He drove me to the front of the Savoy and offered to buy me a nightcap. I declined, but asked him why he had seemed so cold toward me at Marjorie’s burial.
“Can I be brutally honest with you without offending, Jessica?”
“Yes, by all means.”
“Any good law enforcement officer knows that the biggest mistake he can make is to become emotionally involved with someone in a case, and I must admit I developed feelings for you from the first moment we met that could easily violate that principle.”
I had expected to hear any one of a dozen explanations for his behavior at the burial, but not this one.
“I’ve been tempted to call you every day to invite you for lunch or dinner, perhaps a stroll through the park, a ride in the country, but I’ve managed to hold myself in check. As long as I am confessing such things to you, Jessica, I might also say that it is my wish that when this whole nasty matter is resolved, you allow us the opportunity to explore the potentials of a relationship.”
“I ... you’re a very kind and attractive man, George, and I am flattered by what you’ve said. In the meantime, although I am not a police officer, I suspect I, too, would be better served keeping my natural and very human instincts in check while we seek the murderer of Marjorie Ainsworth. After that ... well, after that we can discuss it further.”
“Of course, Jessica. It was good to see you again tonight. I must, however, pick up on something you’ve just said.”
“Which is?”
“You talk of us trying to solve the murder. Might I make a suggestion to you?”
“Of course.”
“I know you are a skilled author, and because of the nature of the books you write, you have an insight into crime and the criminal’s mind. However, we’re talking here about a very dangerous situation, and I urge you to confine your interests to the conference and leave this investigation to me.”
“I thought you welcomed my observations.”
“I do, but observations are one thing, active involvement is another.”
“I know that you mean well with that suggestion, George, and I will give it serious consideration. Good night, and thank you for a lovely evening.”
He came around and opened the door for me. We looked at each other. I kissed him lightly on the cheek and went into the hotel with deliberate haste.
If I’d wanted to ignore the personal exchange that had just taken place with George Sutherland, it was impossible—Lucas, who’d been sitting in the lobby sipping a gin and tonic, sprang to his feet at the sight of me. “Come, sit with me, Jess, and tell me what happened.”
I forced a laugh. “Nothing happened, Lucas. The inspector and I discussed the case, and he drove me back.”
Lucas gave me one of his mischievous, knowing smiles. “Jessica Fletcher, I think it’s wonderful.”
“What do you think is wonderful?”
“That you and the inspector have a personal interest in each other.” I started to say something, but he cut me off. “I’ve been observing it ever since you met him—the sparks flying, the furtive glances, the romantic electricity in the air. I can see it now.” He created a globe in the air with his hands. “Jessica Fletcher, world-famous mystery writer, falls in love and marries Scotland Yard’s chief inspector, moves to London, where she takes an active part in the Marjorie Ainsworth International Study Center for Mystery Writers, and lives happily ever after.”
His eyes were wide as he awaited my reaction.
“Lucas, I think you should try writing another book, only this time put it in the historical romance genre. I’m pooped. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Nineteen
I didn’t get much sleep after returning from my evening with George Sutherland. The manuscript saw to that.
Of course, I’d already read the book, and there were few differences between published book and manuscript—not surprising for a writer of Marjorie’s status.
What interested me about the manuscript were the numerous margin notes in red, purportedly made by Jason Harris. He identified, by my count, fourteen names that he claimed came out of his own background, including that of a dog which, his notes indicated, had been his pet as a young boy.
There were other references he took credit for, things like a London clothing store, a couple of favorite restaurants, a telephone number that had been his in a previous flat, the gin enjoyed by the story’s hero that was Harris’s own favorite, and myriad other items meant to convince anyone reading this version of the manuscript that Harris had, in fact, written it.
I made a long series of notes of my own, and after I showered and dressed, I went to the London telephone directory, found the number I wanted, and dialed it.
“Semple Publishing,” the operator said.
“Mr. Archibald Semple,” I said.
“Might I enquire who is calling?”
“Jessica Fletcher.”
Semple came on the line. “Mrs. Fletcher, what a surprise, good to hear from you, trust all is well, what can I do for you?”
I asked if I could see him that day.
“I don’t see why not, although the day is a bit crushed, sales conference coming up, too many books in the hopper, not enough editorial hands to deal with them.”
“Would an hour from now be all right?” I asked. “I can be there by ten.”
“Jolly good, sounds fine to me, I’ll clear the decks for you.”
Every publisher’s office I’d ever visited was messy, but they were all bastions of order compared to his. Manuscripts were piled everywhere, including on the carpet in front of his desk, creating a maze for visitors to navigate. He was sweating profusely as he got up to greet me. “What a pleasure, what a pleasure,” he said, leading me to a chair and removing a pile of recently published books from it. “Sit, sit. Tea? Oh no, you probably prefer coffee. I’ll see to it that you have coffee.”
“Actually, Mr. Semple, I would prefer tea. One sugar and lemon.”
“Of course, of course.” He buzzed his secretary and put in an order for two cups of tea.
Once he was settled behind his desk again, he said, “Now, Mrs. Fletcher, what brings you here? This is such an honor.”
“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 cleared 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?”
Murder, She Wrote: Gin and Daggers Page 19
