Lestrade signaled the constables to cover the rear of the house, then pounded on the front door and called out, “We are here from Scotland Yard! You are to open the door immediately!”
A full thirty seconds passed without response. Our ears were tuned in to any sound emanating from within this stately house, but all remained silent. A constable’s whistle sounded, indicating they were in place at the rear of the house.
Lestrade banged on the door once more and issued a final warning. “You have one minute before we resort to forced entry!”
Dunn waited only ten seconds to kick the front door off its hinges. He and Lestrade rushed in, but no shots were fired and we heard no sounds of a struggle. The two constables raced around from the rear of the house and entered the foyer at full speed. We could see them sprinting up a flight of stairs. The silence returned and continued until Lestrade appeared at the entrance and waved us in.
“The Germans have fled,” he said gloomily.
“And Verner?” Joanna asked.
“Dead.”
We hurried through the foyer and passed a small table covered with unopened mail. On entering a large bedroom that held an unmade bed, we were taken aback by the gruesome sight of Alexander Verner. He was seated in a wooden chair, with his wrists and ankles restrained by thick rope. But it was his facial expression that was so disturbing. It showed absolute terror. There was no sign of Alistair Ainsworth.
“They tortured the poor doctor,” Dunn reported grimly. “They burned his palms and soles, which are the most sensitive parts of the body.”
“Using lighted cigarettes, I presume,” Joanna said.
“That appears to be the case,” Dunn agreed. “But how could you discern that from across the room?”
“Because the German agent bought a single packet of Pall Mall cigarettes on his way back to the house,” Joanna explained. “Here they were, racing against time in a mad dash to determine how much the doctor had divulged, yet they stopped for cigarettes. It was an utter waste of time, which they had little of.”
“Perhaps he was strongly addicted to tobacco,” Lestrade advanced. “The nicotine drive can be quite overpowering, as Dr. Watson can attest to.”
“The evidence is twofold against a strong addiction,” Joanna said, glancing down at the burn marks. “First, despite living close by, he had visited the tobacco shop only once. And secondly, a man heavily addicted to cigarettes would have bought several packets, not simply one. Thus I concluded the agent must have had another use for lighted cigarettes, such as torture.”
“And Verner made no mention of a strong odor of tobacco smoke during his description of the house, which would have been present if any of the occupants were heavily addicted,” my father noted.
“All well and good,” Dunn said impatiently. “But unfortunately, this does not bring us any closer to Ainsworth’s captors.”
“Perhaps there is evidence on Verner that will tell us more,” Joanna said as she briefly examined the doctor’s outer garments. “Were his pockets searched?”
Dunn pointed to the belongings on the bed. There was a gold timepiece, a leather billfold containing seven pounds, a mechanical pen, and a set of keys. “They left nothing of value to us behind.”
“Or so it would seem,” Joanna said. “But we should allow my husband, who is an experienced pathologist, to examine the corpse and make certain there are no hidden clues.”
Lestrade gestured his approval.
The smell of burned flesh, with which I was familiar, told me what to expect. On Verner’s palms and soles were small, deep, blackened circles, some crusted over, others not. The burns penetrated well beneath the dermis of the skin and must have caused unbearable pain. There was dried blood on the right palm as well as rope indentations on both wrists, which were produced by Verner as he tried desperately to free himself. But his neck and eyes held the most unexpected findings.
“There is even more cruelty here that goes beyond words,” I commented.
“How so?” Joanna asked.
“They not only restrained his neck, they throttled the poor man when they were done with him,” I replied, and pointed to the rope around the victim’s throat. “The rope marks are deep enough to compress Verner’s trachea and thus prevent him from crying out while being tortured. But in addition, there are small hemorrhages, called petechiae, in his conjunctivae, which are clear evidence of strangulation. The forces closing off a person’s airway also impede the return of blood from the head, which increases the venous pressure in the eyes and causes the small blood vessels within to rupture. I am confident a postmortem examination will reveal a fractured hyoid bone as well, and that is conclusive evidence he was strangled. Verner was no doubt aware this was happening and that accounts for the look of absolute terror on his face. He knew his end was near.”
“Bloody Huns!” my father cried out, his face now red with rage. “Is there no end to their savagery?”
“Not in war,” Dunn replied.
“But to do this to such a fine and gentle man who did only good while on this earth,” my father said, taking a deep breath to control his anger. “There was no need for such cruelty.”
Joanna leaned in for a closer inspection, seemingly unaffected by the viciousness of the crime. “Is the rope they used in any way remarkable?”
“I am afraid not,” I replied. “It is made of common hemp and can be purchased at numerous stores throughout London.”
Joanna sniffed the air. “The odor of chloroform still emanates from his shoes.”
“I am surprised the Germans did not detect it.”
“I’m certain they did, which gave them yet another reason to kill Verner.” Joanna turned to Lestrade and Dunn and asked, “Was there any evidence upstairs that indicated the Germans’ next move?”
“Nothing,” Lestrade answered. “All of the rooms were bare, with no articles or written documents other than old newspapers.”
“How old?” Joanna asked at once.
“Some dated back ten days.”
