The London Blitz Murders

THREE





TEN LITTLE ACTRESSES





THE ST. JAMES THEATRE, ON King Street, was its usual majestic self, though the building next door, Willis Sale Rooms, was in a sorry state. This noted home of public dinners, meetings and cotillions had been severely damaged in the 1940 air raids; the sumptuous site, with its spacious supper room with gallery and ballroom, still tempted after-hours looters. The St. James was nonetheless structurally sound, despite its shambles of a next-door neighbor; and the pub on the other side of the theater, the Golden Lion, remained healthy, even if Christie’s Auction House, across the way, was vacant due to bombing, as well. That the theater district resembled a war zone… in fact, was a war zone… did not deter the production of another Christie work.

Right now the St. James bore a massive angled marquee adorned with both the author’s name and that of the new play—a controversial title, it would seem… much to Agatha Christie Mallowan’s chagrined annoyance.

After all, what on earth could be more innocent than a nursery rhyme? She enjoyed the irony of using a children’s chant in an adult tale of murder—some time ago she’d done a short story called “Sing a Song of Sixpence,” and was even now noodling with a plot for a Poirot to be called Five Little Pigs. That anyone might take offense at a play named after an old English counting rhyme—in which ten little boys, one by one, disappear—seemed utterly absurd to Agatha.

She had been forced to change the title to Ten Little Indians for publication of the source novel and production of the play in the United States, where the final word of her own title was considered offensive to the Negro race—so much so, that the movie the Americans were planning was to be christened with the last line of the rhyme-in-question: And Then There Were None. Apparently, dating all the way back to their Civil War, in America the term “nigger” referred exclusively, and in a derogatory fashion, to Negroes (whereas in England, of course, it might refer to any member of any darker-skinned race).

Surprisingly, according to her producer, there had even been complaints here at home. These related to the large influx of American Negro soldiers, who suffered prejudicial treatment from their own fellow soldiers, the white ones, that is.

Londoners like Agatha found this confusing and disturbing, and minor scandals had erupted all over town as restaurants catering to the well-moneyed American soldiers refused service not only to Negro soldiers but coloured Britons as well. Shockingly, Learie Constantine, the renowned West Indian cricketeer, had been turned away from the Imperial Hotel because American guests had threatened to cancel their reservations.

These Americans were strange ducks—fighting a war against Hitler and his Master Race and his concentration-camp hatred of the Jews, and yet displaying a deep-seated hateful bigotry both primitive and tasteless.

Of course, some considered Agatha herself tasteless, in her insistence that her nursery-rhyme title remain; her view: the rhyme was innocent and so was her use of it, free of the hatefulness the Americans read into mere words. She meant no offense and would not be responsible if offense was taken.

Still, Agatha had capitulated about her title where the American market was concerned; but this was England, and her title would stand (besides, the American “Indian” title seemed to refer to a stateside counting rhyme of banal simplicity… one little, two little, three little Indians… ugh!).

But these were strange times, indeed. That a play should be mounted in Blitz-torn London would have been unthinkable, just two years ago. At first there had been a ban on entertainment; soon, for purposes of morale, the ban was lifted. Younger actors could even seek dispensation from military service, providing they were not out of work for more than two weeks at a time. Few took advantage of this, however—such stars as Lawrence Olivier and Ralph Richardson had answered the call, and set a fine example.

Only at the height of the bombings did the theaters close, and the cinemas never did. And by the end of last year, twenty-four West End theaters were again flourishing. True, the fare tended to be light—revues, revivals, and comedies like the American imports The Man Who Came to Dinner and Arsenic and Old Lace, and Noel Coward’s wonderful Blithe Spirit.

She hoped a murder thriller—one with darkly comic overtones—could find audiences willing to suspend their disbelief in these dark times.

And the moment did seem right for Agatha to get back in the theatrical swing. She adored the theater—going to it, and writing for it; she treasured the respect the playwright was given, and loved being around the larger-than-life characters who flocked to the bright lights of the West End.

Theater was a bug she had caught back in the early twenties, when her sister Madge’s play, The Claimant, was produced in London, and Agatha had attended rehearsals with Madge, thoroughly enjoying this glimpse at the theatrical life. As her work at the hospital allowed, Agatha had attended rehearsals of this new play—she would not admit it to a living soul, but hearing her words spoken aloud, seeing her story brought to life, thrilled her in a way that quite outdistanced the printed page.

