Gin and Daggers (11 page)

I was glad I was staying at the Savoy. There was somthing ominous about the area surrounding Liverpool Street Station, although the streets themselves—residential buildings of varying sizes and shapes dotted with small restaurants and shops—were pleasant enough.

Pindar Street was tiny and slightly curved, running between Norton and Appold, not far from Finsbury Square. We stopped in front of Number 17, four stories tall and, I judged, classical in its architecture, although it was difficult to see much because the street was dark. The only light in the building came from two windows on the top floor.

As I paid the fare, the driver said, “You ought to be careful on the streets, ma’am. There’s been some nasty incidents of late.”

I thought of Lucas’s same admonition and decided to heed the advice of both. “I won’t be here long,” I said. “A brief visit with an old friend.”

“Well, enjoy your stay in London.”

I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off, wondering whether I should have asked him to stay until I was safely inside. I suddenly felt isolated and alone. The only activity on Pindar Street seemed to be a small Chinese takeout restaurant on the far corner, its yellow light spilling out onto the pavement in front of it. I then became aware of the faint sound of music coming from one of the buildings near me, dissonant string music with steady, underlying drone tones, accompanied by complex cross-rhythms played on
tablas,
hand drums used widely throughout the Middle East, India, and Africa. East Indian, I decided, and cocked my head to listen better. I’d introduced an East Indian detective in one of my earlier novels and had steeped myself in the music and culture. Obviously, a mixed ethnic neighborhood, immigrants making their way in a strange city.

I climbed three cement steps to the front door of Number 17, took a tiny flashlight from my bag, and used it to search for the names of occupants, perhaps buzzers. I found neither. Maria had said it was on the third floor, but how could I let her know I was downstairs? The outside door would certainly be locked. I pushed it; it swung open with a groan. So much for that theory.

I stepped into the dark foyer and looked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, reminding myself that in Europe I was standing on the ground floor; one flight up was the first. A low-wattage bare bulb spilled eerie light over the landing and a portion of the stairway.

I slowly began to climb, my steps deliberate, my eyes and ears at full alert. I reached the first-floor landing, paused, and continued up until reaching the top floor—the third. There were two doors off the landing. Neither had a number. One was painted a glossy fire-engine red, the other a dull black. I recalled that the light from the building had been on the left side as I faced it, which would put it behind the black door. I knocked, and heard someone move in the room. I knocked again, and was aware of further movement. Maria Giacona opened the door. She looked a wreck. Tears had carried whatever eye makeup she wore down her cheeks. Her hair had the look of having had too many fingers run through it too many times.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Jason?”

“Yes.”

We looked at each other until I asked, “May I come in?”

Her response was to open her eyes wide, turn to the interior of the flat, and raise both arms. “He’s gone,” she said again, this time her words accompanied by tears. She slapped her hands to her sides and walked into the cluttered and cramped living room. I followed, leaving the door open behind me. It looked as if someone—probably Jason Harris—had frantically pulled things from shelves and drawers, or as if someone had entered the apartment desperately searching for something. The room was a shambles, clothing tossed everywhere, books piled haphazardly on shelves and the floor. The few pieces of stuffed furniture were ripped and faded. Light from a streetlamp was virtually stopped at the windows by layers of grime and nicotine.

“You said Jason was leaving at seven,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “What makes you think he’s gone?”

She turned and glared at me, anger etched on her face. “He took the manuscript. The manuscript is gone, and so is he.”

I started once again to rationalize why Jason might not be there, but decided it was a fruitless exercise. There was no dissuading Maria at this moment, so intense was her upset. “Was this the only copy of the manuscript?”

“Yes.”

“No one made a photocopy?”

“I told him ...”

“No matter,” I said. “Obviously a manuscript was delivered to Marjorie Ainsworth’s publisher, probably more than one.”

“But Jason made his notations only on the copy he kept.”

I was torn between sitting down and continuing the discussion, and getting out of Jason’s flat as quickly as possible. I opted for the latter course of action. “Why don’t we go get a bite to eat and talk about this some more? I know you said Jason is reluctant to do anything about his alleged authorship of Marjorie’s book, but maybe we can convince him otherwise. Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting that I would do anything along the lines you suggested in the park this morning, but I would be interested in finding out to what extent he did contribute to the novel. The three of us could sit down and discuss it.”

She shook her head with vigor, sending thick black hair whirling about her. “It is not that easy, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t think ...” She broke down now into heavy sobbing and sat on the edge of a frayed love seat. “Something dreadful has happened to him. I just know it.”

I sat and put my arm about her. “Maria, there’s no reason to say that. I’m sure Jason is perfectly all right and will return tonight. We can continue with this in the morning.” I stood. “In the meantime, I really think we should leave and have a cup of coffee or tea. I noticed a Chinese restaurant on the corner. Perhaps—”

“Just leave me alone,” she snapped.

“If you wish. I certainly didn’t mean to impose upon you. If you’d like to talk again, call me at the Savoy.” I walked to the door, stopped, turned, and looked back at her. She was still sitting on the love seat, crying. What a volatile, emotional young woman, I thought. I turned to leave. “Oh my God!” I gasped. The man was huge. He filled the doorway. He had a long, matted gray beard and a bird’s nest of filthy gray hair. He was obviously drunk; his slurred speech confirmed that. “What are you two duckies up to?” he asked.

I tried to catch my breath as I said, “You startled me. Excuse me, I was just leaving.”

He looked past me to Maria and said, “What’d the bastard do, Maria, take his hand to you again?”

