by Donald Bain
I turned on the light and went through my purse until I found Jimmy Biggers’s business card. Sure enough, his office was located on Wapping Wall.
I returned to bed and, after my going through a series of relaxation exercises, beginning with my toes and ending with my eyes, sleep finally arrived.
Chapter Thirteen
I’d no sooner gotten up and dressed when the phone rang again. “Mornin’, Jess. Seth. Sleep well?”
“Good morning, Seth,” I replied, my head still foggy from lack of sleep.
“Mort and I are gettin’ ready to see the town. Thought you’d like to have breakfast with us.”
“Seth, I…”
“You all right, Jess?”
“Yes, but I was up very late last night. Something has developed that I must take care of this morning.”
“That so? Can we be of help?”
“No, I don’t think so, but thank you for offering.” Then, without thinking, I proceeded to tell him about Jason Harris’s murder, and Maria Giacona sleeping in my living room.
“That sounds mighty serious, Jess. We’ll be right up.”
“No, Seth, I-”
“No arguments, Jessica Fletcher.” He hung up.
I went to the living room and wakened Maria. “You’ll have to get up now, Maria. Two male friends of mine are on their way here.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I hastily put the bed linens back in order and folded up the couch. It had no sooner snapped into place when there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and Seth and Morton walked in. Seth was dressed in a handsome tan poplin suit and wore his walking shoes. Mort was in his Cabot Cove sheriff’s uniform. He had changed shirts, however. Last night it was tan; this morning it was blue.
“I really don’t know what you can do,” I said. “Ms. Giacona is in the bathroom, and I intend to escort her to the police station.”
“Jessica, I know you are a woman who has traveled the world, and who feels very comfortable with crime, but there is no substitute for a professional talking to a fellow professional,” Mort Metzger said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“If there is any trip to be made to the London police, I will make it with you. After all, I am a law enforcement officer. I speak their language. Trust me, Jessica. It’s a good thing I’m here.” Seth glanced at him and frowned. “That we’re here,” Morton added.
After Maria had finished getting dressed, I introduced her to my friends from Maine, and the four of us went downstairs for breakfast. Seth insisted upon putting the check on his room tab. When he saw the amount, and calculated pounds to U.S. dollars, he remarked, “I could feed a family of four for a month back in Cabot Cove for this money.”
“Hotel breakfast,” I said lightly. “Come on, let’s go.”
Like all London cab drivers, ours this morning was steeped in the history of the city. He pointed out to us the National Museum of Labour History, which, he said, memorialized the strivings of common men and women for a better life. He also pointed to a fascinating church, St. Paul ’s Shadwell, that had been built to minister to sea captains, including Captain Cook.
“Everything’s so old,” Morton Metzger said, his tan Stetson pulled down low over his eyes as he peered through the taxi’s window.
Eventually, after our mini-tour of the Wapping district of London, we pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Special Constabulary, Thames Division, established in 1798 and responsible for patrolling fifty-four miles of the river with its thirty-three police boats.
I looked at Maria. “Are you up to this?” I asked.
She’d been extremely quiet the whole morning, saying virtually nothing. She looked at me with those huge brown eyes and forced a smile onto her pretty lips. “Yes, I suppose I have to be.”
A sergeant at the front desk asked who we were.
“My name is Jessica Fletcher, and these are my friends,” I said. “This young lady was a close personal friend of someone you found in the river last night, a young man by the name of Jason Harris.”
The sergeant licked his thumb and turned pages in a book. “Yes, he’s in the book. What’s your business?”
“Well,” I said, “this young lady, whose name is Maria Giacona, received the phone call at Mr. Harris’s flat last night. They were… well, they were very close, and we felt that you would probably want her to personally identify the body.”
The sergeant glanced down at the page in front of him, looked up, and said, “That’s already been done.”
“It has?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who, might I ask, identified the body?”
“Not for me to say.”
“Sergeant, is there a detective or an inspector with whom we could speak about this matter?”
“Any of you family?” the sergeant asked. He was a slight man with thin black hair; a wavy scar on his upper lip formed a horizontal S over his mouth.
“No, no family, but someone who was very close to the deceased. Please, Sergeant, can’t you show a little consideration for this young woman who has lost a loved one?”
He looked at each of us, then punched a button on a telephone console. “Inspector, there’s four people out here inquiring about the floater last night.” He listened to what the person on the other end of the line said, then hung up. “Okay, you can go back and see Inspector Bobby Half, down the hall, third door to the left.”
Three of us started toward the corridor, but Mort Metzger lingered. He put his hand across the desk and said, “Sheriff Metzger, Cabot Cove, Maine. Here on official business.”
The desk sergeant looked at Metzger’s hat, then his uniform. Morton’s hand continued to dangle over the desk. The S above the sergeant’s mouth wiggled. He limply shook Mort’s hand.
“Come on, Mort,” Seth said impatiently.
