The Abduction of Pretty Penny Read online

  “Which must have been most embarrassing,” I interjected.

  “For him and St. Bart’s,” said my father. “Willoughby, as the senior member of the project, was issued a letter of reprimand which included a requirement that all of his research be reviewed by an internal committee prior to being submitted for publication. This of course forced him to give up his unfounded theory and turn his attention to neuropathology, which he did with great vigor. Thus, with the passage of time, he was able to restore his reputation and become a leading figure in that particular field.”

  “What a tale,” said I, wondering if Willoughby’s unpleasant temperament was the result of the severe rebuke he faced in his formative academic years.

  “So all is not what it seems,” Joanna remarked. “But then, it never is.”

  “Which holds true for the prominent surgeon Thaddeus Rudd, for I am afraid he has a dark side as well,” said I.

  “At surgery?” Joanna asked at once.

  “In a manner of speaking,” I replied. “Rudd is known to be quite ill-tempered, particularly when procedures do not go smoothly. During one most difficult surgery, the nurse at his side handed Rudd the incorrect instrument on two occasions. The second mistake sent him into a tantrum, which included striking her with a metal retractor that broke her nose and caused considerable bleeding. He then chased her out of the operating room, with a string of profanities. When the nurse’s husband learned of the incident, he confronted the surgeon and challenged him to step outside. Rudd responded by picking up a scalpel and slashing the husband’s arm. Rudd was charged with assault, but the charges were soon dismissed, with the surgeon claiming self-defense. Obviously influence had been applied to the court from those in high places.”

  “Was there no punishment?” asked Joanna.

  “Only that he was forced to write a letter of apology and pay a considerable sum to the husband and wife for their injuries.”

  Joanna shook her head at the minimal price Rudd had paid for his criminal assault. “Was it not Robert Louis Stevenson who said that the physician is the flower of our civilization?”

  “I believe so,” my father replied.

  “Well, it is clear that he never had the pleasure of meeting this beauty.”

  The bell ending the intermission sounded. The audience gradually returned to their seats and quieted as the curtains were parted for the final act of Romeo and Juliet. The curtains consisted of stitched-together blankets which were pulled into the wings by stagehands who quickly folded them into neat stacks. Glancing around, it was clear that the entire theater was likewise makeshift, with oversized lights that dangled down on bare wires. The seats came in a number of odd varieties, including folding chairs, rockers and wooden benches, and even a nicely upholstered sofa upon which the three of us sat. What was equally remarkable was that all the seats were lined up in a fashion which gave everyone an unobstructed view of the stage. If ever there was a clear-cut demonstration of where there is a will there is a way, it was on display at the Whitechapel Playhouse.

  The final act was performed without a single miscue, with the audience now completely enthralled by the poignant scene of the lovely Juliet lying stone cold in her tomb, with all evidence of life gone. Even my dear wife, Joanna, who could hide her emotions with ease, was so touched she rested her head on my shoulder as tears welled in her eyes. Then the scene abruptly changed. Romeo finds Juliet’s supposedly dead body and, rather than face life without her, reaches for a vial of poison. The audience was so taken by the drama that a few stood and shouted, “Don’t do it, lad! Don’t do it!” And when Romeo ingested the poison, it was met with a chorus of groans and sobs, for only a moment later Juliet awakens and returns to life. The last, sad lines of the play were spoken—

  “For never was a story of more woe

  Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

  The words brought the audience to its feet, with thunderous applause. There were three curtain calls.

  “What say you, Joanna?” I asked quietly.

  “I say I would love to see the enticing Pretty Penny as Juliet,” said she, and for a moment the three of us envisioned the innocent beauty of the missing girl who would have fit the role so perfectly.

  We made our way through the crowded theater to a back office where Lionel Lurie, the director of the play, awaited us. Joanna felt he would know a great deal about Pretty Penny from his almost day-to-day interactions with the young actress. Yet for reasons that were unclear, Lurie was not keen on meeting with us and only did so at Emma Adams’s insistence.

