“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.”
Chapter Fifteen
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.
I thought about Marjorie’s failing health over the past few years, and how she had dictated a great deal of her correspondence to her niece, Jane. I’d once tried dictating one of my own novels and had found the process excruciating. Not only that, what came out in the transcription of the tapes was a markedly different style from when I sat at my trusty typewriter and pecked away word after word, sentence after sentence. I did, of course, heavily edit the transcript of the dictation, which brought the finished manuscript into line with my hunt-and-peck style. Even then there was some change. Could this explain the difference in Gin and Daggers? Perhaps. The only person who might provide insight would be Jane Portelaine, and based upon my brief exchange with her at the cemetery, I doubted whether she would welcome such a conversation with me. But she had suggested I call her if I wished to spend time at Ainsworth Manor before returning to Cabot Cove, and I intended to take her up on it.
My first thought upon awakening the next morning was Maria Giacona. Was Jimmy Biggers telling the truth about her life as an exotic dancer and her affair with Jason’s stepbrother? I suspected he had been truthful, and it perplexed me. I wanted to call Maria, but I had no idea where to reach her. She’d never given me an address or telephone number, aside from Jason’s flat, and I doubted whether she would be staying there. But on the chance that she might, I went to the London telephone directory looking for a Jason Harris. No listing; he had either not had a telephone or had requested he be excluded from the book.
I made my usual list of what I intended to accomplish that day: call on David Simpson, and stop by Jason’s flat in the hope that I might catch Maria there.
I received a call after breakfast from Marjorie Ainsworth’s solicitor, a huffy man named Chester Gould-Brayton, who spoke in slow, sonorous tones. He said, “Mrs. Fletcher, it occurred to me that you might wish to be present at the formal reading of Ms. Ainsworth’s last will and testament.”
“I’d wondered whether I’d be invited, considering I’ve been included in it,” I said, “but I certainly wouldn’t be offended if I weren’t. I don’t intend to accept whatever money she’s left me. I prefer to donate it to the study center that I understand is to be established with the majority of the estate.”
“That, of course, is your decision, Mrs. Fletcher, although I have known more than one person who took such an altruistic stance in the beginning, then succumbed to the temptation of large money.”
I was offended at his comment and told him so.
“As you wish, Mrs. Fletcher. The reading will be at four this afternoon in my office.” He gave me the address.