The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  My wife was now saying, “Well, as long as he was a reliable customer and his money was good, his unusual behavior is of little concern.”

  “Exactly right, madam,” Froman agreed, before returning to the business at hand. “Do the copper earrings interest you?”

  “They do indeed,” Joanna responded. “I shall like a set, together with a matching bracelet.”

  “An excellent choice.” The jeweler retrieved the items and went about shining them with a felt cloth. “This brings out their luster.”

  “Does it require polish?”

  “No, ma’am. Like I told the chap who purchased five pairs, such polish can actually dull the shine.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Joanna said, as she was handed the items. “And your charge?”

  “Five shillings, please.”

  The bill being paid, we walked out into a sunless noon, with the sky even darker than before. People hurried by, bundled up against the cold, yet still managing to steal an envious glimpse at our fashionable attire. Loud thunder suddenly roared overhead, telling us that rain would soon fall.

  “Shall I signal our carriage?” I asked.

  “Not yet, for we have a most important task to perform,” said Joanna.

  “Which is?”

  “To warn Annie Yates, for her life is now in imminent danger.”

  “What brings you to that conclusion?”

  “The five sets of earrings which Jack the Ripper bought,” she replied, and hurried down Buck’s Row back to the doss-house. My father and I had to quickstep to keep up.

  “What is the significance of the five pairs of earrings?” I asked.

  “Think of the twenty pieces of apple spice candy The Ripper bought, with four being given to each victim per day.”

  My answer came to me. “Divide four into twenty and that gives you the number of days Pretty Penny would remain alive, which is five.”

  “And of the five sets of earrings purchased, how many have been given out?”

  “Three.”

  “To whom?”

  “The three Unfortunates.”

  “And how many of those remain alive?”

  “Only Annie Yates.”

  “Which designates her as the next victim.”

  I nodded slowly at my wife’s keen conclusion. “So they are death gifts, with each set of copper earrings given to the five prospective victims. But who will be number four?”

  “That is to be determined,” Joanna replied. “But I know with certainty who will be number five.”

  “Pretty Penny,” I stated the obvious.

  “Who I will wager has already been given her copper earrings.”

  We dashed into the doss-house and entered the large communal room that was filled with crowded iron bedsteads which remained empty. Luther, who was carrying a stack of soiled blankets on his shoulder, spotted us immediately and followed us past the kitchen area into the cubicle where we had last seen Annie Yates. The bed was made up, the room itself empty.

  “What is she?” Joanna demanded.

  “She departed a few minutes after you did,” Luther replied.

  “As sick as she was?” My father raised his voice sternly.

  “I guess the half crown gave her renewed energy,” Luther said with an unconcerned shrug.

  “Where would she have gone?” Joanna asked.

  “To a pub where the drinks will be the cheapest,” he answered. “I would guess to the Black Lamb, which is a favorite of the Unfortunates.”

  “Will she come back here this evening?”

  “Only if she has fivepence remaining, which I doubt will be the case,” Luther told us. “Given the chance, they quickly return to their old ways.”

  “But her life is now at great risk,” my father blurted out. “Her days are truly numbered.”

  “They always are on the mean streets of Whitechapel,” Luther said matter-of-factly, and turned for the communal room.

  “If she returns, you must notify us at once,” my father insisted, and handed the doss-house warden a personal card.

  “Don’t hold your breath, guv’nor,” the warden said, and went back to work, placing filthy blankets on soiled mattresses.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Duke of York’s Theatre

  With the commissioner’s office having made the arrangements, we found ourselves seated in the Duke of York’s Theatre watching a late-morning rehearsal of Gilbert and Sullivan’s musical The Mikado. The actual size of the renowned theater on St. Martin’s Lane seemed to be exaggerated by the fact that the entire audience was comprised of Joanna, my father, and myself. During a brief intermission whilst the stage was being transformed for the final act, I took the opportunity to again glance up at the auditorium’s Victorian décor, with its numerous cherubs and dragons painted in glorious colors. The extravagant embellishment was no doubt meant to impress visitors and it did so instantly in a memorable fashion. Yet it was far too bold for my tastes. As music arose from the orchestra’s pit, my attention returned to the players who reappeared in their Oriental costumes and began to once more totally enchant the viewers. In particular, one of the leading actresses had a mesmerizing role which we all agreed would have been perfect for Pretty Penny. It was impossible not to keep your eyes on her beauty and incredibly graceful moves. She did not appear to take steps but rather to float through the various scenes. As the play came to an end, we could not help but applaud the players for their captivating performances, which caused them to stop onstage and give us warm smiles and appreciative bows.

  The director, Roger Blackstone, hurried over to us, obviously pleased with the rehearsal. He was a short, plump man, with silver-gray hair and a bounce to his gait. His attire, which consisted of a linen suit, striped shirt, and bright red tie, was that of a showman. “Well, what is your opinion?” asked he, with an expression that told us he already knew the answer.

  “Marvelous,” Joanna replied. “But then, Gilbert and Sullivan’s plays usually are; yet this was a notch above.”

  “And what of the individual performances?”

