The London Blitz Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  Agatha hoped she was not making an unfair assumption by taking this young woman for another “working girl.”

  “I… I believe I’ve composed myself, Inspector. I could answer your questions now, I think.”

  The inspector glanced at Agatha. “This is Ivy Poole, Mrs. Mallowan. Miss Oatley’s friend and neighbor.”

  Ivy Poole, her dark brown eyes huge, said, “Actually, Inspector, Evelyn is a missus. Was a missus. Mrs. Oatley, she was. I’m a miss. Miss Poole.”

  The inspector wrote that down in a small notebook. Agatha removed the small spiral notebook from her topcoat pocket and began making her own minutes of the proceedings.

  Miss Poole remained poised in her open doorway, leaning against the jamb; there was something sexual about the pose, and whether this was innate in the woman’s nature or perhaps reflected her profession or was a method of trying to get on the inspector’s good side, Agatha could not venture.

  “And who might you be, dearie?” Miss Poole asked Agatha, with a frown.

  The inspector answered for her: “This is my secretary. We both take notes, and compare them later. That’s standard police procedure, Miss Poole…. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, since I’m sure you’ve never had any run-ins with the law.”

  “I haven’t, at that,” she said. She had a pretty mouth but her teeth were crooked, up and down. “Got a fag?”

  The inspector provided her with a cigarette and lighted it up for her.

  Agatha wondered if the young apparent prostitute would be quite so casual if she could share the view that the mystery writer had: the mutilated corpse of the prostitute next door.

  “Was Evelyn a working girl?” the inspector asked.

  “Who am I to say? I have a job in a restaurant.”

  “Which restaurant?”

  “Well, I used to have, I’m between engagements. But Evie, she used to go out in the evenings, so draw your own conclusions.”

  “Her husband doesn’t live with her?”

  “No. They’re separated. Bill’s his name, I think. He’s a salesman, working up north someplace.”

  “And she would go out in the evenings?”

  “Yeah. She lost her job at the Windmill. I guess she got too fat for ’em. These Yanks likes ’em skinny. Anyway, she’d come back about eleven p.m., sometimes with a man. You know—after the public houses shut.”

  “What about last night?”

  Miss Poole blew out smoke through her nostrils, like a dragon. “I weren’t her baby-sitter.”

  “What did you see, Miss Poole?”

  “Not a bleedin’ thing.”

  “What did you hear, then?”

  “Well… maybe I did see something, at that.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Last night I thought I’d wash my hair before I went to bed.” She put her free hand in her tousle of dark curls, and gave the inspector the least convincing demure smile Agatha had ever seen. “I come out on the landing, see, to fill the kettle in the loo. While I was out here, here comes Evie, up the stairs with a man. They went into her room.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I didn’t set my clock by it.”

  “Take your best guess, Miss Poole.”

  “Eleven-fifteen, p’haps?”

  “Can you describe the man?”

  “There’s just the one light. It’s terrible dark out here.”

  “What did you see, Miss Poole?”

  She shrugged, exhaled smoke. “You won’t involve me in this, Inspector, will you? There’s a good bloke.”

  “Miss Poole, you are involved. The woman who lives next door to you was murdered. You may have seen the man who did it. Wouldn’t it behoove you to have that ‘bloke’ picked up and put away?”

  She frowned. “You should hang the bleedin’ bastard, is my opinion.”

  “And mine. Help me do that.”

  “Well…. He was a civilian. Medium height. Wearing a light-blue overcoat. Gray trousers. Tan shoes. No hat. That’s all I can remember.”

  “You’re doing fine, Miss Poole. What about his face?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t get a good look at that. Not much light out here, as I was sayin’.”

  “Well, you certainly took notice of his clothes.”

  “Well, Guv, that’s how a girl sizes up a man, ain’t it?”

  “All right. What happened then?”

  She shrugged again, sighing smoke. “I stayed up till midnight, maybe a quarter after, give or take a tick. I have a little fireplace—I was sitting in front of the warm, brushing my hair, drying it….” Another coquettish look at the inspector. “A girl has to look her best in these times, you know.”