Maria shook her head without looking up. “He’s gone,” she said, her words barely audible. I repeated to the large man that I wished to leave. He scowled at me as he stepped back unsteadily and grabbed the railing of the stairs for support. I didn’t say anything to Maria as I left, did not repeat my suggestion that she call me at the Savoy. I descended the stairs, slowly at first, picking up speed as I approached the ground floor. I stepped outside and took a series of deep breaths. It had been cool in London since my arrival, perfect early September weather. Now the humidity had begun to increase and I felt choked by it. A thick fog had developed in the short time I was in Jason’s flat.

I walked with haste toward the Chinese restaurant on the corner, my heightened awareness causing the sound of my heels on the pavement to be louder than was the fact. I looked in the window and saw a few young people seated at two small tables. A Chinese man and woman were behind a counter. I wanted a cab. I looked for a telephone in the restaurant, but saw none. I took in the four corners of the intersection. No familiar red British phone booth on any of them.

I started walking in the direction of Liverpool Street Station. Surely there would be taxis waiting there. The closer I got, the more alone I felt, even though there were people on the street, small groups, mostly young, the majority obviously not native-born. I forced myself to slow down, and to respond more realistically to my surroundings. There was nothing threatening about the people I passed. For the most part, they looked like everyday folks going about their business.

I felt better after a couple more blocks and even considered stopping into one of the small, intimate restaurants for something to eat. No, I decided, I would wait until I got back to my hotel.

I paused at a comer. To my right, a block away, was what appeared to be a main thoroughfare. I started in its direction, then realized that the block I had to travel was particularly dark. It occurred to me for a fleeting moment that I should return to the better lighted comer from which I’d come, but the allure of the traffic and lights on the larger street was too compelling.

I reached a point approximately halfway along the street when I became aware of the presence of something—or someone—behind a tall pile of packing crates to my right. I froze; the presence was confirmed by the movement of a ten-foot shadow on the wall, followed by the person who’d cast it. He was young, and very punk. A wide steak of vivid pink ran through the middle of his Mohawk-styled blond hair from front to back. His acne was terminal. Three long silver earrings dangled from his left ear, and he was dressed in a black leather jacket with silver studs. He said in a distinct Cockney accent, “ ’Ere we go, give it to me now.” He stepped directly in front of me and grabbed the lapel of my raincoat. My bag hung on my right shoulder. I tried to yank free, but his other hand fastened on the strap of the bag and spun me around. I fell heavily to my knees, pain immediately radiating to my brain. Still, I continued to hold on to my handbag and started yelling.

He cursed and gave a final tug on the strap, pulling it from my shoulder.

“Stop!” I shouted as he took off on the run. I saw him disappear around the comer and realized it was futile to pursue him. Actually, it was foolish of me to have fought him at all. I’d established a habit years ago of keeping anything of value like credit cards, cash, and airline tickets in a small leather pouch around my waist whenever I was in a big city. My handbag contained nothing but cosmetics, my small flashlight, and two ten-pound notes.

I stood and gently touched my kneecaps. The stockings on both were torn, and one knee was bleeding. I stumbled to the larger street, where two black London cabs waited at a corner. I opened the door of the first, said, “Savoy Hotel, please,” and collapsed on the backseat.

“You all right, mum?” the young driver asked.

“Yes ... no, I’m not. I’ve just been mugged.”

“I’ll get a bobby,” he said.

“No, please, just take me to the hotel. I’ll notify the police from there.”

My assistant manager friend was in the lobby when I arrived. I explained to him what had happened, and he paid the taxi driver.

As I crossed the lobby, two young reporters who’d been sitting in a comer sprinted toward me. “Mrs. Fletcher, would you give us a few minutes for some questions?”

I couldn’t help but smile. There I was, my knees bruised and bloody, my stockings torn, lucky to have escaped with my life (the driver had told me so at least six times), and they wanted to interview me for a story. I shook my head and walked toward the elevators.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” the assistant manager called. “Please, let me escort you to your room.”

No hotel room in my memory every looked as pleasing and welcome as mine did at that moment. The assistant manager assured me that the police would be notified immediately, and he ordered a light dinner for me from room service.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to take a nice, soothing bath until the police had called, and I didn’t want to be in the tub when the food arrived, so I stayed in my clothes until those things happened. The police were cordial and courteous enough, but I sensed a weariness in their taking of my statement over the phone. The assault on me was obviously not the only crime they had to worry about that Sunday evening in London.

My bath felt heavenly, and I applied bandages to the knee that had bled. I sat in a nightgown, robe, and slippers and nibbled at my dinner. I was hungry, yet had little interest in eating. I’d spent time in many major cities and had never come close to being mugged. Now, it had happened to me for the first time, and in London, of all places.

“Stupid,” I said to myself as I got up from the rolling table and looked out the window. “You asked for it, Jess,” I added in a louder voice.

I called the hotel operator for messages. There were the usual assortment of media people trying to reach me. The only caller not identified as someone from the press was named Jimmy Biggers. His message indicated that he was a private investigator, and that it would be very much to my advantage to talk to him. I thanked the operator, noted the numbers she gave me, and went to bed, the face of that young mugger hovering over me until sleep wiped him away.

My knees ached when I awoke the next morning. So did the shoulder on which I’d carried my handbag. But, overall, I felt pretty good, especially considering what might have been.

The phone rang a few times while I was in the shower. I called the operator and was told that Lucas Darling had called twice; Scotland Yard Chief Inspector George Sutherland once; and private investigator Jimmy Biggers had tried to reach me again. It then dawned on me that this was the day of the dinner to kick off the conference of the International Society of Mystery Writers, and that I was to give my address. In the bustle of things, I’d completely forgotten about that, and my heart tripped as I now thought of it. You’d better get rolling, I told myself.

The phone rang again. This time I instinctively picked it up. “Hello,” I said.

“Jessica, it’s Lucas. You answered your own phone.”

“Purely involuntary, I assure you. I suppose we ought to get together and talk about this evening.”

“Of course we should. You have a major speech to give.”