by Donald Bain
I smiled. “I’ve had a few best-sellers in my career.”
“But nothing of the magnitude this would be.”
I told him I would give it further thought, and sipped my wine before changing subjects. “Let me bounce an idea off you that I’ve had.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I’ve been thinking about developing a series of murder mysteries. As you might know, each of my books stands on its own. There are very few running characters, which, I always felt, made sense. On the other hand, I know how successful a well-crafted series can be, and I’ve been toying with it.”
“Sounds like a dynamite idea, Jessica.”
I laughed and took another sip of wine. “What got me thinking about this was Gin and Daggers.”
“How so?”
“What a marvelous series it could turn into, using a gimmick similar to John D. MacDonald’s-you know, the way he used color in each of his titles. We have Gin and Daggers, which takes place in England, of course. Now we could go on to Rum and Razors, set in the Caribbean. There could be Beer and Bullets, with Germany the location, Bourbon and Bodies would be another, with Kentucky as the setting. Bourbon is so American. The list is endless. What do you think?”
A certain amount of his ebullience drained from him. As I listed the title possibilities, he made a point of looking around the bar. I knew he wasn’t searching for anything or anyone; he was trying to avoid looking directly at me. I kept my smile as I asked his reaction.
“It’s… it’s not a very good idea, in my opinion, Jessica.”
“It worked for John D.”
He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t interest me.” He checked his watch. “I really have to run. I did enjoy this, though. If you’d like to put a proposal together for the non-fiction work, and give it to me, I’ll be happy to submit it to publishers.”
“That would make you my agent,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“I’ve never had an agent.”
“It’s about time you did.” He reached for money, but I told him I would put it on my room tab. He was obviously anxious to get away from me, and I didn’t do anything to prolong his discomfort.
As I walked back to my room, I knew I had learned something. Judging from Bruce Herbert’s response, Renée Perry might have been right about his possessing an unpublished Marjorie Ainsworth novel called Brandy and Blood.
Jimmy Biggers called me at five-thirty.
“I understand you’ve been getting into Inspector Coots’s hair,” I said.
He laughed. “I have been spending some time in Crumpsworth lately.”
“And?”
“It’s a depressing little burg, if you ask me. Learned nothing except that your chum, Marjorie Ainsworth, was on the cheap, she was.”
I smiled. “Yes, Marjorie was known as a frugal woman.”
“She wasn’t much liked in Crumpsworth.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, too, but that seems to have little meaning where her murder is concerned.”
“Not necessarily true, Jessica. Some of the people I talked to didn’t just dislike the lady, they hated her.”
“That sounds unnecessarily harsh. Marjorie might have been a difficult person, but she wasn’t deserving of hate.”
“Your interpretation, ducks, not mine. No matter, that’s what I found out.”
“Well, what about David Simpson?” I asked. “Have you found out anything on him yet?”
“As a matter of fact, Jessica, I paid him a visit this afternoon. My timing was perfect. I walked in, told that grizzling receptionist of his who I was, and that I was working for you. She started to give me a bit of her lip, she did, but all of a sudden Simpson comes to the door and greets me like I was a long-lost rich brother.”
“You must have been flattered,” I said.
“Blokes like him don’t flatter me, Jessica. The reason he was happy to see me was that he was about to call you, he said.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause he had something to give you. He give it to me to pass on.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t open me client’s packages but, from the feel of it, I’d say it’s either a big fat catalog or a manuscript.”
Could it be, I wondered? Was I about to be handed Jason Harris’s manuscript of Gin and Daggers? I asked Biggers whether Simpson had told him how he’d gotten it.
“He said it was perched in front of his office door.”
“What does it say on the outside of the package?”
“It’s got ’is name and address on it.”
“And it hasn’t been opened? How would he know to give it to me?”
“No idea, Jessica. Want me to bring it over now?”
“Yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.”
“Be there in a half hour.”
While I waited for Biggers, I wondered who would have sent Jason’s manuscript to Simpson, why they would have sent it, and why Simpson would have been so cavalier in handing it over. Of course, I knew I was doing a lot of assuming. Maybe it was a big fat catalog. But Simpson must have opened it; there could be no other rational explanation for sending it on to me. That gave credence to the concept that the package must contain the manuscript or some other material bearing upon Jason’s claim that he’d written Gin and Daggers.
Biggers called from the lobby and I told him to come up. He walked into the suite, the package cradled in his arms, looked around, whistled, and said, “Nice digs they put you up in.”
“They’ve been very generous. May I have the package?”
“Oh sure,” he said, handing it to me. I placed it on the desk and said, “Thank you very much for bringing this to me. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to open it?”
“Not immediately. I have to… I have to meet someone downstairs, and I’m already running late. Come, I’ll ride down with you.”
He obviously didn’t like my approach, but had little choice but to accommodate me. I walked him to the main entrance of the Savoy and thanked him again.
“What do you figure’s in that?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’ll certainly find out.”
