The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(61)
What? “And why would you do that?”
Once again, he began to speak in Punch’s squeaky tones. “Because her old man didn’t like me, you see. So I kicked him in the privates and then knocked him out.”
Maggie realized there seemed to be no point to this strange admission and continued to walk, faster now. The pavement, covered in the afternoon’s snow, now turning to ice, was slippery. And in Paige’s tight Schiaparelli skirt and heels, she couldn’t walk as fast as she would have liked.
Max kept up with her easily. “Did you know there’s a drug you can give to dogs to prevent them barking during air raids? It is called Calm Doggie, and you can buy it at any chemist’s—I admit to using a few myself during the Blitz. Slept like a baby through everything.”
Calm Doggie. Maggie had heard of the pills you could grind up and put in dog food. Could it work to knock women out before they were murdered? Was there any way Mr. Collins could test for it being in the women’s blood?
In the heavy darkness, she found it increasingly difficult to find her way and reached into her purse for a small electric flashlight, with regulation blackout shutters. She turned it on and shone the weak beam on the ground as she picked her way forward in the gusts.
Again, Max stepped in front of her. “You don’t want to use that,” he told her, taking the flashlight from her and switching it off. He tossed it into an alley.
“Hey!” Maggie was angry. “That’s mine!”
“But you have me, my dear, you have me!”
“I’ll take it from here on my own.”
“But I want to kiss you good night. There’s an air-raid shelter not far from here. It will be empty, I promise.” Punch’s voice in the darkness made her flinch.
“No.” Maggie was adamant. “I’ve had quite enough of your cheek, Mr. Thornton. Goodbye.”
“You must call me Max.” He pulled her into a doorway off the street.
“I said goodbye!”
Max tried to kiss her, putting his hands on her waist, then moving them lower.
“Stop it!” Maggie hissed, shoving him away.
He pinned her against the wall to block any escape and took her face between his hands. As Maggie opened her mouth to scream, his fingers wrapped around her throat. When he squeezed, she gasped frantically. But the more she struggled, the tighter his grip became. His fingers dug deeper into the flesh of her neck.
Her throat began to close and her arms grew heavy. A thick gurgling noise was the only sound escaping her mouth—but she could hear another sound, too—him, moaning in pleasure as he rubbed against her.
Her SOE training kicked in and she kneed him in the groin. While he cried out in pain and clutched at himself, she grabbed his head with both hands, pulling it down so she could slam it against her rising knee, hard. She heard a satisfying crack.
He slumped to the top stair of the doorway, hands to his face. “Bitch!” he screamed into the shadows. “You broke my nose!”
As Maggie backed away, she could see the blood dripping down his upper lip, black in the dim light. He spat out a loose tooth, looking shocked, almost offended. “How am I going to explain all this at Number Ten? I can’t work for the Prime Minister looking like this!”
“Not my problem.” Maggie shrugged, turning to walk away. “Maybe it’s time to join the RAF.”
“You whore!” he spat. “Dirty slut!”
“No,” Maggie said, her voice calm and her senses sharp despite the pulse pounding in her ears. “If you want a prostitute, go to Hyde Park and use your money. But I’m not for sale. And never yours for the taking.”
He rocked back and forth in pain, pinching the bridge of his nose to stanch the flow of blood. “You’re all for sale, all of you bitches…” he moaned. “You let me buy you whiskey, you smiled at me, you liked it….”
“I was merely being polite. My mistake.” Lord, good manners just might get women raped—or worse. Giving him one last look of disgust, she ran off into the darkness.
—
Lungs burning, heart thudding, Maggie opened the front door to her house with a heavy iron key.
“Hello?” she called, pushing the door in with trembling hands. She slammed the door behind her, then bolted it. “Chuck? Mr. K?” She heard padding footsteps and then felt soft fur swirling around her shins. “Ah, there you are, K,” she exclaimed, reaching down to rub his head. “And how’s our Home Guard doing this evening?”
Somewhere upstairs, a light was on. “Chuck?” she called, instantly wary. Her heart lurched with fear. Had the doors all been locked? Could anyone have gotten in? Could Max have gotten here first—he knows where I live, after all….“Chuck, are you all right?”
Maggie took the stairs two at a time in the chill air, K behind her. Chuck’s door was ajar, with light spilling out onto the hall’s rug. “Chuck?” Maggie called, heart racing, rapping at the door. “Are you there?”
There was the sound of footsteps, then Chuck stepped out into the hall, closing the door firmly behind her. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, girl!” she whispered. “I just got His Nibs to sleep and now you come in yelling and pounding on doors….All right, it is your house and all, but—”