The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

by Leonard Goldberg

Following Dunn into an office larger than the others, we had to step around a chair that held a carelessly placed cashmere topcoat. I paid little attention to the ruffled coat whilst Joanna gave it a quick, yet studied glance. Standing behind an orderly desk was an imposing man wearing a dark, expensively tailored suit and red silk tie. Roger Marlowe was both dashing and handsome, with aristocratic features and dark hair that was beginning to gray at the temples. He was clearly forthright and accustomed to taking control of a given situation.

  “Allow me to summarize,” he said, obviously aware of who we were. “Tubby Ainsworth and I are lifelong friends. We grew up together, went to Eton, Cambridge, and Heidelberg as a pair, and stayed close after our return to England. We dated the same girls, fell in love with the same woman, and never married because the single life was so enjoyable. Our lives remain intertwined, for we delight in the best of food and drink, as well as in the thrill of gambling and the pleasure of an occasional pipeful of opium. We are more like brothers than friends, and I am with the Admiralty Club at his urging, although I must admit I find the challenge of codebreaking irresistible.”

  “Thank you for your concise summary,” Joanna said. “It is most helpful, but it is the details of your last evening with Alistair Ainsworth that we need to hear. We know of your visit to the Admiralty pub where you ordered your usual Old Vatted Glenlivet, and of your final stop at Ah Sing’s.”

  “You neglected our fine dinner at Simpson’s.”

  “Only because it has no importance, unless you believe otherwise.”

  “I do not.”

  “Excellent. Then let us stay on course and learn the particulars of your early departure from Ah Sing’s.”

  Marlowe reached for an engraved silver cigarette case and slowly extracted a cigarette, his eyes never leaving Joanna. One could almost sense the man’s brain at work. “I see the circle you are drawing. We smoke a pipeful of opium and drift off into a haze-filled dream, at which point I depart, leaving Tubby alone and defenseless. Then he disappears, which happens to coincide with my disappearance.”

  “That is the sequence,” Joanna agreed.

  “But you have ignored the reason for my departure. I left early because of a blinding headache that the drug can sometimes induce. The doctors Watson can attest to this side effect.”

  My father and I nodded simultaneously, for although opium was a painkiller, it at times induced headaches similar to a migraine.

  “Tubby wished to leave with me, but I insisted he stay and enjoy the remainder of the evening,” Marlowe went on. “To ensure his safety, I arranged for a taxi to be at his disposal.”

  “Do you know if Ainsworth actually took the taxi?”

  “I assume he did, for I paid the driver his fee well in advance.”

  Joanna dug into her purse for a Turkish cigarette and lighted it carefully, then blew smoke in the direction of Roger Marlowe. I had the distinct impression that a war of wits was about to begin.

  “I can assure you I had no part in Tubby’s disappearance,” Marlowe said earnestly. “He is the dearest of friends and I now fear for his life.”

  “From whom?”

  “Let us not waste time with the obvious.”

  “Which brings us to my next line of inquiry,” Joanna said, taking another deep draw on her cigarette but keeping her focus directed at Marlowe. “I am referring to the individual who befriended Ainsworth after your departure.”

  Marlowe’s eyes narrowed noticeably. “That would be most unlike Tubby. He did not stray outside his social circle, and went to great lengths to avoid others who frequented Ah Sing’s.”

  “That being the reason he insisted on occupying mats in the far corner away from the other customers.”

  “Exactly. He and I paid an extra fee for that consideration.”

  “The man who appeared to befriend Ainsworth was said by Ah Sing to be large and broad shouldered.”

  “There are no doubt dozens who would fit that description.”

  “But this one had a distinctive facial tic.”

  Marlowe nodded at once. “I remember the fellow, but he was hardly a friend. We chatted with him briefly on occasion, and nothing more.”

  “Was he an Englishman?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “I do not recall an accent, if that is what you are referring to.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “I have no such recollection. But you may wish to ask Ah Sing, for he keeps a careful record on all his clientele.”

