The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

by Leonard Goldberg

  “To select the sites to be bombed by the zeppelin fleet!” I cried out.

  “Precisely,” said Joanna. “That is what made the message so important. And I suspect the information was meant to be transferred to a U-boat, along with Alistair Ainsworth, and sent on its way to Germany.”

  “If we assume the list was in his possession at the station, the possibility exists that he chewed and swallowed it prior to his apprehension,” I surmised. “That being the case, parts of the message may yet be in his esophagus and gastric juice.”

  “And his clothes must be torn apart thread by thread to search for additional notes that could lead to the operatives holding Ainsworth,” my father proposed.

  “This is all supposition,” Dunn warned. “And if no such notes are found, we might justifiably conclude that no such transfer was ever intended.”

  “Or it might indicate that the transfer had taken place prior to Rot’s apprehension,” said Joanna.

  On that unhappy note we hurried out of Waterloo Station and into our carriages, all headed for St. Bart’s, where we hoped the postmortem examination on Rot would reveal hidden clues that could help us unravel this most perplexing case that so threatened England.

  17

  Lady Jane

  Later that afternoon my father and I settled in front of a warming fire to search the evening newspapers for any happening that might apply to the disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth. Periodically I glanced up to watch Joanna pace back and forth across our parlor, smoking one cigarette after another as she attempted to assemble the available clues into a recognizable order. She would nod at one piece of evidence and flick her wrist at another, all the while muttering to herself, which further indicated the degree of difficulty in solving the problem. To add to our predicament, the postmortem examination of Rot turned up nothing of consequence. Carefully sewn into the shoulder pads of his suit were two hundred dollars in American currency and a false Portuguese passport, as one might expect of a spy. He was also quite ill, with prostatic cancer that had painfully spread to his pelvic bone, which might have accounted for his readiness to take his own life. No chewed items or notes were found in his esophagus and gastric juice nor any clues uncovered that might lead to the whereabouts of the other German agents. It would seem we had reached a dead end in our search for Alistair Ainsworth, but the Admiralty Club believed otherwise. They were of the opinion that Waterloo Station circled on the train map held a second meaning that indicated where Ainsworth and his German captors were located.

  “Do you also think that Ainsworth had a double entendre in mind when he circled Waterloo?” I asked, breaking the silence.

  “That is the most likely case, for that is how the brain of a cryptographer would work,” Joanna replied. “It is the best of hidden messages, with one being obvious and the other obscure.”

  “So it is the obscure you are searching for.”

  “I will leave that to the Admiralty Club,” Joanna said, as she crushed out her cigarette. “It is the second message Ainsworth sent that draws my attention.”

  “The one that tells us of the U-boats off the Orkney Islands,” I recalled. “Do you believe it points to the method by which the Germans will move Ainsworth to Germany?”

  “I think not,” Joanna replied. “Allow me to take you through my line of reasoning, and if by chance you detect any flaws, please do not hesitate to interrupt. Let us begin with the well-founded premise that the first message—the circling of Waterloo on the map—was meant to inform us of Ainsworth’s location, either in the train station or at a street address.”

  “But how could he possibly predict we would see through the funeral ruse at the station?” I questioned.

  “It might not have been a ruse to Ainsworth,” Joanna answered. “The plan he overheard may not have mentioned a rehearsal.”

  “And that was how Ainsworth learned he was soon to be smuggled out in a casket and transported to Germany by U-boat,” I thought aloud.

  “Which was the obvious reason for him to circle Waterloo Station on the train map,” Joanna went on. “But there was always the chance that his initial message would not be interpreted correctly or perhaps interpreted too late. With this in mind, he had to devise a second coded message that would lead to his rescue.”

  I attempted to think through the meaning of the second message without success. “How could the position of U-boats off the coast of Scotland possibly reveal Ainsworth’s location?”

  “That is the point, dear John,” Joanna said, and began pacing again. “It may well be that the second message does not refer to location, but rather to information of another sort that will lead to Ainsworth’s captors. I further suspect that the critical information is contained in a single word, for—as Geoffrey Montclair mentioned—the code is just a little off from one sent earlier. And that is what so draws my interest to the second message.”

  “Perhaps the answer is more straightforward than you believe,” I opined. “Could it be that the last message is simply telling us that he will shortly be spirited out of the country on a German U-boat and that the Royal Navy should be put on immediate alert?”

  “Oh, it runs deeper than that,” Joanna said. “I believe there is a hidden message here that is meant for our eyes only.”

  “Another puzzle within a puzzle,” my father remarked.

  “So it would seem.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by the return of the Baker Street Irregulars who, after a brief rap on the door, entered unannounced. They were all dressed every bit as smartly as before. The only difference was that Little Alfie now carried a large, gift-wrapped package, whilst Sarah the Gypsy clutched a pair of new books.

  “The lady came and went just as you said she would,” Wiggins reported.

  “I take it she was not in any way protected?” Joanna queried.

  “All alone, she was. But she walked a bit uneasy, not like she was on a Sunday stroll, you see. Every half block or so she glanced around, but tried to cover it.”

