The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Thank you,” the young actress said gratefully. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “I am delighted we were able to do so,” Joanna responded. “But now we must find the man who did this dreadful thing to you. Do you feel like answering a few questions?”

  “I am more than up to it,” Pretty Penny replied, regaining a measure of strength and composure.

  “Did you recognize your assailant?”

  “I did not, for I was rendered unconscious when he took me hostage. When I awakened, I found myself in this hellish pit. I rarely saw his face, for he only exposed himself while opening the trapdoor briefly to throw food down to me.”

  “Were you able to make out any of his features?”

  “Only that he always wore a fisherman’s hat which was pulled down over his forehead.”

  “What of his voice?”

  “He rarely spoke.”

  “I take it you were never in a conversation with your captor?”

  “Never. He spoke only a few words, except when he retched his blood down on me.”

  “How many times did this occur?”

  “Twice.”

  “And then he would talk to you at length?”

  “Not at length, but to apologize.”

  Joanna paused to assimilate and digest all the new information, for in her mind something was out of place. “For him to apologize, it would appear he did not throw up blood on you intentionally.”

  “He could have stepped away,” Pretty Penny refuted, now showing a flash of anger. “But he vomited again and again on one occasion, and remained in place.”

  “So you believed his apology was insincere,” Joanna concluded.

  Pretty Penny nodded. “Particularly when he told me that the blood I was drenched in would bind us together, whatever that meant.”

  “It was the talk of a madman,” Joanna explained, although the implication was obvious. It was an attempt to bond an old, make-believe Romeo to his Juliet in a lasting, diabolical fashion.

  Pretty Penny licked nervously at her parched lips before asking, “This madman planned to eventually kill me, did he not?”

  “I am afraid so,” Joanna replied candidly.

  “Then what is to protect me now, with this lunatic on the loose?” Pretty Penny asked in a quivering voice. “I cannot go home and expose my dear Emma to this terrible danger.”

  Lestrade stepped forward and said, “You can indeed go home, for there will be a constable at your front door and an armed detective at your side until this villain is apprehended and brought to justice.”

  “The sooner the better, sir.”

  “We shall do our very best,” Lestrade vowed, and motioned for the two detectives to approach. “And now you will be taken home where I am certain a warm bath and bed would be most welcome.”

  Pretty Penny tried to arise from her chair, but her unsteady legs would not allow it. The detectives hurried in and assisted her to a standing position. She smiled briefly and in a clear, theatrical voice said, “Thank all of you for saving my life. If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget your faces or your kindness.”

  Lestrade waited until the young actress was escorted out of the cellar before turning to Joanna. “It would appear we have been outfoxed again.”

  “Maybe not,” Joanna said, undeterred. “You should have every inch of this house and cellar searched for fingerprints which might match those that you already have on file.”

  “He must have left some prints behind,” Lestrade hoped.

  “I would not be overly optimistic in that regard,” Joanna downplayed the possibility, and pointed to the rubber gloves on The Ripper’s workbench. “He knows how to cover his tracks.”

  “Clever devil,” Lestrade said sourly. “But surely he had to leave some hidden clues for us.”

  “Oh, indeed he did, and they are directly in front of your eyes.”

  “Pray tell where?”

  Joanna gestured to the wall which contained The Ripper’s hideous mementos. “How many do you count?”

  “Several dozen,” Lestrade approximated.

  “And their age?”

  “Some new, some old.”

  “How many are relatively new?”

  Lestrade counted quickly. “Perhaps a dozen or so.”

  “Which tells us that the other dozens came from The Ripper’s activities which took place twenty-eight years ago,” Joanna calculated.

  “So?” asked Lestrade, who like the rest of us did not see its relevance.

  “Which further tells us that The Ripper has occupied and in all likelihood owned this home for nearly thirty years.”

  “So?”

  “Someone had to pay property taxes on this dwelling,” Joanna concluded. “Show me the taxpayer and I will show you Jack the Ripper.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Jack the Ripper

  The Tax Office opened promptly at 8:00 AM, but the property records were not made available to us, for they were under seal and held in confidence. Even Scotland Yard would not be allowed access to the files without a court order. One was obtained, facilitated by a phone call from the commissioner, and the tax record for the Whitechapel dwelling unsealed at 10:55 AM. The house was registered to Peter Willoughby.

  We drove to St. Bartholomew’s in a Scotland Yard motor vehicle driven by a detective, with Lestrade in the front seat next to him and Joanna and me in the rear compartment. Despite our lack of conversation, we were all well aware that the interrogation of Willoughby had to be done in a most careful manner, for there was no solid evidence to show that he was Jack the Ripper. Incredibly, after a painstakingly diligent search, not a single fingerprint was found in the subterranean chamber of horrors. Not one! The Ripper had no doubt worn rubber gloves while performing his work and may have even washed down the area with bleach, for several empty bottles of the liquid were found in the pit Pretty Penny occupied.

  “That is the crucial clue,” Joanna broke the silence. “We have to place Willoughby in that cellar with his captive.”