  “What else, Miss Poole?”

  “Well, I could hear Evie’s radio going, next door. She did that sometimes, turned it way up, when she had gentleman guests. It’s a way of… making so’s I couldn’t hear what went on over there. Only a thin partition-like, between rooms, you know. But I have a bigger place than Evie’s, Inspector; bedroom’s separate from the other room. You can come have a look, if you like….”

  “Maybe later. Go on, please.”

  “Well. I went into my bedroom about twelve-fifteen, twelve-thirty. Can’t hear the radio in there.”

  “Did you hear anyone leave the flat?”

  “No. But even if she did, or he did, I wouldn’t be able to hear it from my bedroom. I always shut my bedroom door, Inspector… and bolt it. Girl doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

  No, Agatha thought, her eyes going to the open doorway framing the slain woman next door on the divan, a girl doesn’t….

  “And anyway,” Miss Poole said. “A girl’s got to be careful around here…. Anything else, Inspector?”

  “Not right now, thank you.”

  “Care for a cuppa? Hard-working public servant that you are?”

  “No thank you.”

  She flashed him another fetching smile—perhaps just out of habit—and then the door shut and the inspector and Agatha were alone on the landing.

  “Do you suspect the husband?” Agatha asked.

  “Always…. We’ll track him down.”

  Sir Bernard stepped into the hall, his rubber-gloved hands folded before him. “There is evidence we need to catalogue and collect, Inspector.”

  “What’s your impression so far, Doctor?”

  “My unofficial view, prior to autopsy?”

  “Of course.”

  “She was partly strangled… but not enough to kill her. Whilst she was either semi-conscious or unconscious, the assailant cut her throat with a razor blade…. It’s on the bed.”

  “That’s what killed her?”

  “Almost certainly. The mutilations were postmortem: twelve stab wounds with the point of a tin-opener… also on the bed… and five more with a set of curling tongs… on the bed, as well.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Judging by the condition of the body, I place the killing between midnight and two this morning.”

  Agatha jotted this information in her notebook, then queried, “Before you begin to collect the evidence, the weapons, might I step inside the flat? I’d like to have a look. I’ll take care.”

  The inspector and the pathologist exchanged prolonged glances; Sir Bernard nodded and Inspector Greeno said, “By all means, Mrs. Mallowan. But are you sure you wish to subject yourself to—”

  “I am sure that I do.”

  Agatha entered the flat with the same reverence she would take with her into a chapel. This young woman, prostitute or not, was an innocent whose life had been savagely taken; the victim’s terror, her pain, the final merciful unconsciousness… these Agatha sensed in the small, terrible, mundane space.

  A cupboard had been broken into. A handbag and its scattered contents—including a wallet obviously emptied of its money—lay on a settee.

  The victim herself was sprawled on the divan bed, her head hanging over one side, a leg draped down over the other. Blood spattered the she
er nightgown; the naked flesh was very white. Agatha avoided the five-foot black pool. She noted the bloodstained can-opener on the bed, the bloody safety razor blade and the bloodstained pair of curling tongs.

  And she looked at the face of the dead woman…

  … and a hand involuntarily came, fingers curled, to the writer’s agape mouth.

  Collecting herself, Agatha exited quickly but carefully, and she took the inspector by the sleeve. The gesture caught him by surprise and he looked sharply at her.

  “I know her,” Agatha said.

  “What?”

  Sir Bernard’s attention was on their guest, as well.

  “Evelyn Oatley must be her real name,” Agatha said, almost distractedly.

  “Real name?” the inspector parroted.

  “She had another,” Agatha said, and glanced toward the dead woman. “Funny—she needn’t have taken that client up to her flat last night…. Excuse me.”

  And Agatha went quickly down the street and out into the bracing air, where she drew in deep breaths, exhaling plumes.

  Emerging behind her from the stairwell door, Inspector Greeno said, almost irritably, “Mrs. Mallowan, what are you saying?”

