The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

by Leonard Goldberg

  “I take it you know where the lady’s carriage is headed,” Wiggins surmised.

  “To Harrods where she will enter via the front entrance. Minutes later she will leave the store, using a side door that opens onto Hans Road. From there she will travel southward away from Brompton Road, and it is at this point she is to be followed.”

  “Will she be accompanied?”

  “No.”

  “Or carry packages?”

  “None.”

  “Will a carriage follow her?”

  “If it does, you have picked the wrong woman.”

  Wiggins carefully considered the matter before inquiring, “That neighborhood is quite fancy, yet it is not usual for ladies to stroll alone down a side street. Are you certain she will not have a protector watching over her?”

  “She is being very secretive, so I would think not.”

  “To be sure, Sarah will be on her toes, won’t you, ducky?”

  Sarah nodded, her expression unchanged. “I’ll pick him out faster than you can sneeze.”

  “Now, I will need the exact address to which she goes,” Joanna instructed them. “Make certain to survey the entire building to determine if there is a rear or side door from which she could depart. Once you are certain the lady is remaining in the house, learn who she is visiting. A crown for his description, a pound for his name.”

  “And if we overhear their conversation?”

  “Another pound.”

  “And actually witness the goings-on between the two?”

  “A fiver.”

  Wiggins’s jaw dropped at the offer. Five pounds was a great sum to the lower class, equivalent to a hundred shillings, which translated into the pay for three months’ labor. Wiggins exchanged pleased glances with the other Irregulars, all eager to pocket the enticing reward. Their expressions indicated they would go to any length to learn every detail of Lady Jane’s visit.

  “There will be some added expenses,” Wiggins said.

  “Such as?” Joanna asked.

  “We will require jackets of different colors for Little Alfie and Sarah,” Wiggins explained. “Changes of color make for a different appearance. A little girl in blue looks different from one in red. Then we’ll need packages for them to carry that can hide their faces. And books would come in handy as well.”

  “To what end?”

  “Children carrying books are seen as middle class or better straightaway. You see, Little Alfie and Sarah must fit well into the neighborhood.”

  “All well and good then,” Joanna agreed, and motioned to the door. “Now, be on your way. Keep in mind, the quicker you return with the information, the better.”

  As soon as the Irregulars departed, Joanna lighted a Turkish cigarette and began pacing back and forth across the drawing room. It appeared her conversation with Wiggins had brought some important matter to her mind, and she was now dwelling on it.

  “Something is of concern to you,” I said, as she stopped by the window and peered out to Baker Street.

  “It is the five pounds I offered as a reward,” Joanna replied. “It may be too great of an enticement and cause the Irregulars to take unwarranted chances.”

  “They are in a risky business,” I reminded.

  “Nevertheless,” my father joined in, “five pounds seems an extraordinary amount.”

  “Not if it saves the life of Alistair Ainsworth,” Joanna said, and went back to pacing the floor.

  13

  St. John’s Wood

  We waited impatiently for news from the Baker Street Irregulars, although we knew it could be days before their service bore fruit. Our stalemate, however, came to an end with a phone call from Inspector Lestrade. An important clue had surfaced regarding the location of the German agents, and the inspector wished us to join him on his way to the site.

  “I am surprised at his generosity,” Joanna remarked. “In dramatic instances such as this, Lestrade prefers the limelight to be on Scotland Yard alone, for it greatly enhances their reputation.”

  “I suspect it is not his generosity that beckons us, but his need for an investigator who is fluent in German,” my father said. “Moreover, it sounded as if the idea was as much Dunn’s as his.”

  “You may wish to bring along your service revolver, Watson.”

  “But surely Dunn and the inspector will be armed.”

  “But your aim is quite excellent, and at this point a wounded German agent would be of far greater use than a dead one.”