And she much preferred adapting her own work to the stage, rather than leaving it to someone else. The compromises that had been required to bring The Murder of Roger Ackroyd to the stage (as Alibi in 1928) troubled her even now—namely, the spinster village gossip who had been youthened into a love interest… for the elderly Poirot, no less!

And yet, for one who had loved attending plays since childhood—to this day she would seek out the scores of musicals she’d seen, to play the tunes on the piano—seeing her “baby” on the boards, even in bastardized form, had been thrilling. The next time, she had written the play herself, so when, about a year ago, Reginald Simpson—who had produced Alibi—inquired into theatrical rights to her nursery-rhyme novel, Agatha had straightened her spine and said, “If anyone is to dramatize it, I’ll have a shot at it first.”

The play had turned out remarkably well, particularly considering the difficulties of the original ending. In the novel, ten people from various walks of life—all guilty of (and unpunished for) a murder—are invited under false pretenses to an island mansion… where one by one, a vengeful murderer among them strikes them down.

She had come up with a new ending that she feared was a cheat, but which everyone assured her was ingenious; and in rehearsal the finale did seem to play very well indeed.

Of course, there was another reason Agatha had turned to writing a new play—a frankly monetary one. Because of wartime restrictions on paper, her publisher was printing only a limited number of copies of her new novels, and she was being encouraged to restrict her literary output somewhat, as well.

This came at a particularly bad moment, because her American royalties were being held up, due to the war, while at the same time, the British government was insisting she pay taxes on those as yet unreceived American funds. Her attorneys were fighting for her—over what seemed clearly, even absurdly a taxation injustice—but at present the threat remained: her income was diminishing while her tax responsibilities soared.

Jumping back into the theatrical soup was a pleasant enough way to generate some earnings. During the Blitz period—at least when the bombs weren’t dropping—the theater was a respite of escape for many Londoners like Agatha, whose letters to her husband, overseas in the Middle East, were filled with reports of new plays, even down to comparing her own opinions with extracts from critics.

And now the first night of her controversially titled new play was only a few days away. At the moment she was seated in the stalls of the St. James Theatre, rather near the front, with the director—Irene Helier—on one side of her, and Irene’s husband, Bertram Morris, the producer, on the other.

A spiral notebook (containing the script and various other materials) open and in her lap, Irene was a strikingly beautiful woman of forty, with dark blue eyes and a pale perfect complexion, formerly an actress herself, whose minimal makeup, short dark hair, and mannish tan blouse and darker brown pants provided a military demeanor clearly designed to keep her femininity at bay while she took command of this little theatrical army.

Her husband, Bertram, was a short, bald, rather round man who had made a star of Irene twenty years ago and a director of her this year. A dapper dresser, Bertram was attired in a dark brown suit with yellow shirt and golden tie; his attire was always so handsome, Agatha felt, one could almost mistake him for handsome.

Almost.

After all, his features were those of a leading man, albeit condemned to that round face. He was a frog who had been kissed back into a prince, only to have the transformation stall, halfway.

The theater’s lights were up, and the bare stage was well illuminated, as well. The naked shabbiness of the undressed stage made a marked contrast with the dignified elegance of the theater itself—dark wood paneling and rounded pillars and arched proscenium around which carved angels flew.

On the other hand, Agatha knew, theater was illusion, and under the seats of this elegant showcase could no doubt be found the hard-crusted corpses of abandoned chewing gum.

Speaking of which, the actress currently on stage, script in hand, was removing hers, delicately, a little embarrassed about it, as a stagehand scurried out to provide a napkin for the gum’s disposal. The stagehand rushed off, like a member of the Unexploded Bomb detail looking for a bucket of water into which to drop an explosive device.

“So sorry,” the actress said, in an alto that had a nice quality, to Agatha’s ears. Chewing gum or not, the young woman possessed a voice with a dignified, even upper-class lilt; of course, she was an actress. Take Bertie, for example—he sounded as if he might have attended Oxford, whereas his father was a Whitechapel butcher, and the school the producer had graduated from was Hard Knocks.

