The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “What then do you plan to do?” I asked.

  “I plan to destroy him.”

  “You had better do so quickly, for the fourth Unfortunate wearing copper earrings is now dead.”

  Joanna’s brow went up. “Has he struck again?”

  “I think not, but when he learns of Ruby’s death it will force his hand,” I replied. “And I am afraid it will seal Pretty Penny’s fate.”

  “Details,” she insisted. “I need details of the woman’s death and do not leave out a single word.”

  I watched my wife hurry to the Persian slipper and remove a Turkish cigarette which she lighted, then began to pace the parlor, leaving a trail of dense smoke behind. Outside, there was the sound of screeching brakes, followed by the noise of metal banging against metal, which she totally ignored. “Begin, begin,” Joanna said impatiently.

  I recounted the story of the Unfortunate’s apparently accidental death, recalling every fact from the moment she stopped off the curb on Prescot Street in Whitechapel until the discovery of her copper earrings on the corpse in the morgue.

  “There were no witnesses, you say?” Joanna asked at once.

  “Only the shopkeeper who saw the inebriated Unfortunate step onto the street only moments before she was struck by a motor vehicle which sped away.”

  “The death was surely accidental,” she concluded. “The Ripper kills, but only when he can dissect, which seems to give him the greatest pleasure. Thus, it is most unlikely that this is The Ripper’s work.”

  “In addition, I learned that Peter Willoughby was in St. Bartholomew’s at the time of Ruby’s death, with a solid alibi,” I noted. “This information was firsthand and obtained at an afternoon conference which was convened to certify that a surgical specimen initially said to be benign was in fact benign. Of course Willoughby could have arranged for another to do the deed.”

  “Why would he do so?” Joanna asked quickly.

  “Perhaps she somehow became aware of his true identity and threatened to blackmail.”

  “That, too, is most unlikely,” Joanna argued. “Had she attempted to blackmail him, he would have agreed to meet her in a dark alleyway with the money, and begged for another sexual encounter, at which time he would have slit her throat. This fellow is very clever and he knows how to tie off loose ends.”

  “Another macabre possibility just crossed my mind,” I thought aloud.

  “Let us have it,” said she.

  “Suppose The Ripper arranged for the killing and further arranged for himself to do the autopsy, which he could easily do as director of pathology,” I envisioned. “Of course that, too, would be a form of dissection.”

  “Possible, but again unlikely, for The Ripper requires his victims to be alive while he dissects them. In that fashion, he can enjoy their suffering and agony.”

  “And listen to their gurgles as blood fills their severed trachea, making it impossible for the victim to scream,” I appended.

  “That, as well,” Joanna said, taking a final puff on her cigarette and tossing it into the fireplace as she continued to pace. “Tell me more about the prescription slip you discovered in the corpse’s coat pocket. In particular, I wish to know the date it was written.”

  I thought back briefly. “Nearly a month ago.”

  “Which fits the schedule he had set up for his intended victims. A month provides him with more than enough time to plan five executions,” she calculated before asking, “You mentioned her true name was Clara Collins, with the slip dated and signed by Thaddeus Rudd. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Was an address given?”

  “That section was left unanswered,” I replied. “But as you know, most Unfortunates do not have a permanent address and only seek shelter in doss-houses when they can afford it.”

  “That does not exclude the possibility that she had some sort of permanent address.”

  “But none was noted on the slip.”

  “Doctors often leave that section blank, for they are usually in a hurry when filling out prescriptions, as evidenced by their illegible handwriting.” She paused to gaze out the window at the minor motor vehicle accident and, apparently unimpressed, went back to pacing. “Clara Collins was a patient in the free clinic and thus will have a chart at St. Bart’s. Please review that chart at your earliest convenience and see if it lists an address.”

  “And if she has one, how do you plan to make use of it?” I asked.

  “She may have a roommate or friends there, who can tell us about the Unfortunate’s wanderings and in particular any encounters she might have had with Thaddeus Rudd away from the free clinic. We need to know if there was a specific time and place where they met to conduct their sordid business.”

  “That is a very long shot.”

  “It is all we have at the moment,” said Joanna as she lighted yet another Turkish cigarette and took several rapid puffs in succession. It was a sure sign that a solution to our problem remained far out of reach. “We require more data if we are to predict The Ripper’s movements and set a trap which he is unaware of. You see, he may not have been informed of the Unfortunate’s death.”

  “I am afraid I may have given that information away,” I admitted.

  “How so?” Joanna asked, abruptly stopping in her tracks.

  “I asked the head orderly to remove the Unfortunate’s copper earrings, for fear they might be misplaced or stolen,” I replied, again second-guessing myself. “I suggested they be replaced onto the Unfortunate’s ears when her remains are finally buried. I told the orderly it might give her a touch of dignity at the end of her miserable life. Of course my main reason was to hide the copper earrings from sight so that our one main suspect would not become aware of their presence. But I now worry that the tale of a professor insisting that an Unfortunate be laid to rest wearing her copper earrings might end up becoming juicy hospital gossip that could come to the attention of The Ripper.”

