The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth Read online

  “Which breaks no law,” Joanna countered. “Also, remember that the patient suffered from a seizure disorder. Had he experienced a recent attack, he may have been disoriented and unaware of the people around him. When introduced to the newly arrived Verner, he felt he could trust the kind doctor and thus issued a plea for help.”

  My father nodded in agreement. “When Joanna was a practicing nurse, she no doubt saw this strange transformation after a seizure. I too have seen the postictal phase of an attack last for half an hour or more, with disorientation a prominent feature.”

  “And this would be particularly pronounced in a dark room with no sound,” Joanna added.

  Verner stared at Joanna at length. “Are you telling me that no crime has been committed here?”

  “No, Dr. Verner,” Joanna said, reaching for a cigarette and carefully lighting it. “I am telling you why Scotland Yard would give little attention to your story. I, on the other hand, find your adventure to be of considerable interest. But I require more details if we are to put this puzzle together. Let us begin with the prisoner. Can you describe him for us?”

  “I must tell you that the bedroom was not well lighted, and his bed was against a far wall where the lighting was dimmest. Thus it was not possible to delineate all his features. Nevertheless, I could ascertain he was a short, heavyset man, in his middle years, with unkempt hair and an unshaven face. The odor of his body indicated he had not bathed for a number of days.”

  “Were there any distinguishing features, such as scars, blemishes, or evidence of foul play?”

  “None that could be seen.”

  “What of the bedroom he occupied? How was it furnished?”

  “It was quite sparse, with only a bed and several wooden chairs.”

  “Did it contain mirrors or paintings on the wall?”

  “None.”

  “A dresser?”

  “No.”

  “Curtains?”

  “Tightly drawn.”

  Joanna stood and began pacing the floor, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke behind. “Was the patient dressed in nightclothes?”

  “He was not,” Verner answered. “His shoes were removed, but he continued to wear trousers and shirt.”

  “Tell us of their quality.”

  “The trousers were well tailored and made of tightly woven wool. His shirt was opened so I could examine the patient’s abdomen. It too was well made and had the feel of fine Egyptian cotton.”

  Joanna spun around. “Was there a monogram on the shirt?”

  “None that could be seen.”

  “Most unfortunate,” Joanna said, muttering to herself, as she went back to pacing. “When the mute patient answered your questions on the blackboard, are you quite certain he wrote as an Englishman would?”

  “Very much so,” Verner replied. “On my inquiring if he had gastric distress, he reported he had a touch of nausea. Not a little or small amount, but a touch, much like an Englishman would say.”

  “Well put,” Joanna said, apparently pleased with the information. “Now be good enough to describe in detail the man who came to your office and guided you back to the patient.”

  “He was tall and broad shouldered, with a ramrod-straight posture, reminiscent of a military officer. His hair was blond and cut short, although I saw only its fringes because he wore a derby.”

  “And the color of his eyes?”

  “Blue and cold as ice.”

  “Were there any distinguishing features about his face?”

  “None that stood—” Verner stopped in mid-sentence and pointed to his cheek. “He had a noticeable tic about his left eye. The spasms around his orbit occurred with some frequency and involved both the face and eyelid.”

  “Was there any evidence of trauma around the affected eye?”

  “None that I could see, which suggested it was a true nervous system disorder.”

  Joanna nodded at Verner’s assessment and hummed softly to herself, indicating she was storing the presence of the facial tic in her memory bank. “Very good,” she continued on. “Now please tell us about the man’s voice.”

  “It was cold and menacing, and left no doubt that—”

  “No, no,” Joanna interrupted. “I am not interested in the emotions it elicited, but in its origin. Did the man speak English like it was his mother tongue?”

  Verner gave the matter thought before answering. “His grammar was quite good, but at times he spoke as if he had learned the language in school.”

  “Let us have an example.”

  “When I completed my examination and was about to leave the bedroom, he said, ‘Now we return to our carriage.’ An Englishman would have never put it that way.”

  “Indeed,” Joanna said, as a hint of a smile came to her face. “While you were in the house, did you come across any others, man or woman?”

  “There was one other man whom I neither saw nor heard.”

  “Then how did you learn of his presence?”

  “There was a bit of noise in an adjoining room that upset the man who brought me to the house. The man opened a side door and yelled out something that ended with the word FENSTER. It may well have been a person’s name, of that I cannot be sure. Then I heard the sound of a drawer closing before the door was shut. Thus, I assumed there was another man present and that he had been given a command of some sort.”

  “I believe your assumptions are for the most part correct.”

  “And my assumption that the poor man is a prisoner being held against his will?”

  “That too is correct.”

  “Then how will you proceed?”

  “By making the necessary inquiries,” Joanna said, and walked over to the rack that held Verner’s topcoat and scarf. “And now the hour is late and you should be on your way. I take it your hansom awaits you?”

  “It does,” Verner said, being helped into his outer garments. “Is there any further assistance I can lend in this matter?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “What if the man returns for me to again examine the patient? I would have no choice but to accompany him back to the house that holds the prisoner. Indeed, I might be forced to do so.”