The actress was not young—thirty-odd, Agatha should say—but she was quite attractive, a bright-eyed brunette with a heart-shaped face, Kewpie-doll red-rouged lips and a curvy shape that asserted itself despite a restrained wardrobe: dark gray suit jacket over off-white blouse, lighter gray skirt, brown “tanned” legs (that liquid stockings stuff, Agatha thought).

Standing next to her, making the five-foot-five woman look exceedingly small, was actor Francis L. Sullivan, who (like the young woman) had folded-open script in hand. The rather beefy actor stood a good six feet two, double-chinned and hooded-eyed, not unpleasant-looking, but no leading man.

Larry Sullivan had been the original Poirot in Alibi and had repeated the role in the recent Peril at End House. (Why on earth, Agatha wondered, did producers insist on casting these ponderous overweight figures as her tiny Belgian detective? Charles Laughton’s size in Black Coffee had been exceeded only by his overacting.) Sullivan was not appearing in the current production—Poirot was not a character in this one—and had been called in as a dialogue coach at the last moment.

The female understudy—who would substitute for the crucial roles of Vera and Mrs. Brent—had vacated her duties last week, when she landed a better role in a revue. In normal times, this might have ended up with the understudy finding herself blacklisted in the West End; but everyone knew the difficulties of assembling a qualified cast in wartime.

In particular, good actors were hard to come by—those men who preferred not to go into uniform were required to go out on one or two tours a year for ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association). And pretty young actresses were much in demand for revues; among the many wartime shortages in London was an undersupply of chorus girls.

Irene’s strong voice—a contralto—came from next to Agatha and echoed through the theater. “Your name, please,” she intoned, the voice of a female God.

Despite this, on the stage, the young woman seemed quite at ease. “Nita Ward,” she said.

On the other side of Agatha, Bertie boomed: “Ah, yes, Miss Ward! So glad you could come.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” Miss Ward said.

Bertie sat forward and spoke to his wife in a whisper. “Take a look at her resume, dear. She has impressive credits.”

Irene glanced sharply at her husband. “Is that what you call them?… Did you invite this one?”

“Well…”

“Is this another of your discoveries, Bertram?”

“Darling… she’s qualified. Please do look at her vita.”

Another sharp look from Irene. “Why should I?… You seem to have examined Nita’s… vita, already.”

Agatha felt that she had suddenly become the net in a tennis match. A grudge match, at that.

A notion, the cattiness of which was worthy of Jane Marple herself, flashed through Agatha’s mind: Perhaps Irene was doomed to such jealousies, since she better than anyone knew how an actress could get ahead in the theatrical world, particularly with this producer….

“You can be impossible, sometimes,” Bertie said, and rose, and shuffled out of the aisle to take a seat elsewhere, nearer to the stage… and to his latest discovery?

Irene, coldly professional, called out, “If you would take it from Act Three, Scene Two…. Larry, you’ll read both Blore and Lombard.”

The young woman was nothing special, but she had a lively quality and did not trip over the words. She was the seventh woman they’d heard read for the understudy part this afternoon, and by some distance the best.

“Her age is about right,” Agatha ventured in a whisper to Irene.

“She’s not bad,” Irene admitted. “She’s a bit short.”

“Oh, I think that’s just Larry. He’s a towering beast, our Larry.”

Irene laughed a little. “Yes… he wouldn’t have been bad as the judge.”

“You have a splendid judge. Larry can be a bit…”

“Bombastic,” Irene said.

“Indeed…. Lovely man, though.”

“Thank you!” Irene called out to the scene. “If you’ll hold up, just a moment, please….” The director looked behind her. “Janet!”

Janet Cummins, an attractive brunette in dark-rimmed glasses, rose from her aisle seat a few rows back and came down to meet Irene. Janet was Bertie’s secretary, but that understated her role: she was a trusted assistant to both Irene and Bertie.

Odd, Agatha observed, that Irene had no jealousy over Janet, who was a fetching, busty, blue-eyed woman in her later twenties, business-like in a navy suit with white blouse.

“Yes, Miss Helier?” Janet asked, dutifully half-kneeling in the aisle, clipboard in hand.

“How many more?”

“We only have three more to see.”

