The London Blitz Murders by Max Allan Collins Page A

the last moment.
    The female understudy—who would substitute for the crucial roles of Vera and Mrs. Brent—had vacated her duties last week, when she landed a better role in a revue. In normal times, this might have ended up with the understudy finding herself blacklisted in the West End; but everyone knew the difficulties of assembling a qualified cast in wartime.
    In particular, good actors were hard to come by—those men who preferred not to go into uniform were required to go outon one or two tours a year for ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association). And pretty young actresses were much in demand for revues; among the many wartime shortages in London was an undersupply of chorus girls.
    Irene’s strong voice—a contralto—came from next to Agatha and echoed through the theater. “ Your name, please ,” she intoned, the voice of a female God.
    Despite this, on the stage, the young woman seemed quite at ease. “Nita Ward,” she said.
    On the other side of Agatha, Bertie boomed: “Ah, yes, Miss Ward! So glad you could come.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Morris,” Miss Ward said.
    Bertie sat forward and spoke to his wife in a whisper. “Take a look at her resume, dear. She has impressive credits.”
    Irene glanced sharply at her husband. “Is that what you call them?… Did you invite this one?”
    “Well…”
    “Is this another of your discoveries, Bertram?”
    “Darling… she’s qualified. Please do look at her vita.”
    Another sharp look from Irene. “Why should I?… You seem to have examined Nita’s… vita , already.”
    Agatha felt that she had suddenly become the net in a tennis match. A grudge match, at that.
    A notion, the cattiness of which was worthy of Jane Marple herself, flashed through Agatha’s mind: Perhaps Irene was doomed to such jealousies, since she better than anyone knew how an actress could get ahead in the theatrical world, particularly with this producer….
    “You can be impossible, sometimes,” Bertie said, and rose, and shuffled out of the aisle to take a seat elsewhere, nearer to the stage… and to his latest discovery?
    Irene, coldly professional, called out, “If you would take it from Act Three, Scene Two…. Larry, you’ll read both Blore and Lombard.”
    The young woman was nothing special, but she had a lively quality and did not trip over the words. She was the seventh woman they’d heard read for the understudy part this afternoon, and by some distance the best.
    “Her age is about right,” Agatha ventured in a whisper to Irene.
    “She’s not bad,” Irene admitted. “She’s a bit short.”
    “Oh, I think that’s just Larry. He’s a towering beast, our Larry.”
    Irene laughed a little. “Yes… he wouldn’t have been bad as the judge.”
    “You have a splendid judge. Larry can be a bit…”
    “Bombastic,” Irene said.
    “Indeed…. Lovely man, though.”
    “Thank you!” Irene called out to the scene. “If you’ll hold up, just a moment, please….” The director looked behind her. “Janet!”
    Janet Cummins, an attractive brunette in dark-rimmed glasses, rose from her aisle seat a few rows back and came down to meet Irene. Janet was Bertie’s secretary, but that understated her role: she was a trusted assistant to both Irene and Bertie.
    Odd, Agatha observed, that Irene had no jealousy over Janet, who was a fetching, busty, blue-eyed woman in her later twenties, business-like in a navy suit with white blouse.
    “Yes, Miss Helier?” Janet asked, dutifully half-kneeling in the aisle, clipboard in hand.
    “How many more?”
    “We only have three more to see.”
    Irene was studying the stage where a friendly Miss Ward and a smiling Larry were conversing softly, pleasantly. “She really isn’t terrible…. I’m going to read her some more.”
    Janet nodded, and then looked over at Agatha and whispered across Irene, “Could I have a word, Mrs. Mallowan?”
    Agatha said, “Certainly, my dear.”
    Faintly irritated, Irene said to