Gin and Daggers

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 checkin’ 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.”

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 be 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.”