  Without really knowing where she was going, Agatha clip-clopped down the street with the inspector tagging after. She ducked into a small cafe and ordered coffee while the perplexed if intrigued inspector took a seat across from her at a little table.

  Finally Agatha cast her gaze upon him, and, smiling a little, albeit in a most melancholy manner, said, “She landed an understudy role just yesterday—she’d have been informed today. I saw her try out at the St. James Theatre, afternoon last… where she used the stage name Nita Ward.”

  FIVE

  PRIVACY IN A PUBLIC HOUSE

  AGATHA HERSELF MADE THE SUGGESTION that those who’d witnessed Nita Ward’s audition yesterday afternoon be interviewed today.

  “I do not see them as suspects,” Agatha told Inspector Greeno, as the pair sat in the tiny cafe, having coffee and tea respectively. She felt strangely self-conscious using the term “suspects” outside of the pages of fiction. “But at least one of my colleagues knew the poor girl prior to the audition, and the rest had direct contact with her.”

  “I’d like you to accompany me,” the inspector said.

  “I’m not sure that’s wise—would my friends be as frank in front of me?”

  Inspector Greeno twitched a humorless half-smile. “That’s a good point, Mrs. Mallowan.”

  “I do wish you’d call me Agatha.”

  The grin had warmth and width that turned the bulldog face into something attractive. “Agatha it is—if you’ll do me the honor of calling me Ted.”

  “Ted… what a wonderful designation… or should I say ‘moniker,’ out of respect for your trade? Such a cheery name for a homicide detective.”

  The inspector leaned forward, eyes narrow. “Here’s my view of it—initially, they’ll loosen up around you. Your presence will be a kind of reassuring factor. Then, after each interview, we’ll exchange notes, so to speak….”

  She nodded. “I believe I understand. If at some point, my presence turns from comforting to inhibiting…”

  “Then I’ll question them again, at a later date, on my own. Rather more officially.”

  “These interviews, then, will be conducted unofficially. Informally.”

  “Absolutely, Agatha.” He grinned again, though warmth wasn’t part of it, this time. “We don’t really think one of your theater people is the new Jack the Ripper, do we?”

  “We don’t. Particularly not the ladies.”

  Inspector Greeno raised an eyebrow. “Well, one never knows.”

  She frowned at him, curiously. “Aren’t these sexually motivated murders?”

  “Not necessarily. In all three, robbery has been at least a partial purpose—the previous victim gave up some eighty pounds to her slayer.”

  Agatha kept pressing. “But the savagery of the mutilation, in the region of Miss Ward’s sexual organs…”

  “A jealous woman could easily accomplish such a task.”

  The mystery writer’s eyes flared. “I don’t know about ‘easily’…. What does Sir Bernard say about signs of sexual assault?”

  “The first victim showed signs of sexual activity, but not the bruising and such usually associated with rape…. May I speak this frankly, Agatha?”

  “You may. I will be insulted if you do not.”

  He waved a waitress over to request another cup of tea, and, once the girl had been dispatched, he said, “We have three victims, all female. The second one, our air-raid shelter schoolteacher, did not show signs of having had recent sexual activity. My guess is that Sir Bernard’s examination of Miss Ward… Mrs. Oatley… will show that she did.”

  Agatha was nodding again, very slowly now. “I believe I follow you, Inspector.”

  “Ted.”

  “… Ted. The first and third of the women, by the nature of their professions, would have had sexual intercourse, recently. Quite apart from the crime committed upon them.”

  The inspector also was nodding. “My best guess would be that our Ripper had ‘normal’ relations with victims one and three, after which—perhaps seized with some unnatural rage against women—he strangled them.”

  Could this be, Agatha wondered, an individual who—upon sexual climax—felt guilt, or even revulsion? A sense of uncleanness… either about himself, or his paid partner, that sent him into a misogynistic fury?

  She said, “Then you do think this is the work of a man.”

