” said my father.

  “It is more than a clue,” she responded. “It is the loose thread that untangles the knot.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a gentle rap on the door. It was Miss Hudson, with tear-stained cheeks, bringing in an armful of the morning newspapers.

  “Oh, please tell me it is not true,” she lamented. “Tell me the lad is still with us.”

  “I am afraid he has been kidnapped,” said my father.

  Miss Hudson looked directly at my wife for a long moment, with her lips moving before she spoke. “You must find him, madam, and bring the lad back to us.”

  “That I shall do,” Joanna vowed.

  Once our landlady had departed, we eagerly reached for the newspapers and hurriedly read their front pages. The Guardian summed up the matter best with its bold headline stating:

  GRANDSON OF SHERLOCK HOLMES MISSING

  It went on to describe in detail how the kidnapping had occurred, even delineating the cover of the high, thick hedge at the rear of Lord Blalock’s garden. Obviously someone at the party had rushed to the newspapers with the horrific story. It was surely not one of the servants, for such a disclosure would put their position in jeopardy. In all likelihood, the source was one of the guests.

  “There is no mention of The Ripper,” I noted.

  “That will come soon enough,” Joanna predicted as she placed down the Daily Telegraph. “And once the publicity intensifies and grows, The Ripper will make his move.”

  “And no doubt leave his mark,” I added dolefully.

  The phone rang loudly and drew our complete attention. The three of us wondered collectively what news it might bring at just past eight. As a rule, early-morning calls were the most distressing. My father lifted the receiver on the second ring.

  “Yes, and good morning to you, Commissioner,” he replied.

  We all breathed a sigh of relief, for good morning would never be used as a greeting if the call carried a devastating message.

  “No match, eh?” my father was saying. “But most were the same and unidentifiable.… Yes, yes, the lad’s fingerprints must be excluded.… I understand.… We shall have the item available when your detective arrives.… We will continue to hope for the best.”

  On placing the receiver down, my father gave us the details. “The fingerprints on the shoes do not match those of any suspect or known criminal who participates in childhood abduction. He believes they most likely belong to the lad, but this has to be confirmed. He will shortly send around a detective to pick up an item which contains Johnny’s fingerprints, so a comparison can be made. There is always the possibility that the prints were placed there by the kidnapper.”

  “They are Johnny’s,” Joanna said with certainty. “The Ripper is far too clever to leave his fingerprints behind. Moreover, why would he bother to touch the shoes? What purpose would that serve? No, no. He would wish to make his getaway as quickly as possible and would not be concerned with the shoes.”

  “I am afraid you are correct,” my father concurred. “But it is best to do the comparison and thus exclude the possibility they originated from the abductor. With that in mind, which item should we give to Scotland Yard?”

  “His text on hieroglyphics,” my wife answered. “He is constantly referring to it.”

  My father stood and stretched his back, which cracked noisily. “It appears we are facing a perfectly executed crime, with only a pair of discarded shoes left behind, which in themselves hold little value.”

  “In an ideal world, those shoes could magically walk their way back to their owner,” I mused. “Which of course would lead to The Ripper’s secret dwelling.”

  “But unfortunately, we live in the real world, where shoes cannot walk without feet in them.” Joanna reached for a Turkish cigarette and was in the process of striking a match when her brow suddenly went up. The cigarette dropped from her lips. “The dwelling! The dwelling! I was concentrating on the wrong object. I was focusing on the person rather than the place.”

  “Please explain,” I urged.

  Joanna lighted her cigarette and began to pace back and forth with quick steps as she organized her thoughts. “Leaving the shoes behind was The Ripper’s mistake, for they may well lead to his hiding place. It was so obvious I almost missed it. My father once said that there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. Allow me to paraphrase by stating there is nothing more deceptive than an obvious clue.”

  “You have lost me,” I complained. “What about the shoes renders them so important?”

  “They carry Johnny’s scent,” she explained. “Follow the scent and we will find my son.”

  “Can Toby Two do it?” I asked at once, referring to a hound that possessed the keenest nose in all London and had aided us so well in several important cases.

  “That is what we are about to determine,” Joanna said, and rapidly turned to my father. “Watson, please call Scotland Yard and have the detective bring me one of Johnny’s shoes with him.”

  “They will ask for a reason.”

  “Tell them I wish to study it and no more,” she replied. “Next, hire a taxi, which we will need for an extended period of time. A vehicle with a large rear compartment would suit our purpose best. And finally, you must remain here in the event Scotland Yard requires additional information which only a member of our household can provide.”

  “Done,” said he, and began dialing numbers he knew by rote.

  “Now I must freshen up and change clothes, for my husband and I are about to embark on the most important journey of our lives.”

  * * *

  After picking up Toby Two from her kennel in lower Lambeth, we sped to Whitechapel, hoping to arrive before yet another storm coming in from the North Sea. The newspapers predicted it would reach London by early afternoon, which gave us only a few hours to search. But dark clouds were already gathering and a light rain beginning to fall, indicating our time might be limited even further. As we approached our destination, Joanna reached for the airtight container which held her son’s shoe, but did not open it until we reached the Whitechapel Playhouse. She allowed Toby Two a quick sniff of Johnny’s shoe before returning it to its container.

  With her head out of the taxi’s rear window, the hound sampled the air joyfully as we circled one square block after another. On occasion her tail would wag and she would let out a happy bark, but
these encounters were short-lived and did not arouse great interest.

  “I suspect that Johnny’s scent has become quite faint,” I remarked.

  “And fading even more with the falling rain and increasing wind,” Joanna said discouragingly.

  “Perhaps another piece of Johnny’s clothing will serve our purpose better,” I suggested.

  My wife shook her head. “The shoe is best, with its tight fit which causes perspiration and elicits the stronger scent.”

  “It is indeed unfortunate that Johnny does not favor a men’s cologne,” I thought aloud as heavy drops of rain tapped against the roof of our taxi.

  “Capital, John!” Joanna shouted happily. “A most excellent idea.”

  “But your son does not wear cologne,” I agreed.

  “But I will wager that Pretty Penny indulges in perfume which would render the same result, for where she resides, so resides our dear Johnny.” Joanna rapped on the window in front of us. “To the Prince Albert, driver.”

  Five minutes later we arrived at the pub and hurried to find Emma Adams busily serving lunch to diners crowded into a half-dozen or so booths. On seeing us, she quickly signaled to Lionel Lurie to come from behind the bar and take her place, then dashed over to greet us.

  “I am very sorry to hear of your terrible news,” she said sadly. “I pray for your son’s safe return.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Joanna replied. “But we find ourselves in a great rush and require your immediate assistance in search of our Johnny.”

  “Anything you need will be happily provided.”

  “I take it Pretty Penny wears perfume.”

  Emma Adams nodded. “Like most young women she favors a rather strong, inexpensive variety.”

  “Which I presume she left behind before she went missing.”

  “She did.”

  “Then I request the bottle.”

  “For what purpose, may I ask?”

  “To find Pretty Penny and my son in the process,” Joanna said simply. “Now, time is of the essence, so please fetch the perfume without further questions.”