by Donald Bain
“Well, Mr. Semple, I appreciate your kind words, but I’m afraid I’m not here on a social visit.”
“Oh?”
“I was wondering whether you would have available Marjorie Ainsworth’s manuscript of Gin and Daggers.”
He frowned and went through a series of “hrummmphs” before saying, “Unusual request, highly irregular even for a writing colleague. Why, may I ask, do you wish to see it?”
“Mr. Semple, I won’t beat around the bush with you. I’m certain you’re aware of rumors that Marjorie did not write Gin and Daggers.”
“Yes, preposterous, no basis to them at all.”
“I feel the same way, but I think it’s very important that those rumors be put to rest. I thought… I thought that if I could see her manuscript, it might help me become more secure in my own mind that no other hand was involved.”
“Can’t see what the manuscript would tell you, Mrs. Fletcher. Just like any other manuscript from her, a few additions by pen in her hand, and our editorial notes and corrections.”
“Yes, I realize that, Mr. Semple, but there is a young man… was a young man named Jason Harris who, the rumor says, actually wrote the book. We met Mr. Harris at that fateful dinner at Ainsworth Manor.”
“Yes, I remember him. I’d met him before.”
“Really? Under what circumstances?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea, some literary party, cocktail bash, whatever. I’ve heard his name mentioned in connection with Gin and Daggers, too, and I dismiss him along with the rumor itself.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Semple, there is a growing and serious question about the authorship of Gin and Daggers. May I see the manuscript?”
He had a great deal of trouble flatly refusing me, but that’s what he ended up doing. “Mrs. Fletcher, I would consider that a violation of a publisher’s privilege. After all, the relationship between a publisher and an author is akin, somewhat, to that of solicitor and client. Agree?”
“No, not when murder has injected itself into the relationship. I really can’t see why you won’t allow me to at least look at the manuscript here in your office, Mr. Semple. I don’t intend to do anything with it, to carry it away, or to make a statement to the press about it. All I wish to do is see the pages.”
“Quite impossible, Mrs. Fletcher. Damned sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. That’s the way I run my publishing company, always have. Please don’t consider me discourteous or uncooperative.”
“I don’t think either of those things of you, Mr. Semple. I just wish you were amenable to my request.” I stood and extended my hand across the desk. “At any rate, it was good to see you again, and thank you for allowing me to intrude upon a busy day.”
“No trouble at all, Mrs. Fletcher. Anytime.” He personally escorted me to the elevator. It arrived, and he held the door open with his foot as he asked in hushed tones, “You don’t think there’s any truth in the rumor, do you?”
I laughed. “Absolutely none, Mr. Semple. By the way, are you aware of the other rumor that Marjorie had written a novel before Gin and Daggers, and that it has never been submitted to publishers?”
He seemed sincerely surprised.
“According to the source of the rumor, it’s called Brandy and Blood.”
It took him a few seconds to go from serious pondering to raucous laughter, and he managed to say, “Funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You don’t think the old lady, I mean, Marjorie, was contemplating a series, do you?”
“That was exactly what I thought when I heard the rumor. Well, again, thank you for your time.”
“One final thing, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Yes?”
“Any word on who her unnamed lover is?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Seems to me that if I were investigating her murder, I’d look in that direction.”
He was right; I would bring that up with George Sutherland the next time we spoke.
My next stop was the address I’d taken from the phone book for Cadence House, the publishing company that, according to William Strayhorn’s column, was about to publish four novels by Jason Harris. It was located on Old Compton Street, the main avenue through Soho that I’d walked the other day, and that bustled with restaurants and cosmopolitan food shops, more international news stalls than I could ever imagine in one area, and, of course, a wide variety of sex shops and striptease clubs. Judging from the description of Cadence House in Strayhorn’s column, I would have expected it to be located above a sexually oriented establishment, like David Simpson’s agency. Instead, it occupied its own three-story building, very well maintained, and with the sort of heavy polished wooden doors and brass lettering one expects of a Harley Street physician, a Belgravia investment banker, or a Newgate Street lawyer.
I stepped inside and found myself in an airy downstairs reception area. Large potted plants were everywhere. The decor was distinctly European-modern, as was the ravishing blond girl who sat behind an uncluttered teak desk. She looked Scandinavian; I thought of Morton Metzger’s comment after his night at the gentlemen’s club, and wondered whether she would address me in French.
“Good morning. Is Mr. Cole in?”
“Do you have an appointment?” Her accent was distinctly German.
“No, I don’t. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a writer from the United States, and am here attending the International Society of Mystery Writers convention. I was also a friend of Jason Harris, whose work, I understand, you are about to publish.”
The look on her face indicated that while she might be an efficient receptionist, she had little interest in, or knowledge of, what went on in the company for which she provided such an attractive front.
“I think if I had just a few minutes to explain to Mr. Cole the purpose of my visit, he would want to see me. Would you try him for me?”
While she talked to a person I assumed was Walter Cole’s secretary, I looked through a glass case in which Cadence House’s most recent releases were displayed. Strayhorn had been right in his column; the titles and covers were obviously designed to appeal to prurient interests, although I did take note of a couple of esoteric Scandinavian novels that were a cut above the others, though sex was at their core, too.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” the receptionist said.
