“Then have an alert constable hidden nearby.”
“Whose presence would be noticed by the ever-watchful locals, particularly in the late evening, which would be a tip-off that something was amiss.”
Johnny, who was seated next to my father and listening to every word of our conversation, interjected, “Perhaps my mother should carry a revolver for added protection.”
“That would give me no advantage,” Joanna said, stepping out of our bedroom. “The weapon would have to be hidden and my hands in the open to place The Ripper at ease. His knife would be at my throat long before I could draw a revolver.”
I could not help but stare at Joanna, as did my father, for her transformation into Ruby, the Unfortunate, was absolutely remarkable. Like Ruby, she was tall and slender, with long blond hair that reached her shoulders and beyond. The lengthy strands of her hair were pulled back just enough to expose a pair of shiny copper earrings. Her garments were well-worn, particularly her topcoat, with its collar raised to cover her lower face.
“The Ripper will surely believe you are Ruby,” I complimented. “There is not a trace of Joanna to be seen.”
“Which was my intent,” she said, and looked over admiringly at her son. “Now I heard your conversation through the door and want you to know I shall not be harmed.”
Johnny rushed over to Joanna and gave her a firm hug. “Oh, Mother, do be careful.”
“I promise you I shall.”
“I do not know what I would do without you.”
“Do not worry, for I plan to return safely to you.”
“But what if your life is lost?”
“It will not be,” she assured. “But I would gladly give my life to save yours.”
Johnny embraced his mother even tighter, saying softly, “As I would give mine for you.”
Joanna kissed the lad’s forehead and smiled down at her most treasured possession. “Worry not, for your mother will return with the scalp of Jack the Ripper under her belt.”
Johnny suddenly brightened. “And we shall dance around it.”
“With pleasure,” Joanna said, her expression turning stone cold as she headed for the door.
* * *
We ensconced ourselves in an empty warehouse facing Mitre Square, with Inspector Lestrade at our side. The street below was dark and quiet at the late hour and showed little activity other than the occasional motorcar which noisily passed by. Lestrade had a small torch in his hand which he flashed briefly and only once. A return blink of light came from an adjacent warehouse where two armed detectives were stationed as lookouts. In addition, there was a sharpshooter on a nearby roof, with a high-powered rifle that carried a telescopic sight. No constables were to be seen, nor would they be.
“How did you manage to position your detectives without them being noticed?” Joanna asked. “You well know that the people in this area are very suspicious of Scotland Yard.”
“It was not so difficult,” Lestrade replied. “We chose a nearby empty warehouse and had ten detectives disguised as workmen enter the building at midday. They came and went, and pretending to be working on the site, with various tools and materials. At sunset, only eight departed. The two remaining are my most experienced detectives.”
“Well played,” Joanna lauded. “And what mechanism did you use to place the sharpshooter on the roof?”
“He disguised himself as a vagrant seeking shelter, with a large, battered suitcase that carried his weapon,” Lestrade recounted. “For added response, we have a half-dozen darkened trucks parked off the streets a block or two away. In each of those vehicles are a driver and armed detective, ready to engage at the slightest stirring.”
“I take it they have been instructed to seal off the exits of the passageways that lead from Mitre Square.”
“That will be their first reaction.”
“And their second?”
“To pursue and shoot anyone who refuses to stop when ordered to do so.”
“Then we are prepared to capture, and if necessary kill.”
“Assuming he shows.”
“Oh, he will,” Joanna assured.
“Dangling an attractive prostitute at him may not be enough,” Lestrade worried. “And even if it were, he might not choose this night to act out his sexual impulses.”
“I have made this evening the perfect opportunity for him.”
“How so?”
“The play Romeo and Juliet was scheduled to be performed at the Whitechapel Playhouse tonight,” Joanna replied. “I have had it canceled in such a manner that it will not arouse suspicion. Thus, our three main suspects have what one might call a free night to be in the area. The Ripper is almost certain to take advantage of that, particularly since Ruby will only be available for another night or two.”
“But would not abruptly closing down a performance at the playhouse cause The Ripper concern?” Lestrade asked.
“Under ordinary circumstances it might, but I arranged for the closure in a most convincing fashion,” Joanna elucidated. “I had to bring Mrs. Emma Adams into our confidence, but told her that one loose word from her lips could ruin our plans to take down The Ripper. She understands that her Pretty Penny’s life is at stake, so she shall beyond a doubt remain silent. In any event, Emma, being familiar with the stage’s lighting, caused a short circuit to occur, which produced smoke and of course alarmed everyone. Tonight’s performance was called off to give the electricians time to rewire the lights on the stage. Of course the players were notified, as was the public, by word of mouth.”
Lestrade gave the matter further thought, obviously still concerned. “It is all too convenient,” he opined. “Here we have one individual, Mrs. Adams, who was questioned thoroughly by both you and me, which connects her to the daughter of Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard. Everyone in Whitechapel is aware of that. And suddenly she calls off a performance because some people detected a bit of smoke from a short circuit? I am afraid it will not sit well with a clever devil like The Ripper.”
