by Donald Bain
I took another sip of wine. “How could he have stolen it, Renée? Wouldn’t Marjorie have raised a beef?”
She smiled ruefully. “Exactly. That’s why he killed her.”
“Let me ask you something very directly, and hope for an answer containing nothing except hard-nosed fact. Are you certain, without question, that not only did Bruce Herbert steal this manuscript, but he murdered Marjorie Ainsworth, too?”
She silently stared at me before saying softly, “No. I mean, I know he stole the manuscript, but I certainly can’t prove he murdered her.”
I asked, “Didn’t Marjorie ask him why this novel of hers wasn’t being published? She obviously knew that anything she put her name on would be instantly gobbled up, if not by Perry House, then by any one of fifty other publishers.”
“She did ask him, as I understand it, and he told her he considered it so special that he wanted to have time to think about the proper way to market it.”
“And she accepted that?”
“Yes. With all Marjorie Ainsworth’s insight and intelligence, she could be remarkably naïve and easily led.”
“I see. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I have tremendous respect for you, am well aware that you are the one person who had nothing to gain by Marjorie’s death, and because not only are you recognized as a fine writer of murder mysteries, you’ve ended up solving many real murders yourself. Is that sufficient?”
“More than sufficient, although the compliments are hardly justified. You say I’m the only one with nothing to gain. Obviously, you’re including your husband in the group who would benefit from Marjorie’s death.”
She’d been reticent and sedate during the conversation. My comment brought forth animation for the first time. “Jessica, my husband did not kill Marjorie Ainsworth. Bruce Herbert did.”
Up until that moment I had assigned a certain credence to what she’d been saying. Now, as I looked at this beautiful and expensively dressed woman across from me, I wondered whether this pointing of fingers at Bruce Herbert was, in fact, designed to point fingers away from her husband. I couldn’t ask that directly, of course, but it stayed with me as we finished our wine, she paid the check, and we retraced our steps to the Savoy.
We paused in the lobby. “I’m putting tremendous faith in you, Jessica, telling you this. Will you talk to the London authorities?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what you’ve told me would warrant that.”
“I only ask because I know you’re on friendly terms with that Scotland Yard inspector.”
George Sutherland. I’d like to have said I’d forgotten about him, but that was hardly the case. The fact was, I thought about him often, the warm and pleasant conversations we’d had, and the cold shoulder he’d given me at the funeral. I said to Renée Perry, “I’ll think about what I might do with what you’ve told me. If I decide to do anything, I’ll certainly let you know.”
“I can’t ask for more. Thank you, Jessica. Have a good evening.”
I watched her elegant, tall figure swathed in mink cross the lobby and disappear around a bend. Was she being sincere and forthright, or was this a calculated move to establish a field in which any suspicion would be diverted from her handsome publisher husband? According to Marjorie’s will, she’d accused him, along with Bruce Herbert, of stealing money from her, although she’d dismissed it in a charmingly cavalier manner. The loan she claimed to have given him was another matter. More substance to that. Depending upon how large it was, it could certainly provide motive for murder.
“Enjoy your walk?” Jimmy Biggers asked me.
“Still here? Yes, we had a lovely walk, just the thing to get over a large meal.”
He smiled, narrowed his eyes, and tapped me on the shoulder with his index finger. It was a strange action for him to take; was he about to attack me, give me a push? No, it was just his way of getting my attention for what he was about to say next. “Jessica, a word of warning. You’re much too visible in the way you’re going about this. People are talking. You don’t want to end up like Marjorie Ainsworth.”
His words had their intended effect. “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked.
He flashed his nicotine-stained teeth and moved his head back and forth, as he was wont to do. “Absolutely not, Jessica Fletcher, but I will tell you that I like you, have respect for you, and don’t want to see you floating face down in the Thames like the Harris chap.”
“How do I avoid that, Jimmy?” I asked.
“That, Jessica, is the subject of our breakfast meeting tomorrow morning.”
“I wasn’t aware that we had a ‘breakfast meeting.’ ”
“I think we should. Meet me at eight o’clock at the Red Feather. They’ll whip us up a proper English breakfast, and I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. You’ll be there?”
What else could I say? “Yes.”
Chapter Seventeen
Because the Red Feather was close to the Metropolitan Special Constabulary on Wapping Wall, it was a popular hangout for police from that division. When I walked in at precisely eight o’clock the next morning, Biggers was sitting with Inspector Half and three other uniformed officers. He bounced up and met me just inside the door. “Good morning to you, Jessica, right on time. Punctuality. I like punctuality.”
“I try my best,” I said. “I see you know Inspector Half.”
Biggers laughed. “Know ‘em all, all good chums o’ mine. Care to join ’em, or would you rather we take another table?”
“Whatever pleases you, Mr. Biggers. I’m here by your invitation.”
“Let’s find us a spot where we can talk in private.” That spot turned out to be a table tucked in the darts room. Biggers ordered a full English breakfast for both of us-fresh-squeezed orange juice, porridge with cream, fried eggs, crisp bacon, well-done sausages, kippered herring, and an excellent pot of coffee.
