Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“I certainly agree with you, Bruce, that if such a book were done, the approach you suggest makes sense.”

“Not only does the approach make sense; having Jessica Fletcher do it guarantees a runaway bestseller.”

I smiled. “I’ve had a few best-sellers in my career.”

“But nothing of the magnitude this would be.”

I told him I would give it further thought, and sipped my wine before changing subjects. “Let me bounce an idea off you that I’ve had.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’ve been thinking about developing a series of murder mysteries. As you might know, each of my books stands on its own. There are very few running characters, which, I always felt, made sense. On the other hand, I know how successful a well-crafted series can be, and I’ve been toying with it.”

“Sounds like a dynamite idea, Jessica.”

I laughed and took another sip of wine. “What got me thinking about this was Gin and Daggers.”

“How so?”

“What a marvelous series it could turn into, using a gimmick similar to John D. MacDonald’s-you know, the way he used color in each of his titles. We have Gin and Daggers, which takes place in England, of course. Now we could go on to Rum and Razors, set in the Caribbean. There could be Beer and Bullets, with Germany the location, Bourbon and Bodies would be another, with Kentucky as the setting. Bourbon is so American. The list is endless. What do you think?”

A certain amount of his ebullience drained from him. As I listed the title possibilities, he made a point of looking around the bar. I knew he wasn’t searching for anything or anyone; he was trying to avoid looking directly at me. I kept my smile as I asked his reaction.

“It’s… it’s not a very good idea, in my opinion, Jessica.”

“It worked for John D.”

He shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t interest me.” He checked his watch. “I really have to run. I did enjoy this, though. If you’d like to put a proposal together for the non-fiction work, and give it to me, I’ll be happy to submit it to publishers.”

“That would make you my agent,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“I’ve never had an agent.”

“It’s about time you did.” He reached for money, but I told him I would put it on my room tab. He was obviously anxious to get away from me, and I didn’t do anything to prolong his discomfort.

As I walked back to my room, I knew I had learned something. Judging from Bruce Herbert’s response, Renée Perry might have been right about his possessing an unpublished Marjorie Ainsworth novel called Brandy and Blood.

Jimmy Biggers called me at five-thirty.

“I understand you’ve been getting into Inspector Coots’s hair,” I said.

He laughed. “I have been spending some time in Crumpsworth lately.”

“And?”

“It’s a depressing little burg, if you ask me. Learned nothing except that your chum, Marjorie Ainsworth, was on the cheap, she was.”

I smiled. “Yes, Marjorie was known as a frugal woman.”

“She wasn’t much liked in Crumpsworth.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that, too, but that seems to have little meaning where her murder is concerned.”

“Not necessarily true, Jessica. Some of the people I talked to didn’t just dislike the lady, they hated her.”

“That sounds unnecessarily harsh. Marjorie might have been a difficult person, but she wasn’t deserving of hate.”

“Your interpretation, ducks, not mine. No matter, that’s what I found out.”

“Well, what about David Simpson?” I asked. “Have you found out anything on him yet?”

“As a matter of fact, Jessica, I paid him a visit this afternoon. My timing was perfect. I walked in, told that grizzling receptionist of his who I was, and that I was working for you. She started to give me a bit of her lip, she did, but all of a sudden Simpson comes to the door and greets me like I was a long-lost rich brother.”

“You must have been flattered,” I said.

“Blokes like him don’t flatter me, Jessica. The reason he was happy to see me was that he was about to call you, he said.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause he had something to give you. He give it to me to pass on.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t open me client’s packages but, from the feel of it, I’d say it’s either a big fat catalog or a manuscript.”

Could it be, I wondered? Was I about to be handed Jason Harris’s manuscript of Gin and Daggers? I asked Biggers whether Simpson had told him how he’d gotten it.

“He said it was perched in front of his office door.”

“What does it say on the outside of the package?”

“It’s got ’is name and address on it.”

“And it hasn’t been opened? How would he know to give it to me?”

“No idea, Jessica. Want me to bring it over now?”

“Yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.”

“Be there in a half hour.”

While I waited for Biggers, I wondered who would have sent Jason’s manuscript to Simpson, why they would have sent it, and why Simpson would have been so cavalier in handing it over. Of course, I knew I was doing a lot of assuming. Maybe it was a big fat catalog. But Simpson must have opened it; there could be no other rational explanation for sending it on to me. That gave credence to the concept that the package must contain the manuscript or some other material bearing upon Jason’s claim that he’d written Gin and Daggers.

Biggers called from the lobby and I told him to come up. He walked into the suite, the package cradled in his arms, looked around, whistled, and said, “Nice digs they put you up in.”

“They’ve been very generous. May I have the package?”

“Oh sure,” he said, handing it to me. I placed it on the desk and said, “Thank you very much for bringing this to me. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

“Ain’t you goin’ to open it?”

“Not immediately. I have to… I have to meet someone downstairs, and I’m already running late. Come, I’ll ride down with you.”

He obviously didn’t like my approach, but had little choice but to accommodate me. I walked him to the main entrance of the Savoy and thanked him again.

“What do you figure’s in that?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’ll certainly find out.”

He gave me that little tap on the shoulder again, and this time I started to say, “Don’t do that,” when he quickly blurted, “Remember one thing, Mrs. Fletcher, you and me agreed to be partners. If there’s somethin’ important in that package havin’ to do with Ms. Ainsworth’s murder, we share the credit.”

“Yes, I understand,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what it contains.”

As I watched him leave the hotel, I knew there was no need to call him to reveal the contents of the package. He already knew what was inside, and had probably looked at it with Simpson. Deciding to become involved with Jimmy Biggers might not have been the smartest decision I had made of late, and that thought served as a gentle reminder to be more on my toes when around him.

My phone was ringing as I entered the suite. I picked it up. “Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“George Sutherland. Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“No, I just walked in.”

“I’ve been meaning to call you, but life is so busy and… well, as my father used to say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

I laughed. My father used to say the same thing.

“The reason I’m calling, Jessica, is to invite you to dinner this evening. I know this is terribly short notice but…”

“Yes, it is short notice, but that happens not to matter. I am free this evening, and would very much enjoy dining with you.”