  “But there are numerous, clearly defined fingerprints on the first floor,” Lestrade argued. “Surely some of those will belong to him.”

  “What if they do?” she asked with a shrug. “A clever barrister would claim they were made by his client while showing the house to a prospective buyer or lessee.”

  “Would he not have to show that such an act had taken place?”

  Joanna flicked her wrist dismissively. “They would say that no transaction occurred and thus no paperwork was required. They would also suggest that someone else must have surreptitiously occupied the premises on an intermittent basis.”

  Lestrade nodded dolefully at the assessment. “And the nearby neighbors swear they rarely saw anyone coming or going. That dwelling could have been vacant most of the time.”

  “I suspect it was until Willoughby decided to reoccupy the house and resume his role as Jack the Ripper,” said Joanna. “But proving it is quite another matter, for there is nothing to show that he was ever in that horrific cellar, and Pretty Penny, the only one of his victims still alive, cannot identify him as her captor. In essence then, the evidence we have on hand would never stand up in a court of law.”

  “It would seem our interrogation of Willoughby will not be very productive,” I predicted. “There appears to be no opening to pursue.”

  “Let us first determine if he has an alibi for his whereabouts between the hours of ten and eleven last night,” Joanna advised.

  “He might simply tell us he was taking a long walk alone,” I envisioned. “And of course challenge us to prove otherwise.”

  “And how would he explain the bite mark on his arm?” she asked.

  “What bite mark?” Lestrade and I inquired simultaneously.

  “During the attack last night, he pushed me against a wall and grabbed at my neck,” Joanna described. “As I attempted to place his elbow in an armlock, he raised his other arm and tightened it under my chin. It was a sudd
en, unexpected move which caught me by surprise. He then brought his forearm up to my mouth to silence me, which allowed me to bite down through his sleeve and into his skin. He promptly released his hold, which gave me the opportunity to call for help.”

  “Did you draw blood?” I asked at once.

  “I can’t be certain, but my teeth went deep enough to elicit a loud cry of pain,” she replied. “A moment later I was able to lash out at his shin and land a solid blow. We should look for a bruise mark there as well.”

  “Perhaps Willoughby will claim he was attacked on his evening walk,” Lestrade countered.

  “Did his so-called attacker leave a distinctive bite mark behind?” Joanna queried.

  “Are such bite marks truly distinctive?” Lestrade asked.

  “We are about to find out.”

  Moments later we pulled up to a side entrance to St. Bartholomew’s and quickly exited, then hurried down a long flight of stairs and into a busy corridor. Lestrade and the other detective from Scotland Yard led the way, with Joanna and me only a few feet behind. There was something about the inspector’s expression and stride which caused people to move aside and stop their conversations. Even the wheelchairs and gurneys came to a sudden halt. I could not help but wonder what Peter Willoughby’s response to the interrogation might be, for here was a man accustomed to being in command and in control of all that transpired in the department of pathology. He would shortly be exposed to a much different and unexpected situation.

  As we approached the door to the director’s office, Lestrade asked, “Should I begin?”

  Joanna nodded and replied quietly, “I shall intervene when we reach the issue of his alibi.”

  We entered Willoughby’s office and went directly to his secretary’s desk. The meek little lady looked up to study the group but paid particular attention to my presence before asking, “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  “You may indeed, madam,” Lestrade replied. “I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, who, along with my associates, wish to speak with Dr. Willoughby immediately.”

  “He has left instructions that he is not to be disturbed, sir,” the secretary responded. “He is in the midst of a most important study.”

  “He must be interrupted now, for we are here on official business,” Lestrade said in an authoritative tone. “There will be no delay.”

  Pushing her chair back, the secretary quickly walked to a large door and rapped against a frosted glass pane, upon which was printed Willoughby’s name and title. “Sir, there are detectives from Scotland Yard here who wish to see you.”

  There was no answer, so she waited a moment and rapped once more, a bit louder this time. Again there was no reply.

  “Please stand aside,” Lestrade requested, and tried the door, which was locked. “Do you have the key, madam?”

  “No, sir,” the secretary replied. “The only other key is in the possession of the head orderly.”

  “Call him immediately.”

  While the secretary busied herself on the phone, Lestrade moved us aside and asked me in a low voice, “Are there windows in the office?”

  “None whatsoever, for the pathology department is in a subterranean location,” I answered.

  “So the only way out is via the stairs?” queried Lestrade. “Is that correct?”

  “Correct,” I replied.

  “Does Willoughby have a closet in his office?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Is there any place for a hidden staircase?”

  “None.”

  The secretary called over, “Inspector, the head orderly will be here shortly!”

  “Did you request that he bring his keys?”

  “He carries them with him, sir.”

  “Very good,” Lestrade said, and came back to us. “Is there an escape hatch in the ceiling?”

  “If there is, it is well hidden,” I replied.

  “Is there a door to an adjoining office?”

  “Not that I am aware of.”

  “Do you recall seeing any structures or forms of art that cover a wall?”

  “Such as?”

  “A giant screen or tall bookcase.”

  “There are floor-to-ceiling bookcases,” I recounted.