“This is delicious,” I said.
“Not quite up to the Goring, but better than most.” I’d had one of the famed English breakfasts at the Goring Hotel, and the Red Feather’s was almost as good.
After our plates had been cleared and the waitress poured fresh coffee, I said to Jimmy Biggers, “This has been a very pleasant start to my day. I’d like to know, though, why you invited me here. You said you had something to discuss with me.”
“Simple, Jessica, I need me a client.”
“Really? From what I understand, you’re never without one.”
“True, but I’m talking about a big client, somebody I can hang me hat on. I’ve always got me share of wives wanting their husbands followed, insurance fraud cases, all the run-of-the-mill stuff, but I like big cases, ones that really keep me mind working.”
“You mean cases of the magnitude of Sir Reginald Pickings.”
“How’d you know about that one?”
“Someone told me.”
“Well, you’re right.”
“Obviously, the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth would qualify.”
“Right again.”
“I’ve wondered why you’ve stayed so close to the people involved. Frankly, I assumed you were working for someone already.”
“Not yet.” He stared at me.
“Are you suggesting that I hire you as a private investigator?”
“Actually, they call us inquiry agents here in Great Britain, but I like the American way. Gumshoe? That’s a good one. Call me what you will.”
“Mr. Biggers, I don’t need a… gumshoe.”
“Worried about the money?”
“The money? Of course not.”
“No need, ’cause I’m offerin’ my services off the cuff, gratis, no charge.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind bein’ the investigator who helps the famous Jessica Fletcher solve the murder of the world’s greatest mystery writer, Marjorie Ainsworth. From what I understand-and I’ve done a bit of check
in’ on you-you’ve knocked off as many murderers in real life as you have in your books.”
I laughed; I didn’t know how else to respond.
Biggers nodded his head and narrowed his eyes as he said, “I’m serious.”
“Yes, I can see that. Actually, I would like to help solve Marjorie’s murder. She happened to be a very dear friend of mine.”
He sat back and grinned. “What say, Jessica, you and me work together, figure out who killed Marjorie Ainsworth, and all I ask is for some public credit. Good for my business, wouldn’t you say, to be hooked’ up with the likes of you?”
Somehow, what he was offering had a certain appeal. His knowledge of London, especially its less obvious aspects, would be helpful. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
“All right, but don’t take too long. I just might end up solvin’ this one on my own.”
He wangled a promise from me that I would call him as soon as possible with my answer. I thanked him for breakfast, we shook hands, and he called a cab that transported me back to the Savoy. Seth and Morton were having breakfast in the dining room, and I joined them.
“Tell me all about your fling last night,” I said.
Seth glanced at Morton, whose face had a slightly green tinge to it. Seth said, “We went to a very exclusive club, compliments of your Mr. Biggers.”
“Compliments of him? He told me he’d recommended it, that’s all.”
“That’s what I mean. Naturally, we would never have considered going to such a place if it had not been so highly recommended by a native like him.”
I smiled and looked down at the table. “I won’t ask any more questions,” I said.
“I learned one thing,” Morton said.
I looked up. “What’s that?”
“There’s lots of beautiful young French ladies in London who were born in Sweden.”
“Where’ve you been this morning?” Seth asked me.
“Having breakfast at the Red Feather with Jimmy Biggers. He’s made me a business proposition.”
Seth frowned. “I wouldn’t trust him, Jess. You’re not thinking of putting up any money in some scheme of his.”
“No, of course not. He wants us-him and me-to solve Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder together.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Morton.
“I told him I would give him an answer as soon as I could. Frankly, I’m tempted. He seems to be a veritable fount of information, and I’d like to be on the receiving end of it.”
“Jess…” Seth said, placing his hand on mine.
“Let’s face it,” I said, “I’ve already been sticking my nose into Marjorie’s murder: one, because she was a good friend, and two, because I have been a suspect all along, and three, because obviously I was born with an extra gene that makes me the way I am.” I quickly changed the subject and asked what their plans were. They said they intended to take it easy that day, which didn’t surprise me, considering the way they looked after their boys’ night out.
As I stood to leave, Seth asked me about the reading of Marjorie’s will.
“It was fascinating.”
“And she did leave you something?”
“Left me quite a bit, although I am donating it back to the study center she created. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Have to run. Enjoy your day of leisure.”
I went up to my suite and picked up the telephone. There was no answer at Jimmy Biggers’s office-apartment above the Red Feather, so I found the number of the pub itself and called it. He was still there; the owner put him on the line.
“You’ve got yourself a client, Mr. Biggers.”
“Good girl, Jess. You’ve made a very wise decision.”
“That will be determined when this is over. In the meantime, I’d like you to do two things for me. First, see if you can find Maria Giacona. Second, learn everything you can about the relationship between Jason Harris and David Simpson.”
“Whoa now, slow down, I’m not sure I like havin’ a woman give me orders like this.”
“I thought you wanted me to be your client.”
