Max Collins - The London Blitz Murders

Agatha, remarkably clearheaded, said, “Was anyone else in the theater? Wasn’t someone in the box office?”

“That was Clemens,” Janet said, “the assistant manager. He was in his office, locking the money box in the safe. He was unaffected by the explosion-the lobby took the full force of the blast. He was able to get out a side exit.”

“A UXB, probably,” Agatha said. “Some poor scavenger went to heaven in a hurry, I daresay.”

And at that moment, finally, her ride came, the Rolls Royce rolling up grandly. The liveried chauffeur emerged wide-eyed as Agatha approached.

“I am perfectly all right,” she said, “but I wish to be examined at University College Hospital. You will drive me there.”

The chauffeur said, “Yes, ma’am,” and held the rear door open for her.

Janet and her cadet helped Agatha into the backseat of the Rolls.

“We’ll go with you,” Janet said, leaning in, eyes wide with concern.

“Don’t be a silly goose. Take a taxi to the Savoy and report that any rumors of my demise are bound to be at least slightly exaggerated…. Young man… Gordon, isn’t it?”

The cadet leaned in next to his wife. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You remind me so of my first husband. He was a handsome hero, too. How ever can I repay you?”

Covered in filth, the boy’s smile was as white as the rest of him wasn’t. “A signed book would be more than sufficient.”

“Give me your address, then. Write it down.”

Frowning, Janet said, “That can wait. You’re dazed, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“No,” she said. “I will take care of this as soon as I’m home, which will be tonight, if I have anything to say about it. Any special title, Gordon?”

He had found a play program somewhere and was jotting down his address with a pencil. “This is at the receiving center, Mrs. Mallowan. Where I’m billeted… I could use the new Poirot, if you have an extra.”

“ Evil Under the Sun ,” she said, and smiled.

She reached out for the program, but the smiling airman was still writing.

With his left hand.

In that most undignified of garments-a hospital gown-Agatha lay between the crisp white sheets of a crankable bed in a small temporary room off the emergency ward.

Over the past hour and a half or so, she had been thoroughly examined, poked, prodded and probed, and had passed with flying colors, though her left ankle had been wrapped in service of that minor sprain. A concerned doctor, whom she knew well from the course of her pharmacy duties, suggested that she be admitted overnight for observation; it was, however, her decision… this the doctor made clear. She declined.

It was just past midnight, the presumed end of a long, memorable and exhausting day; but Agatha felt strangely alert, her thoughts clear, her energy high. Nearly dying had been a most exhilarating experience. There would be precious little sleeping, tonight.

Further, she had-in her state of clarity in the little chamber off the emergency ward-assembled in her mind the pieces of the real-life series of murders, in much the manner she applied to the creation of her fictional crimes. Real life seemed at once simpler and more complex than her concoctions….

Inspector Greeno wondered why the killer’s spree had been interrupted-why no killing Wednesday? The answer was painfully simple: Cadet Airman Gordon Cummins had fire picket duty that night; he could not get out, Wednesday night, to have his nasty fun.

And, though it was theoretical (albeit an informed opinion), Agatha knew exactly how Cummins might have got around the billet book, which might explain as well the apparent false evidence of the roommates who had vouched for him.

She hoped she was wrong.

Her evidence was circumstantial at best; and she was at war with herself over her conclusion. How could that sweet boy who had saved her life be a sex-crazed murderer? He had written for her directions to his billet using his left hand, and what of that? Was every left-handed man in London a suspect, then?

In all probability, the fingerprints found at the two murder scenes yesterday would provide conclusive confirmation (or exoneration) of the cadet, once the great Fred Cherrill had processed them. Sir Bernard’s forensics examinations would further either indict or clear. She need do nothing but relax either here in a cozy hospital bed or at home in her own comfortable flat, waiting for the police to do their job. She was not, after all, Jane Marple, much less Hercule Poirot. And even Poirot had sense enough to allow the likes of Inspector Japp to take the physical risks.

And yet she had to know. The thing that killed the cat was nibbling at her. The puzzle-piecing portion of her mind craved the boy’s guilt; and the sentimental side of a woman whose life had been valiantly saved provided a yearning for his innocence.

Thankfully, no one from the St. James crowd had come calling. She had sent strict orders with the chauffeur to convey to the after-theater party at the Savoy that she was fine but wished under no circumstances to be disturbed tonight; she needed her rest (a lie) and they could come calling tomorrow, if they liked, when she was home again.

Quite likely the director and producer and others on the production staff were at this very moment huddled in a back private room of the posh hotel, oblivious to the hors d’oeuvres (though probably not the cocktails), wondering whatever to do-the play appeared to be a hit, judging by the enthusiastic response of the audience, and she herself had seen the Times critic walking out with a smile on his usually merciless lips. But with the theater damaged by that apparent UXB, the play and its players were as homeless as the poor rabble who’d unwittingly set off that bomb.

She had requested a robe, and this-a green flannel affair-is what she wore as she slipped out of the emergency ward and headed for the upper floor area that was home to the Department of Pharmacology and the dispensary. Rather absurdly, she had thrown her fur coat over the robe and hospital gown-after patting the fur free of as many little dirt and dust clouds as possible-but she abandoned the torn and filthy navy evening gown, thankful that she would never again have to force herself into the wretched thing.

Her keys to the pharmacy were in her purse, which lay somewhere under a ton or so of rubble where the St. James lobby had been. Her plan of action had been to find a member of the hospital janitorial staff to unlock the door for her, but no need: a charwoman was at work.

She exchanged pleasantries with the charwoman, who asked, “Where’s your pup tonight, missus?”

“Home asleep,” Agatha said cheerily, “dreaming of chasing rabbits across the commons, no doubt.”

The charwoman said, “He’s a good ’un, James is!” and returned to her sweeping, without apparent notice of Agatha’s bizarre wardrobe. In a small room off the pharmacy (itself cramped quarters), Agatha went to her locker, which-despite its name-was never locked.

This was where Agatha, upon arriving to work, would hang her Burberry and change into her lab coat; but she also kept a spare blouse and skirt-should there be any unexpected spillage in the dispensary-and a pair of sensible shoes and fresh pair of stockings, black woolen, knee-high. Since she was, at the moment, barefoot, the latter items came particularly in handy.

On the top shelf of the locker were three of her author’s copies of the new Poirot novel; she kept these within reach, as now and then a co-worker or patient would talk her out of one.

A single copy of Evil Under the Sun tucked under an arm, she left the dispensary, more or less dressed-the fur coat over white blouse and dark gray skirt-and, as she had expected, light glowed behind the pebbled glass of Sir Bernard’s laboratory.