  “How many people know of this?”

  “Only myself and the head orderly, Benson, who I enjoined not to say a word of my unusual request.”

  “Which of course only increases the temptation to do so.”

  “And if word of Ruby’s death does leak out, I worry that The Ripper will speed up his schedule and proceed directly with the execution of Pretty Penny.”

  “Your point is well taken,” Joanna said, concerned. “It is important that her identity remains unknown.”

  “Gossip is virtually impossible to stop.”

  “Not if it is blocked at its source,” Joanna contended, and gestured to the telephone. “I would like you to contact the head orderly at once and tell him you have spoken to the police about the copper earrings. Scotland Yard insists the earrings be moved to a most secure place, for they may represent an important clue in the death of the Unfortunate. For this reason, their existence is not to be discussed with anyone.”

  “But what if he already has?”

  “Then we have lost a pivotal advantage.”

  I was able to reach the head orderly by calling my office and having him summoned immediately. Speaking in an urgent voice, I relayed Joanna’s instructions and added a few misstatements of my own as well. The answers were encouraging, if true. Placing the phone down, I said, “Benson informs that he has not yet removed the earrings from the corpse, for his time has been taken up with other duties. He swears, for whatever that is worth, that he has not mentioned the copper earrings to a soul.”

  Joanna grumbled under her breath, “Whenever someone swears to an answer, it is a certain sign they are lying.”

  “I am aware of that,” I went on. “Which explains why I told Benson that Scotland Yard would shortly be searching about and questioning anyone who may have touched or been told of the earrings.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He admitted that the subject was mentioned to a junior orderly only a few minutes earlier.”

  “As we expected.”


  “But there may be time to intercede, for the junior orderly was just down the corridor awaiting instructions on another matter. I can assure you that class of individuals want no contact whatsoever with Scotland Yard on any criminal investigation. Thus, we may have prevented the gossip from spreading.”

  “Only if we assume that Benson is telling us the whole truth.”

  “You have doubts?”

  “Don’t you?”

  There was a brief rap on the door and Miss Hudson peeked in. “The street urchins are here to see you.”

  “Show them in, please,” Joanna requested.

  The Baker Street Irregulars must have been standing on the staircase directly behind our housekeeper, for they rushed in only a moment before the door closed. Wiggins, Little Alfie, and Sarah The Gypsy were attired in their working clothes, which were unpressed and obviously worn. The latter two members had smudges of dirt on their innocent faces to signify they were truly street urchins. Yet it was still difficult for me to envision them as being so savvy and experienced when it came to the most sordid of criminal activities.

  “We have important news, ma’am,” Wiggins announced.

  “Do you have the name of the Unfortunate who was gutted by The Ripper?” Joanna asked at once.

  “No, ma’am, we do not.”

  “How disappointing.”

  “To us as well,” said Wiggins, no doubt thinking of the handsome reward for that information. “But in our search for her identity, we came across matters regarding the gentleman drifters which will be of interest to you.”

  “What was the source of this information?”

  “The Unfortunates themselves.”

  “And why do you believe they were being truthful?” Joanna asked in a skeptical tone.

  “Because I gave them two shillings, with the promise there would be more should their descriptions prove accurate,” Wiggins replied. “In addition, ma’am, the Unfortunates have a true dislike for these gentleman drifters, for reasons I shall shortly tell of.”

  “Proceed.”

  “One of them was quite rough and mean to the point that some of the Unfortunates did their best to avoid them, while others demanded a much higher fee for their services,” Wiggins detailed. “One of the Unfortunates actually went to the hospital for injuries to her throat and neck. It was painful enough to—”

  “Describe the injuries,” Joanna interrupted.

  “Deep bruises and damage to the voice box which caused the poor woman to speak with a squeak.”

  “But how could she afford a hospital visit?” I asked. “The cost would be far beyond the means of most Unfortunates.”

  “It was paid for by the gentleman drifter,” Wiggins answered.

  “Which of the drifters?” Joanna asked quickly.

  “The big, broad-shouldered one.”

  Joanna and I exchanged knowing glances. The abuser was Thaddeus Rudd, with his vile, hair-trigger temper.

  “Did the injured woman have any further encounters with this particular gentleman drifter?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Wiggins replied. “She was badly frightened by the experience and refused his advances, despite being offered triple her usual fee.”

  “What so attracted him to her?”

  “I asked that very same question, and was told it was her long blond hair and attractive face which appealed to him.”

  I could not help but wonder if that particular Unfortunate was Clara Collins, also known as Ruby, who now lay dead in the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s. “Did you by chance learn the name of the Unfortunate who refused his advances?”

  “She was called Ruby.”

  “Did you have the opportunity to question Ruby?” I inquired.

  “No, sir,” Wiggins replied. “She was not to be found.”

  I believed this line of questioning had come to an end, but it was good fortune that Joanna did not. I could almost sense the wheels of her brain switching to yet a higher gear. Although she was not a chess player, she thought like one, always pondering several moves ahead.

  Wiggins misinterpreted our silence as a sign of disbelief. “We truly did try to find her, ma’am.”