Unlike the desk sergeant, the inspector was a big man. He had the rugged, leathery look of a commercial fisherman, which, I reasoned, resulted from having spent his career squinting against the sun’s reflection off the water of the Thames. His hands were hamlike, calloused, and covered with scratches, nails grimy. His face was round, like a Halloween pumpkin, all the features barely protruding from the surface.
I went through my introduction again. This time, however, Morton insisted upon injecting himself into the middle of things. “Sheriff Metzger, Cabot Cove,” he said, shooting his hand at Inspector Half.
“That so?” Half said. “Where might Cabot Cove be?”
“ Maine, Inspector,” I quickly said, moving to put myself between them. I told him of Maria’s relationship with Jason Harris and expressed surprise that the body had already been identified. I asked by whom.
“His half brother, stepbrother, something like that. Came in a few hours after we dragged him out of the river.”
“David Simpson,” I said.
“That was his name.”
“He was certain it was his stepbrother, Jason Harris?” I asked.
“Hard to be certain about a body like that. His throat had been slit from ear to ear, it had, and his face pretty badly battered in. Frankly, I couldn’t tell him from Winston Churchill. A bloody mess, that’s what he was, and floating in the river didn’t help.”
“Then how could his stepbrother make a positive identification?”
“Who knows? He didn’t have any hesitation, and that was good enough for me.” He looked at Maria. “What were you, his girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to see the body?”
“I… no, I suppose after what you’ve said, it would be better if I didn’t.” She started to cry.
“Inspector, it seems to me there are certain procedures here that should be followed,” Sheriff Metzger said with considerable profundity.
“You’re the sheriff of where?”
“Cabot Cove, Maine. You see, I flew here on behalf of Mrs. Fletcher, who I am sure you know, is one of the world’s most distinguished writers. She also was the person who
discovered the body of Marjorie Ainsworth.”
Morton’s comment obviously meant something to the inspector. He smiled-actually, more of a simple parting of the lips-and extended his hand to me. “You’re the one I’ve been reading about. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” I said.
Inspector Half seemed unsure of what to do next. He sat behind his desk and rolled his fingertips on its surface. “Happy to oblige you folks,” he said. “If you’d like to see the body, you’re welcome.”
Maria turned and walked to the door. “I don’t want to see him,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Seth Hazlitt said.
“I would like to see the body, Inspector,” I said.
“Jessica-”
“I would like to see the body.”
The Inspector stood. “I warn you, it isn’t a pretty sight.”
“I assure you you won’t have a fainter on your hands,” I said.
The Inspector and I went to a small morgue set up at the rear of the building. Through the window, the Thames rolled by. There was a considerable amount of commercial activity on it, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it had looked like two or three hundred years ago when pirates plied its waters. I didn’t have much time to contemplate history, however, because before I knew it, Inspector Half pulled out a body drawer from the wall and had flipped the end of a sheet that covered a corpse’s face.
I quickly turned away. It wasn’t recognizable as a human face, nothing but a gruesome mass of black flesh, no nose, no eyes, just a fetid blob. Look at it, Jessica, I told myself. You asked for this.
I forced myself to look once again at what the inspector had exposed, “Thank you,” I said. “That’s sufficient.”
By the time we reappeared in the lobby of the constabulary, word had gotten out who I was. Inspector Half personally escorted us to the front door. The desk sergeant asked timidly, “Could I have your signature for me kids, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Half gave him a stern look. “If she wouldn’t mind, Inspector,” the sergeant said.
I quickly scrawled my name on the piece of paper he held out, thanked them once again, and walked out onto the street.
“Why did you have to see the body?” Seth asked. “It’s nothing for a lady to see.”
“Seth, someone had to look at the body. Frankly, I was surprised you didn’t come with me. As a doctor, you’ve seen enough corpses.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t have been any help. I never met the young man when he was alive.”
“Well, I did.”
“Was it as terrible as he said it would be?” Maria asked.
I solemnly nodded and avoided her gaze.
“Who could have done such a thing?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Maria, but we’ll try to find out.”
“Must be near lunchtime,” Morton Metzger said. “I’m hungry.”
“It’s only eleven o’clock,” Seth said.
“My body is all turned around,” Morton said. “Jet lag, I guess. What say we find ourselves a place to get a snack, just to tide us over till lunchtime.”
I wasn’t particularly hungry after viewing the remains, but I wasn’t averse to a cup of tea. We looked down the length of the street and saw a pub at the far corner. “Let’s go there,” I said. “We can call a taxi after we eat.”
The pub was called the Red Feather. We looked through the window. It seemed pleasant enough, somewhat run down, but weren’t most neighborhood pubs? The others started in. I stepped back to take in the entire building, which was only two stories tall. Then I noticed a small sign next to the door:
JIMMY BIGGERS
PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
We settled at a table in the main room and ordered Devonshire ham and Silton cheese sandwiches. I asked the owner where Mr. Biggers’s office was; he pointed to a set of stairs to the rear.
“Is he up there now?” I asked.
“Probably asleep. He works nights most times, and sleeps the day away.”
“Do you think he would mind being awakened by an old friend?”