  “So we shall,” Joanna said, and crushed out her cigarette.

  Marlowe was reaching for the ashtray when the phone on his desk rang. He quickly brought the receiver to his ear and said only, “Yes?” which was followed by a terse “Who?”

  Marlowe listened intently as a most serious expression crossed his face. He handed the phone to Dunn, saying, “For your ears only.”

  We were ushered out to the central circular area and told to remain there, with instructions not to continue further interviews without Dunn being present. Once Marlowe closed the door to his office behind him, Joanna hurriedly turned to us.

  “We must delve deeply into Marlowe’s finances,” she said in a whisper.

  “Because of his excellent tastes?” I whispered back.

  “Because his tastes are far too expensive for a man of his apparent income.”

  “Dinner at Simpson’s and a nightly glass of Old Vatted Glenlivet would surely be within his means,” my father said.

  Joanna shook her head firmly. “Did you not notice his cashmere topcoat, with a label stating it was made by Gieves and Hawkes, the most expensive tailor on Savile Row? Were you not impressed by his bespoke suit and his sterling silver cigarette case that had its engravings filled with semiprecious stones? I can assure you these items greatly exceed his level of pay. There must be an outside source of income to account for these expenditures.”

  “Such as?”

  “There is a foreign country that would pay handsomely for his knowledge,” Joanna said.

  The door to Marlowe’s office opened and we were permitted to enter once again. If the two men standing beside the desk had encountered a reversal of some sort, they showed no evidence of it. Nevertheless, the tone of Dunn’s voice indicated the amount of time allotted to us was now limited.

  “You may continue with your questions,” Dunn said tersely. “But please be concise.”

  “We shall be as concise as the answers we receive,” Joanna retorted, then turned to Marlowe. “We were speaking of the man whom Ainsworth happened to meet at Ah Sing’s. Did you by chance ever see this fellow at Laurent’s casino?”

  “Never.”

  “Might he have chatted briefly with Ainsworth or the lady who often accompanied you there?”

  “That would have been most unlikely, for our attention was focused entirely on the cards that had been played. We would not have tolerated interruption from anyone.”

  “Including the rather attractive woman who was always at your shoulder?”

  “Jane?” Marlowe said, with a forced laugh. “Her only concern was attempting to learn the method we employed to win so frequently.”

  “Did she?”

  “We did not disclose our method to her, or to anyone else for that matter,” Marlowe lied easily.

  “Could you be so good as to tell us about this woman Jane?”

  “Her full name is Lady Jane Hamilton, a good and close friend to both Tubby and me through the years. It was Tubby who was closest growing up, for they lived only houses apart.”

  “Did this association continue after she married?”

  “With Tubby it did. For he shared with her a talent I do not possess. Tubby is a gourmet cook whose dishes and delicacies can rival any restaurant in London. He loves to prepare dishes for her and his invalid sister Emma, and does so at least once a week.”

  “I take it Lady Jane supplies the essentials since the sister cannot.”

  “She does indeed,” Marlowe replied. “And
she is very good at that, but does so under Tubby’s supervision.”

  “She actually shops with him?”

  “Hardly,” Marlowe said, with another forced laugh. “She sends her grossly overweight cook to the Covent Garden market every Thursday where she meets with Tubby at the poulterer’s stall. There, Tubby selects the finest goose, duck, or pheasant, which will serve as the entrée. My friend has amazing knowledge about these fowl and has no difficulty selecting the finest for the oven.”

  “I am surprised that Ainsworth takes such time away from his important work with the Admiralty Club.”

  Marlowe flicked his wrist at the perception. “He only goes on Thursday and meets with the cook promptly at noon in front of Hoover’s stall. Tubby skips lunch that day, I might add, so the king still obtains a full day’s work from him.”

  “This poulterer Hoover must be rather exceptional.”

  “He is among the best of the lot.”

