The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Would it have not been wise to give the inspector the names in the letter?” my father suggested. “That would have surely piqued the commissioner’s interest.”

  “He will be greatly interested as it is,” Joanna responded. “I was also concerned that if Lestrade were to only inquire about the names, the commissioner might reply with short answers from a distant memory, which will not work to our advantage. I have questions to go with those names, for they have some deep purpose which must not be overlooked.”

  “I take it you have already made some deductions from the letter,” I surmised.

  “More than a few come to mind, but all require confirmation from the commissioner,” said she. “Let us begin with the name John Gill, who is known to the commissioner and thus must be one of The Ripper’s victims from the long-ago past.”

  “But I thought The Ripper only killed females who were prostitutes, and John Gill would certainly not fall into that category,” I argued.

  “An excellent point, John, for our Ripper has followed the same course thus far,” Joanna concurred. “Which begs the question—why does he mention John Gill in his letter?”

  “It must relate to the next victim,” I reasoned quickly.

  “Precisely, but who and why?” she went on. “There is more to this than simply a name. Then we come to the signature at the end of the letter, Nemo. In Jules Verne’s novel 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the captain of the Nautilus is named Nemo, a rather heroic figure, who obviously bears no resemblance to our Ripper. Yet he signs his letter with that name.”

  “There must be a hidden, nonfictitious meaning to Nemo,” my father ventured.

  “Such as?” Joanna asked.

  “An abbreviation of his true name.”

  “Most unlikely, for that would be too revealing.”

  “Perhaps Nemo also points to the next victim,” my father suggested.

  “Oh, I am certain it does,” Joanna said. “And I am equally certain that it is somehow connected to the aforementioned John Gill.”

  We sat in silence and tried in vain to put together the strange pieces of the puzzle. But one question continued to weigh heavily on our minds. Were the present-day Ripper and the monster from twenty-eight years ago one and the same? The evidence at hand spoke in the affirmative, for our Ripper followed the identical killing pattern as his supposed predecessor and both wrote letters remarkably similar to those written at the end of the last century. Yet we had no proof to back up this assertion. And this distinction was of more than just historical interest, for if these murderers were one and the same, it would exclude thirty-two-year-old Maxwell Anderson as being the current-day Ripper. But what of his outings as a gentleman drifter and his secret meeting with the Unfortunate at Mitre Square and their whispered conversation regarding Pretty Penny, whose life was slipping away before my very eyes? These happenings would have to be explained.

  The phone sounded loudly and broke into our concentration. On the second ring, Joanna quickly picked up the receiver and, after speaking briefly with Lestrade, announced that the commissioner would see us immediately.

  We departed our rooms in haste and were able to promptly hail a passing taxi. But traffic was dense and slow, which only heightened our anticipation that important clues were about to be deciphered, either of which could point to The Ripper’s next victim. Nonetheless, our hopes that we might be able to save a life were dimmed by the indisputable fact that this madman seemed clever enough to remain one step or more ahead of us.

  Twenty minutes later we found ourselves being ushered by Lestrade into Commissioner Bradberry’s office. The décor, like the man, was solid and polished, with nicely worn oak furniture and an orderly desk that was free of clutter. Except for a large photograph of King George the Fifth, the walls were bare.

  The commissioner waved us to our seats and, without the usual amenities, we proceeded directly to the business at hand. Using her still-gloved hands, Joanna opened the envelope and spread the letter upon the desk, then moved back. Both Bradberry and Lestrade leaned in to read and reread the letter. The expression on the inspector’s face indicated he was as puzzled as we were by the message it contained.

  “Who is this John Gill?” the inspector asked.

  “A victim,” the commissioner replied curtly before turning to Joanna. “Was the letter examined for a watermark?”

  “It was produced by A Pirie and Sons,” she replied.

  “He still favors them, much as he did so many years ago,” Bradberry remarked. “We attempted to track down the seller of such fine stationery, but it was an impossible task then and would be now. We shall of course look for fingerprints on the envelope and letter, but he is much too clever to leave any behind. Which reminds me, we tried to match the prints on the shoes to the other items you supplied, but were only able to determine three identical points, which were far too few.”

  “What of the red ink fingerprint on the old letter written by The Ripper?” Joanna inquired.

  “The old print was cracked and badly smudged, and thus was of little value,” the commissioner reported. “In addition, that was one of the letters which was considered to be a hoax.”

  “Do you suspect the letter before us is likewise a hoax?” Lestrade asked.

  “I think not,” he answered. “The same watermark says otherwise, and the use of the names John Gill and Nemo confirms that opinion. Furthermore, he employed the same term to denote the commissioner which was a hallmark of Jack the Ripper.”

  “Might he have gathered that by studying The Ripper’s past history?” my father asked.

  “Possibly,” the commissioner replied. “But then he connects my name with that of John Gill, which only someone very familiar with The Ripper’s past would be aware of.”

  “I take it John Gill was a known victim of The Ripper’s?” said Joanna.

