Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

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.