He gave me that little tap on the shoulder again, and this time I started to say, “Don’t do that,” when he quickly blurted, “Remember one thing, Mrs. Fletcher, you and me agreed to be partners. If there’s somethin’ important in that package havin’ to do with Ms. Ainsworth’s murder, we share the credit.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what it contains.”
As I watched him leave the hotel, I knew there was no need to call him to reveal the contents of the package. He already knew what was inside, and had probably looked at it with Simpson. Deciding to become involved with Jimmy Biggers might not have been the smartest decision I had made of late, and that thought served as a gentle reminder to be more on my toes when around him.
My phone was ringing as I entered the suite. I picked it up. “Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“George Sutherland. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No, I just walked in.”
“I’ve been meaning to call you, but life is so busy and… well, as my father used to say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
I laughed. My father used to say the same thing.
“The reason I’m calling, Jessica, is to invite you to dinner this evening. I know this is terribly short notice but…”
“Yes, it is short notice, but that happens not to matter. I am free this evening, and would very much enjoy dining with you.”
There was an audible sigh of relief on his end. He said, “I have a favorite restaurant in Central Market called Bubbs that I thought you might enjoy. It tends to be somewhat masculine, but the food is quite good and I’m comfortable there.”
“Then I’m sure I will be, too.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to b
e running late here at the office. Would you consider it discourteous of me not to pick you up, to ask you to meet me there at eight-thirty?”
“Absolutely not.” He gave me the address and phone number of the restaurant.
I’d no sooner hung up when Lucas Darling called. “Jessica, I have missed you so. I never have the opportunity to see you because we live thousands of miles apart, and then you come all the way to London and I still am not able to see you. I insist that we have dinner tonight. Eleven Park Walk has absolutely become the city’s in place for people-watching, and I intend to treat you to an evening there.”
“Lucas, that’s awfully nice of you, but the last thing I want to do is watch people. I’d intended to spend the evening alone with a good book”-I glanced at the desk where the package sat-“but I’ve ended up with a dinner engagement with Inspector Sutherland from Scotland Yard.”
“Him again.”
“What do you mean, ‘him again’? You sound annoyed.”
“Jessica, I have been a model of patience since you arrived. I have put up with constant changes in the program schedule. A nutter has attacked my keynote speaker with a sword, the world’s most revered mystery writer has been murdered, bloody television crews keep getting in my way-not that I mind the publicity for ISMW, mind you-and, most painful, my good friend and colleague, Jessica Fletcher, has been conspicuous by her almost constant absence. I insist you come to dinner with me. Wear your finest. We’ll be watched, too.”
I’d known Lucas well enough over the years to know when it was possible to turn him down, and when doing so might send him to the brink of suicide. This was one of those times when I could be adamant in my refusal and still expect to see him in the morning. He muttered a few terms of disgruntlement, made me promise that I would meet with him the following day, and hung up.
I went to the desk, tore open the package, settled in a comfortable chair beneath the room’s most functional lamp, and stared down at the title page of Gin and Daggers. Scrawled across the top in red pen was the comment: “Proof copy-title was mine.”
Chapter Eighteen
I was getting out of my taxi in front of Bubbs when Inspector Sutherland came walking up the street, a newspaper casually tucked beneath his arm. “Please, let me,” he said, and paid the driver. “Shall we?” He offered his elbow. I took it and we entered the restaurant. “I prefer upstairs, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Not as fancy as down, but more conducive to serious eating. The food is good, and plentiful.”
He was greeted warmly by the host and staff, and we were settled in a corner of the upstairs dining room, the walls oxblood red, the linen frosty white. “Wine?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“It won’t be a fancy vintage. The owners are rather bourgeois for Frenchmen in London.”
He insisted I taste the wine. “Never sure what I’m supposed to look for,” he said, laughing, “except a large piece of cork floating in it.” I tasted and approved, primarily because I didn’t see any cork.
He raised his glass. “To Jessica Fletcher, who seems to be in the midst of murder no matter where she is.”
“Frankly, I could do without that characterization.”
“Yes, I’m sure you could.” He sat back and was the picture of the relaxed, confident man. He wore a three-piece navy blue suit, probably not very expensive, but he was a man who wore clothes nicely, off the rack or custom-tailored. “Your friend Mr. Darling convinced me to conduct a panel tomorrow for your society.”
“Really? That wasn’t on the schedule.”
“No, a last-minute whim of his, I suppose. I thought you might join me on it.”
“What’s the subject?”
“Contemporary investigative techniques.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be qualified,” I said.
“I think quite the opposite. It’s at eleven. Will you?”
“Yes, all right. I’m flattered. Lucas must consider having you speak to be the coup of the conference.”
“He’s a pleasant fellow, quite a fan of yours.”
I couldn’t help but wonder as we talked why his manner with me this night was so much warmer than it had been at Marjorie’s burial service.