Irene was studying the stage where a friendly Miss Ward and a smiling Larry were conversing softly, pleasantly. “She really isn’t terrible…. I’m going to read her some more.”

Janet nodded, and then looked over at Agatha and whispered across Irene, “Could I have a word, Mrs. Mallowan?”

Agatha said, “Certainly, my dear.”

Faintly irritated, Irene said to the assistant, “Come around and do it, then.”

Janet crossed the row of seats behind them and entered from the aisle, sidling over, and was about to take the seat Bertie had vacated when Agatha rose and met her halfway, to put a few seats between them and Irene.

They sat.

Janet’s eyes were tight behind the lenses. “Mrs. Mallowan, I hate to bother you… I know how you feel about having a fuss made….”

“Go on, my dear.”

Janet seemed hesitant, even nervous, and was searching for words.

Gently Agatha prodded, “What is it, dear? I don’t bite.”

Janet’s smile was embarrassed. “You’ve heard me mention Gordon….”

“Gordon?”

“My husband.”

“Ah! The RAF pilot. Your brave young hero!”

“Well… I think he will be a hero, one day soon. He’s learning to fly Spitfires, right now…. Anyway, he’s such an enormous fan of yours. He’s simply reading your books day and night, just devouring them, and, well, I wondered if you would mind saying hello to him. For me.”

“Why, not at all! Shall we send him a signed book? Where is he stationed, dear?”

“Right here in London. Or that is, out at St. John’s Wood.”

“Oh, how lovely for you to have your man in the military so close by. Are you able to live together?”

“No, unfortunately. He’s billeted near the station. But we see each other frequently.”

Agatha gestured with open palms. “Well, why don’t you invite him down to the theater, some afternoon, if he can get away from his duties? Or perhaps he could come to our opening night, on Friday.”

Janet’s embarrassed smile curdled into mortification. “Actually, I took the liberty… I talked to your friend…. Oh my.”

“Please, Janet. You’re making me out to be an absolute ogre. What is it?”

“Well… he’s here now. Gordon’s here.”

Janet swiveled in her seat and indicated the back of the theater.

There, just inside the lobby, semi-silhouetted by mote-flecked sunlight, stood a young man in RAF blues, cap in both hands figleafed before him, a broad-shouldered sturdy five nine or ten, a boyishly handsome specimen of Britain’s military who might have stepped right off a recruiting poster.

Agatha touched Janet’s hand. “By all means, dear, let’s go back and say hello. I’d be honored to have you introduce me.”

They moved to the rear of the theater, even as the audition continued, Miss Ward’s voice resounding pleasantly through the stalls as she ably traded lines with Larry Sullivan. She was gaining confidence as the audition went on.

Gordon Cummins shifted on his feet, twisting his cap in his hands in anticipation as Agatha and Mrs. Cummins approached. His boyish good looks only improved on closer inspection—blondish brown hair, a fair complexion, wide-set eyes of a striking clear blue-green, like a country brook on a perfect afternoon. His nose was straight and well-formed, his mouth almost feminine in its poised-for-a-kiss sensuality.

Archie, Agatha thought, eyes widening, the sight of the young man hitting like a physical blow, the image of her first husband jumping into her mind in his own RAF uniform, of the last war. I haven’t seen such a handsome young man in uniform since Archie was my…

“Mrs. Christie, this is such an honor,” the young man blurted.

“Gordon,” Janet whispered, scoldingly. “It’s Mrs. Mallowan. I explained that…”

“It’s all right, dear,” Agatha said. “That’s still my name, my professional name.” She glanced toward the stage where the audition remained under way. “Shall we step into the lobby?”

They did.

The young man had a soft voice, a second tenor, and his manners were impeccable; Agatha noticed he wore a Leading Aircraftsman badge, the white badge (or “flash”) of an Officer Trainee on the hat in his hands.

He was quite charming, really, in a naive way. For several minutes he raved on and on about her books, specifically the Poirot novels, and Agatha allowed herself to bask in the adulation. It was as if Archie were standing there praising her work, adoringly interested in her… which in the reality of their marriage had never occurred.

Finally she said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Cummins. Tell me something about yourself.”

“Not much to tell, really,” he said, with a fleeting grin. “My father was a schoolmaster of sorts.”

“That’s sounds… educational.”