“During which time they no doubt planned the details of the kidnapping. Which tells us this was no spur-of-the-moment event, but one that was carefully devised. They laid their trap and had this house waiting well in advance.” Joanna thought for a moment, then returned to Lestrade. “Are you certain there were no receipts or delivery packages? After all, they were here for at least ten days and must have required food and drink and other essentials.”
“Other than an unmade bed, there was nothing to indicate the house was lived in.”
“What of the unopened mail in the foyer?”
“All notices and advertisements addressed to Occupant.”
“These are very experienced agents,” Joanna remarked. “The Germans have obviously sent their best on this mission, which highlights its importance. They swept the entire house clean in a most professional manner.”
“Surely they could not have been that perfect,” said I. “Not in a house this large.”
“Do not underestimate German obsessiveness when it comes to order,” Joanna reminded. “Nonetheless, with their hurried departure, they may well have overlooked some small, secluded item.”
“That very thought crossed my mind,” said Lestrade. “For that reason, I have instructed the constables to perform yet another foot-by-foot search of each and every room.”
“Any clue would be most welcome at this point,” I remarked.
“Perhaps the nearby neighbors should be questioned,” my father suggested.
“And so they shall,” Dunn said. “But I have my doubts they will be of help. Keep in mind that foreign agents are for the most part very skilled at concealing themselves. They also know how to instantly disappear into thin air.”
“So it would seem we have reached yet another dead end,” Lestrade said dismally. “And all the while, Mr. Ainsworth’s chances of survival are slipping away before our very eyes.”
“And they will slip away altogether unless we
quickly intervene,” Joanna warned. “Once the Germans have the information they wish, Alistair Ainsworth is a dead man.”
Our conversation was abruptly interrupted by a constable who dashed into the bedroom at full speed. He held up a dripping-wet wallet and announced, “Sir, we discovered this in the water tank of a nearby lavatory.”
“Was it floating or had it sunk?” Joanna asked quickly.
“Floating, ma’am,” the constable replied.
“Excellent,” Joanna said, more to herself than to the others.
Lestrade took the wallet and, after dismissing the constable, asked, “Why is it so important that the wallet remained afloat?”
“Because it tells us the wallet was recently placed in the tank,” Joanna elucidated. “Had it been deposited some time ago, it would have become waterlogged and sunk.”
“Why is that of significance?”
“Because the scrupulously neat Germans most assuredly did not deposit it there,” Joanna replied. “Thus, in all likelihood, the wallet belonged to Alistair Ainsworth, and since it recently found its way into the water tank, we can deduce he placed it there and was leaving us a trail to follow.”
“Perhaps he was simply leaving us a sign to indicate he had indeed been here,” Lestrade proposed.
Outside, there was a loud roar of thunder followed by a sudden, heavy downpour. The rain appeared to beat against the window, much as it had done the night before.
“Bad,” Joanna said, staring at the streaked windowpane.
“The rain?” I asked.
Joanna nodded. “It will wash away any trace of chloroform that might have rubbed off on the German agents and their carriage.”
“Rubbed off, you say?” Lestrade asked as he carefully opened the soaked wallet.
Joanna nodded again. “Verner’s shoes would have left behind the evaporating scent of chloroform on the floor of the carriage, and vapors of that aroma may have seeped into the agents’ shoes as well. Unfortunately now, with the rain pounding down, that scent will either disappear or become so faint that even Toby Two will be unable to track it.”
“So we have obviously lost that advantage,” Lestrade groused.
“I am afraid so, but we will give Toby Two an opportunity to pick up the scent, remote as it may be.” Joanna moved in nearer to Lestrade who was emptying the contents of the wet wallet. There were two five-pound notes, several identification cards, and a soggy photograph of a middle-aged woman. He held the photo up to the light for a better view.
“Do you recognize her?” Joanna asked.
“She is Ainsworth’s invalid sister who must be looked after,” Lestrade replied. “They are very close.”
“Have you questioned her?”
“At length and on two occasions. She only knew that he did not return home from his office and has been missing since. He had not called or made any contact with her, which was most unusual. Thus, she obviously feared for his safety.”
“I presume it was she who posted the notification in the newspaper?”
“She did so without consulting us first,” Lestrade grumbled.
“Which may have cost Verner his life,” my father said.
“And might have encouraged the Germans to move along more quickly, for they will wonder whether Verner shared this information with the authorities,” Joanna noted. “All of which places Ainsworth’s life in even greater peril.”
Lestrade nodded gloomily at the assessment.
“May I?” Joanna reached for the photograph and examined it carefully, then extracted a magnifying glass from her purse and focused in on something of obvious interest. “Her hands,” she said to my father. “Look at her hands, Watson, and tell me what you see.”
My father studied the photograph intently as he moved the magnifying glass back and forth in a slow, deliberate fashion. “Her fingers are deformed from a severe form of inflammatory rheumatism.”
“Would it be generalized?”
“In all likelihood.”
“I take it she would require assistance in her basic daily activities?”
“Beyond any question.”
Joanna turned her attention to Dunn. “Did you question her as well, Lieutenant?”
“I did,” Dunn replied.
“Were there others attending her?”
