Basham by Robert F. Clifton (types of ebook readers .TXT) 📕

are messy.”

“Whoever they are failed to mention that rabbits don't lay eggs.”

“Of course you're right professor, but I'm wondering just where one goes to purchase them?”

“In the countryside I presume?”

“That may be right of course, but with the rationing allowing only one egg a week or one packet of egg powder poultry farmers would be reluctant to sell their chickens.”

“Then why would the Food Ministry tell the people to raise chickens?”

“I don't know sir.”

“Of course it wouldn't surprise me a bit if His Majesty's government didn't issue fertilized eggs and asked us to sit on then until they hatch. Bloody fools.”

“I'm sorry if I upset you professor. I'm just making small talk.”

“Don't be sorry. I will assure you that you will have your vegetable garden and if there's a way, we'll raise chickens. I must admit however I don't know how we will feed them.”

“I read somewhere that you can feed them kitchen scraps,” said Marjorie.

“What kitchen scraps? We eat everything you put on the table. The days of kitchen scraps are long gone.”

“Well, I don't know just how true it is, but the word I hear is that if one raises chickens, one then forfeits the one egg a week ration. In return you can get grain to feed the birds.”

“Really? Very interesting. However, at the same time a coop must be constructed to house them.”

“Who will build them?”

“Probably the same bloke that will dig the vegetable garden.”

“Meaning, not you.”

“Correct.”

“Alright, then is it permissible for me to hire Archie Blackman to do the jobs?”

“Providing I agree with his price. Now, assuming the Germans allow us to take a dinner break tonight and speaking of food, just what are you feeding me this evening?”

“Using both our ration books I was able to get a niece piece of cheddar. Fortunately, we had some beer in the house so I'm making Welsh Rabbit.”

“On dark bread toast I suppose.”

“Try and get white bread these days.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

Profile

 

Alistair Basham sat alone at his desk inside the college classroom. He had handed out nineteen certificates to the members of the Royal Military Police. Now the course he had taught, “Criminology” was over. After handshakes and good by's

all he had to look forward to was the possibility that the army would be satisfied with the results. Hopefully they would send another detachment to him for instruction. So far, nothing had been mentioned. He got up slowly from the desk chair, gathered a few papers and placed them in his briefcase, closed it and walked slowly out of the room.

At about the same time Mildred Perkins stood silently looking at the anti-aircraft gun emplacements now in place in Victoria Park. She had hoped to be able to enter the park and at least sit on a bench and rest. Now, forbidden to enter and with her suitcase in hand she turned and walked away.

Later, she walked down a subway entrance and once below the street she found an empty bench. She sat down and opened the over night bag. Removing one of the cans of sardines she had purchased for Helen and herself she broke off the key, inserted it on the tab and began twisting it, opening the tin. Using her fingers she removed each carefully packed fish and placed them in her mouth. When she was finished with the sardines she wiped the olive oil they were packed in from her mouth and fingers using her handkerchief. She looked at it finding it, soiled now from the many times she used it and decided to discard it with the empty container. Mildred thought about eating one of the apples, but decided to save it for later when she was really hungry.

Mildred stood and picked up her suitcase. She closed it and slowly turned her head looking for the rest rooms. When she saw what she thought was the woman’s room she headed for it. For some reason the subway cars were not running and she appeared to be alone. As she approached a cleaning man working on the platform she stopped and asked” Excuse me. Do you know why the trains are not running?”

“The Jerry's destroyed the tracks last night. You'd be better off using a bus. That is if the streets are clear. Besides your not supposed to be down here until four pm,” the man answered.

“I see. Thank you.”

Entering the rest room Mildred went to where the trash bin stood, There she deposited the empty sardine can then turned to walk to where the wash basins were. She noticed that the floor was wet, so she stepped carefully so not to slip and fall.

After taking two steps an elderly woman came out of one of the stalls and looking at Mildred said, “Here, here! You're not to be walking on my clean floor. I just mopped it.

“Oh, I'm sorry. There was no sign that I could see warning me,” Mildred replied.

“Sign? I've got no time to be posting signs. Any half wit would know that the tube is not running this day. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Well first of all I wanted to use the loo and tidy up a bit. At the same time I had some rubbish I wanted to discard.”

“Is that right? Well, if anyone was to ask me I'd say you're some tart looking to make a pound. Either that or you thought you'd steal the toilet paper and sell it on the street. What say I take a look see inside your pocketbook,” said the cleaning woman as she snatched the handbag from Mildred.

When she opened the purse the woman saw the roll of

toilet paper that Helen had taken from the bathroom stall in the Mandrake Hotel. “Just as I thought. You've been half-inching (stealing) bog rolls. I ought to call the coppers on you. Hello, hello? What's this I see. A doctors listening device. Now, I suppose you're going to tell me you're a physician.”

“No, I'm a social worker. I use my stethoscope in my work. Please give me back my pocketbook.”

“A social worker you say. And tell me why I should believe you.”