Janet put in, “I’m afraid more so than you know, Mrs. Mallowan. Gordon’s father was rather more a warden than a schoolmaster, I would say—the school was for delinquent boys and girls.”

“Oh,” Agatha said, and frowned sympathetically. “I hope that wasn’t terribly unpleasant for you. Was your father strict, then?”

“By most standards, yes,” the boy said. “But it was good for me. Prepared me for the life I’m leading now.”

Janet, rather proudly, said, “Gordon has something else in common with you, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“Really? What is that, dear?”

“He’s a chemist.”

“Is that right, Mr. Cummins? You do know I work in a pharmacy.”

“I do know,” he said, “that you know your poisons.”

They all laughed. A little.

Shyly, the cadet said, “I can’t say my tour of duty as a chemist is anything to boast about—I trained in a Northampton technical school and worked here in London, as a research chemist.”

“That’s when we met,” Janet explained. “I was already working for Mr. Morris.”

Agatha bestowed on them a smile, one each; then to the young RAF cadet, she asked, “You enjoy the air force?”

“Very much! I’ll be flying a Spitfire soon.”

Janet said, “One of his senior officers—a Schneider Trophy pilot—has personally endorsed Gordon for his commission.”

“How thrilling,” Agatha said. “Do you think you can get a pass to join us on opening night?”

“That would be wonderful. I do so love the book!”

Her smile was apologetic. “Well, the play turns out a little differently…. Why don’t you come in and watch these auditions? We’re finding an understudy for our leading lady.”

Cummins sat toward the back as Agatha returned to Irene’s side, while Janet headed to the stage and the wings, to direct traffic on the auditions. The pert Miss Ward was asked to stay around for a possible callback, and the other actresses read with Larry, none of them terribly good.

A thin blonde actress (who was forty-five if she was a day) was reading when Stephen Glanville strode down the aisle and, with his usual confidence, slid in and over and plopped down next to Agatha.

For an archaeologist, Glanville had personality to spare. He was tall, handsome, mustached, cleft-chinned, forty-two years of age, in a rumpled brown tweed suit with reddish-brown bow tie that identified him as the professor he was; he was also the most despicable rake. Notwithstanding, he was Agatha’s husband’s best friend and sometime cohort in Egyptology, and—despite the man’s faults—Agatha loved him dearly.

Glanville had taken a position in the RAF—strictly bureaucratic, at Whitehall—and had in fact engineered Max’s commission. This had been an enormous favor to Max, whose heritage was against him, ridiculously enough; though born in England, and giving off an Oxbridge air, Max had nary a spot of English blood—French mother, Austrian father.

So it indeed was Stephen who’d wrangled Max that posting, as RAF Adviser on Arab Affairs to the British Military Government in Tripolitania, North Africa. Agatha tried not to resent that Max was surrounded by the great sites of antiquity that were his passion, in a bungalow by the sea, with a warm climate and a diet of fresh fish and vegetables. Meanwhile she existed in cold, precarious London on bangers and mash.

Before Max’s posting, Stephen had also helped Agatha and her husband find suitable lodging in London, in the same Lawn Road Flats where Glanville himself lived. Stephen’s family, his wife and children, had long since been hastened off to Canada, for safety’s sake; and in the meantime, Stephen Glanville was having one romantic affair after another.

Stephen did not bother hiding the fact from Agatha, who had become his sole confidant in Max’s absence. He claimed these “flings” meant nothing to him, and were merely to console and comfort him in his family’s absence.

They had spent many evenings alone together; Agatha often cooked for Glanville. She found the Egyptologist quite good-looking and she remained relieved—and vaguely insulted—that he had never made a play for her.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the blame,” Stephen whispered.

“That’s because you’re so frequently guilty,” Agatha whispered back. She detected a frown from Irene, and motioned to Glanville to move a few seats over, so as not to disturb the director. Then: “Blame for what?”

“I’m afraid the presence of that fresh-faced fan from St. Wood’s Station is my fault… or at least, partly mine.”

Agatha glanced back at the handsome cadet, whose eyes were on the stage and the latest actress to trample on her words.

“Oh, he’s quite charming,” Agatha said. “Janet’s a very lucky girl.”

“Janet could do better than that cabbage,” Stephen said. “But never mind.”