I returned to her desk.
“If you would not mind waiting for a few minutes, Mr. Cole will see you.”
“Thank you very much.”
I sat in a leather chair slung on a chrome frame, and watched the flow of sidewalk traffic outside the window. It was a lovely day in London, and just as I was beginning to feel disappointed at not being able to simply enjoy it, a young woman came down a circular staircase and approached me. She was every bit as beautiful and shapely as the receptionist; evidently, the hiring code for Cadence House contained requirements beyond typing and stenography.
I followed her up the stairs to the first floor, and then up another winding staircase to the top. Unlike the first floor, where a corridor led to a succession of office doors, a visitor to the top level came off the stairs and stood in the middle of a huge office that spanned the entire floor. At one end, behind a chrome and leather desk so large I assumed it had to have been dropped into the building by crane, sat Walter Cole.
My escort immediately descended the staircase, leaving me to make my own introductions. I approached the desk and stopped a few feet in front of it. Cole had not looked up. He was hunched over a manuscript, a red pencil flying over the text. I decided not to interrupt, and simply waited. Eventually he glanced at me and said, “Jessica Fletcher. Famous American mystery writer. Sit down.”
Walter Cole was a painfully thin man, his chest concave, his eyes sunken. He had thin, brown-gray hair that hung to his shoulders in shapeless strands. He wore a blue shirt and red paisley tie.
He continued working on the manuscript, oblivious to the fact that I had taken a chair and was staring at him. I cleare
d my throat; he didn’t respond, just kept working.
“Mr. Cole, I…”
He abruptly dropped the pencil on the page and stood. “I’ve read all your books, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re very good.”
“Thank you.”
“You ought to dump that stodgy British publisher of yours and let me publish you. I’ll make you a better financial deal and see to it that distribution is a hell of a lot wider than what you currently have here.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. Cole, but I-”
“Can we make a deal? I can have a contract drawn up in ten minutes.”
I shook my head and laughed. “No, I’m afraid I’m quite content with my present situation. I didn’t come here looking for a publisher. I wanted to talk to you about Jason Harris.”
His face, bearing a visible network of tiny red spider veins, broke into a smile. He came around the desk and perched on its edge. “Glad to see you keep up with the business, Mrs. Fletcher. Yes, we’re very excited about publishing Jason’s works. Shame he’s about to achieve international recognition and won’t be around to enjoy it, but that places him in pretty good company, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, it has happened before. Mr. Cole, I met Jason at Marjorie Ainsworth’s house. I had only brief conversations with him but, based upon those conversations, I came away with the feeling that he had never really completed any work. Yet I read that you claim to have four novels he’d written.”
“That’s right.”
“Are any of them murder mysteries?”
Now his crooked smile turned into a laugh. “What are you getting at, Mrs. Fletcher, that he turned out the sort of stuff Ainsworth did? If he had, I wouldn’t be wasting my time publishing his output. Why he hung around her I’ll never know. She was beneath him. Jason Harris was a brilliant writer, someone who will take his place with the world’s literary greats once I get through publishing him.”
“He was that good?”
“Even better than that, Mrs. Fletcher. A hundred years from now, he’ll be required reading for school. kids in their Great Books classes.”
I had the feeling I was on the receiving end of a terrible overstatement, and really didn’t know what else to say.
“Don’t believe me, Mrs. Fletcher? You’ll have a different attitude once you read his work.”
“I’m certainly eager to do that. Would it be inappropriate for me to ask to see one of the manuscripts?”
“Very.”
“Well, if I share your view of it, I might be willing to lend a blurb for the dust jacket.”
Cole shook his head and returned to his chair. He put his feet up on the desk, revealing dirty tan chukka boots with holes in their crepe soles. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t want to offend you, but having a blurb from a murder mystery writer is not the kind of endorsement I want for Jason. No offense, but murder mysteries are nothing but genre fiction, like Westerns and romantic novels. We’re talking about a major literary talent here. I’m looking for other major literary figures to acclaim him.”
I ignored the comment and said, “I’m fascinated that you would devote such effort and, I assume, money to promoting works of literary merit. No offense, Mr. Cole, but your publishing company obviously has made its mark with sexually oriented materials. This seems to be quite a departure.”
“So what?”
“So I wondered why. As good as you say Jason Harris was, I can’t conceive of his books generating the kind of income that your usual list does. Why change focus?”
He stood again and leaned against the wall behind his desk, his arms and ankles crossed, a scornful expression on his face. “Mrs. Fletcher, I took two hundred pounds and parlayed it into a very successful publishing company. I did it by giving the public what it wants-sex-and I’ve made bloody millions from it. Now I’ve decided that since I don’t need money anymore, it’s time I put my efforts into developing truly deserving artists of merit. You might say I’ve become altruistic in my middle age. You’ve made a lot of money writing silly murder mysteries. What are you giving back to literature?”