Mildred looked at the aging woman standing defiant in front of her. She was short, fat, and the cheap, read hair dye she had colored her hair with was a shade of iodine, orange. Gray hairs were becoming noticeable. “If you'd like I can show you?,” said Mildred.

“And just how would you go about doing that?”

“I'll take your blood pressure.”

“Really? Alright, but if you're lying I'll give you right for.”

“I need my pocketbook. The pressure cuff is also inside of it.”

“Here you are. What's your name deary?”

“Mildred Perkins.”

“They calls me Minerva Thompson.”

“Please extend your arm.”

Mildred wrapped the pressure cuff around the upper arm of the attendant then after placing the ear pieces of the stethoscope in her ears began squeezing the bulb, inflating the wrapped cuff. Then, slowly releasing the air she carefully listened for the pulsating sounds that indicated systolic and diastolic readings. Removing the ear pieces Mildred said, “Your pressure is a bit high. That's probably because of the anger you displayed awhile ago. However, it's nothing to worry about.”

“I'm so sorry dear. At times a woman like me who has to clean toilets and empty dustbins is treated rather shabby by the public. I hope you understand why I got upset when you walked on my floor.”

“Oh I do. Now, I have to check your carotid artery. I'll just place my stethoscope on your throat. Sit still. This won't hurt,” Mildred explained.

**********

At ten o'clock in the morning, April 7, 1941 there was a loud knock on the front door of 1600 Hitman Road. Marjorie Helm wiped her hands on her apron and while walking towards the door said, “Alright, alright, I'm coming as quick as I can.”

When she opened the door she saw a middle aged man, tall, thin, gray at the temples and displaying a pencil mustache. The stranger was wearing a noticeable, worn, dark blue suit and a black derby on his head.

“Yes?”, asked Marjorie.

“Good morning. I'd like to speak to Doctor Basham if I may”, said the man.

“And just who will I say is calling?”

“Inspector James Richardson of the Metropolitan Police.”

“I see. Well I'm sure that the professor would want to see you. Come in, have a seat and I'll let him know that you are here. He's out back watering the vegetable patch.”

“Thank you”, said the Inspector as he entered, removing his hat.

A few minutes later, Alistair Basham entered the kitchen through the back door. As he stepped up to the kitchen sink in order to wash his hands, he said ,” Be with you in a minute. I first have to wash the garden hose soil off my hands.” After drying his hands on a towel he walked into the living room. When he did the police detective stood and said, “Sorry to bother you doctor, but the Metropolitan Police want me to ask you a few questions. I'm Inspector James Richardson.”

Shaking hands with the man Basham said, nice meeting you Inspector. However, if our conversation is to be contained in a written report for the record, I'm not a doctor of sociology.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. I'm sorry enough for both of us. Now, what is it that you want to talk with me about?”

“I'll get right to the point sir. We, meaning the Metropolitan Police have become responsible for the arrest of someone we've dubbed, “The Subway Killer.”

“Why have you come to me?”

“It is our hope sir that because of your background in criminology you might be able to give us an idea of who or what is responsible for these crimes.'

“When you say what? I assume you mean gender.”

“Yes sir.”

“I get the impression that this conversation might be lengthy. May I suggest that we retire to the kitchen. That way I can use the table as I take notes. I'll have Mrs. Helm put the kettle on for tea. I'll be with you in a second. I have to get pencil and pad.

“Thank you sir. Please take your time.”

After getting a yellow lined tablet and pencil from his desk

Alistair led the way into the kitchen.” Have a seat and after you get comfortable you may begin,” said Basham.

“Very well sir. I'll start with a fact that you probably aren't aware of. It's called, “Blast Lungs”, said Richardson.

“Blast lungs you say. You're correct sir.That term is new to me.”

“The term is a result of the air raids. Pathologist in examining those caught in the open and killed in the bombings have found that the severe concussions caused by the explosions

suck the air out of the victims lungs. The lungs then empty, rise in the rib cage and will not function normally. The person suffocates.”

“I see. Proceed.”

“As you can imagine, the medical staff's in London were at first overwhelmed, in particular, pathologist's. As a result it wasn't until five days after the discovery of the dead body of one, Henrietta Camp in the London Bridge underground that a determination of cause of death was manual, strangulation.”

“Not Lung Blast?”, asked Basham.

“No sir. There was evidence that an instrument was used as a garrote.”

“What sort of instrument?”

“We don't know. We do know that the bruising on the victims throat was not caused by digital pressure. Here is a photograph of Henrietta Camp taken during the autopsy.”

Basham took the black and white photograph in his hands and studied it. I notice that the victim is elderly. Do you have her age?,” he asked.

“She was eighty years old.”

Alistair wrote down that information. “Please continue,” he said.

“Several days later a niece of Ann Peters, age seventy eight, of six hundred seven Tooley Street, apartment, three B went to check on her aunt. She found Mrs. Peters Dead, sitting on her couch. Her death was reported to us as a homicide. Cause of death, strangulation, by use of a type of garrote.”

“Interesting.'

“What's interesting sir is the fact that the London Bridge Underground Station is three minutes away from