  “Most believe so, although some disagree. I was of the opinion the mutilated lad was the work of this vile murderer, and no doubt the most ghastly of the lot,” he continued on, and for a moment I thought I saw a wince come and go from his face. “Please prepare yourself for this horrific story, for it is the sort which can give one nightmares.” He took a deep breath as the unpleasant memory returned. “John Gill was a sweet little lad of almost eight when he disappeared without notice or reason. Two days later his body was found in a stable not far from his home in Bradford, Yorkshire. His navy-blue topcoat was wrapped and tied around him. When he was unwrapped, those present saw the most gruesome sight imaginable. Both of the lad’s ears were sliced off, and his severed legs were propped up on either side of his body and secured with cord. He had been stabbed multiple times, with his abdomen slashed open and his organs placed on the ground next to him. His heart had been torn out and wedged under his chin. The police begged the mother not to view her son’s body, but she insisted. It was said that her wails and sobs could be heard a quarter of a mile away.”

  We sat motionless in stunned silence at the most horrific murder we had heard of or witnessed. It was far beyond savagery and barbarism, and an unforgettable nightmare to all who viewed the ravaged body. And what of the lad’s poor mother, who would never know a peaceful moment for the remainder of her life?

  “And to top it all, the bloody bastard had sent a letter to the Times which read: ‘I have come to Liverpool and you will soon hear from me.’” The commissioner’s face hardened at the recollection. “He had the message delivered a week before the murder occurred.”

  “Did he kill others so young?” Joanna asked.

  “There may well have been another, for during the same time period a second schoolboy named Percy Knight Searle was found murdered near Portsmouth, with vicious slashes to his throat,” Bradberry responded. “The Ripper was merciless in all of his attacks, but particularly so in the case of John Gill. To add to the misery of the family, he had somehow learned about the lad’s upcoming birthday and performed his terrible deed a week prior to the planned party, which should
have been a most joyful time. Can you imagine a more malevolent act? Here the family was about to gather to celebrate the little boy’s birthday and—”

  Joanna abruptly straightened up in her chair. “Johnny! He plans to kill my Johnny!”

  The commissioner stared at my wife, mystified by her reaction. “Who is this Johnny you speak of?”

  “Her young son who is about to turn fifteen,” my father answered for the still-stunned Joanna. “A grand birthday party at Lord Blalock’s manor is scheduled for tomorrow.”

  Bradberry nodded slowly as he assimilated the new information and the similarities between the cases. Both the previous victim and the prospective one were named John, and both had upcoming birthdays which would mark the end of their lives. “Jack the Ripper plans to repeat the terrible deed he performed twenty-eight years ago and, as before, he is announcing it.”

  “Except this time he will be looking at the business end of a Webley revolver,” my father said coldly.

  Joanna regained her composure and lighted a Turkish cigarette as she thought through the problem. Unlike her father, she was endowed with emotions, but was able to compartmentalize her feelings from the harsh realities of a brutal case. She took several deep puffs on her cigarette before speaking. “He will not come at Johnny while my son is under our close watch, but rather when for some reason our guard is down. And it will not be a frontal attack, but a kidnapping.”

  “Then we shall provide round-the-clock surveillance and protection for your son,” Bradberry assured.

  “How exactly are we to closet him away from all of his activities?” Joanna wondered aloud. “He is a busy student at Eton and it would be impossible to protect him twenty-four hours a day. You cannot expect—” She stopped in mid-sentence as her face lost color. “He is at Eton at this very moment and unguarded.”

  The commissioner quickly reached for his phone and dialed a single-digit number. “Mrs. Jeffries, I wish to speak with the headmaster at Eton on a most urgent matter.” He replaced the phone and came back to Joanna. “Your son will have to withdraw from Eton for the near future.”

  “For the foreseeable future,” she corrected worriedly, “assuming he has not yet been harmed.”

  “But surely the headmaster would have informed you of such a happening,” said I.

  Joanna shook her head. “Johnny could be missing for hours without causing concern.”

  “But the warning letter only arrived this morning,” my father noted.

  “It may not be a warning, Watson, but a notice of what has already transpired.”

  The phone on the commissioner’s desk rang and he promptly answered it. “Headmaster, I am in my office and by my side is the daughter of Sherlock Holmes, who wishes to speak with you.” He handed the receiver to Joanna with a quiet caution. “Be careful with your words, for I have a plan in mind which requires secrecy.”

  “As do I,” Joanna replied in a soft voice. “But rest assured my son will not be used as bait.”

  “We may have no choice.”

  “There is always a choice, Commissioner,” she said, and directed her attention to the phone. “Headmaster, listen most carefully to what I am about to say and do so without interruption. There is a distinct possibility that my son may be facing danger. I need to know of his whereabouts at this very moment. If you are unaware, then determine so while the phone line is open.”

  Joanna’s eyes suddenly widened. “He departed? When? What method of transportation did he use?” she asked, and followed with a string of questions.

  “Did you notice if it was a taxi company?…

  “Exactly what time did the taxi driver arrive at the boys’ hall?…

  “Was he alone?…

  “No, no, Headmaster, you need not do anything further. If we require more information, you will be contacted.”

