The London Blitz Murders by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online

shuddered. “Can you imagine what the first big American crime writer, post-war, is likely to be like? What sort of unwashed brute will he be?”
    Wisely, Sir Bernard left this rhetorical question unanswered. “I take it you are contemplating writing more realistically about crime and murder.”
    She nodded, narrowing her eyes. “Bernard, you’ve stated it far more simply and eloquently than has the paid professional writer.”
    “Thank you.”
    “The question is—will you help me?”
    “How?”
    She leaned close and held his eyes with hers. “I want to accompany you to crime scenes. I want to see how you work, and how the police work, and achieve a firmer grasp on the reality behind the fantasy I serve up.”
    He reared back. “Oh, Agatha, I don’t know that that’s a good idea.”
    “It’s a splendid idea. Will you help?”
    “I’m not so sure it can even be arranged.”
    “Bernard, if the most renowned mystery writer on the planet joins forces with the foremost forensics detective in the universe… how could it not?”
    He just sat there, stunned for a moment, then smiled and laughed. “You are truly a one of a kind, Mrs. Mallowan.”
    “Thank you, Sir Bernard. Now, what is this case that’s got you studying in your little black notebook so diligently?”
    The smile dissolved into a frown. “I wouldn’t advise starting there. It’s a most unpleasant matter.”
    “Most murders are.”
    “We may have… I must ask your discretion.”
    “Certainly.”
    He whispered: “We may have a modern-day Jack the Ripper on our hands.”
    Agatha gasped. “Oh… that’s wonderful.”
    Sir Bernard’s eyes tightened; he looked frankly horrified.
    Her heart sank. “Please, please don’t think badly of me…. It’s just that this is exactly the kind of case I’m craving. Something big… a multiple murderer…. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”
    His eyes were very wide. “My dear… this is not your… ‘fantasy’ world. Now, sit back and I will tell you about the crime scene I visited this morning.”
    And he did. He even referred to his little black notebook, to make sure no details were omitted.
    Agatha, feeling ashamed of herself, said, “I behaved wretchedly… selfishly. Poor woman. Her death is a tragedy, not just… research for some silly writer. Do forgive me.”
    “Then you’ll give up this foolish idea?”
    “Certainly not. It’s perfect. And I would say that your assumption is correct, Bernard. This fiend will strike again.”
    He shook his head. “We’re not even sure the two murders are in fact the work of one assailant.”
    “If it is the same man, you have to find him… and stop him. Because he isn’t finished, you know.”
    A waiter stopped by to fill their coffee cups.
    “I wish,” Sir Bernard said, “I could say I disagree with you…. So what would you have me do, then? Call you if our Ripper strikes again? Take you along to the scene of the crime?”
    She sipped her coffee; it was bitter, but there was no cream.
    “Yes,” Agatha said.
    Ten minutes later, Agatha was leading James down the pavement with an obedient Sir Bernard at her side.
    “You’re certain you want to do this?” the pathologist asked.
    “Quite.”
    “Aren’t you busy working on this play of yours— Ten Little Something-or-Others ?”
    “Just finishing touches, darling,” she said, the latter word an archly theatrical touch. “But you’re right, I am busy. In fact, I’m not working at the hospital this afternoon—I’ll be at the theater. The St. James? You can call me there, should anything arise.”
    They were clipping along, the terrier setting a quick pace, despite the crowded pavement (which ran past an all-but-deserted street).
    Sir Bernard asked, “Doesn’t the play open soon?”
    “Yes. Friday. I’ve offered you tickets, several times. I could use the company—first nights are such agony for me.”
    “Perhaps we should wait until after Friday, for you to accompany me to