Gin and Daggers (22 page)

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.”

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.