Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

I wasn’t particularly hungry after viewing the remains, but I wasn’t averse to a cup of tea. We looked down the length of the street and saw a pub at the far corner. “Let’s go there,” I said. “We can call a taxi after we eat.”

The pub was called the Red Feather. We looked through the window. It seemed pleasant enough, somewhat run down, but weren’t most neighborhood pubs? The others started in. I stepped back to take in the entire building, which was only two stories tall. Then I noticed a small sign next to the door:

JIMMY BIGGERS

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

We settled at a table in the main room and ordered Devonshire ham and Silton cheese sandwiches. I asked the owner where Mr. Biggers’s office was; he pointed to a set of stairs to the rear.

“Is he up there now?” I asked.

“Probably asleep. He works nights most times, and sleeps the day away.”

“Do you think he would mind being awakened by an old friend?”

“I didn’t know he had any old friends, new ones either.”

I waited until we finished our sandwiches and tea before going upstairs. I knocked.

“Who in hell is it?” Biggers shouted.

“Jessica Fletcher,” I yelled with equal volume.

There was cursing and the sound of furniture being bumped into before Biggers opened the door. His hair went in a dozen directions, and there was a healthy growth of stubble on his cheeks. He wore an old flannel bathrobe riddled with cigarette burns.

“Sorry to have woken you, Mr. Biggers, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in to say hello.”

“That so? Wouldn’t expect to see you sightseeing Wapping Wall.”

“One of my favorite places,” I said.

He yawned and scratched his belly through a gap in his robe and pajamas. “I intended to call you today,” he said.

“I’m downstairs with friends,” I said. “We’ve finished eating, but if you’d like to join us, we can have another cup of tea, or a beer.”

“I might do just that, Mrs. Fletcher. Give me a minute.”

He took five minutes to join us. Obviously, showering upon awakening wasn’t part of his morning routine. He’d tried to tame his hair but without much success. There were still sleep granules in the corners of his eyes. I introduced him to the others.

“What brings you to this neighborhood?” he asked.

“An unfortunate circumstance,” I answered. I told him about Jason Harris, and how Maria was Jason’s closest friend.

“Friend?” he said, grinning. “If that’s all he saw in you, miss, he was a bloody fool.”

Maria didn’t know what to do, so she looked away. I was embarrassed, too, but tried not to show it. Biggers asked some questions about Jason Harris, which I deftly avoided. I was aware that Morton Metzger was taking in Biggers with narrowed, questioning eyes. He didn’t say anything, but his stare became unsettling. I decided it was time to leave, thanked Biggers for allowing me to barge in on him as I had, and said we’d be in touch.

“Anytime, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, standing and pulling out my chair. “It’s a grotty neighborhood, but I call it home, have for many years. You ought to come back just for a social visit some time.”

“I might take you up on that, Mr. Biggers. Good day.”

When we returned to the Savoy, I suggested that Morton and Seth try to salvage some of the day for sightseeing. They reluctantly agreed, and we reconfirmed our plans to meet for a drink at five in the Thames Foyer bar.

Maria and I went up to my suite.

“I really must be leaving now, Mrs. Fletcher. Thank you so much for all you’ve done. You’re a very kind person.”

“No need to thank me, Maria. You’ve been through something dreadful.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, could I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How terrible did he look? I mean…”

“I won’t mince words with you, Maria. It was a horrible sight. Frankly, I had no idea whether it was Jason or not.”

Her eyes filled up, and she quickly left the room.

Lucas had wanted me to take part in a panel discussion on creating believable female detectives in fiction, but I begged off, agreeing instead to join one the next morning on the relative merits of small-town settings versus big cities.

I couldn’t get the vision of the battered face I’d seen in the Wapping police headquarters out of my mind, nor could I ignore Maria’s comments about Jason Harris’s stepbrother, David Simpson. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to maintain order in my life. Like any writer who’s made a living at it, discipline has been the key, and I’ve had to be a disciplined person.

There are times, however, when, hard as I try, I am drawn to something like a moth to a summer candle. That’s what was happening as I mulled over the circumstances of Jason’s death. How had the police known to contact David Simpson in the middle of the night? I should have asked that. Perhaps Jason carried a card that indicated in the event of emergency, his stepbrother was to be called.

Each time I raised a question-and answered it-I was dissatisfied with my reply.

I went through the London Yellow Pages until I came to the Talent Agent section, which told me to look at Booking Agents. I did, and found an agency in the listing: Simpson Talent Bookers, located on Dean Street, in Soho. I noted the address and phone number on a piece of paper and decided I needed a leisurely walk in London to help clear my mind. It might as well be to Soho. Besides, I’ve often found that simply dropping in on someone can be more effective than trying to arrange a meeting in advance. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it was the approach I decided to take.

It was a lovely afternoon as I strolled the streets of Soho. It had, like New York ’s Times Square, deteriorated because of a proliferation of striptease clubs and sex shops, but they seemed relatively innocuous in the daylight. Unlike the case with Times Square, legitimate business hadn’t fled the area, and Soho was still filled with quaint restaurants, fascinating newsstands, and boutiques.

I stopped in at St. Anne’s Church, bombed during the war, its tower and clock now faithfully restored. Behind it, in simple graves, were buried Dorothy Sayers, a churchwarden and no relation to the writer, and the other Hazlitt, William, no relationship to my friend Seth.

I stopped for tea at the York Minster Pub, known as the French Pub because its owners are probably the only French pub owners in all of Great Britain. Frank and I had enjoyed a beer there before going on to hear jazz at Ronnie Scott’s club on Frith Street. Afterward we’d had a scrumptious dinner in the Neal Street Restaurant; I could almost taste the grilled calf kidney I’d had that night, and a dessert I have never experienced again called tiramisu. Those were good memories but, because they could never be repeated, there was also a sense of sadness as I stood in front of the restaurant and looked through the window at the very table we’d shared.

Enough of that, I told myself, continuing my walk. I lingered in Soho Square, then went to Dean Street and looked for the address of Simpson Talent Bookers. I found it easily enough; it was above a strip club called Nell Gwynne’s. If the lurid photographs in the window were any indication of what went on inside, it was not a place I was likely to frequent.

I walked up a narrow set of stairs to the floor above the club. The door bearing the name of the agency was open, and I went inside. It was a waiting room, with cheap red and yellow vinyl chairs lined up along the walls, a few occupied by young women dressed either in trendy outfits or in jeans and T shirts. A middle-aged woman with orange hair and long red fingernails tipped with black sat behind a desk reading a magazine. She glanced up, and went back to her page. I approached her and said pleasantly, “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I would appreciate having a few minutes with Mr. Simpson, if he’s available.