  Fifteen minutes later we were seated in Lestrade’s four-wheeler, racing for St. John’s Wood. We moved along at a good speed until we departed Baker Street and turned onto a wider avenue where we were slowed by an accident involving two large transport lorries. With the additional time, Lestrade reviewed the details of the fortuitous encounter that might well lead to the rescue of Alistair Ainsworth.

  “A gardener overheard a conversation that was going on at a nearby house that he knew had been recently leased,” Lestrade told us. “Now, with the war on everybody’s mind, anti-German sentiments are running high. So, when the gardener heard what sounded like German being spoken, he moved in for a closer look. In the back, hidden garden of the leased house, a pair of Teutonic-appearing fellows were having an animated chat. One was pointing to his stomach and saying the word smearhar over and over. He could make no sense of it, but it sounded very suspicious to him, so he promptly called Scotland Yard. And we of course notified Lieutenant Dunn at once. We both recalled from the case of A Study in Treason that you are quite fluent in German, which would come in most handy at the moment. Indeed, we are wondering if the gardener had misheard, for we could find no word resembling smearhar in the German dictionary.”

  Joanna thought for a moment before asking, “And the gardener stated the man was pointing to his stomach when the word was spoken?”

  “So I was told,” Lestrade said. “But then again, there is a question whether he heard the word correctly.”

  “He heard it correctly,” Joanna said as our carriage came to a halt.

  We alighted to find the area swarming with the forces of Scotland Yard. Near a stand of oak trees were a dozen uniformed constables, along with armed sergeants who had their holstered weapons on display. At the rear was Lieutenant Dunn surrounded by several naval officers. Upon seeing our arrival, Dunn broke away from the other officers and hurried over to us.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly,” he said. “Allow me to give you the latest details. The furnished house was recently leased for six months, all paid in advance. The neighbors saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than the newcomers kept entirely to themselves. There were no noises, disturbances, or unusual visitors. It is the gardener’s report that the new occupants spoke German that brings us here.”

  “I should like to speak with the gardener,” Joanna requested.

  “This way.” Dunn led us to a nearby fence, beside which stood a portly man with a ruddy complexion and protuberant abdomen. The gardener seemed to be enjoying the attention he was receiving.

  Joanna approached him directly and said, “You stated the neighbor was motioning to his stomach when he spoke the strange German word.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He most certainly did,” the gardener replied. “He did it several times to make his point.”

  “Can you remember his words exactly?”

  “Only one, and I heard it clear. It was smearhar.”

  “Could it have been Schmerz hier?”

  “That’s it! Like I said, smearhar.”

  “Thank you for your keen observation,” Joanna said and walked away, with the rest of us hurrying to catch up.

  “Well?” Dunn asked.

  “Schmerz hier translates to pain here,” Joanna responded. “So, with the German gesturing to his abdomen, he was stating where the pain was located. And this of course was the location of Alistair Ainsworth’s discomfort that forced the German agents to summon Dr. Verner.”

  “It would appear Ainswort
h was gesturing that his pain persisted or may now be even more intense,” I concluded.

  “Or so he wished the Germans to believe,” Joanna said.

  A uniformed constable sprinted up to Lestrade and, after catching his breath, said, “Sir, the house is completely surrounded, front and back, with no means of escape.”

  “Inform the sergeants they should have their weapons drawn,” Lestrade ordered, then turned to Dunn. “Would you care to do the honors?”

  Dunn reached for a megaphone and strode to the front gate of the stately house on Wellington Road. In a stern voice he called out, “You in the house at seven-two-five. You are surrounded by Scotland Yard and have exactly one minute to show yourselves. If you choose not to surrender, you will be taken by force.”

  We waited anxiously and hopefully, but there was no movement in the house or the surrounding garden. As the seconds slowly ticked by, Lestrade and Dunn checked their weapons, as did my father. He was a true marksman from his soldiering days in the Second Afghan War and had kept his aim sharp by practicing at an enclosed firing range. Despite his age, my father’s distant vision was excellent.

