The Abduction of Pretty Penny

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Was that the last evening you saw her?”

  “The very last and it had been so perfect,” he reminisced. “We were enjoying hors d’oeuvres when a well-known actress entered and the seated patrons received her with warm applause. Penny envisioned the day when she, too, would walk into Alexander’s and be recognized with spontaneous applause. It was shortly after that pleasant moment that our fight occurred and she stormed out.”

  “Did you subsequently attempt to apologize?”

  “On a number of occasions, but she turned a deaf ear,” Anderson answered. “It had gotten to the point where I planned to propose.”

  “Was she aware of that?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  Joanna crushed out her cigarette and gave our visitor a long look before saying, “Men tend to lack timing in such situations.”

  “As I am keenly aware at this moment,” said he. “And I suspect I was trying to make up for it by performing my own amateurish investigation.”

  “You have not caused any harm,” she assured him. “But dressed as a gentleman drifter, you are unlikely to discover any worthwhile clues. The Unfortunates will speak with you, but say little.”

  “Particularly since I am not nearly as glib as Willoughby and Rudd.”

  “They are frequent drifters, are they?” asked I.

  “Quite so,” Anderson replied. “They travel to such places at least once a week and, from their descriptions, the seedier the pub the better.”

  “I would expect better of them,” my father said in a voice of disapproval.

  “They show no shame and actually boast of their unsavory outings.”

  “But not to their families.”

  “I should think not.”

  “And not to their medical associates.”

  “Only to those who also take part in such adventures.”

  Joanna rejoined the conversation. “How many others are there?”

  Anderson shrugged. “A few from other hospitals, I am told. But I was not given their names.”

  “Do they partake of the activities at the Black Lamb?”

  “Of that I am not certain.”

  “While at the Black Lamb, did you speak with other Unfortunates?” she inquired.

  “One other,” he replied. “But she had little to offer and only wished to be served one drink after another. In addition, she continually scratched at herself, which made me wonder if she had some sort of infestation.” Our visitor paused as if to ponder a problem. “Do you consider it best for me not to return to the Black Lamb and continue my pursuit?”

  “I would suggest you avoid that pub, for frequent visits and offers of reward will in all likelihood elicit false information which will be of no value.”

  Anderson nodded in agreement. “False data is worse than no data, so I shall follow your advice and desist.”

  “A wise decision.” Joanna rose to indicate the interview was over. “Thank you for your time and accurate information.”

  “I trust you will keep me informed of any further developments.”

  “We shall.”

  At the door, Anderson turned and said, “There was one more feature the Unfortunate described of the individual in the pub who seemed so intent on buying Penny a drink.”

  “And that was?”

  “He wore a fisherman’s hat pulled down far over his forehead.”

  As the young pathologist departed, a sleepy-eyed Johnny looked out from his bedroom. “Did I miss anything of importance, Mother?”

  “Only if you consider the exclusion of a prime suspect important,” she replied, and, with a warm smile, gestured him back to his bed. “We’ll talk more in the morning, at which time I shall provide you with all the details.”

  “I will hold you to that,” the lad said before retiring.

  As quiet returned, I looked to my wife with both a statement and a question. “That narrows it down to Willoughby and Rudd. Which of the two do you favor?”

  “Both, for now.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The Birthday Party

  I believe this was the very first instance in which my father joined in the festivities of a birthday party fully armed. He made no effort to hide the bulge beneath his coat which concealed the holster that held his Webley No. 2 revolver. Standing off to the side of the expansive garden at the rear of the Blalock manor, he sipped from a cup of punch but kept a sharp eye on all those present and arriving.

  I found myself in conversation with Johnny’s grandfather, the esteemed statesman Sir Henry Blalock, who showed his displeasure that Jack the Ripper remained on the loose and was now threatening his only grandchild.

  “Why hasn’t this madman been brought to justice?” he demanded.

  “He is most clever, Sir Henry,” I responded. “But I am certain his capture will come.”

  “I take it that the full force of Scotland Yard is engaged in the hunt for this so-called Ripper.”

  “They are, for it represents their number one priority.”

  “I am afraid I do not place much confidence in that lot.” The elder statesman was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with sharp, aristocratic features and a voice that commanded one’s attention. “You see, I recall their lack of success nearly thirty years ago when Jack the Ripper went about his work without interruption. Oh, they had their suspects, but could never bring forth enough evidence to prosecute. One of those under close scrutiny was the Duke of Clarence, who had rather unusual sexual preferences. He had, shall we say, a tendency to play both sides of the net, for which he was often blackmailed. One story, for example, found him in a compromising position from his association with two ladies of low standing who were paid off for their silence. Thus, he appeared to solve his problems with money, not murder.”

  He paused to flick an ash from his cigar into a large fountain which contained gently running water. A huge goldfish came up to investigate but showed no further interest and swam away. “The second suspect seemed more promising. He was an actor and gentleman drifter named Thomas Blake.”

  “Blake, you say?” I interrupted, my interest piqued by the fact that he was a gentleman drifter and actor, as were our three main suspects.