  “How so?”

  “She would look like she was sneezing into a handkerchief or shading her eyes from the sun, but all the while she was peering about and behind her.”

  “But Little Alfie and Sarah remained unnoticed. Correct?”

  “The fine lady never knew we were there,” Little Alfie replied. “She was more interested in keeping her head down as carriages passed by.”

  “Was she recognized by anyone?”

  “She gave no sign of that.”

  “Good,” Joanna approved. “Which of you followed her initially?”

  “I did, ma’am,” Sarah the Gypsy said, and stepped forward. “Like Wiggins told you, she kept to herself and tried not to be seen. She walked on the inside of the footpath and pulled her bonnet down when anyone approached.”

  Sarah’s vocabulary was not that of a ten-year-old, but more on a level with Little Alfie, who had some education as I recalled. She was probably near his age as well, but her growth and maturation had been stunted by a harsh upbringing.

  “Did the lady make any stops along the way?” Joanna asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Sarah replied. “Not until she reached her destination.”

  “So you followed her the entire time?”

  Sarah shook her head. “We played the now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t game. I would follow her for a block, then move off to put on a different coat brought along by Wiggins. All that while, Little Alfie was trailing her from the footpath on the other side of the street.”

  “How far did the lady travel?” Joanna inquired.

  “Just over five blocks, ma’am. She continued straight on until she came to number twenty-five Ovington Street where she entered.”

  “Describe the house.”

  “Two stories, made of brick, and opened onto the street.”

  “I need to know every step she took from the moment she arrived at the Ovington address.”

  “At that point, ma’am, Little Alfie was
closer than I.”

  “I take it you were on the other side of the street when she entered.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But Little Alfie wasn’t.”

  “Held my package up high, I did, like a proper carrier on the rush.” Little Alfie picked up the story. “But I slowed to catch ongoings. She rapped on the knocker twice and the door opened quicker than a hiccough. She hurried in, without so much as a hello, and the door closed.”

  “Did you have a look at the person who greeted her?” Joanna asked at once.

  “Not even a glimpse, ma’am,” Little Alfie answered. “It happened too fast, like in a half second.”

  “We must learn who the lady visited in that house,” Joanna urged.

  “She was with a gent,” Little Alfie said without hesitation. “Appeared upper class, he did, with his black frock coat and pearly-gray trousers.”

  “But you told us you could not see him because the door closed too quickly,” Joanna contended.

  “That is a fact, ma’am. But I had a better look when I slinked down the alleyway and peeked into a side window.”

  “Excellent!” Joanna lauded. “I would like you to describe every feature of the man, down to the finest detail.”

  “Mind you, I was looking through a dirty window and the couple was a good ten feet away.”

  “The couple, you say!”

  “They were embracing, ma’am.”

  “A close embrace?”

  “About as tight as you can make it, and still have room to kiss.”

  “Tell us about this man.”

  “I saw him only in profile, but he appeared handsome enough, with moustache and neatly trimmed beard. No spectacles or monocle that I could see.”

  “Was he taller than her?”

  “By a good six inches.”

  Joanna turned and nodded to us, as the same thought went through our collective minds. It was a certainty that Lady Jane Hamilton was not meeting Roger Marlowe. “Well done!” she said, returning to Little Alfie. “After the kiss, were you able to notice anything else of interest?”

  “No, ma’am. I had to move on down the alleyway, for fear of being seen. However, on my trip back to the street, I took one more peek into the room. The couple seemed to be studying papers of some sort. I then returned to Ovington to continue our watch, for you told us the lady would stay for an hour.”

  “How was this watch accomplished?”

  “From a distance, with me and Sarah taking turns parading up and down on the opposite side of the street. Wiggins made sure we were wearing coats of different colors on each pass-by.”

  “Did the lady stay the entire hour?”

  “Just about,” Wiggins replied. “Then Little Alfie and Sarah followed her back to the side entrance of Harrods. I stayed in place in case the gentleman made a move, and he did. Shortly after the lady left, the gentleman came out, smoking a cigarette in a holder. He opened an umbrella, although there was hardly a drop of rain falling. By my reckoning, he was using the umbrella to cover his face. Did a good job of it, I might add. He then strolled to a nearby tobacco shop and walked out clutching two packages of cigarettes. The gentleman lighted up yet another cigarette on his return to twenty-five Ovington.”

  “Could you determine what brand he smoked?” Joanna asked.

  “Player’s Navy Cut,” Wiggins replied. “On his way to the shop, he stamped out the one he was smoking. I picked up the stub and read its label.”

  “Did you note the time at that moment?”

  “Just after three.”

  Joanna nodded, obviously pleased with Wiggins’s observations for reasons that were beyond me. “Tell me,” she went on, “were there any features about the gentleman that Little Alfie did not mention?”

  Wiggins pondered the question briefly. “Nothing in particular, except for his military posture. Ramrod straight, it was.”

  “Very good,” Joanna said. “Now, I have further work for you, if you feel up to it.”