  Our rap on the office door elicited a rather unpleasant welcome: “Well, get in!”

  We found Lurie sitting behind a makeshift desk which consisted of a wide, sanded-down shutter that sat atop two barrels. The remainder of the office was equally bare, with no amenities or decorations. He did not bother to stand and only motioned to a cluster of wooden stools.

  “We prefer to stand,” Joanna said.

  “Suit yourself, then.” Lurie lighted a small cigar and leaned back in his chair. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “We require additional information which I believe you can provide,” Joanna replied. “But first, I would like to know why you were so reluctant to speak with us.”

  “I don’t care for the authorities, never have,” he said with a deep cockney accent.

  “Even when it comes to finding Pretty Penny?”

  Lurie’s face softened a bit. “Terrible business, just terrible.”

  “Do you fear the worst?”

  “Don’t you?” Lurie responded, puffing gently on his cigar. “Look, madam, this is Whitechapel, where the folks are tough as nails and the streets tougher yet. You see the audience swooning over Romeo and Juliet and it gives you the wrong impression. For once they leave the playhouse, they return to their cold, harsh surroundings in which violence and other unpleasantries are the order of the day.”

  “I must say that you do not seem overly upset over the missing girl.”

  “Oh, but I am,” said Lurie in a calm, emotionless voice. “She was unbelievably talented, the likes of which come along once in a lifetime. But she was not long for Whitechapel, for she would have shortly moved on to a better world.”

  “Are you referring to her secret lover?”

  “Bah,” Lurie answered, and waved away the notion through the smoke from his cigar. “That was all starry-eyed talk of women, who always look for a fairy-tale ending. In my opinion, she might well have stayed with him, but she would have never given up the stage for such a permanent union. You see, she had a natural gift that was given by God himself, and anyone with any sense realized it. Word was spreading of her remarkable talent throughout London, as evidenced by the managers and agents who came to watch her perform. No, madam, I say again that Pretty Penny was not long for Whitechapel.”

  “And this was her way out.”

  “Indeed it was.”

  “Yet, with her remarkable acting skills, I remain somewhat surprised that you are not more distraught over losing her.”

  Lurie shrugged. “In Whitechapel we do not become too attached to things or people, for in our world they tend to vanish.”

  “Without reason?” Joanna asked.

  “Some with, some without,” replied Lurie. “But gone is still gone and I am afraid that holds true for Pretty Penny.”

  I could not help but notice the cold, indifferent tone in the director’s voice and wondered whether it was an act or he was truly that heartless.

  Joanna also seemed to be measuring the man, perhaps thinking the same thought as I. His untoward demeanor at the loss of Pretty Penny was so unlike the response we had seen in others associated with the fine actress. “Did Penny ever speak of leaving?” she asked finally.

  “Not to me,” Lurie replied without hesitation.

  “Were you aware of Pretty Penny’s activities away from the playhouse?” Joanna queried.

  “Only at Emma Adams’s pub where the girl serve
d as a barmaid,” Lurie responded. “Even in that role she had a grace of movement and a voice that immediately grabbed and held one’s attention. Those very same qualities revealed themselves when she showed up to audition for the part of Juliet. Sweet Jesus Above! She bloody well knocked us off our feet. It was like a present from heaven. In my over thirty years in show business, I was never so taken by such an individual talent, man or woman.”

  “You’ve been a director for thirty years?” Joanna inquired.

  “No, madam, not as a director.” Lurie ambled over to a trash bin to deposit cigar ashes. He was a tall man, in his middle years, with curly red hair and a freckled face. “First off, I was an actor, with only modest talent, I must confess. But I was addicted to the stage, so I tried my hand at playwriting, then as an assistant director at outlying playhouses. Unfortunately, the income was poor and I had a family to support at the time, so I ended up as a dockworker. Yet the stage remained in my blood and over the years I continued as a part-time director at smaller, amateur playhouses. A few years back I met Emma Adams at a dismal performance of Macbeth and we hit it off well enough to pool our talents and establish this playhouse. My work at the docks is intermittent, so I add to my income tending bar at Emma’s pub.”

