IT DIDN’T WORK OUTThis is a confession. I want to tell the whole truth and to explain how it happened.
In the first place my name is Margaret Hawkins, and later on, when I went on the stage, I changed it to Polly Oliver. I don’t suppose you remember the name now, but your fathers might, although I don’t know . . . it’s no good me pretending.
I was clever and I had looks when I was younger, but I was never what you might call a top-liner, not like Louie. It’s really because of her that I’m confessing at all. The fair boy, who looked too young to be a policeman when he took his hat off, didn’t suspect me. I don’t think anybody did, not even the coroner, and there was a shrewd old man if ever I saw one.
I suppose you would say that I’ve got clean away with it, but I want to tell about it b