  Joanna considered the doctor’s dilemma at length before asking, “Do you have chloroform in your office?”

  “A goodly supply.”

  “Then somehow manage to spill some of it on your shoes prior to leaving with him.”

  “That is a rather odd request.”

  “Your life may depend on it.”

  Verner’s eyes flew open. “Why would they do me harm?”

  “Because you are the only link to the patient’s true identity, and they will go to any lengths to ensure he remains nameless.”

  2

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  As was my custom, I awoke early the next morning but found Joanna’s side of the bed vacant. After dressing quickly, I entered our parlor and was greeted by a dense haze of cigarette smoke, through which Joanna was pacing back and forth. She rarely smoked except when involved in a difficult case, at which time she could easily consume two packs of cigarettes daily. And like her esteemed father before her, she could go sleepless for days until the problem was solved or she determined more data was needed before a solution could be reached. My father, attired in a maroon smoking jacket, was seated in a cushioned chair and puffing on his favorite cherrywood pipe, all the while watching Joanna pace.

  “It appears my wife has a three-pipe problem before her,” I remarked, referring to Sherlock Holmes’s description of a perplexing case that required at least three pipes to bring to a successful conclusion.

  “So it would appear,” my father agreed. “Yet at the rate she is smoking, I fear the underlying reason for Verner’s harrowing adventure continues to escape her.”

  “To the contrary, my dear Watson. The purpose is well in hand,” Joanna said. “It is the solution that remains problematic.”

  “Please inform us of its
purpose,” I requested.

  Our conversation was interrupted by a gentle rap on the door. Miss Hudson stepped in and was immediately aghast at the cloud of smoke that enveloped her. She hurried over to the window and opened it for fresh air to flow in.

  “How can you possibly remain in this room under such foul conditions?” Miss Hudson asked.

  “Because, Miss Hudson, the conditions lend themselves to solving a most urgent problem,” Joanna replied.

  Miss Hudson uttered a hopeless sigh and handed my father several morning newspapers. “Would now be a convenient time for breakfast, Dr. Watson?”

  “If you would be so kind,” my father said.

  Upon Miss Hudson’s departure, Joanna dashed over to close the window. “She means well, but is unaware of the high-stakes game that confronts us. You see, the captive that Verner described to us will shortly end up dead unless we intervene.”

  “What is this dreadful assumption based on?” I asked.

  “Everything we have been told,” Joanna replied. “The entire story of the mute patient is a total fabrication. First, we are required to believe that the patient is a distinguished personage in whom disclosure of illness would cause public alarm. This would indicate the individual is well-known royalty or a high-ranking official in the British government who would be easily recognized. All of which is absolute nonsense. Officials at the highest level, as well as the royalty, have their own personal physicians who are always at their immediate disposal. Furthermore we are asked to believe this well-known, distinguished individual is a mute. Is there a member of the royal family who is so afflicted? Can you envision any politician, whose career depends on his ability to speak and convince, being unable to do so? And if by chance there was such a rare individual, he would be widely publicized and instantly recognized by Dr. Verner. Thus, we can conclude this person is neither royalty nor a politician at the highest level nor a mute. He was presented as a mute and made to write his words to ensure he could not reveal his identity or circumstances.”

  “And Verner was under the impression that the patient was feigning his illness,” my father added.

  “Precisely,” Joanna went on. “The prisoner feigned an illness so that his captors would have no recourse other than to call in a physician. This of course could provide him with an opportunity to inform the doctor of his situation. It may have represented his only chance of escape.”

  “The prisoner seems to be quite clever,” I remarked.

  “Even more clever than you believe,” Joanna said. “His brain thinks several moves ahead, much like a chess master outmaneuvering his opponent. He could have chosen a variety of illnesses that required the presence of a doctor, yet he selected abdominal pain. Why? Because he knew the doctor would ask him the exact location of the pain and, since he could not speak, he could guide the doctor’s hand to the right side of the abdomen. From there, he might be able to surreptitiously spell out his cry for help. So, taking into account the cut of his clothes, we have a very astute, upper-class Englishman who is being held captive.”

  “To what end?” I asked at once.

  “For classified information, I would think.”

  My father and I exchanged puzzled glances before I asked, “Upon which evidence do you base this?”

  “The identity of his captors,” Joanna replied. “You see, he is being held by Germans, which makes me believe they are holding him for information he has and they desperately want.”

  “How can you possibly know that the man’s captors are German?”

  “By their use of the word FENSTER, which Verner thought was the name of a man who was being called upon,” Joanna answered. “Recall that Verner heard a sentence with the word FENSTER in it, and this was followed by the sound of a drawer being closed. He overheard correctly, but drew the wrong conclusion. FENSTER in German means window, and the man was ordering another to close a window. That was the sound Verner misinterpreted as being a drawer being shut.”

  My father bolted upright suddenly. “Are you saying the Englishman was taken captive by German agents?”