  Joanna placed the phone down and quickly went over the contents of her conversation with the headmaster. “Johnny departed Eton at two o’clock after informing the headmaster that his early departure to London was to surprise his mother, for both of us were to attend a grand birthday party at his grandfather’s manor the following day. The taxi Johnny had summoned arrived on time, but the headmaster did not know if it was a taxi from a local company, nor did he notice the driver other than when he opened the door for my son. And finally, Johnny was alone when he entered the taxi, which did not appear to have any other passengers.”

  After giving the matter more thought, my father said, “The route from Eton to the train station goes through heavily populated neighborhoods. Even The Ripper would not be so bold as to attack Johnny en route when they could surely be seen.”

  “But Johnny could be rendered unconscious and hidden in the rear compartment,” Joanna rebutted. “Nevertheless, the fact that the taxi was summoned and arrived on time strongly suggests the taxi and its driver were legitimate.”

  “Then the lad should be safe and secure once he boards the train,” I said, injecting a note of optimism.

  “Not necessarily,” she countered. “If memory serves me correctly, the early-afternoon train to Paddington makes a stop at Reading. The Ripper could have boarded earlier in Eton or later in Reading and done his work in the first-class cabin Johnny prefers.”

  “But how could The Ripper reach Reading before Johnny’s train?” my father queried. “He could not have known the lad was departing Eton early.”

  “He could have been shadowing Johnny,” Joanna responded. “And the moment he realized where my Johnny was headed, The Ripper could have raced by motor vehicle to Reading.”

  “I have taken the train from Windsor to Paddington on a number of occasions,” Bradberry recalled. “The stop at Reading lasts at least ten minutes.”

  “Which is more than enough time for The Ripper to inflict horrific damage,” Joanna said hurriedly, as she crushed out her cigarette. “Commissioner, please be good enough to contact the stationmaster at Reading and see if the train from Windsor has arrived. If it has or is about to, instruct him to hold it there until a local constable is on the scene. And that constable should be armed. Of course no one should be allowed to board or leave that train until a thorough search is completed.”

  In under thirty seconds, the commissioner was speaking with the stationmaster at Reading. “The train has already departed, you say, and is due at Paddington in fifteen minutes,” he repeated for our benefit.

  Joanna abruptly pushed her chair back. “It will take fifteen minutes for us to reach Paddington if traffic allows. Let us make haste, for I wish to be on the platform the moment the train arrives.”

  “Provide them with a car,” the commissioner ordered Lestrade.

  “Done, sir.”

  “And report back on any mishaps the lad might have experienced on the trip home.”

  We sped to Paddington station in a large Scotland Yard motorcar, with both Lestrade and the driver armed and prepared to fire, for we had learned from hard experience The Ripper’s uncanny ability to evade capture. But our minds were all fixed on young Johnny and the horrid possibility that he had encountered the madman, with a gruesome ending. The butchery of The Ripper was so ghastly that I hesitated to write of it, but I decided it was necessary to do so in order to demonstrate the man’s true and savage nature. Although the abolition of public hanging had been instituted in 1868, I wished for the law to be briefly suspended should Jack the Ripper be apprehended.

  We pulled up in front of Paddington station and hastily exited, with both Lestrade and the armed driver Harrison at our side. Two constables were guarding the entrance, and I noticed yet another two standing watchfully near the platform for the train from Windsor which was just arriving. A telephone call from the commissioner brought immediate results for all to see, I thought to myself. The pair of constables straightened their posture and saluted as we approached.

  Lestrade rushed over with instructions. “Fetch the other two constables immediately and stand guard at all the exits of the train from Wind
sor. No one is permitted to disembark until my search of every car is completed. The individual we are interested in may well be dressed as and have the manner of a gentleman, but he is quite dangerous, so be aware and take no chances.”

  But before the constables could reach their assigned positions, the passengers were stepping out onto the platform. We observed each closely, looking for any sign or behavior which might be telltale. First off was an elderly couple, the man bent at the waist and using a cane for support. He required a porter to help him disembark. Then came a soldier, with shining boots and a ramrod posture, and behind him a pair of chatting nuns. More couples stepped down onto the platform, followed by a group of teenagers dressed in their school uniforms. None of the students were Johnny and none were wearing the well-known Eton suit. Finally, the disembarkation ended.

  “The Ripper could have seen the police activity and remained on board,” Lestrade suggested. “The constables will be stationed at the exits, while the train is searched. I shall begin in the car nearest the locomotive, while Harrison, our driver, takes the opposite end. You may follow me if you wish.”

  The inspector loosened the revolver in his holster and climbed aboard, with the three of us only a step behind. The first car was quiet and empty, with all the first-class cabins vacated. The second car was likewise still, but the door to the end compartment was closed. Lestrade waved us back and, upon drawing his weapon, rapped on the door.

  “This is Scotland Yard!” he said in a stern voice. “You are ordered to immediately open.”

  We heard the sound of someone stirring about before the door opened. It was Johnny, who was rubbing at his sleep-filled eyes.

  “Why all the commotion?” the lad asked, watching Lestrade place his revolver back in the holster.

  “We were most worried about you,” Joanna said, with a broad smile, and hurried over to give the tightest of hugs. She kissed his forehead, saying, “I take it your journey was uneventful.”