The London Blitz Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  Someone screamed—not Agatha; a woman on the street, probably Janet Cummins. Dazed, ears ringing, Agatha pulled into the corner even more, as the ceiling continued to pour down in unceremonious chunks, stirring pulverized brick and stone and mortar into cloud upon filthy cloud.

  Then—a settling….

  She took stock of herself, and her situation.

  She could not stand—a portion of the ceiling slanted across, caught against the side of the box office, forming a little room four feet by five. She was covered in the filthy aftermath of the explosion, but did not seem to be injured. Using her nurse’s knowledge, she checked herself carefully, as the caved-in lobby continued to settle itself with groans and grating.

  Perhaps her ankle was sprained.

  Nothing more seemed wrong. She’d been flung to the floor and she’d rolled to a stop, but no bones were broken and she had suffered no concussion. Breathing was difficult, with the dust-filled air, and she covered her face with a handkerchief from the pocket of her fur coat, which had itself helped cushion her fall.

  So in that sense she’d been lucky.

  She could hear voices beyond the fallen slabs and wreckage of the former lobby, but could not make them out. No air-raid siren had preceded the blast, nor was one now cutting the night—that she would hear, despite the blockage.

  If not an air raid, what could have happened?

  And then, as she knotted the handkerchief around her face like a bandit, she remembered the rubble next door that had been the lavish Willis Sale Rooms, a favorite spot of scavengers and looters. Perhaps they had made an unintended discovery: an unexploded bomb.

  That would explain her current situation.

  She glanced overhead and saw that slanting slab, the remnant of the former roof that was her current ceiling, and it seemed to be shifting, ever so slightly, creaking like the ancient hinges of a door in a haunted-house film, spitting pebbles and grit.

  Beneath the handkerchief, she smiled bitterly.

  And so it had come to this: Agatha Christie (not Mallowan), the originator of so much mayhem, caught like a mouse in a trap, waiting for the ceiling to fall in and kill her.

  What a terrible thing it was, possessing a heightened sense of irony: the only thing in all the world that truly frightened her was the thought of being buried alive. She had avoided the air-raid shelters for this very reason, staying in bed with a pillow over her face.

  Well, she had no pillow here, did she? But she would remain calm. She would not give in to this phobia. She would not become a silly hysterical old woman.

  Examining the pile of rubble before her, roughly parallel to where the street would be, she got on her hands and knees and, still in her fur coat, began to dig her way out. She had no trouble for a while, feeling good about the effort.

  But then that slab ceiling shifted and dropped and she let out a little scream.

  The wall and other debris caught the slab, preventing it from squashing her, but that “ceiling” was only a few angled inches above her head, now. She was in a coffin. Buried alive. A Poe-like death for Agatha Christie…

  Praying (not for herself, for Max and Rosalind and any grandchildren who might one day be born), she kept at it, pawing at the rubble, clearing the way of little pieces, bigger pieces, and was making progress until she reached a larger block of sideways ceiling, not unlike the slab overhead. She could not get a grip on it; and had she been able to have done, she would not have had the strength to move the thing….

  Breathing heavily under the handkerchief now, she slumped and exhaustion seductively whispered in her ear, fatigue stroking her every muscle, bone and sinew: rest. Sleep. Wait. Someone will come…

  … death, perhaps.

  And the impasse before her, the slab of ceiling, moved, as if of its own accord.

  She could hear the grunt of a manful effort being made, and then that slab slid away, and for just a moment she had a glimpse of a face—the young cadet!—and the street…

  … and then more detritus rained down and filled the opening.

  But between the two of them, Agatha and her cadet savior, the way was cleared; another slab of ceiling provided shelter from the fragments above, making a passageway, and she reached out her arms to the boy and he grasped her hands and pulled her, ever so gently and yet firmly, through the aperture.

  He helped her to her feet, saying, “Mrs. Mallowan, dear God, are you all right?”

  She hugged the cadet and smiled into those boyish handsome features and said, “I have never been better… thanks to you, young man.”

  A sudden lurching sound behind them, a crunching and crashing of shifting wreckage, drew their immediate startled attention: the passageway through which Agatha had escaped no longer existed.

  But she did.

  She touched the boy’s cheek and whispered, “Thank you, my dear.”

  He lowered his eyes, chagrined. “My motive was selfish—I couldn’t abide the thought of this world without your books.”

  The street was filled now, with spectators and constables and a banshee scream that was not an air-raid siren, rather the announcement of the impending arrival of firemen.