  “May I inquire how close you and Emma Adams are?” Joanna asked directly.

  “Close enough,” Lurie replied as his eyes darted briefly. “But if you are wondering if we share the same bed, the answer is no.”

  Joanna nodded, but I could tell from her motion that she didn’t entirely believe him. “Do you have more than a passing acquaintance with the major actors in the play?”

  “Only with E. T. Willoughby, who I met more years ago than I care to count.”

  “Who is this E. T. Willoughby?” I interrupted at once. “Are you by chance referring to Peter Willoughby in the program?”

  “He is one and the same, for E.T. was a stage name he assumed many years ago as an amateur actor,” Lurie replied. “As I mentioned earlier, I was a player some thirty years ago, and that is where our paths crossed. Peter Willoughby was a fine young actor whose talent far exceeded mine, and he would have made a career of it, but his family objected and demanded he become a doctor, like his father before him. While in medical school, however, he continued acting and managed to keep it a secret as far as his family was concerned. To make certain they never learned of his hidden career, he altered his stage name to Edward Thomas Willoughby, and insisted he be listed in the program as E. T. Willoughby. But now, of course, he uses his true name, for the family’s knowledge of his amateur acting is no longer a concern. In any event, I went on to another occupation and so did E.T. I never laid eyes on him again until a few months ago. I was truly stunned when he showed up after all these years at the audition for Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Was he pleased to see you?” I asked.

  Lurie shrugged indifferently. “To say he was cordial would be stretching it, but then again he was always somewhat of a cold fish. And now that our worlds are so far apart, I never expected any camaraderie.”

  “Does he take your directing without complaint?” my father asked.

  “He does indeed, for he is most concerned with fine-tuning his performance,” said Lurie. “Which is in stark contrast to his doctor-friend, Thaddeus Rudd, who plays the role as head of the Montague family. He is difficult to work with, for he is not nearly as talented as he believes. When he misses the mark, he has a tendency to yell and threaten, much as you would expect from a bully. But he backs down when challenged.”

  “By you?”

  “By Harry Sanders, who guards our side entrance.”

  “He serves as a bouncer, then?”

  Lurie smiled briefly for the first time. “Harry is a man of many skills and is most helpful to the entire crew, particularly should trouble arise. He is quite protective of Maxwell Anderson, our Romeo.”

  “For what reason?” asked Joanna, who had been concentrating on every word Lurie spoke. “Had this bully Rudd threatened Maxwell?”

  “Nah, those two get along well,” Lurie answered. “Anderson endeared himself to Harry by smuggling out some sort of aspirin cream from St. Bart’s, which has worked wonders on Harry’s arthritic knuckles. Anderson is exceptionally well liked, for in addition to being a kind physician, he is a superb actor, easily on a par with Willoughby.”

  “As evidenced by his performance tonight,” she noted.

  “He was particularly on point,” Lurie agreed. “But you should see him perform with Pretty Penny as his Juliet. They both absolutely sparkle. You could not wait for them to return in following scenes. It was as if they were made for one another.”

  “It sounds like there was a perfect chemistry between them,” Joanna said.

  “Oh, there was indeed,” Lurie concurred. “Everyone in the audience could sense their mutual attraction.”

  “Do you believe this attraction went beyond the stage?” my wife asked pointedly.

  Lurie hesitated before answering. “It’s possible, but they showed no evidence of it while performing or during rehearsals. Everything was strictly professional. And then of course you have to consider the age difference between them. She was still in her teen years, while he was surely in his thirties.”

  “Not an insurmountable difference.”

  “There never is when it comes to love involving strikingly beautiful people.”

