Hitler's Girls Read Online Free

and Monica used to pore over, word games contrived and unnecessary to life. I wait to hear his enthusiastic description of Monica’s barbecues, of the casseroles made from strips of meat, of the preparation of her boeuf en daube (she’d written to me about that, excited all those years ago by the cuisine of Elizabeth David). I waited, in vain, for the amateur theatricals of the knife.
    “The knife is missing. The police think it came from Monica’s kitchen,” Jim says briskly. “But, as you have noticed, Jean, the whole place is in a bit of a mess. Doesn’t give the impression of a regular venue for—well—eating, relaxing, asking in the neighbours for a spot of chow. Wouldn’t you agree?”
    I take the opportunity, as the mixed image of Mel on the screen begins to jump and flicker, to rise from the sofa and demonstrate, as only the British can, that I am preparing to leave. But Jim, after his sudden lapse into Colonial lingo, pays no attention whatsoever and adjusts the video control before leaning further back in his seat. Mel is framed fully once more: she resembles a Fayoum painting of a head, impossibly distant,a representation of an unknowable woman from a pagan, forgotten shrine.
    “You see, Jean, Monica hadn’t been keeping her house too clean, as perhaps you perceived.” I bristled here—did Jim suggest I was not one to notice gross disorder in a home? For a moment I was about to remark crossly that I had, of course, seen the gap in the arrangement of knives on the wall of Monica’s kitchen. I almost informed this pompous and self-important man that the fine set of knives had been a gift from none other than myself—several Christmases back, when Monica wrote that she was thinking of taking up Chinese cooking. Had even gone so far as to buy herself a wok. Then I reflected that to boast of buying the murder weapon used on one’s childhood best friend would render Jim the less crass one out of the two of us. The memory of my jovial phone call to Monica that Christmas Day brings tears to my eyes: “Now you can chop to your heart’s content,” I said. Why on earth did I never come to London and visit Monica when she was still alive?
    Why, for that matter, had I not known she had let herself go—and the house along with her? Had she gone to pieces at the death of her mother and her husband, Ian? I began to feel sorry for Mel—until the dreadful evidence of the knife raised its blade in the mind. But was it strange that a fifteen-year-old girl would run away from a home so neglected and sad?
    “Dr. Hastie!” Jim says. He uses the formal address but he makes it sound like the first move in a serious, possibly sexual attack. “There is more to all this than you think. May I suggest you come and sit down again and hear it?” And the neighbour of Monica Stirling pats the vacated sofa seat with his hand—as if, I cannot help thinking, I am a child or a pet dog. “You see, when Monica came to see me on Saturday night she was frantic with fear. I confess, I was astonished to see her at my door. She’d let her house slip—well, I put that down to grief at her bereavement, even if it was quite a while ago. Women can be affected that way when they live alone, it’s a well-established fact.”
    I have tried to eliminate my responses to Jim Graham and his frequent offensive remarks while editing the account he gave me on the night of Monday, March 4th, the account of the last time he saw Monica Stirling. I did not, however, accept the invitation to join Mr. Graham on the settee in front of the permanently renewed image of Mel. I stood where I was, coat still in hand, by the door.

JIM’S STORY
    “You won’t mind if I’m frank with you, Jean.
    “The sight of Monica Stirling in a housecoat was the opposite of a big treat. I want to get rid of the idea there was anything between us—OK? People talk. Mrs. Walker next door is the chief of the tittle-tattles and the last thing I wanted was a whip-around