The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  Annie Yates and her friend Sally Hawkins were walking the streets in a pair for safety’s sake at just after ten last evening. A man called out from across the square, saying, “I want you again, Annie!” He obviously knew her from a prior encounter, but did not mention his name. The prospective customer came out of the dark, walking with a terrible limp, but was not using crutches or cane. The light was poor, so it was difficult to make out his face.

  “Are we to conclude that the eyewitness saw none of the man’s facial features?” Joanna interrupted.

  “She was quite clear on this point,” Lestrade replied. “But if you wish, I have no objection to you questioning her.”

  “Have her come forward,” Joanna requested.

  Lestrade motioned to the still-shivering Unfortunate who haltingly came over, with her head down in a position of submission. “This lady is the daughter of Sherlock Holmes,” he introduced. “She is an associate of Scotland Yard and you will answer her questions as if I were the one asking.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sally Hawkins said meekly.

  “I want you to think back to when the man first stepped out of the shadows,” Joanna began. “What was your initial impression?”

  “That he was old,” Sally answered at once.

  “Why was that?”

  “Because he had such trouble walking.”

  “Did that cause Annie concern?”

  “No, ma’am. I asked Annie if he was a cripple and she said no, because there was no limp when she met him before.”

  “When they walked away together, did he continue to limp?”

  Sally thought back for a moment. “I did not notice it, but then he had his hand around her waist.”

  I nodded to myself, for a genuine limp would have persisted despite the support. A limp that comes and goes in a matter of minutes was a fake one that was put on for show. The killer was not disabled in the least.

  “Surely you must have glanced at his face,” Joanna went on.

  “I did, ma’am, but the light was not good and he was wearing a fisherman’s hat pulled down over his forehead.”

  “Did you see his lips?”

  “I am not sure, for things happened so quickly.”

  “Think back,” Joanna urged. “I am interested in his lips and whether you could see teeth behind them.”

  Sally shook her head. “I cannot remember it. But there was something about one of his cheeks that struck me as odd. When he turned to escort Annie down the passageway, what little light there was seemed to reflect off his cheek.”

  “Are you saying it glowed?” Joanna queried.

  “No, ma’am. It only seemed so smooth.”

  “Were there lines or wrinkles?”

  The Unfortunate shook her head again. “Smooth as stone.”

  “As they entered the passageway, did the man use any force?” Joanna asked.

  “No, ma’am. She was quite comfortable with him, almost like they were friends. You see, he had given her a gift in their last meeting, which Annie had mentioned.”

  “Are you referring to the copper earrings?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So you could see nothing amiss?”

  “Nothing at all. Once they entered the passageway, there were no calls for help or shouts of distress.” Sally hesitated as she thought back. “I did hear the sound of glass breaking in the darkness, but did not make much of it. Perhaps he had dropped a bottle of spirits, for some customers need a nip or two before transacting their business. In any event, I continued on my way unconcerned.”

  “Very good,” Joanna said, and signaled to Lestrade that her questioning was done.

  After Sally Hawkins departed, Lestrade said, “Not much to go on, is there?”

  “Not much,” Joanna agreed.

  “But the smoothness of the killer’s face is somewhat confusing,” the inspector remarked. “It denotes a young man, which does not fit well with our contention that we are dealing with the return of an older Jack the Ripper.”

  “Unless he is wearing a mask which would be quite smooth.”

  “A disguise!” Lestrade said too loudly, which drew the attention of a constable standing by the covered corpse. “That would explain it.”

  “It would, but it brings us no closer to resolution.”

  “Unhappily so.”

  Joanna pointed to the concealed body and said, “Now I think it would be appropriate for us to view the remains of Annie Yates.”

  “Prepare yourself,” Lestrade warned.

  But no amount of preparation could ward off the revulsion we experienced when the blanket was lifted from the corpse. Annie’s face had been defleshed. Vertical incisions penetrated deeply into her forehead and cheeks, with the skin and muscles peeled back to reveal white facial bones. Even her lips had been sliced and spread apart down to the gums. The only recognizable feature of Annie Yates was her neatly parted blond hair. Her abdomen was split wide open, her greenish-tan intestines dangling out. The monster had even cut off her breasts.

  “My God,” my father murmured. “This is beyond barbaric.”

  “Let us hope she wasn’t awake for any of this,” I said softly.

  Joanna pointed to the corpse’s neck, which was lacerated down to the cervical spine. Both carotid arteries were completely severed, with their spurts of blood covering a nearby wall. “If she was alert, it was only for a very short time. Such massive exsanguination can bring death in under a minute.”

  Joanna appeared to be unmoved by the grotesque sight as she went about the business of examining the corpse and crime scene. Nevertheless, I noticed my wife wince on occasion and stepped in closer to her in the event she faltered, for the scene was that gruesome and unsettling. Even I, as an experienced pathologist, found it difficult to view such despicable mutilation. Perhaps our feelings were influenced by the fact that we had known this pitiful, yet likable, Unfortunate.

  My wife was now carefully examining the corpse’s head, for some feature there had drawn her attention. “She is missing an earring.”