  Joanna nodded at the expected reply. “I have a few more questions which I hope you can answer. They deal with Pretty Penny’s acting career, and the agents and managers who visited Whitechapel to watch her perform. Did they speak with you directly about furthering her career?”

  “A few did, but they were most interested in bringing her under contract and becoming her agent. One chap in particular, Richard Blackstone, the brother of the famous director, was a real nuisance, promising us the world and more to sign with his agency.”

  “And your response?”

  “I told him that Pretty Penny had already retained an agent.”

  Joanna raised an eyebrow. “Which was who?”

  “Emma Adams,” Lurie replied offhandedly.

  “Was there a formal contract?”

  “Signed and sealed in the presence of a barrister.”

  “One last question,” Joanna requested, staring out into space for a moment. “Has Emma Adams ever served as an agent in the past?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Thank you for your time,” said Joanna, and as we departed I noticed that his forehead had become furrowed and I wondered what in our conversation was causing him concern.

  The playhouse was now empty and eerily silent. It was as if all life was gone from the theater and the building had reverted back to being a deserted warehouse. Near the steps to the stage we saw Emma Adams waiting for us. The lights overhead had been switched off, but the filaments within the bulbs remained red hot and gave partial illumination.

  “Was Lionel Lurie of help?” she asked.

  “Perhaps a bit,” Joanna replied evasively. “But I must say I was somewhat surprised by his lack of worry over Pretty Penny’s disappearance.”

  “Trust me,” Mrs. Adams said. “He does not sleep at night because of his unease and anxiety.”

  My father and I exchanged knowing glances, for she was indeed sleeping with Lionel Lurie, which made the director a liar.

  “He tends to keep things bottled up inside himself, you see,” she went on. “Since the loss of his son at the Battle of the Somme last year, he finds it difficult to conjure up sympathy for anyone else regardless of their situation.”

  Just the mention of the battle brought sadness to every English heart. The Battle of the Somme was a fierce Allied offensive that was mounted to break through the German lines near the Somme River in northeastern France. On the first day of the battle, Britain suffered its greatest single-day loss in the country’s history; there were sixty thousand casualties, one-third of whom were killed. There was not a town
in all England that did not grieve.

  “A sad day,” Joanna commented.

  “Sad indeed,” said Emma Adams. “But then, we have no choice but to carry on, soldiers and citizens alike.”

  “And so we shall,” Joanna affirmed resolutely. “Now let us return to our conversation with Mr. Lurie and to a point or two he raised. He mentioned that Thaddeus Rudd was somewhat of a bully. Did you find him so?”

  Emma Adams nodded without hesitation. “He is a large, broad-shouldered man, with a deep voice that was threatening to people and caused some to back off. But he did not display this behavior often, except onstage where it was required.”

  “Could you give me an example?”

  “Recall that he played the role of head of the Montague family, which was forever feuding with the Capulets. He performed nicely when threatening and staring down Peter Willoughby, the leader of the Capulets. You would never have known they were good friends offstage, which of course is the sign of excellent acting.”

  “What of the romantic scenes between Maxwell Anderson and Pretty Penny?” Joanna probed gently. “Was that entirely acting on their parts?”

  “I believe so, for true love is very difficult to hide,” Emma Adams responded. “It is virtually impossible to resist a secret touch or conceal a blush or look that involuntarily goes on far too long. I never witnessed those signs nor sensed they were occurring in a dark corner.”

  “Well judged,” Joanna said, but the hint of a smile that crossed her face told me she believed otherwise. “Now please be good enough to direct us to Harry Sanders.”

  Emma Adams gestured to a side door on the far side of the building. “You will find him just outside in the alleyway.”

  We strolled toward the exit and remained silent until we were well away from Emma Adams’s hearing, but even then we spoke in low voices.

  “Our Mr. Lurie is a liar,” Joanna whispered. “He and Emma Adams are sharing the same bed and no doubt have information they are unwilling to share with us.”

  “Her statement that he does not sleep well at night surely tells us that theirs is more than a casual acquaintance,” I agreed.