Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

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.”

“I know, and I’m beginning to wish I didn’t. Are you free for lunch?”

“I kept it open, hoping you and I could meet. How are you?”

“With the exception of being mugged last night, fine.”

He gulped. “Who, where, when, why?”

I laughed. “You left out ‘What?’ Not to worry, Lucas, I’m all right.”

“I told you to be careful,” he said sternly.

“Yes, and I should have listened. I promise you I will from this moment on. Where are we having lunch?”

“I was leaning toward the Connaught, or Le Gavroche, but we won’t have time to linger, so I thought a pub was probably more sensible. The Victoria, on Strathearn Place, Bayswater, is pleasant. I won’t have a chance to pick you up at the hotel. Noon?”

I’d written down the name of the pub and its address, and told him I’d be there on time.

I returned the call to George Sutherland at Scotland Yard. “Mrs. Fletcher, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“I received a report about what happened to you last night. Dreadful shame.”

“My first and only mugging,” I said. “It was terribly upsetting at the time, but I’m feeling better today.” Why would he have received a report of a run-of-the-mill mugging in a city the size of London, I wondered. I asked him.

“Insightful of you to question that, Mrs. Fletcher. The fact is I have made it known to the authorities that I have a special interest in Jessica Fletcher, and that I am to receive any news regarding you during your stay.”

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. I decided not to pursue the matter further. I knew what his response would be, flattering undoubtedly, but hardly telling. I asked, “Anything new on Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder?”

“As a matter of fact…” Was he going to finish what he’d started to say? I hoped so. He did. “Miss Ainsworth had two Spanish gardeners working on the grounds. One of them tried to sell a wristwatch to a jeweler in Crumpsworth. It belonged, it turns out, to Miss Ainsworth.”