Read Online The London Blitz Murders by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Allan Collins
Tags: Disaster Series
Ads: Link
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
T HE W EST E ND 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
“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
T HE W EST E ND 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
Similar Books