  “My father-in-law is virtually addicted to the taste of fine pheasant,” Joanna remarked. “But the birds our fine landlady has brought home lately are somewhat lacking in quality.”

  “Then Hoover is the poulterer you must see.”

  “H-O-O-V-E-R?”

  “Yes. It is so spelled over his stall.”

  “Have you actually been there?”

  Marlowe shook his head. “Tubby showed it to me in a photograph that was taken of him standing beside the poulterer.”

  “So I should have no difficulty finding the stall.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Lieutenant Dunn was more than anxious to usher us out, but not before reminding us that we remained sworn under the Official Secrets Act. We carefully descended the wet stairs at the rear of the building, then circled back to Trafalgar Square, which was now heavily populated with tourists and pigeons waiting to be fed.

  Using his umbrella, my father hailed an empty four-wheeler that promptly pulled up in front of us. As we climbed in, my father asked, “What say you, Joanna?”

  “I say we go to Covent Garden on Thursday.”

  “To what end?”

  “To see the poulterer Hoover.”

  “Why is he of such interest to you?”

  “His name.”

  “What of it?”

  “Hoover is the anglicized version of the German surname Huber.”

  9

  Blood Smears

  Our plans for the following day included a visit with Sir David Shaw, an old friend of my father’s, who was currently a curator in charge of Mesopotamian script and languages at the British Museum. Johnny showed scant interest in such a trip, believing that museums were little more than storehouses for ancient relics and various remains from the long-ago past. But he became quite excited when he learned that Inspector Lestrade had called and asked us to return to the crime scene, for something curious had been discovered in the late Dr. Verner’s office.

  After calling Sir David to inform him that our arrival would be delayed, we hurried over to the Kensington address and found a constable standing guard at the front steps of the practice. With a knowing nod, the officer allowed us immediate entrance, although his eyes narrowed somewhat at the presence of young Johnny.

  In a low voice, I asked Joanna, “Did Lestrade give any clues as to this new finding?”

  “Only that it was noticed by a cleaning crew brought in by Mrs. Verner to scrub the office,” Joanna replied. “Apparently the practice will soon be placed on the market, and thus all traces of a murder must be removed.”

  “But, Mother,” Johnny argued mildly, “the dreadful death of Dr. Verner will have been reported in all the newspapers, so all the public will surely be aware.”

  “Reading about a murder and viewing the evidence of one are two entirely different matters,” Joanna explained, bringing a finger to her lips as we approached the office. “Now, Johnny, you must not ask questions or in any way involve yourself, for this is an official police investigation. And if the inspector asks you to leave, you must do so without delay, regardless of any keen interest you may have.”

  “I understand, Mother.”

  On entering the office one could still detect the faint aroma of chloroform in the air. It emanated from a towel beneath the bloodied cabinet, which had apparently become doused during the course of the crime. Even with the passage of time, some dampness remained and accounted for the characteristic odor.

  “What is that smell?” Johnny asked, unable to control his curiosity.

  “No questions,” Joanna said, and gave her son a stern look. “But in this instance, I will permit it and answer your inquiry. It is the singular aroma of chloroform, which a student in an advanced chemistry class would instantly recognize.”

  My father and I exchanged subtle smiles, for Johnny was now being educated in more ways than one. Yes, I thought, the aroma of chloroform would certainly be experienced in a chemistry laboratory at Eton, but never during a tutor’s lesson. I glanced over to Joanna’s son to determine if the point had been made, but his expression remained unchanged.

  Standing by the broken medicine cabinet, Inspector Lestrade greeted us with a tip of his derby. “It was good of you to come so promptly,” he said, with his eyes fixed on Johnny.

  “Not at all,” Joanna replied before introducing her son. “We were about to depart for the British Museum when your call came. I trust you will not be bothered by the presence of my son, but if so, I can have him wait in our carriage. I hope the latter will not be necessary, for the morning air is unseasonably cold.”

