Max Collins: The London Blitz Murders

And yet, for one who had loved attending plays since childhood-to this day she would seek out the scores of musicals she’d seen, to play the tunes on the piano-seeing her “baby” on the boards, even in bastardized form, had been thrilling. The next time, she had written the play herself, so when, about a year ago, Reginald Simpson-who had produced Alibi -inquired into theatrical rights to her nursery-rhyme novel, Agatha had straightened her spine and said, “If anyone is to dramatize it, I’ll have a shot at it first.”

The play had turned out remarkably well, particularly considering the difficulties of the original ending. In the novel, ten people from various walks of life-all guilty of (and unpunished for) a murder-are invited under false pretenses to an island mansion… where one by one, a vengeful murderer among them strikes them down.

She had come up with a new ending that she feared was a cheat, but which everyone assured her was ingenious; and in rehearsal the finale did seem to play very well indeed.

Of course, there was another reason Agatha had turned to writing a new play-a frankly monetary one. Because of wartime restrictions on paper, her publisher was printing only a limited number of copies of her new novels, and she was being encouraged to restrict her literary output somewhat, as well.

This came at a particularly bad moment, because her American royalties were being held up, due to the war, while at the same time, the British government was insisting she pay taxes on those as yet unreceived American funds. Her attorneys were fighting for her-over what seemed clearly, even absurdly a taxation injustice-but at present the threat remained: her income was diminishing while her tax responsibilities soared.

Jumping back into the theatrical soup was a pleasant enough way to generate some earnings. During the Blitz period-at least when the bombs weren’t dropping-the theater was a respite of escape for many Londoners like Agatha, whose letters to her husband, overseas in the Middle East, were filled with reports of new plays, even down to comparing her own opinions with extracts from critics.

And now the first night of her controversially titled new play was only a few days away. At the moment she was seated in the stalls of the St. James Theatre, rather near the front, with the director-Irene Helier-on one side of her, and Irene’s husband, Bertram Morris, the producer, on the other.

A spiral notebook (containing the script and various other materials) open and in her lap, Irene was a strikingly beautiful woman of forty, with dark blue eyes and a pale perfect complexion, formerly an actress herself, whose minimal makeup, short dark hair, and mannish tan blouse and darker brown pants provided a military demeanor clearly designed to keep her femininity at bay while she took command of this little theatrical army.

Her husband, Bertram, was a short, bald, rather round man who had made a star of Irene twenty years ago and a director of her this year. A dapper dresser, Bertram was attired in a dark brown suit with yellow shirt and golden tie; his attire was always so handsome, Agatha felt, one could almost mistake him for handsome.

Almost.

After all, his features were those of a leading man, albeit condemned to that round face. He was a frog who had been kissed back into a prince, only to have the transformation stall, halfway.

The theater’s lights were up, and the bare stage was well illuminated, as well. The naked shabbiness of the undressed stage made a marked contrast with the dignified elegance of the theater itself-dark wood paneling and rounded pillars and arched proscenium around which carved angels flew.

On the other hand, Agatha knew, theater was illusion, and under the seats of this elegant showcase could no doubt be found the hard-crusted corpses of abandoned chewing gum.

Speaking of which, the actress currently on stage, script in hand, was removing hers, delicately, a little embarrassed about it, as a stagehand scurried out to provide a napkin for the gum’s disposal. The stagehand rushed off, like a member of the Unexploded Bomb detail looking for a bucket of water into which to drop an explosive device.

“So sorry,” the actress said, in an alto that had a nice quality, to Agatha’s ears. Chewing gum or not, the young woman possessed a voice with a dignified, even upper-class lilt; of course, she was an actress. Take Bertie, for example-he sounded as if he might have attended Oxford, whereas his father was a Whitechapel butcher, and the school the producer had graduated from was Hard Knocks.

The actress was not young-thirty-odd, Agatha should say-but she was quite attractive, a bright-eyed brunette with a heart-shaped face, Kewpie-doll red-rouged lips and a curvy shape that asserted itself despite a restrained wardrobe: dark gray suit jacket over off-white blouse, lighter gray skirt, brown “tanned” legs ( that liquid stockings stuff , Agatha thought).

Standing next to her, making the five-foot-five woman look exceedingly small, was actor Francis L. Sullivan, who (like the young woman) had folded-open script in hand. The rather beefy actor stood a good six feet two, double-chinned and hooded-eyed, not unpleasant-looking, but no leading man.

Larry Sullivan had been the original Poirot in Alibi and had repeated the role in the recent Peril at End House . ( Why on earth , Agatha wondered, did producers insist on casting these ponderous overweight figures as her tiny Belgian detective? Charles Laughton’s size in Black Coffee had been exceeded only by his overacting .) Sullivan was not appearing in the current production-Poirot was not a character in this one-and had been called in as a dialogue coach at the last moment.

The female understudy-who would substitute for the crucial roles of Vera and Mrs. Brent-had vacated her duties last week, when she landed a better role in a revue. In normal times, this might have ended up with the understudy finding herself blacklisted in the West End; but everyone knew the difficulties of assembling a qualified cast in wartime.

In particular, good actors were hard to come by-those men who preferred not to go into uniform were required to go out on one or two tours a year for ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association). And pretty young actresses were much in demand for revues; among the many wartime shortages in London was an undersupply of chorus girls.

Irene’s strong voice-a contralto-came from next to Agatha and echoed through the theater. “ Your name, please ,” she intoned, the voice of a female God.

Despite this, on the stage, the young woman seemed quite at ease. “Nita Ward,” she said.

On the other side of Agatha, Bertie boomed: “Ah, yes, Miss Ward! So glad you could come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” Miss Ward said.

Bertie sat forward and spoke to his wife in a whisper. “Take a look at her resume, dear. She has impressive credits.”

Irene glanced sharply at her husband. “Is that what you call them?… Did you invite this one?”

“Well…”

“Is this another of your discoveries, Bertram?”

“Darling… she’s qualified. Please do look at her vita.”

Another sharp look from Irene. “Why should I?… You seem to have examined Nita’s… vita , already.”

Agatha felt that she had suddenly become the net in a tennis match. A grudge match, at that.

A notion, the cattiness of which was worthy of Jane Marple herself, flashed through Agatha’s mind: Perhaps Irene was doomed to such jealousies, since she better than anyone knew how an actress could get ahead in the theatrical world, particularly with this producer….

“You can be impossible, sometimes,” Bertie said, and rose, and shuffled out of the aisle to take a seat elsewhere, nearer to the stage… and to his latest discovery?