“I didn’t know he had any old friends, new ones either.”
I waited until we finished our sandwiches and tea before going upstairs. I knocked.
“Who in hell is it?” Biggers shouted.
“Jessica Fletcher,” I yelled with equal volume.
There was cursing and the sound of furniture being bumped into before Biggers opened the door. His hair went in a dozen directions, and there was a healthy growth of stubble on his cheeks. He wore an old flannel bathrobe riddled with cigarette burns.
“Sorry to have woken you, Mr. Biggers, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in to say hello.”
“That so? Wouldn’t expect to see you sightseeing Wapping Wall.”
“One of my favorite places,” I said.
He yawned and scratched his belly through a gap in his robe and pajamas. “I intended to call you today,” he said.
“I’m downstairs with friends,” I said. “We’ve finished eating, but if you’d like to join us, we can have another cup of tea, or a beer.”
“I might do just that, Mrs. Fletcher. Give me a minute.”
He took five minutes to join us. Obviously, showering upon awakening wasn’t part of his morning routine. He’d tried to tame his hair but without much success. There were still sleep granules in the corners of his eyes. I introduced him to the others.
“What brings you to this neighborhood?” he asked.
“An unfortunate circumstance,” I answered. I told him about Jason Harris, and how Maria was Jason’s closest friend.
“Friend?” he said, grinning. “If that’s all he saw in you, miss, he was a bloody fool.”
Maria didn’t know what to do, so she looked away. I was embarrassed, too, but tried not to show it. Biggers asked some questions about Jason Harris, which I deftly avoided. I was aware that Morton Metzger was taking in Biggers with narrowed, questioning eyes. He didn’t say anything, but his stare became unsettling. I decided it was time to leave, thanked Biggers for allowing me to barge in on him as I had, and said we’d be in touch.
“Anytime, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, standing and pulling out my chair. “It’s a grotty neighborhood, but I call it home, have for many years. You ought to come back just for a social visit some time.”
“I might take you up on that, Mr. Biggers. Good day.”
When we returned to the Savoy, I suggested that Morton and Seth try to salvage some of the day for sightseeing. They reluctantly agreed, and we reconfirmed our plans to meet for a drink at five in the Thames Foyer bar.
Maria and I went up to my suite.
“I really must be leaving now, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. You’re a very kind person.”
“No need to thank me, Maria. You’ve been through something dreadful.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, could I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How terrible did he look? I mean…”
“I won’t mince words with you, Maria. It was a horrible sight. Frankly, I had no idea whether it was Jason or not.”
Her eyes filled up, and she quickly left the room.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucas had wanted me to take part in a panel discussion on creating believable female detectives in fiction, but I begged off, agreeing instead to join one the next morning on the relative merits of small-town settings versus big cities.
I couldn’t get the vision of the battered face I’d seen in the Wapping police headquarters out of my mind, nor could I ignore Maria’s comments about Jason Harris’s stepbrother, David Simpson. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to maintain order in my life. Like any writer who’s made a living at it, discipline has been the key, and I’ve had to be a disciplined person.
There are times, however, when, hard as I try, I am drawn to something like a moth to a summer candle. That’s what was happening as I mulled over the
circumstances of Jason’s death. How had the police known to contact David Simpson in the middle of the night? I should have asked that. Perhaps Jason carried a card that indicated in the event of emergency, his stepbrother was to be called.
Each time I raised a question-and answered it-I was dissatisfied with my reply.
I went through the London Yellow Pages until I came to the Talent Agent section, which told me to look at Booking Agents. I did, and found an agency in the listing: Simpson Talent Bookers, located on Dean Street, in Soho. I noted the address and phone number on a piece of paper and decided I needed a leisurely walk in London to help clear my mind. It might as well be to Soho. Besides, I’ve often found that simply dropping in on someone can be more effective than trying to arrange a meeting in advance. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it was the approach I decided to take.
It was a lovely afternoon as I strolled the streets of Soho. It had, like New York ’s Times Square, deteriorated because of a proliferation of striptease clubs and sex shops, but they seemed relatively innocuous in the daylight. Unlike the case with Times Square, legitimate business hadn’t fled the area, and Soho was still filled with quaint restaurants, fascinating newsstands, and boutiques.
I stopped in at St. Anne’s Church, bombed during the war, its tower and clock now faithfully restored. Behind it, in simple graves, were buried Dorothy Sayers, a churchwarden and no relation to the writer, and the other Hazlitt, William, no relationship to my friend Seth.
I stopped for tea at the York Minster Pub, known as the French Pub because its owners are probably the only French pub owners in all of Great Britain. Frank and I had enjoyed a beer there before going on to hear jazz at Ronnie Scott’s club on Frith Street. Afterward we’d had a scrumptious dinner in the Neal Street Restaurant; I could almost taste the grilled calf kidney I’d had that night, and a dessert I have never experienced again called tiramisu. Those were good memories but, because they could never be repeated, there was also a sense of sadness as I stood in front of the restaurant and looked through the window at the very table we’d shared.
