The London Blitz Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,34
astray.”
Agatha sat up. “Whatever do you mean!”
Stephen chuckled. “She’s undoubtedly portrayed me as some overaged Casanova, constantly in pursuit of one romantic conquest after another.”
Frowning, the inspector said, “She’s done nothing of the kind….”
“Oh, I don’t mean to get your dander up, Inspector… or yours, for that matter, Agatha. But I am a married man, and I have had a few ill-advised affairs.”
Agatha rose. “Why don’t I step into the library, while you and Inspector Greeno continue…”
“Nonsense,” Stephen said, waving for her to sit back down, which she did. “I’m not going to embarrass anyone but myself… and I have a rather high embarrassment threshold, as you may have noticed.”
“I simply asked,” the inspector said, “if you had known Nita Ward.”
“And my point,” the handsome professor replied, “is that my occasional peccadilloes notwithstanding, I do not necessarily know every shop girl, chorine and streetwalker in the city of London…. No, I saw Miss Ward only once, when she auditioned yesterday. And barely took note of that.”
“And yesterday evening—”
“I was in my flat, reading up on the Eleventh Dynasty. Agatha, if you will take the time to read the Henanakhte Papers, I just know you’ll come around.”
The inspector flashed a look at Agatha, who sighed and said, “Stephen is twisting my arm about writing a mystery set in ancient Egypt.”
Brightly, Stephen said, “It’s a dreadful alibi, I know, Inspector. I was alone. The Windmill chorus line wasn’t available for a private function, last night, I’m afraid.”
The Inspector tried to sit straight up, but the comfortable armchair worked against him. “Sir, this is a serious matter. I can’t say I appreciate the frivolity of your attitude.”
Stephen’s smile faded. “I do apologize. I’ve had a long day, and—meaning no disrespect at all to the late Miss Ward—have been dealing with life and death matters relating to the war, and our young men who are so gravely at risk. That you would drag me into this, simply because of my ‘reputation,’ is the height of absurdity, and rather than be insulted about it, I decided to be amused.”
The inspector, who’d also had a long day, rose and nodded. “Point taken…. Did you have an opportunity to inquire about Cadet Cummins?”
Stephen rose. He withdrew a small folded piece of paper from his suitcoat’s inner pocket. “Here’s the address of Cummins’s billet, and the names of various superior officers. You might catch him tonight—he’s on fire picket.”
“His wife said as much. I’ll do that.”
Agatha had also risen. She stood between the two men, and placed a hand on their nearest arms, rather like a benign referee.
“I believe I’ll allow you to make that call by yourself, Inspector,” she said. “I’ve had quite enough detecting for one day, I’m afraid.”
“Understood, Mrs. Mallowan.”
Suddenly playing host, Stephen said, “I’ll see Inspector Greeno to his car, my dear,” and took the man by the elbow and walked him to the door and outside.
Poised in the doorway, she watched as—beyond the breast-high brick pillars bookending the wrought-iron gate—a quite serious Stephen Glanville conversed with Inspector Greeno, whose demeanor was equally somber, though this was a respectful exchange, not an argument.
When the inspector had driven off in his Austin, Stephen returned to the porch.
“Your behavior,” she said, “was quite despicable.”
“I had nothing to guide me—I’ve never been a murder suspect before.”
She could see in his face the wear and tear of his current life—the pressures of Whitehall, the complications of life away from his family—and knew how false the levity had been.
Suddenly she knew what he’d been speaking to Greeno about: once again, doubtless, Stephen had been pleading the case against Agatha’s involvement in this investigation.
“You are worried about me, aren’t you?” she said, and touched his sleeve.
A devilish half-smile flashed. “Careful—remember what a rogue I am with the ladies…. Shall we dine at the Lawn Flats restaurant, my dear? The off-the-rations special is baked cod and parsnip balls.”
She winced. “Hitler’s secret weapon,” she said.
But she got her coat and went with him.
FEBRUARY 11, 1942
AND SO, JOINING THE GLOOM-DRIVEN hazards of the blackout, among the other strains and inconveniences of wartime, came this new and yet all too familiar terror.
The press, the tabloids in particular, seemed to take bloodthirsty relish in having so traditional and homegrown a menace to share with their readers; it was as if the yellow journalists were relieved to be able to interrupt the continuing chronicle of international woe—Singapore falling, Rommel’s Afrika Corps advancing again in the Western Desert—with good old-fashioned British blood lust.
Any respectable women—forced to walk