  “A strange fellow who came from a quite good family, but seemed to find enjoyment amongst those of a lower class,” Lord Blalock went on. “He had a vile temper to go along with his shady tastes and was a prime suspect. Blake died some years ago, but the suspicion that he was Jack the Ripper always hung over his head.”

  “Until now, of course.”

  “Indeed, for dead men don’t kill.” Sir Henry turned to greet his grandson with a warm smile. The lad was dressed in stylish attire, which included an ascot tie, and looked every bit the young gentleman. “Are you having a fine time, Johnny?”

  “It is a splendid party, Grandfather,” Johnny replied. “And I thank you heartily for it.”

  “It was my pleasure, for I want my grandson to be happy, even in these most trying times.”

  “Not to worry, sir, for I am well protected.”

  “So I see,” Sir Henry said, and gestured with his head to my father. “The ever-vigilant Dr. Watson will guarantee that.”

  “As will the armed detective here in attendance for my safety,” Johnny noted.

  The elder statesman quickly glanced around the gathering. He studied the ten-foot-tall hedges surrounding the garden, then the children playing a game of charades with their parents watching, and finally his gaze went to the table holding the birthday cards brought by the guests as gifts.

  “Where is this so-called detective located?” he asked.

  “Observe the man by the card table, Grandfather,” Johnny prompted.

  Sir Henry looked over to the young man wearing a black waiter’s jacket. “He is one of the hired help, I assume.”

  “Your assumption is incorrect, Grandfather,” the lad pointed out. “Notice that he is wearing brown shoes rather than the customary black.”

  “Bad taste,” Lord
Blalock suggested.

  “It is out of order, as is the bulge under the left side of his jacket where his revolver no doubt resides.”

  Sir Henry signaled to the head butler, who hurried over. “James, who is the help by the card table?”

  James replied in a quiet voice, “He was sent by Scotland Yard, sir.”

  “Very good,” the elder statesman said. He waited for the servant to return to his previous position, then patted his grandson affectionately on the shoulder. “You are so much like your mother, laddie.”

  “That is high praise indeed, Grandfather.”

  “It was meant to be,” Sir Henry said. “And I take some comfort in the knowledge you will be safe with your mother in the confines of 221b Baker Street.”

  “I shall not be limited to Baker Street, sir, for there are a number of activities planned elsewhere,” Johnny divulged.

  “Will that not present some danger?”

  “Not in the least, for I shall be accompanied by my mother and the Watsons when I visit the British Museum to pursue my studies in hieroglyphics.”

  “Why hieroglyphics?”

  “Because it interests me,” Johnny replied simply.

  “I see,” Sir Henry said, suppressing a grin. “What other activities are on your schedule?”

  “A most important one, in which the good Dr. Watson will escort me to the firing range, where I shall endeavor to become a skilled marksman.”

  “Excellent!” Lord Blalock approved. “Pray tell what sort of weapon will be used?”

  “Dr. Watson carries a heavy Webley No. 2 revolver, but he feels it would be too large and unwieldy for me. Thus, we shall begin our practice with a smaller .25-caliber Webley and gradually work our way up to the more powerful revolver.”

  “A well-thought-out plan,” said Lord Blalock. “The .25-caliber is easy to handle and has the force to drop the enemy in his tracks when it finds its intended mark.”

  “Are you experienced with that caliber weapon, sir?”

  “I am indeed, and have a .25-caliber Webley and Scott revolver residing and unemployed in my library. I would be more than delighted to give it to you as a birthday present.”

  “How generous of you, Grandfather!”

  “Not at all, my boy.”

  Joanna strolled over to join us and playfully asked, “Do I sense a conspiracy in the making?”

  “You do indeed,” Sir Henry replied. “Johnny informs us that Dr. Watson has plans to turn the lad into a skilled marksman, which I applaud. To add to his pleasure and with your approval, I shall give my grandson a quite serviceable Webley and Scott .25-caliber revolver as a birthday present.”

  “A splendid gift,” Joanna consented before turning to her son. “Allow me to repeat my instructions once more, Johnny. You must treat the weapon with deep respect, for it can do great good and great harm. And please remember there is no pleasure to be had by shooting an individual.”

  Johnny nodded solemnly. “Dr. Watson told me he has done so in both war and peace, and never felt an ounce of satisfaction.”

  “Well put,” Joanna said. “Now I think it is time for you to join your friends in the festivities.”

  Johnny glanced over to a group of teenagers who were attempting to interpret gestures being made by a pretty young girl. “Oh, charades! A game which on occasion has some merit.”

  “Why so?” asked she, somewhat surprised, because her son rarely showed interest in such forms of amusement.

  “Clues, Mother,” he replied. “It is a game of clues.”

  Sir Henry watched his grandson move toward the play making and waited for him to be out of hearing distance. “We can only hope this extreme unpleasantness will not scar the lad.”

  “It is up to us to see that it doesn’t,” Joanna said determinedly.

  “You must bring this monster to justice, Joanna,” Sir Henry demanded. “You really must!”

  “That is my plan.”