  “I am certain you did,” Joanna said in a reassuring voice. “For the Unfortunates can disappear quite quickly when the need arises.”

  “Indeed they can, ma’am.”

  “Did you consider the woman who gave you the information on Ruby to be reliable?” Joanna asked.

  Wiggins nodded his reply. “She seemed so, for she gave her answers freely and without hesitation. Liars usually require time to conjure up their stories.”

  “So I have noticed,” Joanna said, then tapped a finger against her closed lips before continuing. “Was the large gentleman, who had been so mean to Ruby, equally harsh with the other Unfortunates?”

  “I cannot say for certain, ma’am,” Wiggins replied. “But the other bloke in the trio could also be quite aggressive, to say the least.”

  “Which are you referring to?” Joanna inquired at once.

  “The oldest of the lot.”

  Peter Willoughby! My mind went directly to the head of pathology, who seemed to take delight bringing his nasty behavior to those who could not defend themselves.

  “How did the older gentleman exhibit the aggressiveness you mentioned?” Joanna asked.

  “With a black eye he gave her,” Wiggins responded. “Once they were in the alleyway and about to conduct business, he struck her with some force. She threatened to tell the others, but he begged her not to and paid her a half crown for her silence.”

  “But she still spoke of it.”

  Wiggins shrugged. “A quid may have bought her silence, but not a half crown.”

  “Were you able to obtain the name of the Unfortunate he struck?”

  “No, ma’am. She apparently was a newcomer who no one knew well.”

  “Disappointing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Joanna reached for yet another Turkish cigarette and, after carefully lighting it, strolled over to the large window which overlooked Baker Street. She gazed out and stood there for some time, obviously lost in thought as she moved her head in quick motions while she sorted through various ideas, most of which did not appear to merit consideration. The Irregulars shifted around nervously on their feet, no doubt wondering if their mission was over and done and, if so, wanting to be paid for their service.

  Wiggins cleared his throat audibly. “Ma’am, should we continue to search for the Unfortunate’s name?”

  “That will not be necessary,” Joanna replied.

  “What of the surveillance of the gentleman drifters?” Wiggins asked hopefully.

  “That, too, should be discontinued.”

  “Are we finished and done, then?”

  “Except for one more important task,” Joanna responded. “I wish you to circulate amongst the Unfortunates of Whitechapel and deliver the following message. Beginning with your informant, tell them you have found and spoken with Ruby, who has come on hard times and will shortly be leaving Whitechapel for an area which holds more promise. You must convey this information in a most convincing yet subtle manner. Are you up to it?”

  “That will present no problem, ma’am.”

  “Give me the particulars you will say about Ruby’s departure.”

  Wiggins gave it only a moment’s thought before speaking in a deep cockney accent. “I will tell them that I met up with Ruby as she left a doss-house where she had spent her last fivepence. The poor woman is now on hard times, with business very slow, and she has no option but to depart Whitechapel for greener pastures.”

  “Where will she go?”

  “To Notting Dale.”

  “A good choice.”

  I agreed as well silently. Notting Dale was a district where the population consisted mainly of beggars, tramps, thieves, and prostitutes. But it was also frequented by gentleman drifters from Mayfair and Kensington.

  “I will say
that Ruby has an unnamed friend there who will introduce her around the various pubs,” Wiggins added.

  “A nice touch, for it will show some preparation,” said Joanna. “I would also like you to mention that she will try her luck at Mitre Square before leaving, for she has heard that business there is improving. But if this turns out not to be the case, she will promptly depart for Notting Dale.”

  “How long will she ply her trade in that area before deciding to leave?”

  “A matter of days, no more than three.”

  “A believable number.”

  “Be on your way, then.”

  Joanna waited for the door to close before flicking her cigarette into the fire and giving me a most satisfied look. “And so the trap is set, using bait that Jack the Ripper will find irresistible.”

  “But Ruby, the Unfortunate, is dead,” I asserted.

  Joanna smiled at me mischievously. “She is about to be resurrected.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The Trap

  My father was clearly disappointed that he would play no role in setting the trap for Jack the Ripper, for the kindly gentleman had been given the task of safeguarding Johnny in our rooms at 221b Baker Street. He was aptly prepared to do so, as evidenced by the shoulder holster he was wearing that held his Webley No. 2 revolver.

  “I worry that Joanna is exposing herself to great danger,” said my father.

  “As do I,” I agreed. “But she feels the risk is well worth the opportunity to capture this evil monster.”

  “Does it not concern you that she will be out in the open unprotected?”

  “There will be multiple eyes on her.”

  “But from a distance,” my father cautioned. “Remember, this devil acts with such speed that the victim barely has time to scream for help.”

  “I am quite aware of that and I can assure you that Joanna is as well.”

  “Perhaps you should accompany her in the role of being her procurer,” my father suggested. “Then you could depart, but remain in the shadows.”

  I shook my head at the notion. “Prostitutes at the lowest rung do not have procurers, for their fee is so minimal it would hardly be worth splitting with another. Besides, the presence of a male associate would surely frighten away The Ripper.”