Beatrice lay still. Was she dead? Injured? Or only momentarily dazed?
Aleida wouldn’t wait to find out. She turned to run, stopped herself.
The gun!
Not only did she need to keep it out of murderous hands, but it was evidence.
In the grass, steel glinted in the moonlight. Using her skirtto pick up the weapon, Aleida thrust the gun into Beatrice’s evening bag.
Her throat aching, her skirts held high, she ran across the path, out of the park, onto Park Lane. “Police!” she yelled, but her voice croaked, her windpipe throbbed.
Black smoke and orange flames erupted from buildings.
Despite the destruction, her heart soared. Civil defense workers would be out. They could help her.
Her stockinged feet slipped, and rough pavement pierced her soles.
She ran down Park Lane toward a bomb site. Firemen aimed arcs of glistening water at the flames, and a rescue party picked through the rubble, looking for survivors.
The incident officer—she had to find him—he could send a messenger to fetch the police.
Her breath came hard and her throat burned, but tears of relief dampened her eyes. Even if Beatrice came, she could no longer harm her.
“Thank you, Lord.” Her stinging feet ground to a stop by a fireman. “Excuse me. Where’s the incident officer?”
The man shrugged as he wrestled the snaking hose. “That way, I think.” He tilted his head to the right.
After Aleida checked behind her—no sign of Beatrice—she headed down the street, skirting workers and equipment and scanning for a police officer or ARP warden.
At the end of the building, Aleida stepped back onto the curb.
Around the corner, masonry lay in a shallow heap.
One hand and a man’s head peeked out from the rubble.
“Oh no!” Aleida turned back to Park Lane and waved her arms. “Rescue party! Stretcher party. One injured man around the corner, partly buried.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A rescuer nodded to her as he helped a man out from the debris.
Aleida needed to find the police, but the injured man’s lifecame first. Besides, now that she could name Beatrice Granville as the murderer, the police would eventually arrest her.
Around the corner she dropped to her knees. The injured man lay on his stomach toward the edge of the heap, only partly buried. He might stand a chance.
“I’m from the ARP, sir, and I’m here to help.” She rolled the largest chunk of masonry from the man’s back.
He groaned and turned his head to the side. “A ... lei...”
She gasped and brushed dust and plaster from the man’s head, from wavy hair. It couldn’t be. “Hugh?”
Eyes opened, familiar and beloved and wracked with pain. “You’re ... safe?”
“Yes. Yes.” She swept bits of stone from his shoulders. “What happened?”
“Came ... fr’you.” His voice crackled, and he wheezed.
“Oh no. You’re having an asthmatic attack.”
One nod.