“That’s right, but-”
“Well, as I’ve always been taught, clients tell those working for them what to do.”
“Behind that pleasant, feminine facade, you are a tough duck, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Only when I’m a client, Jimmy. Will you do those things for me?”
“You bet. Just testing, seein’ how far I can go. Where will you be later in the day?”
“I don’t know, but you can leave a message with the hotel and I’ll get back to you. Thanks again for breakfast. It was excellent.”
I changed into a sweat suit and running shoes I’d brought with me and went downstairs with the intention of finding a pleasant jogging path along the Victoria Embankment on the river.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” a familiar male voice said. It was Montgomery Coots, the Crumpsworth inspector.
“Yes, Inspector?”
“On your way for a run, are you?” he asked, moving up and down on his toes.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I was. Would you care to join me?”
He looked down at the suit and leather shoes he wore and said, “Afraid I’m not quite dressed for such activity. Would you spare me a few minutes before you go?”
“Of course. Perhaps you’d like to walk with me. I feel an overwhelming need to be out of doors.”
We made our way around back of the hotel and headed down toward the Embankment. We stopped at a wooden bench beneath a clump of trees. Coots pulled out my gold pendant from his breast pocket and handed it to me.
“Thank you, Inspector. I was wondering whether I would ever see this again.”
“Never any fear of that with me, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t lose evidence like some others do.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s true. Evidence? You really did consider this evidence?”
“I overlook nothing, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m well known for that.”
I smiled pleasantly. “Anything else you wish to give me, or discuss with me?”
“As a matter of fact, there is. I don’t like having inquiry agents the likes of Jimmy Biggers-whom, I must say, you’ve been spending a lot of time with-snoopin’ into my business.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come now, Mrs. Fletcher, let’s not beat round bushes. Biggers has been poking around Crumpsworth, asking questions about Miss Ainsworth and the young writer who got his throat slit.” He paused a moment to gauge my reaction. “Are you aware, Mrs. Fletcher, of the reputation of Jimmy Biggers?”
“I’ve heard some stories about him although, I must admit, I’ve found him to be nothing but pleasant, straightforward and helpful.”
Coots narrowed his eyes and started his up-and-down motion again. “Mrs. Fletcher, you write about murders, I solve ’em. I suggest we keep it that way.”
“I assure you, Inspector Coots, that I have no intention of stepping on your toes, but I have lost a very dear friend under tragic circumstances, and there are questions I want answered. Frankly, I don’t think those questions will be answered by you.”
Anger flashed across his face, and I quickly added, “Not because of any lack of competence on your part, but because some of the questions involve literary matters quite aside from murder.”
“What might those ‘literary matters’ be?”
“I really don’t think you’d be interested in them.”
“Better to let me be the judge of that, Mrs. Fletcher. Like I said, I leave no stone unturned when I’m out to knock off a killer.”
“Well, Inspector Coots, I can only assure you that my inquiries, in concert with Mr. Biggers, have nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation of the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth. Now I really must run, in a literal sense. We can continue this conversation if you’ll join me, or we can make an appointment to continue it later on.” I looked at him; he obviously wasn’t about to join me, so I took off at a trot,
looking back only once to see him glaring at me from where I’d left him.
I returned to my room after an hour or so, showered, and called Bruce Herbert’s room. He answered, and I asked whether he was free to meet for a cocktail later that afternoon.
“Anything special on your mind, Jessica?”
“No, I just thought it might be fun as long as we’re at a writers’ convention to talk books. We really haven’t had much of a chance to do that.”
I figured he would think that I wanted to discuss his non-fiction book idea about Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder, and I was obviously right. He not only accepted the invitation, he was gleeful about it.
Dressed as impeccably as ever, Herbert conducted himself with the easy aplomb I was accustomed to seeing. He ordered scotch on the rocks, white wine for me.
“So, Jessica Fletcher, let’s talk books. Are you in the midst of writing another novel?”
“No, the last one was difficult to resolve and took more time than I’d anticipated. Actually, it worked out nicely. I was able to make this trip while ‘between books,’ as they say.”
“Have you plotted your next one yet?”
“No. I decided to give my brain a much needed rest for a while. I am very much at liberty these days, and loving every minute of it.”
He raised his handsome face and studied me. “Am I wrong, Jessica, in having the feeling that you might want to reconsider my suggestion about writing an account of what’s happened this week?”
“Yes, and no. I dismissed the suggestion out of hand, which, I should be old enough to know, is never a good idea. I wouldn’t mind discussing it further with you, although I admit that while I no longer rule it out, I have no real intention of doing it. You might say I’m in a state of ambivalence.”
He smiled and visibly settled a little deeper into his chair. “Wonderful,” he said. “Let me tell you what my ideas are about the book.”
He presented an eloquent description of how he saw such a book taking shape. “Well, what do you think?” he asked when he was finished.
“I certainly agree with you, Bruce, that if such a book were done, the approach you suggest makes sense.”
“Not only does the approach make sense; having Jessica Fletcher do it guarantees a runaway bestseller.”