I stood and said, “I don’t see anything to be gained by continuing this conversation, Mr. Cole. It was good of you to allow me to barge in on you, and I wish you the best of luck with Jason’s books.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t need good luck.”
I went halfway to the circular staircase, turned, and asked, “Do you know Jason’s stepbrother, David Simpson?”
Stuart laughed. “I know of him. He provides real girls the way I publish stories about them.”
“Yes, I know that. Is he involved in any way in this project to publish his stepbrother’s works?”
“Doesn’t have a thing to do with it, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“What about Jason’s girlfriend, Maria Giacona? Have you spoken with her?”
“Never heard of her.”
“I see. Well, thank you again for your time.”
I was happy to leave the building and be out on the streets of SoHo. The sunshine felt clean and good after my encounter with Walter Cole. He certainly sounded convinced of the wisdom of publishing Jason Harris posthumously, but, at the same time, I had a feeling that most of what he’d said to me had been written by a public relations expert on the floor below, a company line, the sort of hype that would be used to create an audience for Jason Harris.
I walked to Dean Street, went up the stairs, and asked Carmela, David Simpson’s receptionist, whether he was in.
“Haven’t seen him all morning,” she said without looking up.
“Well, I would like to speak with him. Would you have him call me as soon as he has a moment?” I took a piece of paper from her desk and wrote my name and phone and room numbers on it. She looked at it, casually tossed it to the other side of the desk, and continued reading the tabloid in front of her. There was only one other person in the reception area, a woman whom I judged to be my age, although she had applied her makeup the way a young girl does the first time she gets into Mommy’s dressing table. She looked very tired, beaten down. I considered suggesting to her that we leave together and have a bite to eat, but knew that she would probably find that offensive, so I left by myself, returned to the Savoy, and called the room shared by Seth and Morton. Morton answered.
“What are you two up to today?” I asked.
“We were just about to head for the Tower of London.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Gee, Jess, that would be terrific.”
“Good, lunch is on me, and so’s admission. I need a couple of hours of normalcy in the Bloody Tower.”
Chapter Twenty
“… and so ninhydrin spray has proved to be extremely valuable in raising fingerprints that might not have been identifiable before its invention. Ninhydrin is quite different from fingerprint powder. It reacts to the amino acids in the skin rather than to salt in perspiration, and works quite well on paper, cardboard, and certain wood surfaces. It is, by the way, toxic and must be used very carefully. We prefer that our officers in the field not apply it at the site of a crime, but we are using it extensively in our laboratories.”
Members of ISMW who attended the panel discussion with Chief Inspector George Sutherland were treated to a fascinating morning in which new scientific investigative techniques were expounded upon. I’d always found that ISMW members fell into two categories, those who dwelt extensively in their books on technical matters, and those who included just enough detail to establish credibility, but who preferred to focus more on character and plot development. Judging from the questions that came from the crowd, most in attendance were from the former school.
Members of the panel lingered for a half hour after the session for informal conversation with attendees. I had a few minutes alone with Sutherland and asked him whether Marjorie’s mysterious lover could be considered a suspect. He told me he’d personally called Chester Gould-Brayton on that subject and had received the response he’d expected-that
the solicitor-client privilege precluded him from divulging the lover’s identity. “Frankly, Jessica,” Sutherland said, “I really would be quite surprised if this unnamed romantic interest of hers had anything to do with her murder, although we intend to keep the option open.”
Lucas Darling invited Sutherland to join a select group for lunch, but he begged off because of his busy schedule that afternoon. He wished me a pleasant day and said he hoped I had not taken offense at his personal comments the night before.
“Quite the contrary, George, I was flattered.”
“May I call you again?”
“I thought we decided to postpone any personal considerations until Marjorie’s murder was solved.”
“Yes, and I consider myself a man of my word, but there have been times-rare, I admit-when I have been an outright liar, and this might be one of them.” We both laughed, and he left the hotel.
Lucas took us to Dirty Dick’s pub on Bishopsgate for lunch, and we enjoyed a pleasant meal in the atmosphere of synthetic dirt, grime, cobwebs, and dead cats used to carry through the pub’s theme. According to legend, Dirty Dick’s fiancée died on their wedding eve, and he was so stricken with grief that he shut the room that was to have been the site of their wedding breakfast and left everything, including the food, to decay. He never washed or changed his clothes again for the rest of his life, so deep was his sense of loss. An abandoned meal in a locked room-straight out of Great Expectations.
“What are you up to for the rest of the day?” Lucas asked me.
“I have some errands to run. I’ll be back in time for the awards dinner tonight.”
“I have a relatively free afternoon, Jessica. Why don’t we spend it together?”
I told him that might work, but I had to check with my friends from Cabot Cove, Seth Hazlitt and Mort Metzger.
“We can all enjoy what’s left of the day together,” he said.
“I’ll call you in a half hour, Lucas.”
I went to my suite and did what I’d planned to do since getting up that morning. I called Ainsworth Manor. What I hoped was that Jane Portelaine would follow through on her offer to allow me to spend some time at the manor. I was somewhat optimistic based upon her pleasant greeting of me at the reading of her aunt’s will.