  “Involving the lady?”

  “Involving the lady.”

  “Day or night?”

  “Both.”

  “Then we must increase our fee to two shillings each.”

  “Done,” Joanna agreed. “I need you to keep a watch on twenty-five Ovington around the clock as well. See who comes and goes, and if on foot, follow them.”

  “There will be added expenses, ma’am, for food and drink and other clothing.”

  With a nod, Joanna said, “Be off with you then, and report back with the very first sighting.”

  Once the Irregulars had departed, Joanna rubbed her hands together gleefully. “The chase now becomes even more interesting. There is nothing more tantalizing than a case in which everything goes against you.”

  “Were you not disappointed the man was not Roger Marlowe?” I queried.

  Joanna waved away the notion. “That was never a serious consideration. They are close friends and need not steal away to some pricey Knightsbridge house to conduct their romantic affair. They could have easily used Marlowe’s home or the home of confidants or a dozen less conspicuous places.”

  “Do you believe the man is a German agent, then?”

  “That is a possibility,” Joanna said.

  “Particularly since Little Alfie saw them reading or exchanging papers,” I added. “That would not be the first thing on the minds of secret lovers.”

  “Your point is well taken,” Joanna said, with a mischievous smile that quickly faded. “But until we know who the gentleman is and what papers were of such interest to the couple, I am afraid we are guessing, which does not help our cause. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has the data, for it tempts one to twist the facts to fit the theory.”

  “So what steps do you propose we take next?” I asked.

  “Why, the obvious. We must identify the man who holds the key to the mystery surrounding Lady Jane.”

  “Which the Baker Street Irregulars will provide for us.”

  “No, John. They will see, but cannot identify. That is a task we alone must accomplish.”

  “And how do we go about that?”

  “By visiting Knightsbridge.”

  “Shall I arrange for a carriage?”

  “A motorcar will suit our purposes better.”

  From outside came the distinct sound of hammers breaking stone that was shortly followed by several dull thuds. Joanna hurried to the window overlooking 221b Baker Street and stared out as the hammering grew even louder. Slowly her head began to move up and down, as if tracking some moving object.

  “What so holds your attention?” my father asked.

  “Danger,” Joanna replied.

  “Imminent?”

  “Quite.”

  The door to a bedroom opened and Johnny, holding a small blackboard with hieroglyphics written in chalk upon it, dashed out and over to his mother’s side. My father and I were only a step behind. Across the street in a light rain, workers were busily removing the stone parapet from a sturdy brick building that rose up three stories. We watched as large pieces of stone were dismantled, a few of which fell off the roof and toppled to the footpath below.

  “Should they not close off the footpath, Mother?” Johnny asked.

  “They have,” Joanna replied, and pointed to the wooden barricades a half block away that people ignored and walked around.

  “Flying stones can cause terrible injuries,” my father remarked. “Such blows to the head can be fatal.”

  “Particularly when they are descending at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second,” Joanna noted.

  “How do you know they fall at that speed?” asked Johnny.

  “It is a law of physics and one worth remembering.”

  Johnny gave the matter momentary thought and shrugged. “If it falls rapidly, it falls rapidly.”

  “No, no,” Joanna rebuked mildly. “The rate of descent is most important, for it once determined whether a witness was in fact telling the truth.”
<
br />   “How so?” Johnny asked, now keenly interested.

  “A witness, who was a gardener, claimed that he saw a man leap to his death from a three-story building, with his arms flailing wildly in the air. The problem with his account was that the witness was nearsighted and needed spectacles for distant vision. At the moment the victim supposedly leaped from the window, the gardener was not wearing his spectacles.”

  “But surely he put them on to view the fall,” Johnny said at once.

  “It required five seconds for him to reach into a coat pocket for his spectacles, place them on, and look up,” Joanna delineated. “The Watsons and I actually timed how many seconds the act would have consumed. Now, recalling that a three-story building is thirty-two feet tall, the poor man who fell would have struck the ground in one second. Thus, there is no way the gardener could have witnessed the event.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  “That is not the point,” Joanna went on. “The point is the gardener could not possibly have seen the fall and therefore his story was false. And it is all based on a law of physics that states that an object falls through space at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second. You would have certainly learned this in your physics class.”

  “But, Mother, I am not scheduled to enter physics until next year.”

  “Then should you return to Eton, you must take a seat at the very front of that particular class.”

  “Do you truly believe the study of physics will be to my advantage in the profession I have chosen for myself?”

  “You should ask Dr. Christopher Moran.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The man who murdered his friend and pushed the body off a three-story building.”

  Johnny allowed the new information to set in before asking, “Was the crime uncovered because of a gardener who could not possibly have seen a body fall thirty-two feet to the ground?”

  “It was a major clue that eventually led to the arrest and conviction of Dr. Moran.”

  “And where is this doctor now?”

  “He is awaiting hanging at Pentonville.”

  “Thirty-two feet per second per second,” Johnny uttered solemnly and, with his blackboard in hand, returned to his room to continue the study of Egyptian hieroglyphics.