  “We must look behind them.” Lestrade again peered over at the frosted glass pane in the door to Willoughby’s office, as if trying to see through it. “Assuming he has made good his escape, it surely points the finger of guilt at him.”

  We waited impatiently for the orderly with his keys, all of us wondering what lay behind the closed, locked door. Had Willoughby truly managed to escape? Was there a secret way out that only he was aware of? Being the all-powerful director, he could have had a hidden exit installed without the rest of us knowing. And then a final, most disconcerting thought came into my mind. With Peter Willoughby in fact being Jack the Ripper, it would cast a terrible stain on St. Bartholomew’s that would be indelible and forever lasting.

  “Something is amiss here,” Joanna said, more to herself than to us. “A clever man, even if guilty, would never run, for he would soon be apprehended. The smart move would be to claim innocence, say little, and call your barrister.”

  Lestrade gave Joanna a puzzled look. “Are you saying he is still in his office?”

  “I am saying it makes no sense to run.”

  Benson, the head orderly, hurried in and waited for instructions, although he quickly glanced around the room, looking for any signs that might tell him what was transpiring.

  “You are to unlock the office door, then be on your way,” Lestrade directed before turning to the secretary. “And you, madam, may wish to excuse yourself.”

  The lock gave way on the initial try, and the door cracked open to absolute silence. On Lestrade’s hand signals, the accompanying detective escorted the secretary and orderly out, then closed the door behind them. Waving us back, the inspector pushed the office door wide open and peered in. He was the first to see the ghastly sight.

  Sitting behind his desk was a very dead Peter Willoughby. His entire body was twisted and contorted, with his arms and legs convulsed into severe contractions. But it was his face that was most startling. Its color was deep blue, with lips drawn back in a mocking grin that seemed to be directed at us.

  “Strychnine poisoning,” Joanna pronounced.

  “A classic case,” I agreed, and walked over to examine the corpse. There was no pulse and the skin felt cool, indicating that death had taken place several hours earlier. On the desk in front of him was an open container of the toxic agent. “He obviously committed suicide.”

  Lestrade stepped in for a closer look, not in the least moved by the grisly sight. “I take it his appearance is entirely the result of strychnine.”

  “Every feature points to that diagnosis,” I elucidated. “The drug causes excessive, powerful muscular contractions, which accounts for the markedly twisted extremities and arched back. The respiratory muscles do the same and can no longer function, which brings about death by suffocation, with the lack of oxygen giving the skin its bluish, cyanotic appearance.”

  “And what elicits the disgusting smile?” Lestrade inquired.

  “The muscles of the jaw contract violently and pull the lips back into a demonic grin.”

  Joanna glanced down at a nearby trash bin that was splattered inside and out with dried blood. “He threw up blood here as well. He must have had a very sick stomach.”

  “Willoughby had lost some weight recently, but no one made much of it, for he was known to have unrelenting peptic ulcer disease,” I recalled.

  Joanna’s gaze went to a letter on the desk which she held up for all to read. It was penned in Willoughby’s handwriting. “Ah, a suicide note from the dearly departed.”

  It read as follows:

  Dr. Virchow has paid me a visit and I am now obliged to make my final exit.

  PW

  “Does anyone know this Dr. Virchow?” Lestrade asked.

&n
bsp; “He was a famous German pathologist who died some years ago,” I replied, thinking how clever Willoughby was in leaving us his terminal diagnosis. “Virchow was the first to describe a large, palpable lymph node above the clavicle which indicated a metastasis from an advanced gastric carcinoma. That was the cause of Willoughby repeatedly throwing up blood.”

  “So he must have had a Virchow’s node,” Joanna diagnosed.

  I pulled back the corpse’s tie and collar and exposed a sizable group of matted lymph nodes in the left supraclavicular fossa. “Indeed he did.”

  “Yet I suspect that his terminal illness was not the sole reason for his suicide,” she commented, after studying the cancerous mass.

  “As do I,” I concurred. “For I believe, like you, that he realized that the forces of the law were closing in on him and it was only a matter of time before he was discovered to be Jack the Ripper.”

  Joanna next unbuttoned the corpse’s right shirtsleeve and rolled it up to uncover a bare forearm. On the area just below the elbow was a deep bite mark that had not drawn blood. “Jack the Ripper,” she pronounced.

  “Who has escaped the hangman and his noose,” Lestrade said unhappily. “And sadly, we shall never have the evidence to prove he was in fact The Ripper.”

  “But strychnine causes a most unpleasant death which I think we all believe he richly deserved,” I said, now rereading the suicide note and determining yet another underlying meaning. “Even in death, the conceited monster had to be onstage, as shown by his phrase ‘I am now obliged to make my final exit.’ I suspect he envisioned himself to be some tragic Shakespearean figure.”

  Joanna smiled humorously at my remark. “It brings to mind Shakespeare’s immortal words that ‘all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.’”

  “Those words certainly apply here, for Peter Willoughby, like the original Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, played a number of parts,” said I, feeling no sympathy whatsoever for the man for his dreadful ending. “I think we can all say that his exit was long overdue.”