The London Blitz Murders - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,59
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