  Lestrade leaned down for a closer look, then said with a shrug, “Perhaps she was wearing only one.”

  “No, Inspector,” Joanna refuted the notion. “Not the hardest-pressed woman, regardless of her station in life, would ever wear a single earring in public, for it would show a lack of taste and true poverty, which no female would wish to exhibit.”

  “But then, why would she have on only a single earring?”

  “Two explanations come to mind,” Joanna replied. “Either it became loose and she lost it, or someone took it.”

  Lestrade considered the possibilities before saying, “But why take one rather than both as any worthwhile thief would do?”

  “You raise a good point,” Joanna said, with a thin smile.

  “Then, it is most likely she lost it.”

  “Perhaps, but I think it a good idea to have your constables search the area for the missing earring.”

  “Is it that important?”

  “It very well could be.”

  A puzzled look crossed the inspector’s face, but his expression suddenly brightened as the answer came. “Ah, yes! The killer may have ripped it off and later discarded it, leaving us his fingerprints.”

  “Excellent, Lestrade,” Joanna commended, and turned to me. “When the body is prepared for autopsy, please have all of her clothing sent to Maxwell Anderson’s laboratory for a most careful examination, for the earring may have slipped off or be in one of her pockets. Also search her abdominal cavity in the event it somehow found its way in through the wide incision.”

  “Are you certain you wish the examination to be done in the histopathology laboratory by Maxwell Anderson?” I asked, recalling that Anderson was now considered a prime suspect.

  “I am quite certain, for the lighting there is of the best quality,” she said, with a subtle wink. “Of course we shall accompany the garments to his laboratory.”

  And of course we shall observe And
erson’s reaction should a major clue be found, I thought, and returned my wife’s subtle wink.

  Using her foot, Joanna was now moving the shattered glass next to the corpse over a wider area. Most of the pieces were smashed with sliver-like splinters, but a few were goodly sized and could be measured in inches. It was the largest piece which she picked up with small tweezers and examined under the magnifying glass. “I see fingerprints.”

  “Are they complete prints?” I asked at once.

  “It is difficult to tell until they are dusted and reexamined.”

  “Do you believe he tried to fetch the broken pieces?” my father queried.

  “That is unlikely, Watson, for they would serve no purpose,” Joanna responded. “Moreover, he would have difficulty seeing them in the darkness. I suspect these fingerprints were placed on the bottle while it was still intact.”

  “But you must also consider the possibility that the bottle did not belong to the killer,” Lestrade proposed. “Perhaps he kicked over an old bottle in the dim light.”

  “You raise an excellent point, Inspector, except for one factor,” Joanna said, and held a piece of broken glass under my nose. “What do you detect, John?”

  “The smell of formaldehyde,” I realized quickly. “He brought along a bottle of formaldehyde to preserve the organs he removed.”

  My wife nodded as she wrapped the larger pieces of glass in tissue without touching them. “This bottle belonged to Jack the Ripper and so do these fingerprints.”

  “How can you be so certain the prints were made by Jack the Ripper?” Lestrade questioned. “Perhaps a passerby picked it up and, noticing its odor, discarded it.”

  “The pattern of broken glass on the ground says otherwise,” Joanna elucidated. “When a glass bottle is accidentally dropped from a height of three feet or so, it breaks into relatively large pieces. That was not the case here. The vast majority of the shattered pieces were small slivers, many of which were ground into the passageway. It is quite obvious that here is the work of a man intent on destroying evidence. In the dimness, The Ripper must have overlooked the large piece which held his fingerprint.”

  “Outstanding,” Lestrade approved. “We shall have Henry Overstreet give them a most careful look.”

  “Would it be possible for you and Overstreet to come to Anderson’s laboratory?” Joanna requested. “That would be doubly important if we discover the missing earring in the corpse’s garments.”

  “I see no problem with the initial examination being done there, but I must insist that the specimens be further studied and housed at Scotland Yard.”

  “Then we are agreed,” Joanna said, and deposited the wrapped pieces of glass into her purse.

  Lestrade glanced down at the scattered glass next to the corpse and remarked, “It seems our Ripper is becoming a bit careless and may have left an identifiable fingerprint behind.”

  “So it would appear,” Joanna said, following his gaze. “Please have Overstreet study the piece of glass at his earliest convenience, for it may contain the best clue we have thus far.”

  “So I shall,” said the inspector, and looked at his timepiece. “Well then, I will detain you no further and hope to rejoin you at St. Bartholomew’s before noon.”

  As our four-wheeler rode away, I noticed the crowd gathered on the opposite side of the square had increased greatly in size, now lined up three deep, with newspaper reporters at the front and calling out to us. Accounts of Jack the Ripper were currently in the headlines of all London’s newspapers, with the public eagerly awaiting his next horrific outing to occur. A photograph of a mutilated corpse would fetch a hundred pounds or more, which reminded me to alert Benson to be on the lookout for any trespassers to the pathology section at St. Bart’s.

  I brought my mind back to the investigation and commented to Joanna, “The inspector seems to be following the correct avenue in this case, do you not agree?”