Dunn shook his head. “The housekeeper and cook were in the kitchen at the time. They too were interrogated, but could offer nothing that was helpful.”
“So no one else was present?”
“No one.”
Joanna gave Dunn a lengthy look, then reached in her purse for a cigarette and lighted it, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the lieutenant. “There are too many missing pieces here.”
“You have the information we have,” Dunn said.
“To the contrary,” Joanna countered. “I know little about Alistair Ainsworth and you know all.”
Dunn stared at her in silence.
Joanna began pacing the floor, puffing absently on her Turkish cigarette. Back and forth she went, intermittently mumbling to herself or shaking her head at some notion that did not fit. A stream of blue smoke seemed to follow her across the room. Abruptly Joanna crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray and turned to Dunn. “I require detailed information on Ainsworth’s secretive position.”
“I can only tell you that his duties involve national security at the highest level,” Dunn said carefully.
“That will not do,” Joanna pressed.
“I regret I cannot divulge more.”
“Without the information I requested, you make it impossible for me to reach a resolution. You are asking me to make bricks, yet you are unwilling to afford me the clay necessary to do so, which renders the task hopeless. I fear it would only be a waste of our time and yours for my colleagues and me to participate further in this investigation. And at this point, time is something we have precious little of. Surely you must realize that Alistair Ainsworth’s life hangs in the balance and that chances of a rescue fade away with each passing hour.” Joanna waited for a reply, but when none was forthcoming, she turned to my father and said, “Perhaps we should have Watson call the First Sea Lord and ask that he intervene.”
“The First Sea Lord is not so easily reached,” Dunn challenged.
“He is when you are a personal friend.”
An uneasy silence hung in the air as Joanna and the lieutenant locked eyes, neither giving ground. Seconds slowly ticked by in the stillness.
“I believe I have his number,” my father said, reaching into his coat pocket for a card that Sir Harold Whitlock had given him last year while visiting us at 221b Baker Street on a sensitive matter. “It is a direct line, as I recall.”
“Allow me a moment,” Dunn urged, and hurried over to a telephone on a desk in the far corner. We were to later learn that the Germans had insisted the homeowner’s phone remain in place as part of the rental agreement, and had paid a handsome fee for this service. Dunn dialed a number, then turned his back to us and spoke in a low, indistinguishable voice. Apparently he was seeking permission from those in high position. But the request was no simple matter, for he was forced to wait several minutes before an answer was given. Finally Dunn replaced the receiver and turned to us.
“Keep in mind you are sworn to the Official Secrets Act,” Dunn reminded.
“We are aware,” Joanna said.
Dunn went to the door and ensured that it was tightly closed, then came back to us. Despite the total privacy, he spoke in a low voice. “What I am about to disclose to you is so sensitive it is known by only five people in the entire British Empire. These include the Prime Minister, the First Sea Lord, the director of Naval Intelligence, the assistant director, and myself. Not a word of what you hear is to be breathed outside this room. Am I clearly understood?”
The three of us nodded in unison.
“Alistair Ainsworth is the highest-ranking member in a clandestine, top-secret cryptanalysis unit. His primary function is
to make certain all of our naval codes are fail-safe and cannot be deciphered by the enemy. Thus, coded messages of the greatest priority pass before his eyes on a daily basis. He and his colleagues study the code and once broken they then instruct us on how best to alter it to one that is indecipherable.”
“I take it they have a high rate of success,” Joanna ventured.
“Remarkably so. They seem to do it with such ease that we often ask them to assist in deciphering some of our enemy’s most convoluted coded messages. And Ainsworth is the most talented of the lot.” Dunn paused to take a long, heavy breath. “If he worked for the Germans, I fear we would have lost this war long ago. And now he may be doing exactly that.”
Joanna asked, “You mentioned he worked within a group. How many are there?”
“Four, among which are some of the most unusual characters you will ever encounter. You see, they are creative thinkers, with remarkable intellects, whose greatest joy in life is unraveling complex riddles. They are nonmilitary personnel, with a variety of backgrounds; they include linguists, chess masters, and crossword experts. They can solve a difficult crossword puzzle in minutes, and untangle an anagram as soon as the letters are written down. Play charades with them and they not only produce the correct answer, but five others that are equally as good. They are multilingual and can speak German, French, and Spanish in the same paragraph. Yet they have no overwhelming ambition in life and are at their happiest when faced with a seemingly unsolvable problem. These features make them the perfect fit for our cryptanalysis unit. They break codes in an indirect and creative fashion, using reasoning that is not obvious and has no relation to step-by-step logic. Needless to say, their value is so great it cannot be measured.”
“Ainsworth will no doubt be missed,” my father said. “But you still have three members of this group to continue their important work.”
“I am afraid our problem goes much deeper than that,” Dunn explained. “You must keep in mind that German intelligence has no doubt intercepted most of the messages we have sent and, although undeciphered, have them on file. If Ainsworth is broken, they will read those coded messages as easily as they read their newspapers, and have access to the most vital information including our war plans, naval strategies, and clandestine operations. It would give Germany an advantage from which we might never recover.”
The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth Page 4