“That also crossed my mind,” Joanna responded. “Fortunately, there was an earlier incident in which the stage lights flickered off and on during the touching tomb scene when Romeo was about to poison himself upon believing his Juliet was dead. It was a most inopportune time for the lighting to go amiss and the audience was quite disturbed by it. With all this in mind, I believed it was plausible indeed to cancel a performance to make certain the stage lights did not go away again.”
“Nicely done,” Lestrade said. “But a character as clever as this one might still see through it.”
“Let us hope he doesn’t.”
A four-wheeler passed along the cobblestones of Mitre Square and stopped briefly before disappearing into the darkness. We pricked our ears, listening for other movements in the dim light, but heard none. Still, as the silence returned, the noise of the wheels riding over cobblestones put our nerves on edge. In the distance, Big Ben began to toll the ten o’clock hour.
“It is time,” Joanna said, without a hint of fear.
“Be most careful,” I cautioned. “And blow your police whistle at the first sign of danger.”
“I suggest you keep it in your hand and at the ready,” Lestrade advised.
“That would be a dead giveaway were he to see it.” Joanna adjusted her blond wig and scarf so that the copper earrings were clearly visible. “Let us finish this business once and for all.”
Lestrade and I watched her depart via a rear exit that opened on to a dark alleyway just to the east of Mitre Square. The inspector flashed his small torch twice to alert the detectives in the adjacent warehouse and the sharpshooter on the roof that Joanna was now on the move.
“I worry,” I said.
“As do I,” Lestrade concurred.
“I wish my father was here, for he is such an excellent marksman.”
“So is the sharpshooter on the roof, who can hit an apple at two hundred yards.”
“In the darkness?”
Joanna appeared on the square, now standing next to the lamppost, which gave off scant light. At a distance and even closer in the dimness, she could easily pass for Ruby, the Unfortunate. A motorcar crossed the far side of the square without slowing down. It was a large vehicle, similar to the one we had seen Thaddeus Rudd being chauffeured in outside St. Bartholomew’s. Our senses heightened even more as the silence and stillness returned.
“He will act soon,” Lestrade predicted.
“Based on what?” I asked.
“An itch I feel when mayhem is about to occur.”
As if on cue, a figure wearing a heavy topcoat appeared out of the shadows and approached Joanna. He hesitated for a moment, then strode by for a good ten steps, only to quickly turn and come back to her. They gestured and exchanged brief words before disappearing down a dark passageway.
“He makes his move!” Lestrade whispered loudly.
We dashed for the stairs and hurried down, taking them two at a time, until we exited into a dim passageway. Lestrade led the way, silently creeping along with his revolver drawn. Now there was not even a hint of light in the darkness, which made the going slow and even more precarious. Then we heard Joanna’s screams and the sound of a struggle, with a tin bin rattling against the cobblestones.
We raced toward her voice, almost tripping over ourselves, and found Joanna leaning against a brick wall, catching her breath but nonetheless unharmed. She pointed into the darkness and shouted, “That way!”
We sprinted for the dim light at the end of the passageway where we were joined by the two detectives from the adjacent warehouse, both with revolvers at the ready. There was no sign of Jack the Ripper. The nearby walls were windowless and free of any ladders which would allow one to climb up and escape. We could hear no sounds that night be followed.
The sharpshooter on the roof called out, “He is heading eastward!”
“How far?” Lestrade called back.
“A short block down from you, no more.”
“Keep him in your sight.”
“Will do.”
Trucks carrying more detectives pulled up beside us and their occupants hurriedly exited, most with revolvers, a few with long rifles. The entire group of fifteen detectives gathered around Lestrade and awaited his instructions. He was about to speak when the sharpshooter shouted down from the roof, “He has turned off the street and is heading north down a narrow passageway!”
“Is he still visible?” Lestrade shouted up.
“Not now.”
“Are there intersecting streets off the passageway?”
“One for certain, if you go by lampposts.”
Lestrade came back to the assembled detectives and gave them the location of the last sighting of The Ripper, with the following instructions: “Divide yourselves into three groups, with each covering a segment north of the passageway. The entire area is to be blanketed, and every house, room, and roof searched thoroughly.”
“What about the passageway itself, sir?” asked a young detective.
“The Watsons and I will scour every inch of it,” Lestrade replied. “In addition, I would like the trucks placed in a semicircle three blocks north of the last sighting. Nothing is to be allowed through without being stopped and searched.”
As per the inspector’s instructions, the group divided itself into three and dashed off in different directions. Just behind them, a bevy of trucks raced their engines and sped away to their designated locations. We hurried to the passageway on the next block just as a heavy rain began to fall, which, unfortunately, would wash away any tracks left behind by The Ripper. Nonetheless, we pushed on, realizing this was our best and perhaps only chance to apprehend the maniacal killer.
We could hear doors being pounded upon and see lights suddenly turning on in otherwise dark houses as the detectives conducted their search. In a few homes, babies were crying and dogs barking, all of which served to drown out any sounds The Ripper might make.