  “They were magnificent,” I answered. “Particularly the slender actress who seemed to float across the stage and sang her way into our hearts.”

  My father nodded at my assessment. “We all felt it was a role that would have been a superb fit for Pretty Penny, from what we have heard of her.”

  “You have a good eye, sir,” Blackstone concurred. “That part requires a certain magic which few actresses possess.”

  “I take it you have seen Pretty Penny perform,” Joanna broached the subject of our visit.

  “Only once, but that was quite enough,” the director said, and sighed to himself as the joy left his face. “What has happened to that poor girl is beyond heartbreaking.” He paused to wave to the last of the exiting players and only spoke again when they were out of view. “Now tell me, how can I assist you in your investigation?”

  “We need to hear of all your contacts with Emma Adams and Lionel Lurie,” Joanna said directly.

  Blackstone’s brow went up. “Are they suspects?”

  “Everyone connected to Pretty Penny is a suspect,” she replied in a neutral tone. “Please be good enough to detail your meetings with the principals at the Whitechapel Playhouse.”

  “There was only one and that was to sign the contract which gave us partial control of Pretty Penny,” he answered.

  Joanna blinked at the unexpected revelation. “Partial control, you say?”

  “Oh, yes, all signed and sealed in my barrister’s office.”

  “Pray tell how this association came about.”

  “It was not my idea, but my brother’s, who is a theatrical agent of some note. It is with him that the story begins.”

  Blackstone then proceeded to give us a most complete summary which contained some surprising information. Pretty Penny’s talent was first observed by the director’s twin, Richard, who brought it to the attention of his brother. Roger Blackston
e promptly traveled to Whitechapel and, on seeing the young woman perform, urged the agent to take the actress under his wing, which he attempted to do, only to learn she was already obliged by contract to Emma Adams. Lionel Lurie learned of the meeting and became infuriated, accusing the high-powered agent of attempting to steal away the talented Pretty Penny. Which in fact was true. But Lurie was of little matter, for it was Emma Adams alone who held the contract. Unfortunately, she was not interested in parting with it, despite a most generous offer.

  “A stalemate, then,” said Joanna.

  “But not for long, for my brother did not become a celebrated agent by giving in easily,” Blackstone continued on. “He surveyed the landscape—so to speak—at Whitechapel and soon discovered that the play’s Romeo, Maxwell Anderson, was a superb actor as well and seemed to make Pretty Penny dazzle even more. Together they had a remarkable stage presence. My brother spoke with Anderson in private and signed on as his agent.”

  “Maxwell Anderson would never leave medicine for the stage; of that I can assure you,” I interjected.

  “One never knows, for the stage can have a captivating effect on an individual, much like a moth is drawn to the flame,” he responded. “And where Pretty Penny goes, the young pathologist might well follow. They are quite a magnetic pair, you see.”

  “Are you suggesting they are lovers?” Joanna asked.

  The director flicked his wrist at the notion. “Love is of little consequence in this instance. What matters most is that they sparkle as a pair and both know it. It is their undeniable talents which bind them together.”

  “It would seem you are implying that Pretty Penny would hesitate to leave for the higher position without Anderson at her side.”

  Blackstone smiled mischievously. “Ah, dear lady, now you are thinking like a bona fide agent.”

  “Did Emma Adams hear of this signing?”

  “We made certain she did.”

  “And her response?”

  “She was quite upset, for Mrs. Adams is a clever woman and knows how to read between the lines. Yet she collected herself in a businesslike fashion while Lionel Lurie became downright combative as he envisioned his chance to be a St. Martin’s Lane director slipping away. He even went so far as to mention his ties to the Whitechapel underworld in an attempt to frighten us.”

  “Did it?”

  “Hardly, for Lurie’s bark is far greater than his bite.”

  “But there was always the distinct possibility that Pretty Penny would leave Whitechapel without Maxwell Anderson,” I pointed out. “The allure would simply be too great to resist.”

  “Perhaps, but her success on the big stage would in no way be guaranteed, particularly with a novice agent and an unknown director. By contrast, with my brother as manager, Pretty Penny would have a direct and immediate path to both me and St. Martin’s Lane. In addition, she would have been afforded the very best medical care.”

  “A bit fragile, was she?” Joanna asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Not so much fragile as asthmatic,” Blackstone replied. “During one of her performances, with my brother in the audience, he detected her intermittent difficulty breathing. To the inexperienced it might have gone unnoticed, but both he and I are very much aware of asthma, for our older brother is afflicted with this unpleasant disorder. In any case, after the performance my brother visited with Pretty Penny and could hear her soft wheezes. Now this of course could present a problem for any stage actress.”

  “Did this give you pause in signing her?”

  “Not at all, for my dear older brother functions very well as a barrister with little problem at all. Of course he is looked after by the finest Harley Street specialists, and we assured Penny that we would make sure she was cared for equally as well. Thus, you might say we used her illness to our advantage, and I suspect it was a factor in her signing with my brother’s agency. Even Mrs. Adams saw this as a distinct advantage.”

