Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

As I came into the lobby looking for Seth and Morton, I spotted Jimmy Biggers seated in a chair, reading a newspaper. “Mr. Biggers, how unsurprising to see you here.”

He looked over the paper, smiled, stood, and said, “I didn’t want to let a day go by without making contact with you. What did you think of your friend’s final wishes?”

I looked down at the newspaper in his hand: It was a late evening edition, and details of the will had been hastily crammed into a box on page one. “Interesting” was all I said.

“Yes, it does open up some interesting possibilities, doesn’t it?”

“Such as?”

“Well, a few motives came out of that reading, I’d say.”

I’d thought the same thing, but really hadn’t dwelled on it.

“You an’ me should get together and discuss it in a little more depth,” he said.

“Perhaps, but not now. I’m looking for my friends from home.”

“Gone out to a gentlemen’s club, they ’ave,” he said.

“How do you know where they are?” “Because they asked me for my recommendation, and I gave it to them.”

“Gentlemen’s club?”

“Yes, and a good one, the Office.”

“Sounds like a business meeting to me,” I said.

“That’s the beauty of it, Jessica. Husbands call their wives and tell them they’ll be late at ‘the Office,’ and they say it without feelin’ too bloody guilty.”

“I see, and what does ‘the Office’ offer my friends?”

“Pretty ladies, decent drinks, and a hell of a tab at night’s end. I’m sure they’ll fill you in on everything… well, maybe not everything.”

I got his point and didn’t ask any further questions.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t mean to intrude, but…”

I turned to face Renée Perry, who’d been at the dinner I’d come from and, as far as I was concerned, seemed to have suffered through it with even more difficulty than the rest of us. “No bother,” I said.

We stepped away from Biggers.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I must talk to you.”

“Fine.”

“I’d like to get out of here, go where we can be alone. Would you take a walk with me?”

“Of course. Excuse me.” I told Biggers I’d be gone for a while.

“Care for a male escort?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary, but thank you for offering.”

It was a balmy night, rendering Renée’s fur coat superfluous. What would Marjorie have thought? My mugger of the other night came to mind, and I hoped there wasn’t a team of them out this night sniffing for mink.

We walked without saying much of anything-“ London is so beautiful”; “Clayton and I had tea at the Dorchester”; “They say a boat ride up the Thames is delightful”; “How unfortunate that Marjorie’s death marred the conference and the week in England ”-and then found ourselves in front of a small wine bar called Woodhouse’s.

“Care for a glass of wine, Jessica?”

“That’s a nice idea. It looks charming.”

Woodhouse’s was virtually empty. We settled at a table by the window and ordered individual glasses of white wine. After it was served, Renée Perry looked at me, opened her mouth to say something, then lowered her head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I know some of the things said today in the lawyer’s office must have been upsetting to your husband, but-”

“It goes far deeper than that, Jessica.”

I sat back and opened my eyes as an indication that I was receptive to whatever she wished to say next.

“Are you aware, Jessica, that Marjorie wrote a novel that was never published?”

“No, but that wouldn’t strike me as terribly unusual. Most writers, especially successful ones with long careers, have early unsold works in the trunk, as they say.”

She shook her head. “I’m not talking about an early work. I’m talking about a novel that was written just before Gin and Daggers.”

“Before Gin and Daggers? Why wasn’t it published?”

“I don’t know, but I do know it exists. The title of it is Brandy and Blood.”

I smiled. “Brandy and Blood. Gin and Daggers. It sounds as though Marjorie was launching into a series at her advanced age, an alcoholic beverage in every title instead of a color, as in John D. MacDonald’s novels.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know what her motivation was, but it was written, and never submitted to Mr. Semple, or to my husband.”

“Why not?”

She took a sip of her wine and then said, “Because, Jessica, Bruce Herbert stole it.”

“Gracious, that’s quite an accusation. Are you certain?”

“Yes, I am. It’s why he murdered her.”

I suppose you could call it the “layered shock approach” -hit you with one, then quickly hit you with another. Whatever it might be called, it worked, and I was without words.

“I’ve considered going to the authorities, Jessica, but I’m afraid it might implicate my husband.”

“How would Clayton be implicated?” I asked. “He knows about the manuscript?”

“Yes, he does. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not suggesting that he had anything to do with stealing it, but because he and Bruce are such close friends and working colleagues, Bruce naturally made him aware of it.”

“Because he wants your husband to publish it.”

“I’m not so certain about that, although Clayton thinks so. The fact is, Bruce Herbert will sell it to whoever will pay top dollar. He isn’t what you’d call the most ethical of people.”

I took another sip of wine. “How could he have stolen it, Renée? Wouldn’t Marjorie have raised a beef?”

She smiled ruefully. “Exactly. That’s why he killed her.”

“Let me ask you something very directly, and hope for an answer containing nothing except hard-nosed fact. Are you certain, without question, that not only did Bruce Herbert steal this manuscript, but he murdered Marjorie Ainsworth, too?”

She silently stared at me before saying softly, “No. I mean, I know he stole the manuscript, but I certainly can’t prove he murdered her.”

I asked, “Didn’t Marjorie ask him why this novel of hers wasn’t being published? She obviously knew that anything she put her name on would be instantly gobbled up, if not by Perry House, then by any one of fifty other publishers.”

“She did ask him, as I understand it, and he told her he considered it so special that he wanted to have time to think about the proper way to market it.”

“And she accepted that?”

“Yes. With all Marjorie Ainsworth’s insight and intelligence, she could be remarkably naïve and easily led.”

“I see. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I have tremendous respect for you, am well aware that you are the one person who had nothing to gain by Marjorie’s death, and because not only are you recognized as a fine writer of murder mysteries, you’ve ended up solving many real murders yourself. Is that sufficient?”

“More than sufficient, although the compliments are hardly justified. You say I’m the only one with nothing to gain. Obviously, you’re including your husband in the group who would benefit from Marjorie’s death.”

She’d been reticent and sedate during the conversation. My comment brought forth animation for the first time. “Jessica, my husband did not kill Marjorie Ainsworth. Bruce Herbert did.”

Up until that moment I had assigned a certain credence to what she’d been saying. Now, as I looked at this beautiful and expensively dressed woman across from me, I wondered whether this pointing of fingers at Bruce Herbert was, in fact, designed to point fingers away from her husband. I couldn’t ask that directly, of course, but it stayed with me as we finished our wine, she paid the check, and we retraced our steps to the Savoy.