  Janet Cummins was fussing over the rescued writer, and helping Agatha brush herself off; there was something comical, farcical about standing in a fur coat and evening gown, layered with powdery filth. The air out here was breathable, but also suffused with a dirty haze; the voices of the constables were raised, attempting to secure order.

  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.

  TEN

  SUITABLE FOR FRAMING

  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.

  She peeked in to the specimen-lined, bottle-and-beaker-flung cubbyhole. “Working all hours again?”

  Looking very much like Sherlock Holmes, Sir Bernard, in his lab coat, sat perched on a stool at the counter with a microscope before him; but in one hand was a big-eyed Halloween-worthy gas mask, which he was examining through a magnifying glass held in the other.

  He looked up sharply and his words were edged as well. “Whatever are you doing out of bed, young lady? I was just about to come down and check on your status.”

  She moved to his side; a small pile of what appeared to be sand rested on a slide that had as yet to be slid under the microscope. “I have a clean bill of health, I’ll have you know…. I was hoping for a ride home, but you look to be in the midst of things. What do you have there?”

  He held up the bug-eyed mask. “Inspector Greeno had it delivered around—it’s a gas respirator, part of an RAF kit. A man who may be our Ripper dropped it when a potential victim proved uncooperative.”

  Another black mark against the boy; could young Cummins be so careless, so stupid? She began to wonder if this accumulation of clues was too good to be true—was there a possibility the cadet could have been fitted for a frame?

  Frowning, she asked, “When did this happen?”

  “Last night, I believe. That is, Thursday night. It is now technically Saturday.” Having delivered this typically precise pronouncement, the pathologist held the magnifying glass over the surface of the mask for her to look; she did so and saw nothing of note.

  But the pathologist did: “I’ve found something most interesting on the fabric.”

  “And what would that be?” she asked, since he seemed to want her to do so.

  “Sand! I’m about to compare it to sand and mortar fragments taken from the air-raid shelter where the Hamilton woman’s body was discovered.”

  She frowned thoughtfully. “Can that gas mask be traced?”

  “Most certainly—there’s an Air Force number stamped inside. I spoke to the inspector… he’s working ’round the clock, it seems… and he’s getting in contact with your friend Glanville, to put the number with a name.”

  She risked a smile. “Playing with sand is a far cry from performing autopsies, Bernard.”

  “Agatha, forensics only begins with medicine. Science is science…. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Always.”

  “Why don’t you borrow my Armstrong-Siddeley? I can take the train home, when the time comes.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I hope it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition….”

  “Nonsense.” Then he looked at her. “This assumes you are in a condition to drive.” He arched an eyebrow and only one who knew him well could have detected the trace of a smile. “I would hate for anything to happen
to my Armstrong-Siddeley.”

  She grinned her most unguarded, horsey grin. “I know, Bernard. You’re so careful with it.” She gestured elaborately to herself. “No concussions, no broken bones. Tiny sprain—my left ankle. Otherwise I’m fine.”

  “And you would like to go home and get some rest in your own bed? Understandable.”

  She left with the keys to Sir Bernard’s automobile, the great man wholly unaware that she had entered his lab with that very intention.

  Agatha prided herself a lay master of psychology. She felt certain her friend would have come to the hospital in order to keep an eye on her, and would pass the time by going to work on something or other in his laboratory.

  And once Sir Bernard had become involved with his work, he would be loath to leave it, not even to give his ailing friend a ride home from the hospital….

  Agatha had her own agenda, and driving to Hampstead to the Lawn Road Flats to curl up in bed was not first on that list.

  It should have been: this she knew. Now that the gas mask had turned up, with its identifiable service number, the guilt or innocence of Cadet Cummins would soon be ascertained by Inspector Greeno and his minions. No need for any further involvement on her part; she was a civilian observer who, common sense would say, needed to retreat to the sidelines, and promptly.

  Later she would reflect upon the events, and wonder if she would have behaved so recklessly, had the earlier brush with death not taken place. For now, she merely moved forward following her intentions.

  St. John’s Wood had changed, since the time she and her first husband had lived there. In 1918, when Agatha and Archie had first moved to London, the district had been one of big old-fashioned houses with large gardens. Now the area had been invaded by large blocks of drearily modern flats, taking the place of many of those homes, particularly the smaller ones.

  The address Cummins had given Agatha took her to Viceroy Court, between Edgmont and Townshend Streets, a particularly large example of the lusterless modern buildings that had invaded the district, a seven-story structure faced with yellow brick. Requisitioned for billets by the RAF, the building could not have dated back more than a few years and had a cold institutional quality that displeased Agatha.