  “Most likely. But remember, Agatha—one theory about the original, Whitechapel Ripper, never disproven, is that ‘Jack’ was a ‘Jill.’ ”

  Agatha found herself smiling. “Jill the Ripper? Isn’t that absurd on its face?”

  “Not really. The medical skills displayed by the turn-of-the-century Ripper were consistent with those of a midwife.”

  “From what I saw,” Agatha said, and allowed herself a shudder, “our current Ripper, whether Jack or Jill, has no discernible surgical skills.”

  “I would have to agree. One does wonder… why has the killer escalated into mutilation? That is, if we are indeed looking at the same offender.”

  Agatha raised her eyebrows knowingly and sipped her coffee.

  The inspector again leaned forward. “If you’re thinking something, Agatha, please share it. I wouldn’t be sitting here conversing with you in the midst of a murder case if I didn’t take your contribution seriously.”

  “You’re too kind… but I’m afraid my own prejudices would show through all too clearly, if I were to express this particular opinion.”

  “I’ll take that into account.”

  Now Agatha leaned forward. “What has changed since the first two murders?”

  “This one is more barbaric—”

  “No. I didn’t state myself clearly. What has changed between the first two murders and the commission of this third atrocity?”

  The inspector frowned, then shook his head. “Nothing comes to my mind. What comes to yours?”

  “The newspapers. Specifically, the tabloids.”

  The inspector’s eyes flared. “Crikey! You’re right. The press dubbed our boy a new ‘Ripper.’ ”

  “And how does our Ripper respond to this attention? He… or, giving you the benefit of the doubt, Ted, she… decided to live up to the title the press bestowed.”

  The bulldog face paled. “Surely that can’t be…. The killer showed hatred of women in the first two killings, and he’s merely getting bolder, and escalating out of his own mania… not spurred on by his press clippings.”

  Agatha shrugged. “It has been my observation that a certain breed of wrongdoer enjoys the limelight. No doubt this string of murders is the first ‘important’ thing this unfortunate individual has ever managed to do.”

  “Unfortunate?” His brow was heavily ridged with displeased surprise. “Surely, Agatha, you’re not one of the
‘reforming’ breed, who think villains are pooooor victims of their heredity and environment… ?”

  She took another sip; the coffee was wonderfully bitter. “I’m willing to believe that the likes of our Ripper are ‘made’ that way… born with a kind of disability, as if coming into this world blind.”

  “That hardly justifies—”

  “One should pity them,” she said, interrupting (something she seldom did, but the views she held on this subject were strong within her). “But not spare them.”

  He chuckled; the ridged forehead smoothed itself out. “Well, hearing that from you is a relief. Because if ever a villain needed to swing, this one does.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not against hanging. What else can we do with those who are tainted with hatred and ruthlessness? For whom other people’s lives go for nothing?”

  “Mrs. Mallowan… Mrs. Christie. You are not what I expected.”

  “Have you read Milton, Inspector?”

  “As a schoolboy.”

  “How well do you remember it?”

  “As well as the next bloke, I’d say.”

  “Satan wanted to be great, do you recall? He wanted power—he wanted to be God. He had no love in him, no… humility. He chose evil.”

  The inspector was shaking his head again. “Difficult to believe that the newspapers themselves, by glorifying the likes of a Ripper, could somehow encourage him….”

  “It’s a pity the papers save their bad reviews for artists, and reserve their rave reviews for criminals.”

  That amused the inspector, who finished his tea and requested that Agatha give him the names of—and any insights she might have into—each of the individuals they would be interviewing this afternoon. She did this, and he dutifully jotted notes.

  A dress rehearsal of her new play was scheduled for two p.m. at the St. James, and Agatha felt confident that the inspector’s interviews with the appropriate parties—producer Bertram Morris, director Irene Helier Morris, dialogue coach Francis L. Sullivan, and the producer’s secretary, Janet Cummins—could be squeezed in around the proceedings. This left only Stephen Glanville and Janet’s RAF pilot husband, who would not be at the theater for an interview.