  “Under the vast majority of circumstances, this would not be allowed,” Lestrade said. “However, since virtually all of the evidence has been removed, I see no harm in it, as long as the lad is not upset by the sight of dried blood. Of course details of the case must not be discussed in his presence, nor should he later speak of what he sees in this office, for it is best kept from the public eye.”

  “But, sir,” Johnny interrupted politely, “it is already being spoken of by the cleaners who could barely wait to tell their friends and fellow laborers.”

  Lestrade was caught off guard by the lad’s keen insight, but recovered rapidly. “Nevertheless, I prefer you make no mention of it.”

  “Then I shan’t,” Johnny promised, and quickly began glancing around the office. “Where is this dried blood you referred to?”

  Joanna gave her son another sharp stare of displeasure.

  “Sorry,” Johnny murmured, his face coloring at the silent reprimand.

  “Which you should be,” said Joanna. “Now, Inspector, please proceed.”

  “The stain is on the cabinet itself, which was the last standing item the cleaners were to tidy up,” Lestrade told us. “Here, I will show you.”

  As we walked over, my father stepped on a large shred of brown glass that, despite his weight, remained intact. He used the toe of his shoe to move the shred aside.

  “The cleaners were to do the floor as they departed,” Lestrade explained.

  Johnny stared down at the piece of glass and asked, “Why did it not splinter when stepped upon so firmly?”

  Joanna sighed resignedly, understanding there was no way to suppress the lad’s curiosity. She picked up the fragment and held it under Johnny’s nose. “What do you detect?”

  “The aroma of chloroform!”

  “Precisely,” said Joanna. “And in what type of bottle would you find chloroform?”

  Johnny shrugged, saying, “I am unsure.”

  “Perhaps we should ask Watson, who has experienced chloroform in both a chemistry laboratory and in the practice of medicine.”

  “It is always contained in a thick, brown glass bottle that prevents the container from breaking were it to fall accidentally,” my father elucidated.

  “Then why did it shatter here?” Lestrade inquired.

  “Because Verner meant it to,” Joanna replied. “He must have thrown it to the floor with some force, so that its contents would spill out and leav
e a trail to follow.”

  “A most clever deduction,” Lestrade said admiringly.

  “Based on my wife’s experience with chloroform as a surgical nurse,” I surmised.

  “Actually I first learned about its properties in a class at nursing school,” Joanna said, in a comment clearly made for her son.

  Lestrade brought our attention to the far side of the medicine cabinet. Written on its white wall was a streak of blood that was shaped like the letter h. There was a large, nondescript smudge of blood directly above it.

  Joanna moved in with her magnifying glass and carefully examined the streak and the smudge. She performed this maneuver twice, paying particular scrutiny to the smudge, before turning to me and asking, “Did you notice any lacerations on Verner’s hands when you examined them at the murder scene?”

  I thought back and shook my head. “There were none. His hands were tightly bound to the arms of the chair, but I detected neither cuts nor gashes, which would have been quite evident.”

  “Did you examine both the palms as well as the dorsal surfaces of the hands?”

  “Both were clear except for the cigarette burns and a broad bloodstain on the right palm.”

  “Then, in all likelihood, the blood belonged to the German,” Joanna concluded.

  “Does it matter whose blood it is?” Lestrade asked.

  “A great deal,” Joanna replied, and studied the stains yet again with her magnifying glass. “For it informs us what transpired during the struggle and who his captors were.”

  “Why, the Germans.”

  “Where is your proof?”

  “There is circumstantial evidence.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Lestrade blinked repeatedly as he tried to come up with a more convincing answer.

  “It is here in the stain, for everything points to Dr. Verner cutting his captor’s hand and using the blood to write a message,” Joanna elucidated.

  Johnny stepped in closer to see what his mother saw, but the expression on his face told us he did not. Yet the lad’s inquisitive mind and brightness were more than obvious, as was his maturity that was far beyond his twelve years. “Mother, could you please explain the bloodstain to me?”