  “So a compromise was reached and a deal struck,” Joanna concluded.

  “Exactly, madam. My brother was allowed to purchase fifty percent of Pretty Penny’s contract for a fee of one hundred pounds. He was also obliged to sign over half of Maxwell Anderson’s contract to Mrs. Adams. So now everything was neatly tied together for all the concerned parties. My brother would send Pretty Penny to my plays, which would assure her receiving the best of leading roles and no doubt stardom. Anderson could come along if he so wished, and Mrs. Adams would prosper greatly.”

  “And Lionel Lurie would become an assistant director,” Joanna added.

  Blackstone half-shrugged his shoulders. “Unwanted, but necessary baggage.”

  “I am surprised he settled for that position.”

  “He had no choice, for Emma Adams rules that roost.”

  “So, in the end all benefited.”

  “Some far more than others, obviously.”

  We thanked the director for his time and strolled out of the theater into bright sunshine which promised a surprisingly warm day. The footpath on St. Martin’s Lane was crowded with theatergoers hurrying to purchase tickets for the early- afternoon matinees and carrying on spirited conversations as they passed us. We waited until we reached the relative quiet at the rear of the National Gallery before speaking.

  “I continue to dwell on Blackstone’s last comment that some of the participants will benefit far more than the others,” my father noted. “He was surely referring to the lesser role of Lionel Lurie.”

  “Beyond a doubt,” Joanna agreed. “He will be given the title of assistant director and little more. And should he cause any problems, he will quickly be shown the door.”

  “Will Emma Adams not come to his defense?”

  “She will expedite his way out, for here is a strong, determined woman who will not allow anyone or anything to obstruct her path to theatrical success.”

  “Lurie must certainly be aware of his tenuous situation,” I wondered aloud. “He might become so embittered with the position that he finds himself placed in that he resorts to the unthinkable, such as a temporary kidnapping which would bring him widespread notice.”

  My father quickly asked, “Are you suggesting that, with his underworld connections, he might stir up some sort of mischief which would cause both him and Pretty Penny to appear to be linked in the public’s eye?”

  “That thought crossed my mind, for both their names are currently mentioned on the front pages of the Times and Guardian,” I replied. “The publicity he might well continue to receive would be priceless, and he would become known prior to his arrival at St. Martin’s Lane. Thus, his name on the program would become an asset, and he would not be so easy to discard. For an insecure partner, that might be motive enough.”

  My father stifled a laugh. “You are beginning to think like Joanna.”

  “I had pondered that same scenario, but for a number of reasons it doesn’t ring true,” said she. “To begin, it is far too risky to indulge in such a kidnapping, with the possibility of little gain. There is no guarantee Lurie’s name will remain in the news, for it is Pretty Penny and not him who attracts the public’s attention. Moreover, no criminal with the smallest of brains would even consider doing the deed, for to be apprehended by the police would result in a long prison sentence, and to be discovered by the locals would bring about a beating he would be unlikely to survive. And finally, we have to look at the other side of the coin and recall that Lurie has experience directing Pretty Penny and has done so admirably thus far. He might then turn out to be an asset after all was said and done.”

  “So you believe Emma Adams and Lionel Lurie are now completely absolved,” I stated the obvious.

  “Quite so, for we now see that both had far more to gain from the status quo,” said Joanna. “As a matter of fact, they were always at the bottom of the suspect list, but nonetheless had to be excluded.”

  “With Jack the Ripper at the very top.”

  “Which all the evidence thus far would indi
cate.”

  “But, unlike his established modus operandi, we have no mutilated body to back up that assertion,” my father argued.

  “I am afraid, Watson, that one will turn up shortly,” Joanna said, and, waving her parasol, signaled a passing carriage.

  CHAPTER 9

  Thaddeus Rudd

  On returning to our rooms at 221b Baker Street, we received a most welcome call from Maxwell Anderson. After carefully washing the blood from the metal sliver which was embedded in Carrie Nichols’s cervical spine, he discovered a definite fingerprint. Inspector Lestrade, together with a fingerprint expert at Scotland Yard, were now on their way to St. Bartholomew’s and expected shortly. We hurried out and down the stairs, and past a most exasperated Miss Hudson who was on her way up, carrying a nicely laid-out tray for afternoon tea.

  Outside, traffic was slow and dense in the rain, and we were fortunate to hail an empty four-wheeler. As we rode through a fashionable block of Marylebone, I could not help but compare it to the destitute neighborhood we had experienced a day earlier. The elegant shops and sparkling clean streets we were passing stood in stark contrast to the filth and poverty of Whitechapel.

  “I continue to envision the horrid condition of the doss-house, with its noxious smell, that housed the poor Unfortunate,” I recalled.

  My father nodded at my description as his mind went back to the dreadful living quarters. “It is a breeding ground for disease.”

  “As demonstrated by the Unfortunate we visited,” said I. “There could not be a more striking example of hopelessness.”

  “Indeed,” my father agreed. “But I must say I was most disappointed by Annie Yates, who I believed was a decent sort underneath it all. You must admit she told a very convincing story regarding her past history.”