Donald Bain - Gin and Daggers

“Quite impossible, Mrs. Fletcher. Damned sorry, but that’s the way it has to be. That’s the way I run my publishing company, always have. Please don’t consider me discourteous or uncooperative.”

“I don’t think either of those things of you, Mr. Semple. I just wish you were amenable to my request.” I stood and extended my hand across the desk. “At any rate, it was good to see you again, and thank you for allowing me to intrude upon a busy day.”

“No trouble at all, Mrs. Fletcher. Anytime.” He personally escorted me to the elevator. It arrived, and he held the door open with his foot as he asked in hushed tones, “You don’t think there’s any truth in the rumor, do you?”

I laughed. “Absolutely none, Mr. Semple. By the way, are you aware of the other rumor that Marjorie had written a novel before Gin and Daggers, and that it has never been submitted to publishers?”

He seemed sincerely surprised.

“According to the source of the rumor, it’s called Brandy and Blood.”

It took him a few seconds to go from serious pondering to raucous laughter, and he managed to say, “Funniest thing I’ve ever heard. You don’t think the old lady, I mean, Marjorie, was contemplating a series, do you?”

“That was exactly what I thought when I heard the rumor. Well, again, thank you for your time.”

“One final thing, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Yes?”

“Any word on who her unnamed lover is?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Seems to me that if I were investigating her murder, I’d look in that direction.”

He was right; I would bring that up with George Sutherland the next time we spoke.

My next stop was the address I’d taken from the phone book for Cadence House, the publishing company that, according to William Strayhorn’s column, was about to publish four novels by Jason Harris. It was located on Old Compton Street, the main avenue through Soho that I’d walked the other day, and that bustled with restaurants and cosmopolitan food shops, more international news stalls than I could ever imagine in one area, and, of course, a wide variety of sex shops and striptease clubs. Judging from the description of Cadence House in Strayhorn’s column, I would have expected it to be located above a sexually oriented establishment, like David Simpson’s agency. Instead, it occupied its own three-story building, very well maintained, and with the sort of heavy polished wooden doors and brass lettering one expects of a Harley Street physician, a Belgravia investment banker, or a Newgate Street lawyer.

I stepped inside and found myself in an airy downstairs reception area. Large potted plants were everywhere. The decor was distinctly European-modern, as was the ravishing blond girl who sat behind an uncluttered teak desk. She looked Scandinavian; I thought of Morton Metzger’s comment after his night at the gentlemen’s club, and wondered whether she would address me in French.

“Good morning. Is Mr. Cole in?”

“Do you have an appointment?” Her accent was distinctly German.

“No, I don’t. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a writer from the United States, and am here attending the International Society of Mystery Writers convention. I was also a friend of Jason Harris, whose work, I understand, you are about to publish.”

The look on her face indicated that while she might be an efficient receptionist, she had little interest in, or knowledge of, what went on in the company for which she provided such an attractive front.

“I think if I had just a few minutes to explain to Mr. Cole the purpose of my visit, he would want to see me. Would you try him for me?”

While she talked to a person I assumed was Walter Cole’s secretary, I looked through a glass case in which Cadence House’s most recent releases were displayed. Strayhorn had been right in his column; the titles and covers were obviously designed to appeal to prurient interests, although I did take note of a couple of esoteric Scandinavian novels that were a cut above the others, though sex was at their core, too.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” the receptionist said.

I returned to her desk.

“If you would not mind waiting for a few minutes, Mr. Cole will see you.”

“Thank you very much.”

Isat in a leather chair slung on a chrome frame, and watched the flow of sidewalk traffic outside the window. It was a lovely day in London, and just as I was beginning to feel disappointed at not being able to simply enjoy it, a young woman came down a circular staircase and approached me. She was every bit as beautiful and shapely as the receptionist; evidently, the hiring code for Cadence House contained requirements beyond typing and stenography.

I followed her up the stairs to the first floor, and then up another winding staircase to the top. Unlike the first floor, where a corridor led to a succession of office doors, a visitor to the top level came off the stairs and stood in the middle of a huge office that spanned the entire floor. At one end, behind a chrome and leather desk so large I assumed it had to have been dropped into the building by crane, sat Walter Cole.

My escort immediately descended the staircase, leaving me to make my own introductions. I approached the desk and stopped a few feet in front of it. Cole had not looked up. He was hunched over a manuscript, a red pencil flying over the text. I decided not to interrupt, and simply waited. Eventually he glanced at me and said, “Jessica Fletcher. Famous American mystery writer. Sit down.”

Walter Cole was a painfully thin man, his chest concave, his eyes sunken. He had thin, brown-gray hair that hung to his shoulders in shapeless strands. He wore a blue shirt and red paisley tie.

He continued working on the manuscript, oblivious to the fact that I had taken a chair and was staring at him. I cleared my throat; he didn’t respond, just kept working.

“Mr. Cole, I…”

He abruptly dropped the pencil on the page and stood. “I’ve read all your books, Mrs. Fletcher. You’re very good.”

“Thank you.”

“You ought to dump that stodgy British publisher of yours and let me publish you. I’ll make you a better financial deal and see to it that distribution is a hell of a lot wider than what you currently have here.”

“That’s very generous, Mr. Cole, but I-”

“Can we make a deal? I can have a contract drawn up in ten minutes.”

I shook my head and laughed. “No, I’m afraid I’m quite content with my present situation. I didn’t come here looking for a publisher. I wanted to talk to you about Jason Harris.”

His face, bearing a visible network of tiny red spider veins, broke into a smile. He came around the desk and perched on its edge. “Glad to see you keep up with the business, Mrs. Fletcher. Yes, we’re very excited about publishing Jason’s works. Shame he’s about to achieve international recognition and won’t be around to enjoy it, but that places him in pretty good company, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, it has happened before. Mr. Cole, I met Jason at Marjorie Ainsworth’s house. I had only brief conversations with him but, based upon those conversations, I came away with the feeling that he had never really completed any work. Yet I read that you claim to have four novels he’d written.”

“That’s right.”

“Are any of them murder mysteries?”

Now his crooked smile turned into a laugh. “What are you getting at, Mrs. Fletcher, that he turned out the sort of stuff Ainsworth did? If he had, I wouldn’t be wasting my time publishing his output. Why he hung around her I’ll never know. She was beneath him. Jason Harris was a brilliant writer, someone who will take his place with the world’s literary greats once I get through publishing him.”