Finally, Inspector Greeno said, “Mr. Jouannet-do you have any reason to think there would be another man in your flat last night?”
“No! None at all. We have been happy, these six years. Some, they say the age difference, it would be… difficult. But no. We are in love.”
“I see.” Inspector Greeno shifted in his chair. “I’m going to request that you return to your quarters at the hotel, sir. We’ll need to do some work here, and you really need to sleep elsewhere, tonight.”
“I don’t want to leave her!”
Agatha said, softly, “Mr. Jouannet… your wife is not here. She’s with God now. You must get some rest.”
He swallowed and looked up at her. “You are very kind. I will have your handkerchief laundered and return.”
“Please, no.” She patted his shoulder. “The inspector can arrange to have you driven back to your hotel.”
And that was done for the old fellow.
Then Agatha and Inspector Greeno were seated at the filthy kitchen table, alone but for a pair of uniformed men milling out on the landing.
“As if this weren’t horror enough,” Agatha said, “that poor man will soon learn from the tabloids that his wife had a secret life.”
The inspector sighed. “They were both working the night shift, all right. Damned shame.”
Sir Bernard appeared in the bedroom doorway, his hands in the rubber gloves, his expression typically grave. He made a small motion to Inspector Greeno, who rose and went to him. Though the invitation may not have included her, Agatha rose as well and fell in alongside the inspector.
Sir Bernard shook his head. “We have a madman on parade, here, no question. But looking at the wounds… and judging by the wounds I examined at the Lowe flat… he’s definitely a left-handed madman.”
The inspector nodded. “When was she killed, do you think?”
“The body’s still warm.”
Agatha said, “The Lowe woman was last night’s victim. Mrs. Jouannet is tonight’s.”
“I think you’re right,” the inspector said. “He’s on a spree-one killing a night. But why in hell did he miss a night?”
“Perhaps,” Agatha said, “we should merely be grateful he hasn’t attempted to make that one up.”
Sir Bernard said, “We should get Fred Cherrill over here to do the fingerprinting personally, when he’s finished at the other crime scene.”
“Agreed,” the inspector said.
“May I enter?” Agatha asked.
Sir Bernard said, “Really, my dear, it’s just more of the same savagery….”
“Though not so redundant,” Agatha said firmly, “as to discourage you from spending half an hour with her…. I have an idea I wish to pursue. It may prove helpful.”
The two men exchanged glances, obviously curious what this helpful idea might be.
So, once again, she was allowed to examine the crime scene, and-since, as before, the police photographer had not been around to do his job yet-she took special care neither to touch nor disturb anything.
On a chair at the foot of the bed the woman’s clothes were heaped. On the dressing table lay a bloody safety razor blade-on the carpeted floor, an open, rifled handbag minus any money.
Doris Jouannet had been a slim, fair-haired woman, reasonably attractive. She lay sprawled across the double bed, clad only in a flimsy light blue dressing gown, which apparently had been ripped open by the frenzied killer. The bedclothes were disarrayed, and perhaps this time a brief struggle had preceded the inevitable.
Again, a knotted silk stocking was tightly knotted around the victim’s neck. From the expression on the dead woman’s face, Agatha felt this had been a fifteen-second death-one small, unintentional mercy. Though the killer had lacked a “small armory” this time, and had been confined to the use of a razor blade, the slashing to breasts, stomach and the sexual area were shockingly deep, and resembled the Lowe woman’s mutilations.
Agatha spent little time studying the corpse, however; that was better left to Sir Bernard and his forensics expertise.
But she felt sure Dr. Spilsbury’s focus had been again entirely on the body, and she brought her own feminine skills and instincts to bear as she looked around the dust-covered room that the late Mrs. Jouannet had bequeathed to the investigators.
She had an idea that the bequest would be a generous one…
… and she was correct.
On the dressing table was a hand mirror, on which fingerprints could be detected by the naked eye. This, however, was not as interesting to Agatha as the cleaner, distinctly formed patches on the table’s dusty surface.
Several objects had been removed from the table, obviously-possibly by the killer, who was, after all, a thief.
She summoned the two men and pointed out her discovery.
“That shape indicates, I would say,” Agatha mused, “a fountain pen. Or some other similarly shaped object. And this I would say is just big enough to be a pocket comb, minus some teeth. This, a wristwatch.”
An edge of excitement in his controlled voice, Sir Bernard said, “We need photographs of these. And measurements.”
The inspector was smiling, nodding. “The photographer will be here momentarily; I’ll do the measurements myself.” He turned to the mystery writer. “Agatha, your woman’s touch may make a real difference, here….”
“It’s the lack of a woman’s touch,” she said, gesturing to the dusty dressing-table top, “that made the difference.”
FEBRUARY 13, 1942
F our murders in five days.
All had been committed within two miles of Piccadilly Circus; but nighttime revelers did not abandon the West End.
The United States military responded to the Ripper threat by expanding the number of their own police on the streets-snowdrops, the MPs were called, thanks to their distinctive white helmets, floating visibly above crowds in darkened Piccadilly.
The tabloids were irresponsibly fueling the notion that the Ripper was an American soldier, and all over town mothers were telling their young daughters to beware of American soldiers, all of whom were rapists. In the meantime, the flowers of the night continued to bloom around the Americans and their superior pay. Some were neither streetwalkers nor call girls, rather factory workers and even precocious school girls, looking to milk an escort for all he could give and then slip away into the night.
Not that all of the Americans were as naive as commonly thought: they dismissed British films as stodgy and boring; hated the beer; weren’t impressed by the dance halls; and missed being able to drive, even if on the wrong side of the street.
They did, however, like the women-deemed them hospitable, and not as sophisticated as they’d been warned.
There were those-Americans and Londoners alike-who considered the city in the blackout, particularly in winter, a thing of beauty, with a fresh tang in the air. Whatever the season, the Americans found London fragrant-a city with no central heating, burning cannel coal, that oily form of shale leaving its distinctive pungent odor behind. Even to locals, the city did smell surprisingly good-petrol fumes were largely gone, with so few vehicles on the streets. (Horse-drawn wagons had increased, with their own attendant fragrance.)
London in the moonlight could reveal the architectural wonders of classically constructed buildings; lovers-whether an engaged couple or a temporary alliance-might walk hand in hand along the moonlight-shimmering Thames or down a cozy side street to enjoy the blackout’s romantic calm… or was it a lull? A moon could light a bomber’s way, after all….
The Blackout Ripper-the press continued to hammer that designation home-did not love the moonlight; he was shielded by darkness, killing in silence, targeting women of the street, though a respectable lady out alone, like Margaret Hamilton, might be mistaken for his chosen prey.