Suddenly the shrill sound of a police whistle filled the night air. We ran full speed to the site of its origin and were soon joined by a phalanx of detectives, with their weapons drawn and ready to fire. Trucks pulled up at both ends of the street, thus blocking entrance and exit.
Lestrade approached the detective at the doorstep of a dark home, who had his revolver in one hand and a police whistle in the other. He was young, but with a face hard as steel, and if he had any fear it did not show.
“What do we have here?” Lestrade asked.
“A very dark house in which the occupant refuses to answer my knock,” the detective replied.
“How do you know the house is occupied?”
“Because I heard him moving about, sir.”
Lestrade checked the rounds in his revolver, saying, “Rap on the door once more and if there is no response you are to kick it open.”
“Very good, sir.”
Lestrade motioned to two burly detectives and, with hand signals, instructed them to rush in once the door was crashed open.
The young detective pounded on the door a half-dozen times, then stepped back and waited. When no response was forthcoming, he stepped back and prepared for a forceful kick. “Did you try the doorknob?” Joanna asked, as all eyes went to the young detective.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “It is fixed.”
“Proceed, then.”
With a mighty kick, the door cracked but did not open. A second kick caused the thick wooden door to fly off its hinges.
The detectives raced in with their torches and weapons pointed ahead, only to find the parlor empty. But there were wet footprints leading to a narrow staircase. Again with hand signals, Lestrade directed two detectives to follow him up the stairs. Silently, he ascended with measured steps. I knew that Lestrade would attempt to take The Ripper alive and give the man his day in court, but were the cruel murderer to come down the stairs lifeless, I would not be disappointed. We could hear footsteps and doors opening and closing on the floor above, but there were no sounds of a struggle. I feared the worst, with The Ripper remaining at large and Joanna and her son continuing to be put through a never-ending nightmare. Joanna and I kept our eyes on the staircase as Lestrade descended.
“I suspect he escaped via a ladder that led to the roof, which is now vacant,” he reported in a monotone, but the setback was clearly written on his face. “These are all row houses and he could have easily gone a block without being noticed.”
“He may still be here,” Joanna said, walking about the parlor and repeatedly stomping her foot on the floor. “I suggest searching for a hollow space beneath.”
“What makes you so certain there is one?” Lestrade asked.
“Because here is where he would hide Pretty Penny,” Joanna replied. “There is no other place.”
The entire squad of detectives eagerly stomped every inch of the floor, hoping to find a secret compartment underneath the parlor, dining area, and kitchen, but their search proved futile.
“I am afraid he is gone,” Lestrade declared dispiritedly, glancing around the bare room once again before returning to Joanna. “Were you able to make out any of his physical features in the dimness?
“None of note, for he was well disguised,” she replied. “His face was for the most part covered with hat and scarf.”
“What of his voice?”
“He altered that as well by giving it a hoarse quality.”
“So clever,” Lestrade grumbled. “It appears he has given us the slip, just as we had him within our grasp.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Joanna said, stomping on the floor yet again. “There are ways to hide the hollow sound of a secret space.”
“It would require a court order for us to tear up the entire floor, which might not be given since our evidence is so scant.”
“We do not require a court order, but rather a keen nose.”
“And where will one be found?”
“At
Number Three Pinchin Lane in lower Lambeth.”
“Where Toby Two resides,” I recalled.
Joanna nodded and smiled confidently. “Who carries with her the keenest nose in all London.”
CHAPTER 29
The Hiding Place
Toby Two was more than delighted to see me, for dogs have the unique ability to immediately distinguish between the scents of friend and foe, and once this difference is learned, their remarkable memory never allows them to forget. Yet, after a quick lick of my hand, the hound busied herself sniffing around the rear seat of the Scotland Yard motor vehicle, obviously attracted by an aroma I could not detect. This was not surprising in that a monograph on this subject, which Joanna gave me long ago, emphasized that the sense of smell in dogs was at least a thousand times more sensitive than that of humans. I had actually seen Toby Two in action when she followed the faint whiff of a perfume across London to Victoria station and in doing so led to the exoneration of a prime suspect. But it was beyond me what so attracted Toby Two to the cushion in the rear compartment.
“Have you carried any unusual cargo in the back of this motorcar recently?” I asked the driver.
“Not that I recall,” the driver replied.
“Perhaps you transported food or an unwashed captured suspect.”
“Nothing of that sort.”
“Another animal?”
The driver paused to think back. “Some weeks ago I gave the commissioner a ride to pick up his sick collie.”
“That explains Toby Two’s interest in the rear cushion,” I said, nodding to myself. In the aforementioned monograph, it was noted that a dog could not only easily detect the aroma of another hound but also determine whether it was male or female and, if female, whether it was pregnant and how close to delivery. A scent left behind a month ago was quickly picked up and identified, all of which indicated that a dog’s nose was truly one of nature’s most sensitive instruments. But how would Joanna employ Toby Two in the search for Jack the Ripper? Was it the smell of formaldehyde, which either Peter Willoughby or Thaddeus Rudd would carry from their visit to Maxwell Anderson’s laboratory? Quite possible indeed, for although their visit occurred last week, to Toby Two it would be as if the scent were deposited an hour ago.
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 29