  Joanna nodded as she searched for a Turkish cigarette and carefully lighted it. “At times Lestrade can be quite a good detective, but then he spoils that impression by overlooking important clues which were obvious and placed directly in front of his eyes.”

  “Pray tell what did he fail to notice?” I asked, leaning forward for the answer, as did my father.

  “Three clues, which give us important information on Jack the Ripper,” Joanna replied, and held up three fingers to count them off. “First, what did you make of the broken glass bottle? In particular, please estimate its size.”

  I shrugged. “It was not small.”

  “A quart, perhaps?”

  “I would think so.”

  “So we have a quart bottle filled with formaldehyde,” she went on. “With this in mind, tell me what excised organs would fit into such a bottle?”

  “A uterus, ovaries, and two Fallopian tubes, and not much more.”

  “Then why cut off her breasts?”

  “In a maniacal frenzy, I would guess.”

  “Or deliberately so, simply to disfigure her,” my father advanced.

  “Excellent, Watson, for I believe it is the latter,” said Joanna. “The uterus and ovaries were to be mementos, while the breasts were sending us a message. He is telling us and Scotland Yard that he is doing whatever he wishes and whenever he wishes, and that the mastectomies were just a bit of added pleasure.”

  “What makes you so certain that this is not all maniacal in nature?” I asked.

  “Because he makes it his business to methodically remove each and every clue,” said she. “This is a man who crosses his t’s and dots his i’s.”

  “Are you saying he can turn his maniacal behavior off and on?” I queried.

  “That is the second part of his message to us. He is telling us he will never be caught, for he is far too clever.”

  “Another taunt,” my father commented.

  Joanna took a final puff on her cigarette and flicked it out the window. “He is very good at that.”

  “What was the second clue Lestrade and the Watsons overlooked?” I asked.

  “The missing copper earring,” she replied. “The Ripper may have intentionally taken it to give to another victim.”

  “But even an Unfortunate would look with disdain at a gift consisting of a single earring,” I argued.

  “Not if it is given after she is dead and mutilated beyond recognition,” Joanna countered.

  “Evil personified,” I muttered.

  “To the nth degree,” my father agreed before turning to Joanna. “And the third clue we missed?”

  “The prostitute’s description of The Ripper’s cheek,” said she. “The woman recalled that it was smooth, without lines or wrinkles.”

  “But the possibility that he was wearing a mask has already been raised,” my father noted.

  “But what if it wasn’t a mask?” Joanna asked.

  “Then what else could it be?”

  “Allow me to draw your attention to the fact that our three main suspects are talented actors,” she prompted.

  My father’s brow went up. “You can produce a smooth face with makeup.”

  Joanna nodded. “Actors use it all the time, for it not only smooths the skin but gives it a bit of a glow under bright stage lights.”

  “Greasepaint,” my father recollected the name of the theatrical makeup.

  “Which stage actors would have easy access to,” I added.

  A mischievous smile crossed my wife’s face as our carriage approached St. Bartholomew’s. “Everything seems to point to the Whitechapel Playhouse, doesn’t it?”

  “But which of the three suspects is Jack the Ripper?” I asked.

  “The cleverest of the bunch,” Joanna said, and left it at that.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Main Suspects

  The bright lights in the autopsy room only exaggerated the gruesome mutilation of Annie Yates. Even on gross inspection I could determine that the attack on the Unfortunate had been more vicious than originally beli
eved. There was, in addition to the previously described wounds, a huge abdominal incision that extended down to her genital area which had been neatly dissected out. It, too, could fit in a quart-sized bottle of formaldehyde, but I saw no need to comment on that hideous feature, for it would serve no purpose.

  As per my usual protocol, I began the autopsy at the corpse’s head and neck, which were covered with dried blood. After a thorough washing, I could better view the damage done to the victim’s cervical spine.

  “Like in the others, he attempted to decapitate her,” I noted. “There are gouges in the intervertebral cartilage that indicate he tried to do so.”

  “Why the emphasis on decapitation?” my father asked.

  “I would surmise that he wished to dehumanize the victim,” I replied. “A headless corpse has no face and thus no identity to who he or she was. It is a cruel act done with a most cruel purpose.

  “Both carotid arteries were severed, so she no doubt bled to death,” I went on. “It required a minute or two for her to exsanguinate, during which time she was aware of what was transpiring.”

  “The perverted killer probably took great pleasure in watching her blood spurt onto the nearby wall,” my father envisioned.

  “To him it would be an opening act, like the curtain going up.” I continued with the autopsy, which showed that her heart was normal, while her lungs were not. They exhibited chronic inflammation and pulmonary lymphadenopathy, all characteristic of extensive tuberculosis. But it was her abdominal cavity which provided the most surprising finding. Both excised breasts were stuffed in between the liver and stomach. I held them up for the others to see.

  “His perversion deepens,” my father stated. “But why excise the breasts only to return them to the body?”

  “I suspect because it is the most drastic female disfiguration one can imagine,” Joanna answered. “To savagely remove a woman’s breasts is one matter, but to jam them into a distant cavity is quite another. He was obviously intent on destroying every feminine feature Annie Yates possessed.”

  I pointed to the genital area which had been carefully denuded. “He is remarkably good at it.”