Agatha turned and looked at her handsome friend. “You arranged for that cadet to have the afternoon off, didn’t you, Stephen?”

He was a higher-up in the Air Ministry, after all.

He grinned. “Guilty as charged…. Janet told me the kid was a huge fan of yours. I warned her that you didn’t like being fussed over. But Janet pleaded.”

“Please tell me you don’t have your sights on—”

“No! No. We’re just pals, Janet and I. But I don’t mind doing a favor for a pretty lady. One never knows with whom one might wind up stranded on a desert island.”

Agatha shook her head. “Stephen, no one combines cynicism and romanticism quite so effectively as you. A unique gift, you have there.”

“Thank you, my dear. That is… darling. We are at the the-ah-tah, you know.”

She again glanced at the cadet, entranced in the theatrical experience. “Well, I don’t mind meeting a loyal reader… and, anyway, I don’t have ‘fans,’ Stephen, I have readers… customers. I just don’t care for mobs of them. One on one, they can be quite delightful.”

“He is a good-looking bloke, I’ll give you that.”

“He’s young enough to be my son.”

“Ah, but he isn’t. Your son, I mean. So incest isn’t really an issue, is it?”

She looked sideways at him. “You’re a terrible man, Stephen. A true villain.”

“Then why do you love me?”

She shrugged. “There’s no explaining it.”

“So when do we begin?”

His voice had naughtiness in it—as if he were finally referring to an affair.

“Begin what?”

“Our book! Our Egyptian mystery.”

“I’ve told you before, Stephen—I never collaborate.”

“I don’t want to collaborate. I merely want to advise. What a wonderful surprise for Max to return and find you’ve set your latest thriller in ancient Egypt.”

They’d had this conversation endlessly, since Max departed.

And it ended as it always did: “We shall see, Stephen.”

Then she told Stephen about her research project with Sir Bernard Spilsbury.

“That sounds dangerous,” Stephen said skeptically.

“Don’t be silly. I may be going to crime scenes, is all—the danger’s long over, by the time the pathologist arrives.”

“Still… I don’t like it. I doubt Max would like it, either.”

“He would have the same reaction as you, dear Stephen: a knee jerk of chauvinism; and then I would point out that Sir Bernard’s research is not unlike his own… digging into the past. And that my work, at least as I see it right now, requires a research effort of my own. And I would have Max’s blessing.”

His dark eyes were tight beneath the dark eyebrows. “I don’t know, Agatha. Do please take care.”

“Who’s to say anything will come of it? This ‘Ripper’ may never strike again; or the two murders may not really be connected.”

Stephen shifted uncomfortably in the hard seat. “But if a new Jack the Ripper is stalking London, using the blackout as his fog… that’s inherently dangerous. You must reconsider.”

“I tell you what, Stephen. Stay away from the likes of Janet Cummins, and I’ll consider… reconsidering.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Mrs. Mallowan.”

“Mrs. Mallowan!” The seeming echo was Irene calling over to her. “Agatha… a moment, please?”

Agatha gave Stephen a scolding look, said, “Behave yourself while I’m gone,” and returned to the seat next to the director.

“I hate to interrupt your social hour,” Irene said, teasing good humor mixed in with the bitchiness. “But have you had the opportunity to pay any attention to these auditions?”

“I have indeed.”

“I’m on the fence. There are three I’m considering.”

“No, you’re not, Irene. You know very well the Ward girl is the best. The others are quite wretched. Miss Ward is the most attractive, and she speaks my lines well… or at any rate, well enough.”

Irene sighed. “I hate to give a part to one of Bertie’s ‘discoveries.’ ”

Agatha touched the director’s arm. “Bertie loves only you, Irene. Just as you love only the theater. Cast the best girl—which is to say, Miss Ward.”

The next sigh was colossal. “Well… I’ll read her again, at least.”

Nita Ward returned and by this time she and Larry Sullivan were old pals, laughing, touching each other. Agatha had never considered Larry to have a philandering bone in his body; but a fetching creature like Nita Ward, even if she had been around the block a few times, could probably locate that bone quite easily.

“The same two scenes, please,” Irene called. “Larry, again, please read both parts.”