  “Try not to kill,” Joanna said quietly. “A wounded agent can provide information that a dead one can’t.”

  “Your point is well taken,” Dunn said, and glanced at his watch. “Their minute is up. I favor the front entrance.”

  “As do I,” Lestrade said, and called over to a group of well-proportioned constables. “We shall all rush the front entrance, with the lieutenant and I a step behind. You are to quickly kick the front door open, then move aside.”

  The constables tightened their chin straps and readied themselves while awaiting the inspector’s command.

  Ten more seconds passed before Lestrade cried out, “Now!”

  A force of five sprinted for the front door, with Lestrade and Dunn keeping their weapons trained on the curtained windows. My father had his Webley No. 2 pistol aimed at the upper floor should shots be fired from there. With powerful kicks, the front door was made to fly off its hinges and land inside the house with a crash. Lestrade and Dunn dashed in, followed by the constables. There was no sound coming from within.

  More police rushed into the house while others tightened the circle surrounding the garden. The sergeants beside us had their revolvers pointed at the front entrance. Another minute passed before the call of “All clear!” rang out.

  We entered the stately house and were guided into a large drawing room that was handsomely appointed. The furnishings were Victorian in style except for two sturdy, leather-upholstered chairs near a brick fireplace. There were opened pages of a newspaper strewn about the floor next to the chairs. An overturned cup of tea had badly stained the front page of the Standard.

  “Rather messy,” I commented.

  “Obviously,” Joanna said, and strolled over to the fireplace. Using an iron poker, she stirred the still-hot ashes and watched scattered cinders turn bright red. Next she leaned over and touched the tea stain on the newspaper. She used her handkerchief to remove the wetness from her fingertips.

  Dunn came into the drawing room, shaking his head angrily. “They have gotten away and left no clue behind.”

  “Clever devils,” Lestrade groused. “They have somehow managed to outwit us again.”

  “They were warned,” Joanna said. “They knew we were coming and would be here shortly.”

  “Perhaps the gardener inadvertently tipped them off,” Dunn surmised. “He may have been foolish enough to snoop around.”

  “But he was told in no uncertain terms to stay away from the house when he called Scotland Yard,” Lestrade said.

  “When were these instructions given?” Joanna asked.

  “An hour or so ago,” Lestrade answered, then rubbed at his chin pensively. “He could have gone back for yet a second look and that would have most certainly alerted the Germans.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, they are gone,” Dunn said unhappily. “And they’ve taken Alistair Ainsworth with them.”

  Joanna went back to the fireplace and, using a poker, pushed a well-burned log aside. Beneath it were more ashes and cinders, but nothing recognizable. At the rear of the fireplace, tucked under a protruding brick, however, was a partially scorched slip of paper. Joanna plucked it out and, with her magnifying glass, studied it carefully.

  Dunn moved in quickly and asked, “Are you able to make out the writing?”

  “It appears to be a receipt from a restaurant called François,” she replied.

  “I know it,” my father said at once. “François is a quite pricey restaurant located on Portobello Road. It is frequented by tourists, so the Germans would not seem out of place.”

  “They are burning every trace of their trail, being ever so cunning to leave nothing behind,” Lestrade grumbled.

  Joanna restudied the receipt, front and back and against the light, before placing it on a nearby table. Using the iron poker, she again stirred through the ashes and cinders, without finding anything of value. With Lestrade’s assistance, she pulled out the single, remaining log and rolled it out onto the wet newspaper. There were no clues attached to it.

  “Another dead end,” Lestrade growled.

  A uniformed constable dashed into the room and held up a map of London’s train stations. “Sir, we found this item glued by the toothpaste to the rear of a bathroom mirror.”

  Lestrade quickly reached for the thin map that appeared to be relatively new, yet had torn edges. He took a moment to remove flakes of toothpaste from his fingertips before opening the guide and spreading it onto a nearby table. The only remarkable sign was a circle drawn in black around Waterloo Station. “This map must have come from Ainsworth.”