  “The quicker the better,” he said, his expression now turning cold. “And if by chance one of Dr. Watson’s bullets finds its mark, no one in London will grieve.”

  With that remark, he strode away to greet newcomers in a most cordial manner. But I noticed that he positioned himself so that his dear grandson was clearly in view.

  “Your father-in-law made a most interesting comment on a prime suspect in the Jack the Ripper murders of yesterday,” I whispered. “His name was Thomas Blake and he was a gentleman drifter and actor, with a violent temper.”

  Joanna quickly leaned in and asked, “Is he still alive?”

  “Not according to Sir Henry,” said I.

  “Check with Lestrade, who may have to consult with the commissioner, to see if that report was accurate,” she requested. “The common denominator here are gentleman drifters associating with and murdering Unfortunates.”

  “But for some reason our Ripper now seems to be fancying young boys.”

  “Only when the young boy is the son of the daughter of Sherlock Holmes, who happens to be nipping at his heels.”

  “Do you truly believe it bothers him that much?” I asked. “After all, the killings go on despite our presence.”

  “I can assure you it is of concern to him,” Joanna replied. “But it will only cause him to choose his opportune moment more carefully. After all, Johnny will not be some defenseless Unfortunate standing alone, but rather a target surrounded by the three of us.”

  “Surely he will not confront us head on.”

  “Do not underestimate him, John. He is every bit as clever as Moriarty, who my father deemed the Napoleon of crime,” my wife went on. “What is a certainty is that he will not do the expected.”

  “I may be overly optimistic, but I feel deep down that he invented this threat to Johnny in order to distract us as he goes about his business,” said I.

  Joanna shook her head in disagreement. “His type does not distract; they kill.”

  “Hope is one of my flaws, I suspect.”

  “Hope has its place, but not when it comes to solving crimes.” Joanna gazed around the crowded garden in a leisurely fashion before suddenly craning her neck in the direction of the children playing charades. “I don’t see Johnny!”

  I quickly followed her line of vision and could not spot the lad. Nor did he appear to be by the fountain or tall hedges or elsewhere in the garden. I was about to signal my father when one of the young girls shrieked loudly. Our collective eyes went to the shrieker, who was now laughing as Johnny appeared from behind a tree after having apparently performed a particularly clever charade.

  “He disappeared as part of the game,” I remarked.

  “We have to be ever vigilant,” said Joanna, breathing a sigh of relief. “All that is required is one slip on our part and he is gone forever.”

  “But surely The Ripper would never attempt such an abduction here, with the garden so well guarded,” I assured.

  “You must keep in mind that he is a master of subterfuge,” Joanna cautioned. “He can come and go and slip by without arousing suspicion. That is why we must never allow Johnny to be out of sight on Baker Street, at the British Museum, or even on the firing range.”

  “I shall reemphasize that to my father.”

  “There is no need, for our Watson is watching Johnny like a hawk.”

  “Speaking of the lad,” I said, motioning with my head, “here he comes now, holding what appears to be a gift.”

  “Which would be most unusual, for birthday cards are customarily brought by the guests, not presents,” Joanna commented.

  “Look, Mother,” Johnny said, as he opened a small velvet case.

  Joanna’s jaw dropped, for the case contained a pair of shiny copper cuff links which were made from farthing coins. She quickly regained her composure and glanced around the garden, measuring each and every guest except for the children. She paid particular attention to the hedges and the trees beside them, then to the circulating butlers. Suddenly her head jerked to the large fou
ntain where a man dressed in work clothes appeared to be hunched over and hurrying down a pebbled path. She pointed to the individual and shouted, “Stop that man!”

  In an instant my father had his revolver drawn and aimed at the apparent workman who froze in his steps. We rushed over, as did Sir Henry and the disguised detective from Scotland Yard. Joanna carefully studied the man being held at gunpoint and came to the same conclusion as I did. The thin middle-aged workman, with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, was not one of our prime suspects.

  “Does anyone know this man?” Joanna asked.

  The head butler of the manor answered, “He is the repairman we sent for to unplug the fountain drain, madam.”

  “So you recognize him.”

  “I do, madam, for he is often called upon.”

  “Very good,” Joanna said, and turned to the repairman. “You may be on your way, then.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, still shaken by the incident.

  Sir Henry watched the repairman depart before asking Joanna, “What made you so suspicious of him?”

  “His clothes seemed so out of place amongst your smartly attired guests,” she replied, with a half-truth.

  Sir Henry nodded at the explanation. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Exactly,” said Joanna, then suggested, “Perhaps we should now enjoy a glass of punch and rejoin the festivities.”

  She guided my father and me to the card table where the opened jewelry was exhibited for all to see. “Let us not upset the gathering by explaining the presence of copper cuff links.”

  “How did The Ripper manage to place the gift on the card table without himself being here?” I queried.

  “I can think of a number of mechanisms,” Joanna answered. “It could have been sent by a delivery service or mail or messenger. He might have even disguised himself and dropped it off as an invited guest who could not attend because of a prior engagement.”

  The head butler appeared, carrying a silver tray with three glasses of punch which he proffered to us.