“I have something to show you that might be of interest,” he said. He handed me that day’s London Times. It was opened to the arts and entertainment section. I scanned the page; nothing jumped off at me.
“Read the ‘Book Notes’ column,” he said.
The column was written by William Strayhorn, the eminent London book critic. “What am I looking for in this?” I asked.
“Read a bit and you’ll see.”
I took out my half-glasses and started. The item he wanted me to see was buried in the middle of the column:
Jason Harris, a heretofore unsuccessful author who was dragged from the Thames the other night with his throat slit and face battered, and who was a protégé of murdered mystery writing queen Marjorie Ainsworth, is about to find posthumous publishing success. Cadence House, headed all these years by Walter Cole, who’s made his millions publishing pornography disguised as literature, has announced its intention to publish the first of four novels written by Mr. Harris before his death, and unpublished to date. Either Jason Harris has written the sort of rubbish that usually appeals to Mr. Cole, or Mr. Cole has decided to take a portion of the money he’s made in the sewer and devote it to works of merit, assuming Mr. Harris has written anything of merit.
I handed the paper back to Sutherland. “Fascinating,” I said. “I had no idea Jason had written four novels.”
“Either he has, or there is a room filled with writers turning out prose to bear his name, and to capitalize on small mentions of his murder in the local press.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make any sense to me. Does it to you?”
He shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m out of my element when it comes to the publishing world.”
“How’s the investigation into Marjorie’s murder going?”
Sutherland pursed his lips. “Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara, the deceased’s sister, has come forward with interesting information that I wanted to share with you. I was eager not only to have you hear this information, but to benefit from your evaluation of it.”
If he meant to flatter me, he’d succeeded. As with our previous times together, I could never be sure when he was being personally sincere and when he was playing the role of a smooth, skilled investigator. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and asked him to continue.
“She came to me this morning. I made notes during our conversation.” He pulled them from his pocket, along with his glasses.
Ona’s timing was interesting, I thought. Would she have sought out a Scotland Yard chief inspector if she hadn’t been cut out of Marjorie’s will? A beneficiary spurned could be every bit as lethal as a woman scorned.
He recounted for me his meeting that morning.
Ona had begun by saying, “I have spent considerable time at Ainsworth Manor over the past year or two. Despite the fact that Marjorie and I did not get along especially well, she was always gracious in allowing me extended stays at the manor. I took advantage of that hospitality whenever Antonio and I were estranged, which has been the rule rather than the exception. Antonio would remain at the villa in Capri, and I would seek solace in Ainsworth Manor. He’s in Capri now.”
Sutherland reminded her that leaving Great Britain violated the condition laid down that all those who were at the manor the night Marjorie was murdered remain in Britain. He placed an immediate call to institute an all-points bulletin. Not very wifely to run to the authorities to snitch on one’s husband he’d thought. He asked her to continue.
“My sister had not been herself in the months leading up to her death,” Ona told him. “I won’t try to be subtle. Her mind was going, and she’d lost a great deal of reasoning power. Not only that, she’d become increasingly unaware of what was going on around her.”
As Sutherl
and told me this, I could only think of Marjorie that weekend and how sharp she’d been, aside from her occasional lapses. Was this the beginning of a setup for Ona and her husband to contest the will?
Ona continued what she had to say in Sutherland’s office, telling him, “It was during one of my extended stays that I became aware of not only the presence, but the influence of the young writer Jason Harris, whom Marjorie had taken into her confidence. Frankly, I never liked him from the day I met him, and had strong feelings that he was up to no good where my sister was concerned. I raised that with her once, and she dismissed me, as she was prone to do, so I kept my mouth shut but continued to observe.”
Sutherland asked Ona whether she was aware that Jason Harris had been murdered, and she said she was. She went on to say, “I was there during a time when a major portion of Gin and Daggers was being written. I’d seen my sister work on previous novels and was quite familiar with her work habits and approach to writing a book. This time, those things were conducted in a vastly different manner.”
“How so?” Sutherland asked her.
“She was incapable of sustaining focus and attention at her typewriter, so she dictated the book in fits and spurts, and gave the tapes to Jane for transcription.”
Sutherland asked what significance that might have.
“None in and of itself,” she replied, “but Mr. Harris seemed intimately involved in the process. I saw him on a number of occasions take Jane’s transcription and work it over with pencil. Once he’d done that, Jane would retype that portion to include his additions and changes.”
“What percentage of the work would you say was changed by Jason Harris?” Sutherland asked her.
“That would be impossible for me to determine,” Ona said, “although, based upon those portions of the book that I had an opportunity to observe, I would say it was substantial.”
Sutherland placed his notes on our table at Bubbs and poured us each another glass of wine. He said to me, “When Jason Harris was found in the Thames, I tried to assign some meaning to his death, as it might apply to Miss Ainsworth’s murder. I wasn’t very successful, until Mrs. Ainsworth-Zara came to me.” He picked up his notes again and continued telling me what had transpired in his office that morning.