  “But why did he circle Waterloo?” Dunn asked promptly. “Certainly the Germans would know that it, like all major train stations, is under close surveillance.”

  “Perhaps there are other clues on the map that might only be uncovered by experts,” Lestrade said, then appeared to second-guess himself. “Assuming of course that Ainsworth drew the circle and hid the map.”

  “Who else would?” I asked.

  “Any number of people,” Lestrade replied. “But particularly the Germans themselves who wish to lead us on an errant chase.”

  The remainder of the house was searched top to bottom, without anything of value being discovered. Lestrade and Dunn remained behind to requestion the nearby neighbors, which Joanna assured us would be unproductive. The Germans were simply too skilled to let themselves be seen close up and would avoid any contact with the neighbors. As we approached our carriage, Joanna spotted the gardener who had called Scotland Yard, and strolled over.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” she said. “Your sharp eyes and ears have proven to be quite useful.”

  “I hope they catch those bloody bast—” he said angrily before catching himself. “I mean those bloody Germans.”

  “As do I,” Joanna went on. “Allow me to ask one final question. After calling Scotland Yard and being instructed to stay away from the house, did you do so?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am,” the gardener replied without hesitation. “I walked to the corner garden and worked there until the police arrived. I didn’t want to give the Germans even a hint I was on to them.”

  “Well done,” Joanna praised, and strolled away. Then abruptly she turned and asked the gardener, “Where did you find a phone to call Scotland Yard?”

  “At the pub down the way, ma’am.”

  “Very good.”

  As we rode back to Baker Street, Joanna closed her eyes and leaned back, oblivious to everyone and everything around her. This was her posture when assembling clues and placing them in an order that allowed her to reach a conclusion. She nodded at one notion, then at another, before opening her eyes.

  “We have a true, well-hidden traitor in our midst,” Joanna said at length. “This traitor warned the Germans we were on our way, and they made haste to escape.”


  “It still might have been the gardener,” my father countered. “He could have been too obvious in his first sighting and thus alerted the Germans.”

  “The timing does not fit that line of reasoning, Watson,” Joanna said. “Permit me to give you the sequence of events as the evidence so informs us. First, the gardener called Scotland Yard an hour ago, but he initially saw the Germans at least a half hour in front of that. You must take into account that prior to making the call he had to carefully observe the Germans, then find a phone to use. The closest phone available to him was the pub we passed on our ride in. That pub is a good twenty minutes’ walking distance away. Thus, an hour and a half had transpired since the initial contact between the gardener and the Germans.”

  “It is still possible the gardener’s presence made the Germans suspicious,” I said.

  “But that would not have caused such a hasty exit that occurred only thirty minutes before our arrival,” Joanna elucidated. “The Germans are such orderly people, yet we found newspapers strewn about the floor and an overturned teacup atop a front page. These skilled agents were obviously so surprised by the warning that they jumped up from their chairs, with the newspaper flying and their cups of tea overturning.”

  “But what evidence indicates their exit occurred only thirty minutes before our arrival?” I asked.

  “The hot ashes and sparks in the fireplace suggest this to be the case,” Joanna answered. “In addition, the tea stain on the newspaper was still quite wet and showed no signs of drying. Over the course of an hour and a half, the tea would have surely begun to dissipate and dry, particularly in front of a warm fireplace.”

  “But to where does this sequence lead us?” my father asked.

  “To the traitor,” Joanna replied, as a Mona Lisa smile crossed her face. “And our search may well be facilitated by the receipt found in the fireplace.”

  My father shrugged. “It simply stated that a meal was enjoyed at François.”

  “Oh, it revealed much more than that,” Joanna went on. “Had you the opportunity to study the receipt closely, you would have noted that it was dated the exact same day that Alistair Ainsworth disappeared.”