  “Since we are currently at war with Germany, that would be a logical assumption,” Joanna said. “But everything revolves around the man whose name begins with the letters TU. Until we know his identity, I fear we remain in the dark.”

  “With the prisoner’s life at stake.”

  “That too.”

  “Scotland Yard must be notified,” my father urged.

  “So they shall be shortly,” Joanna said, crushing out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “But for now, Watson, I will leave you to your newspapers while I change into clothes more suitable for one of Miss Hudson’s sumptuous breakfasts. I suggest you begin with the Daily Telegraph, which tends to report the more current London news.”

  “Is there anything in particular that I should search for?”

  “Look for unusual happenings in the upper-class neighborhoods of Belgravia, Mayfair, and the like.”

  “Do you believe our man is an aristocrat?”

  “Perhaps. Or with his sharp mind, he might have associates in these neighborhoods and his absence would be noted and reported.”

  My father scanned the Daily Telegraph while I busied myself with the Standard. We saw nothing of interest on their fronts but, as we turned to the inner pages, my father abruptly jerked his head forward. He read hurriedly, moving his lips but making no sound until he cried out, “I think we have our man!”

  Joanna rushed out of our bedroom and, sitting on the arm of his chair, peered over my father’s shoulder as he read from the notice.

  “Anyone supplying information on the whereabouts of Alistair Ainsworth, who also responds to the name Tubby, will be rewarded. Because of injury, he may not be aware of his identity. To gain the above reward, please reply to X2810.”

  Joanna jumped to her feet and asked my father, “Do you have Verner’s phone number?”

  My father reached for the nearby phone and quickly dialed the doctor’s number by memory. Holding the phone close to his ear, he waited only a moment before dialing the number once more. “The line is busy,” he announced.

  Joanna raced for the bedroom as she called over her shoulder, “We must hurry!”

  “To Scotland Yard?” my father asked.

  Joanna shook her head. “To Verner’s office, for his life is now in real and immediate danger.”

  “But he did not write the notice,” I argued mildly. “He had no knowledge of the prisoner’s name.”

  “It does not matter whether he wrote it or not, for the Germans will believe he did and thus want him silenced permanently,” Joanna elucidated. “It is the time sequence that is so important here. Alistair Ainsworth has been missing, for days on end, as evidenced by his unkempt appearance, which Verner duly noted. Yet concern for his disappearance suddenly shows up in print only now, shortly after Verner’s visit. The Germans may have no proof that Verner had the notice published, but they will suspect he did and take no chances.”

  We grabbed our coats and hats and dashed down the stairs, passing a startled Miss Hudson carrying up our breakfast tray.

  “Will you be returning shortly?” she called out.

  We did not bother to answer, for our minds were totally occupied with the terrible fate awaiting Alexander Verner.

  3

  Dr. Verner’s Office

  We did not make good time, for traffic was heavy and sections of the streets remained flooded with last evening’s torrential downpour. Nevertheless, Joanna used my father’s walking stick to repeatedly rap on the roof of our carriage, urging the driver to go faster and faster.

  “Perhaps the Germans did not read the morning newspaper,” I hoped.

  “I can assure you they have,” Joanna said. “They will scour over every page, searching for information about the missing man and whether there is any mention of an ongoing investigation. You see, the Germans are aware they have a valued prize on their hands and will wish to know if there
are any clues indicating the authorities are closing in on them.”

  “But it is unlikely such information would find its way into the newspapers,” I argued.

  “To the contrary, Scotland Yard takes great delight in publicizing their pursuits and accomplishments, real or imagined. They do this to project an image of sharpness that is all too often lacking.”

  My father nodded at Joanna’s assessment. “Holmes would tell you that, with few exceptions, they are a collection of bunglers who depend on informants to solve most of their cases. It is not that they don’t have brains; it is that they refuse to use them.”

  “Then our last, best hope is that Verner read the morning papers and, realizing the danger, has fled,” I said.

  “That is wishful thinking,” said Joanna. “Had Verner read the notice, he would have certainly called to inform us of the new information and to seek further instructions.”

  My father sighed dispiritedly. “Everything seems to be going against poor Verner.”

  “Let us pray we are not too late,” said Joanna.

  But it appeared we were. Stationed at the doorstep to Verner’s practice were two police constables. Because of our past association with Scotland Yard, we were recognized and allowed immediate entrance. Expecting the worst, we hurried into Verner’s surgery but found only Inspector Lestrade standing amidst evidence that indicated a struggle had taken place. A metal stool and instrument table were overturned, with scalpels and forceps strewn about the floor. Off to the side was a medicine cabinet, with its glass door shattered and blood smeared across its handle. The strong odor of chloroform filled the air.

  Our presence seemed to catch Lestrade by surprise. He tipped his hat to us and, skipping the usual amenities, asked, “Are you friends with Dr. Verner?”

  “He is a former colleague who bought my practice some years ago,” my father replied.

  “I take it this is not a social call.”

  “It is not.”

  “May I then inquire as to the purpose of your visit this morning?”

  “We hoped to prevent harm from coming to Verner.”