Read The London Blitz Murders for Free Online Page B

words carefully; she knew he had lost a son in the Blitz—Peter, as she had surmised at their first meeting. “In such times, in a world of broken windows and bombs and land mines, it’s natural to expect that you yourself might be killed soon… that you will hear of the death of friends… that those you love best might be lost….”
    A humorless smirk twitched on one cheek. “But one must not despair, I suppose.”
    She shook her head. “One carries on. Not that one does not take… precautions.”
    Something like amusement glimmered in the gray eyes. “Whatever precautions might a renowned mystery writer take?”
    She sat up straight and announced, “I have just completed my last two books.”
    “Your last… ?”
    “I have written one final novel about my vile little Belgian, and have taken the utmost pleasure in killing him off, too! And I’ve just completed one last Jane Marple mystery, as well.”
    He sat forward. “You don’t intend to stop writing, my dear….”
    She chuckled. “No. By my ‘last’ novels, I mean I’ve produced willfully posthumous novels—copies are in bank vaults here and in New York. These are a legacy of a sort, an insurance policy if you will, for my husband and daughter.”
    He sat back, smiling a relieved smile. “I must admit, the thought of you giving up writing seems unlikely to say the least.”
    She leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in a palm. “But the question is… what sort of writing will I pursue?”
    “I don’t follow. Won’t you continue with mysteries and things?”
    “There is a part of me that thinks those two novels should indeed be the last to feature that tired pair of out-of-date sleuths.”
    “Out of date… how so?”
    “They are of another time. Poirot’s world of upper-class Manor House shenanigans and Marple’s world of country-cottage village treachery. Postcards from a more innocent era.”
    Sir Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “As opposed to missives from a world of broken windows and bombs and land mines?”
    “Precisely.” She heaved a world-weary sigh. “I have moved more and more into espionage novels of late, and… am I boring you?”
    “Do I seem bored?”
    “Not at all… but I really would not like to—”
    “Please, Agatha. I am privileged to be your father confessor.”
    She chuckled again. “Bernard, I wonder if in the postwar world… should this war ever end, and should we find ourselves living in a country where writers can publish something other than variations upon Mein Kampf … I wonder if my style of murder will still be in vogue?”
    Now he was openly amused. “What other style of murder were you considering?”
    “If you laugh at me, I’ll throw a napkin at you. I swear I will.”
    He held up his hands in surrender. “I believe you. The question was serious.”
    She sighed. “So is the answer…. Are you aware of this new style of supposedly ‘realistic’ crime novel that’s come out of the States?”
    “No.”
    “Well, suffice to say there’s a school known as the ‘hardboiled’—”
    “What a wretchedly unpleasant term.”
    “Isn’t it? And the books themselves are rather wretchedly unpleasant, as well. One of them does write well—perhaps you’ve heard of him… Dashiell Hammett?”
    “No.”
    “Former Pinkerton detective. He writes nicely compact prose. But his followers are for the most part blood-and-thunder practitioners—bloody violence, blatant sex. There’s a fellow named Chandler who writes vividly, but his plots are incomprehensible rubbish… please don’t quote me.”
    “You have my word.”
    “But, still and all, these writers may be onto something….”
    “Something unpleasant, I should say.”
    “Indeed. They sense that the public… as the world around us grows ever more horrific… itself is growing numb, needing ever-increasing stimuli. Whatever I might think of their writing, they point toward the modern world. An unpleasant world.” She