And the theater filled itself with Agatha Christie’s lines, and Mrs. Mallowan was quite enchanted…

… at least until she began to wonder if her ten little whimsical murders… her murders for fun… had a place in a world at war, and a city “stalked” (as Stephen had aptly if archly put it) by a Ripper.





FEBRUARY 10, 1942





THE WEST END SEEMED RIFE with men in uniform these days, but not every bloke in khaki got respect, much less the perks of wartime enjoyed by so many. Still, Inspector First Class did sound impressive, didn’t it?

And would have been, were Jack Rawlins a police officer, say, and not a reader of shilling-in-the-slot electrical meters for the light company.

At thirty-six, an eighteen-year veteran among electrical “inspectors,” Rawlins had seen every bleeding thing in this business, from opulence to squalor, big fat women just stepped from the tub, lovely lithe ladies alighting from the shower (latter such instances were pressed in Rawlins’s mental memory book like flowers, while the former he strove to forget). Barking dogs, untended babies, passed-out drunks—what hadn’t he stumbled across in his duties for God, country and paycheck?

And in spite of the lack of respect for his branch of the service, Rawlins experienced his share of hazardous duty on these Blitz-torn streets, stepping over fire hoses, skirting craters, veering to avoid UXBs. When a bomb disrupted normal electrical services, was it a soldier or sailor who charged into the breech? Hell no! It was the fearless likes of Jack Rawlins….

You might think working the Soho district would be glamorous or at least interesting. But the “foreign” quarter of the West End—enclosed by Wardour Street, Shaftesbury Avenue, Charing Cross Road and Oxford Street—was as dull by day as it was provocative by night. Right about now, just before eight-thirty in the morning, the snow-flecked sidewalks were largely empty, the streetwalkers of Soho tucked in their wee beds, doing nothing at all spectacular, and the array of unique nightclubs and exotic restaurants wouldn’t be open for business till much later in the day.

In fact, Rawlins made a point of doing the flats above first, as it was difficult finding anyone in the clubs and restaurants till late morning, when they were either open for lunch or cleaning up for the coming night (and didn’t those “unique” nightclubs and “exotic” restaurants look disappointedly drab and dirty by the light of day).

The shops and businesses and such weren’t open yet, either, like this optician’s at 153 Wardour Street, which was next on his route. Rawlins headed up the narrow unlighted flight of stairs to a small landing and a quartet of doors to a trio of flats and a shared bathroom; a yellow hanging bulb threw a pool of light for him to stand in, as if he were on stage. He’d encountered the woman who lived alone there, now and then—a pleasant, pleasantly plumpish, and oh so pretty prostitute, name of Evelyn Oatley.

Rawlins was a happily married man, however, and considered himself immune to Miss Oatley’s charms. Besides, what beauty offered to swap services with a meter reader to save a shilling? Not that he would have looked away, should he stumble onto the fetching fallen flower alighting from her bath….

When he knocked, the door creaked open a few inches; he had not realized it was ajar.

“Miss Oatley!” he called. “Here to read your meter, miss!”

No answer.

Shrugging to himself, Rawlins stepped inside.

The small one-room apartment was quite dark, the curtains still drawn. He tried the light switch, but the slot meter’s money had run out and the light did not turn on; seemed he’d come ’round none too soon.

With no one home, Rawlins probably should have backed out of the flat and gone about his business. But the nape of his neck was prickling—it was not like Miss Oatley to allow her electricity to run out like that. She kept a small neat flat and was pretty enough to make her illicit way in the world, easily.

Rawlins took the small electric torch from his tool belt and switched it on, just to check things out a bit…

… and the shaft of light fell immediately upon Miss Oatley.

She lay sprawled on her back on her divan bed, head back and hanging over, clad only in a thin sheer nightgown, which was open to reveal her in nakedness, which might have been titillating to a red-blooded man like Rawlins.

But it was not, though this sight would be pressed, involuntarily, into his mental memory book; and the electrician immediately realized he had not seen every bleeding thing, after all….

Because the plumply pretty prostitute was quite dead, her throat slashed, the blood having run down to gather and coagulate into a terrible black pool.

Heart in his throat, Jack Rawlins scurried out of the flat and down the steps onto the street, where he quickly found a bobby and reported what he’d discovered…

… not feeling much at all like one man in uniform talking to another.