Beneath the handkerchief, she smiled bitterly.
And so it had come to this: Agatha Christie (not Mallowan), the originator of so much mayhem, caught like a mouse in a trap, waiting for the ceiling to fall in and kill her.
What a terrible thing it was, possessing a heightened sense of irony: the only thing in all the world that truly frightened her was the thought of being buried alive. She had avoided the air-raid shelters for this very reason, staying in bed with a pillow over her face.
Well, she had no pillow here, did she? But she would remain calm. She would not give in to this phobia. She would not become a silly hysterical old woman.
Examining the pile of rubble before her, roughly parallel to where the street would be, she got on her hands and knees and, still in her fur coat, began to dig her way out. She had no trouble for a while, feeling good about the effort.
But then that slab ceiling shifted and dropped and she let out a little scream.
The wall and other debris caught the slab, preventing it from squashing her, but that “ceiling” was only a few angled inches above her head, now. She was in a coffin. Buried alive. A Poe-like death for Agatha Christie…
Praying (not for herself, for Max and Rosalind and any grandchildren who might one day be born), she kept at it, pawing at the rubble, clearing the way of little pieces, bigger pieces, and was making progress until she reached a larger block of sideways ceiling, not unlike the slab overhead. She could not get a grip on it; and had she been able to have done, she would not have had the strength to move the thing….
Breathing heavily under the handkerchief now, she slumped and exhaustion seductively whispered in her ear, fatigue stroking her every muscle, bone and sinew: rest. Sleep. Wait. Someone will come…
… death, perhaps.
And the impasse before her, the slab of ceiling, moved, as if of its own accord.
She could hear the grunt of a manful effort being made, and then that slab slid away, and for just a moment she had a glimpse of a face-the young cadet! — and the street…
… and then more detritus rained down and filled the opening.
But between the two of them, Agatha and her cadet savior, the way was cleared; another slab of ceiling provided shelter from the fragments above, making a passageway, and she reached out her arms to the boy and he grasped her hands and pulled her, ever so gently and yet firmly, through the aperture.
He helped her to her feet, saying, “Mrs. Mallowan, dear God, are you all right?”
She hugged the cadet and smiled into those boyish handsome features and said, “I have never been better… thanks to you, young man.”
A sudden lurching sound behind them, a crunching and crashing of shifting wreckage, drew their immediate startled attention: the passageway through which Agatha had escaped no longer existed.
But she did.
She touched the boy’s cheek and whispered, “Thank you, my dear.”
He lowered his eyes, chagrined. “My motive was selfish-I couldn’t abide the thought of this world without your books.”
The street was filled now, with spectators and constables and a banshee scream that was not an air-raid siren, rather the announcement of the impending arrival of firemen.
Janet Cummins was fussing over the rescued writer, and helping Agatha brush herself off; there was something comical, farcical about standing in a fur coat and evening gown, layered with powdery filth. The air out here was breathable, but also suffused with a dirty haze; the voices of the constables were raised, attempting to secure order.
Agatha, remarkably clearheaded, said, “Was anyone else in the theater? Wasn’t someone in the box office?”
“That was Clemens,” Janet said, “the assistant manager. He was in his office, locking the money box in the safe. He was unaffected by the explosion-the lobby took the full force of the blast. He was able to get out a side exit.”
“A UXB, probably,” Agatha said. “Some poor scavenger went to heaven in a hurry, I daresay.”
And at that moment, finally, her ride came, the Rolls Royce rolling up grandly. The liveried chauffeur emerged wide-eyed as Agatha approached.
“I am perfectly all right,” she said, “but I wish to be examined at University College Hospital. You will drive me there.”
The chauffeur said, “Yes, ma’am,” and held the rear door open for her.
Janet and her cadet helped Agatha into the backseat of the Rolls.
“We’ll go with you,” Janet said, leaning in, eyes wide with concern.
“Don’t be a silly goose. Take a taxi to the Savoy and report that any rumors of my demise are bound to be at least slightly exaggerated…. Young man… Gordon, isn’t it?”
The cadet leaned in next to his wife. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You remind me so of my first husband. He was a handsome hero, too. How ever can I repay you?”
Covered in filth, the boy’s smile was as white as the rest of him wasn’t. “A signed book would be more than sufficient.”
“Give me your address, then. Write it down.”
Frowning, Janet said, “That can wait. You’re dazed, Mrs. Mallowan.”
“No,” she said. “I will take care of this as soon as I’m home, which will be tonight, if I have anything to say about it. Any special title, Gordon?”
He had found a play program somewhere and was jotting down his address with a pencil. “This is at the receiving center, Mrs. Mallowan. Where I’m billeted… I could use the new Poirot, if you have an extra.”
“Evil Under the Sun,” she said, and smiled.
She reached out for the program, but the smiling airman was still writing.
With his left hand.
TEN
In that most undignified of garments-a hospital gown-Agatha lay between the crisp white sheets of a crankable bed in a small temporary room off the emergency ward.
Over the past hour and a half or so, she had been thoroughly examined, poked, prodded and probed, and had passed with flying colors, though her left ankle had been wrapped in service of that minor sprain. A concerned doctor, whom she knew well from the course of her pharmacy duties, suggested that she be admitted overnight for observation; it was, however, her decision… this the doctor made clear. She declined.
It was just past midnight, the presumed end of a long, memorable and exhausting day; but Agatha felt strangely alert, her thoughts clear, her energy high. Nearly dying had been a most exhilarating experience. There would be precious little sleeping, tonight.
Further, she had-in her state of clarity in the little chamber off the emergency ward-assembled in her mind the pieces of the real-life series of murders, in much the manner she applied to the creation of her fictional crimes. Real life seemed at once simpler and more complex than her concoctions….
Inspector Greeno wondered why the killer’s spree had been interrupted-why no killing Wednesday? The answer was painfully simple: Cadet Airman Gordon Cummins had fire picket duty that night; he could not get out, Wednesday night, to have his nasty fun.
And, though it was theoretical (albeit an informed opinion), Agatha knew exactly how Cummins might have got around the billet book, which might explain as well the apparent false evidence of the roommates who had vouched for him.
She hoped she was wrong.
Her evidence was circumstantial at best; and she was at war with herself over her conclusion. How could that sweet boy who had saved her life be a sex-crazed murderer? He had written for her directions to his billet using his left hand, and what of that? Was every left-handed man in London a suspect, then?
In all probability, the fingerprints found at the two murder scenes yesterday would provide conclusive confirmation (or exoneration) of the cadet, once the great Fred Cherrill had processed them. Sir Bernard’s forensics examinations would further either indict or clear. She need do nothing but relax either here in a cozy hospital bed or at home in her own comfortable flat, waiting for the police to do their job. She was not, after all, Jane Marple, much less Hercule Poirot. And even Poirot had sense enough to allow the likes of Inspector Japp to take the physical risks.