“No. But I will take precautions to avoid journalists in the matter.”
His face fell. “Agatha… tell me truthfully. Does Max ever win an argument with you?”
“We don’t argue. We discuss.”
“And do you always prevail?”
“Certainly not. But then Max is my husband… you’re merely my friend.”
He chuckled. “With precious little influence, obviously…. Oh, I must run.”
He came around, kissed her cheek, and was gone.
Back in the flat, in the library, Agatha sat in her easy chair, making notes on the Poirot; but Stephen’s concerns about the press, his warning, lingered.
The telephone rang out in the hall, and she allowed herself to be interrupted; she wasn’t getting much work done, anyway. The phone was on a stand just around the foot of the stairs. The caller proved to be Sir Bernard.
“I am taking you at your word,” he said.
“I would expect nothing else.”
“Well, our murderer has struck again. I’ve been called to the scene-over Soho way, not far from Piccadilly. Shall I come ’round and pick you up?”
“Are you at the hospital?”
“Actually I’m at my flat.”
Sir Bernard lived with his sister Constance on nearby Frognal Street; he and Agatha were practically neighbors.
“I could pick you up,” he was saying, “in a matter of minutes.”
“Please do.”
“Mrs. Mallowan… Agatha. I’m told it’s unpleasant.”
“It’s a murder, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” he said, with an air of understanding.
And they said good-byes and hung up.
Agatha had already assembled a crime-scene wardrobe. She had given it considerable thought, actually. The weather was brisk if not brutally cold, but she could hardly wear a fur coat to a murder-this was not, after all, a first night at the theater.
Nor did she wish to present either an overly feminine or schoolteacher matronly appearance. She chose a wardrobe that seemed to her suitably appropriate for detective work, and only hoped she had not inadvertently stooped to melodramatically theatrical effects.
The suit was a mannish pastel beige affair, jacket with cardigan neckline and patch pockets, skirt pleated front and back. To the Glen Plaid tones-of-brown woolen topcoat-boyish-looking with its flap pockets and raised welt seams on the sleeves and in back-she added a mannish wide-brimmed light brown felt hat with darker brown band.
The latter was enough like a man’s fedora to make her wonder if she might not be pushing her detective credentials; but it was the current style….
Sir Bernard, however, wore no topcoat at all. In his crisp black suit with his characteristic red carnation in its buttonhole, he might have been the best-tailored undertaker in town. He seemed oblivious to (or perhaps contemptuous of) the chill weather.
Agatha, who loved to drive and had a reckless streak herself, found the experience of being Sir Bernard’s passenger in his Armstrong-Siddeley sedan a surprising if not wholly pleasant one. For an individual who appeared the soul of moderation-she had seen no signs that he either smoked or drank-the pathologist took liberties with traffic lights and one-way streets that would have inspired fines and perhaps jail time for any mere citizen.
That the streets were so relatively barren of vehicles made the journey only frightening and not terrifying.
She attempted to slow his passage with conversation, but this had no apparent effect, and after one exchange on one subject, Agatha lapsed to silence.
That one exchange, however, was significant.
“Bernard,” she said, “I do have a concern.”
“What is that, Agatha?” he asked, careening around a corner down the wrong way of a one-way street, pedestrian eyes only slightly wider than if their bearers had just heard an air raid siren’s banshee cry.
“These murders,” she said, hanging on to a door strap, “have already attracted the attention of the gutter press.”
“Unfortunately, yes. And not just the tabloids, I’m afraid. Deplorable that this ‘Ripper’ connection has been made. Creates a difficult atmosphere in which to work.”
“That’s my concern, as well. I don’t know if you’re aware that I have a distinct aversion for publicity….”
“I was not, but I’m relieved to hear it.”
He slowed, barely, before running a STOP signal.
“Relieved?”
“Yes. I take you at your word that your interest in this case is scientific-background research. If the notion here was to attract the press to a ‘collaboration’ between the foremost forensics man and the world’s greatest mystery writer… well. I could not be party to that.”
“I abhor the press.”
“As do I,” he said, almost spinning the steering wheel, narrowly missing a bicyclist. “The newspapers have published an unending parade of lies and legends about me, exaggerating my career. I’m afraid I’ve developed an almost morbid aversion to publicity.”
Had they not been flying down a West End street like an ambulance, this confirmation would have warmed the cockles of Agatha’s heart.
“I have,” Sir Bernard continued, “made it clear that my participation as pathologist on call to Scotland Yard is contingent upon one condition: that I be protected from the press…. That shielding, my dear, will be extended to you.”
“Wonderful! Bernard…”
“Yes, Agatha?”
“Do you by any chance have a siren?”
“No.” He glanced at her, the soul of placid gravity. “This is not an official police vehicle…. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. Merely a point of research.”
Detective Chief Inspector Edward Greeno was waiting for them on Wardour Street, standing before a gigantic Dali-esque eye painted upon the window of an optician’s shop. The inspector, puffing on a pool cue of a cigar, looked every inch the detective of film and fiction-a broad-shouldered bulldog in a snapbrim fedora and extravagantly lapelled trench coat.
Upon seeing Sir Bernard and Agatha approaching, the inspector dropped his cigar-though it was only half-smoked-and quickly ground it out with his heel on the pavement. Then he met them halfway, introducing himself, bowing to Agatha, who presented him a hand to shake, man-to-man fashion; he accepted her hand, grinning at her, his expression rather foolish.
“Excuse me for smiling under such conditions,” the inspector said, “but I have to admit, Mrs. Christie, that I am a big reader of yours.”
Sir Bernard-standing with an almost absurdly oversize black Gladstone bag in hand, looking like an impatient doctor making a house call (which was the case, actually)-crisply corrected Inspector Greeno.
“That’s her writing name, Inspector. This is Mrs. Mallowan. Her husband is the noted archaeologist.”
The inspector nodded a curt apology, saying, “Mrs. Mallowan…. A lot of the boys read your books. We feel as though we could use that little Belgian of yours, from time to time.”
“Inspector,” she said, “I am pleased and relieved by your attitude. I was afraid I would be considered a sort of fifth wheel. I can only assure you I will touch nothing and stay well out of everyone’s way.”
“Just the mouse in the corner, eh? You may spend a good deal of time out on the landing, I’m afraid, as it’s a small flat.”
“I will do as I’m told, Inspector.”
Another grin creased the bulldog face. “Well, Sir Bernard vouches for you, and the Home Office has given out instructions to treat you royally… which for a fan like me will be a pleasure.”
Sir Bernard said, “One small point, Inspector-Mrs. Mallowan has the same aversion to publicity that I do.”
“I’m ahead of you, Doctor. I’ll tell you I was mad as hell… excuse me, Mrs. Mallowan… about this press leak. Last thing we needed was panic on the West End, over a so-called ‘Ripper’… and now, I’m afraid, we indeed have one.”
Agatha frowned. “One what, Inspector?”
“A Ripper. The doctor has described the other two murders to you, in some detail, I understand.”
“He has.”
“Well, this time we have a bona fide Ripper-style sexual mutilation.” Gently, tentatively, Inspector Greeno touched the sleeve of her Glen Plaid. “And I did want to warn you, Mrs. Christie… Mrs. Mallowan. This is pure savagery, it is. You may wish to spare yourself the-”