The London Blitz Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,26

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.