“He’s gone,” she said.
“Jason?”
“Yes.”
We looked at each other until I asked, “May I come in?”
Her response was to open her eyes wide, turn to the interior of the flat, and raise both arms. “He’s gone,” she said again, this time her words accompanied by tears. She slapped her hands to her sides and walked into the cluttered and cramped living room. I followed, leaving the door open behind me. It looked as if someone-probably Jason Harris-had frantically pulled things from shelves and drawers, or as if someone had entered the apartment desperately searching for something. The room was a shambles, clothing tossed everywhere, books piled haphazardly on shelves and the floor. The few pieces of stuffed furniture were ripped and faded. Light from a streetlamp was virtually stopped at the windows by layers of grime and nicotine.
“You said Jason was leaving at seven,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “What makes you think he’s gone?”
She turned and glared at me, anger etched on her face. “He took the manuscript. The manuscript is gone, and so is he.”
I started once again to rationalize why Jason might not be there, but decided it was a fruitless exercise. There was no dissuading Maria at this moment, so intense was her upset. “Was this the only copy of the manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“No one made a photocopy?”
“I told him…”
“No matter,” I said. “Obviously a manuscript was delivered to Marjorie Ainsworth’s publisher, probably more than one.”
“But Jason made his notations only on the copy he kept.”
I was torn between sitting down and continuing the discussion, and getting out of Jason’s flat as quickly as possible. I opted for the latter course of action. “Why don’t we go get a bite to eat and talk about this some more? I know you said Jason is reluctant to do anything about his alleged authorship of Marjorie’s book, but maybe we can convince him otherwise. Please, don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting that I would do anything along the lines you suggested in the park this morning, but I would be interested in finding out to what extent he did contribute to the novel. The three of us could sit down and discuss it.”
She shook her head with vigor, sending thick black hair whirling about her. “It is not that easy, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t think…” She broke down now into heavy sobbing and sat on the edge of a frayed love seat. “Something dreadful has happened to him. I just know it.”
I sat and put my arm about her. “Maria, there’s no reason to say that. I’m sure Jason is perfectly all right and will return tonight. We can continue with this in the morning.” I stood. “In the meantime, I really think we should leave and have a cup of coffee or tea. I noticed a Chinese restaurant on the corner. Perhaps-”
“Just leave me alone,” she snapped.
“If you wish. I certainly didn’t mean to impose upon you. If you’d like to talk again, call me at the Savoy.” I walked to the door, stopped, turned, and looked back at her. She was still sitting on the love seat, crying. What a volatile, emotional young woman, I thought. I turned to leave. “Oh my God!” I gasped. The man was huge. He filled the doorway. He had a long, matted gray beard and a bird’s nest of filthy gray hair. He was obviously drunk; his slurred speech confirmed that. “What are you two duckies up to?” he asked.
I tried to catch my breath as I said, “You startled me. Excuse me, I was just leaving.”
He looked past me to Maria and said, “What’d the bastard do, Maria, take his hand to you again?”
Maria shook her head without looking up. “He’s gone,” she said, her words barely audible. I repeated to the large man that I wished to leave. He scowled at me as he stepped back unsteadily and grabbed the railing of the stairs for support. I didn’t say anything to Maria as I left, did not repeat my suggestion that she call me at the Savoy. I descended the stairs, slowly at first, picking up speed as I approached the ground floor. I stepped outside and took a series of deep breaths. It had been cool in London since my arrival, perfect early September weather. Now the humidity had begun to increase and I felt choked by it. A thick fog had developed in the short time I was in Jason’s flat.
I walked with haste toward the Chinese restaurant on the corner, my heightened awareness causing the sound of my heels on the pavement to be louder than was the fact. I looked in the window and saw a few young people seated at two small tables. A Chinese man and woman were behind a counter. I wanted a cab. I looked for a telephone in the restaurant, but saw none. I took in the four corners of the intersection. No familiar red British phone booth on any of them.
I started walking in the direction of Liverpool Street Station. Surely there would be taxis waiting there. The closer I got, the more alone I felt, even though there were people on the street, small groups, mostly young, the majority obviously not native-born. I forced myself to slow down, and to respond more realistically to my surroundings. There was nothing threatening about the people I passed. For the most part, they looked like everyday folks going about their business.
I felt better after a couple more blocks and even considered stopping into one of the small, intimate restaurants for something to eat. No, I decided, I would wait until I got back to my hotel.
I paused at a comer. To my right, a block away, was what appeared to be a main thoroughfare. I started in its direction, then realized that the block I had to travel was particularly dark. It occurred to me for a fleeting moment that I should return to the better lighted comer from which I’d come, but the allure of the traffic and lights on the larger street was too compelling.
I reached a point approximately halfway along the street when I became aware of the presence of something-or someone-behind a tall pile of packing crates to my right. I froze; the presence was confirmed by the movement of a ten-foot shadow on the wall, followed by the person who’d cast it. He was young, and very punk. A wide steak of vivid pink ran through the middle of his Mohawk-styled blond hair from front to back. His acne was terminal. Three long silver earrings dangled from his left ear, and he was dressed in a black leather jacket with silver studs. He said in a distinct Cockney accent, “ ’Ere we go, give it to me now.” He stepped directly in front of me and grabbed the lapel of my raincoat. My bag hung on my right shoulder. I tried to yank free, but his other hand fastened on the strap of the bag and spun me around. I fell heavily to my knees, pain immediately radiating to my brain. Still, I continued to hold on to my handbag and started yelling.
He cursed and gave a final tug on the strap, pulling it from my shoulder.
“Stop!” I shouted as he took off on the run. I saw him disappear around the comer and realized it was futile to pursue him. Actually, it was foolish of me to have fought him at all. I’d established a habit years ago of keeping anything of value like credit cards, cash, and airline tickets in a small leather pouch around my waist whenever I was in a big city. My handbag contained nothing but cosmetics, my small flashlight, and two ten-pound notes.
I stood and gently touched my kneecaps. The stockings on both were torn, and one knee was bleeding. I stumbled to the larger street, where two black London cabs waited at a corner. I opened the door of the first, said, “Savoy Hotel, please,” and collapsed on the backseat.
“You all right, mum?” the young driver asked.
“Yes… no, I’m not. I’ve just been mugged.”
“I’ll get a bobby,” he said.
“No, please, just take me to the hotel. I’ll notify the police from there.”