Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

Jimmy Biggers turned and looked at me.

“Mr. Biggers, what a pleasant surprise,” I said.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I…” He smiled and shuffled from one foot to the other. “I was just out taking a walk in the neighborhood.”

“I would think your neighborhood walks would take place in Wapping.”

“Well, nice to change the scenery every once in a while. What are you doing here?”

“We had dinner at La Tante Claire. Didn’t you notice?”

“No, I just got here.”

“My friends from Maine and I are taking a walk. We’ll probably end up in some pub or hotel bar, extending the evening. Would you care to join us?”

By this time Seth and Morton had decided they’d gone far enough and were on their way back to where Biggers and I stood.

“Are you all right, Jess?” Morton asked, placing himself between Biggers and me. “You’re the fella we met this morning in that Red Feather pub,” he said.

“Right you are, mate,” said Biggers.

I announced my plans for the rest of the evening and suggested we move on.

“No argument from me,” Morton said. “I get the creeps out here on the street at night.”

“You should have worn your uniform.”

“That’s what I said, but you told me to wear a suit.”

“And you’re a darling to do it for me. What do you say we find an archetypal British pub and have ourselves a shandy for a nightcap?”

“What’s a shandy?” Seth asked.

“Half a bitter, half lemonade,” Biggers said. “Come on, I’ll drive us to one of my favorites.”

Our vehicle was, of course, the battered white Cadillac.

“We’re on Wapping Wall,” I said after we’d driven for fifteen minutes.

“Right you are, Mrs. Fletcher, my neighborhood. I feel comfortable over here.” We pulled up in front of a pub called the Prospect of Whitby. “The manager’s a chum o’ mine,” Biggers said as he held open the door for me. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Because the pub sat directly on the Thames, and because it dated back to the sixteenth century (the area on which it sat was once known as the “hanging dock,” where the infamous Judge Jeffreys would approve of the bodies of his victims hanging in chains, and then enter the tavern to feast), it was dripping with atmosphere and packed with customers, most of them American.

Biggers was greeted warmly and we were led to a scarred table in the darts room. A bouncy, pleasant young waitress, who threatened to burst through her white blouse, gave Biggers a kiss on the cheek and asked what we would be having.

“Friends from America,” Biggers said. “Let’s give ’em a taste of the good stuff, best bitter for everyone.”

“I thought you’d be taking us to the Red Feather,” I said.

“Have to admit I’m partial to it, Mrs. Fletcher. Never see a tourist there, but I thought you’d enjoy this place. Lots of postcards sent back to the States from here.”

Biggers proved to be an amiable and entertaining drinking companion, although Morton Metzger didn’t seem to be enthralled, judging by the perpetual sour expression on his face. Seth, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying the little Cockney private detective, and they were soon talking, laughing, and slapping each other’s backs like old fraternity brothers.

Eventually, after the third round of best bitter had been served (I’d switched to a shandy because I knew I couldn’t handle another straight beer), I brought up the subject of Jason Harris’s murder.

“Nasty business, that,” Biggers said. “Learn anything startling at the coppers this morning?”

“No, just what I mentioned to you at the Red Feather.”

“What did that sack o’ manure Simpson tell you?”

“Simpson?” I sat back and scrutinized him across the table. “How did you know I saw David Simpson?”

“Me gut told me.”

“You’ve been following me all day, Mr. Biggers.”

“Just the latter part of it,” he said, “after you woke me up and I put me act together. Simpson’s no good, a slimy one, if you catch my drift.”

“Because of the business he’s in? Yes, I would agree.”

“More than that. He’s connected.”

“Connected? You mean with organized crime?”

“That’s what I mean. Tell me, you seem to have become a mother hen of sorts to the Giacona girl.”

“Oh no, but I do feel sorry for her. She’s a nice person.”

“Is she now?”

“Yes… she is.”

Seth and Morton listened closely to our conversation.

“Mrs. Fletcher-can I call you Jessica?-I had a fling with a bird named Jessica once, lovely thing, but mean-spirited when she drank.”

“Yes, call me Jessica.”

“All right then, Jessica, you might ask Miss Giacona about David Simpson.”

“She’s already spoken to me of him. He’s her dead lover’s stepbrother.”

“That may be true, Jessica, but Simpson was also her lover.”

“The two of them?”

“Not at once.” He laughed loudly, and we all smiled. “She did a bit o’ dancin’ for Mr. Simpson and he took a shine to her, sort of a favorite.”

“She was a stripper… exotic dancer?”

“Good, too, real popular. Beautiful bird.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Yup, David Simpson and she had quite a fling. She didn’t mention that to you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Probably a bit embarrassed. More bitter?”

“No, I think it’s time we leave.”

I insisted upon paying the check, and Biggers drove us back to the Savoy.

“Thank you for escorting us,” I said. “It’s been a pleasant and educational evening.”

“My pleasure, Jessica.” He said to Seth, “Enjoyed your company, sir.” And to Morton: “I’m really a likable chap once you get to know me.”

“I like you.”

“Yeah, well, good night, everyone. Sleep well. See you soon.”

“I don’t like him,” Morton said as we entered the hotel.

“I do,” said Seth.

I said, “I’m not sure whether I like him or not, but I have a feeling I’m going to learn a lot more from him before this little London escapade is over.”

I had trouble falling asleep after returning from the evening with Seth, Morton, and Jimmy Biggers, and turned to Gin and Daggers, which I read for nearly two hours before drifting off.

I wasn’t reading for pleasure this time; my first read had provided that. This time I concentrated on characters and events that might possibly link up with people and episodes from Jason Harris’s life. It was an impossible task. How could I know whether the name given to a certain character had relevance where Jason was concerned? I also knew that if Jason had included real names, it would have violated a steadfast principle of Marjorie Ainsworth’s-that real names never be used in any novel. Some authors will inadvertently, or deliberately, name characters after people they know; either because the name comes easily to them, or because they wish to give a friend or family member a special treat while reading the book. Not Marjorie. She considered that practice to be patently amateurish, and it didn’t take much to get her up on her soapbox on the subject.

My meeting with Jason’s stepbrother, David Simpson, had been entirely too cursory, and I decided to contact him again. Had Simpson read either the manuscript or the finished book? If so, he probably had some inkling as to which references Jason used to establish his authorship-provided he had lent a creative hand to it. I still had my doubts about that, although I had to admit to myself that after reading a major portion of Gin and Daggers for the second time, I could certainly discern a change from the Marjorie Ainsworth writing style with which I was so familiar. Yes, it was possible that another hand had played a part in writing the book. That didn’t mean, however, that it was Jason Harris’s.