“Whatever pleases you, Mr. Biggers. I’m here by your invitation.”
“Let’s find us a spot where we can talk in private.” That spot turned out to be a table tucked in the darts room. Biggers ordered a full English breakfast for both of us-fresh-squeezed orange juice, porridge with cream, fried eggs, crisp bacon, well-done sausages, kippered herring, and an excellent pot of coffee.
“This is delicious,” I said.
“Not quite up to the Goring, but better than most.” I’d had one of the famed English breakfasts at the Goring Hotel, and the Red Feather’s was almost as good.
After our plates had been cleared and the waitress poured fresh coffee, I said to Jimmy Biggers, “This has been a very pleasant start to my day. I’d like to know, though, why you invited me here. You said you had something to discuss with me.”
“Simple, Jessica, I need me a client.”
“Really? From what I understand, you’re never without one.”
“True, but I’m talking about a big client, somebody I can hang me hat on. I’ve always got me share of wives wanting their husbands followed, insurance fraud cases, all the run-of-the-mill stuff, but I like big cases, ones that really keep me mind working.”
“You mean cases of the magnitude of Sir Reginald Pickings.”
“How’d you know about that one?”
“Someone told me.”
“Well, you’re right.”
“Obviously, the murder of Marjorie Ainsworth would qualify.”
“Right again.”
“I’ve wondered why you’ve stayed so close to the people involved. Frankly, I assumed you were working for someone already.”
“Not yet.” He stared at me.
“Are you suggesting that I hire you as a private investigator?”
“Actually, they call us inquiry agents here in Great Britain, but I like the American way. Gumshoe? That’s a good one. Call me what you will.”
“Mr. Biggers, I don’t need a… gumshoe.”
“Worried about the money?”
“The money? Of course not.”
“No need, ’cause I’m offerin’ my services off the cuff, gratis, no charge.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t mind bein’ the investigator who helps the famous Jessica Fletcher solve the murder of the world’s greatest mystery writer, Marjorie Ainsworth. From what I understand-and I’ve done a bit of checkin’ on you-you’ve knocked off as many murderers in real life as you have in your books.”
I laughed; I didn’t know how else to respond.
Biggers nodded his head and narrowed his eyes as he said, “I’m serious.”
“Yes, I can see that. Actually, I would like to help solve Marjorie’s murder. She happened to be a very dear friend of mine.”
He sat back and grinned. “What say, Jessica, you and me work together, figure out who killed Marjorie Ainsworth, and all I ask is for some public credit. Good for my business, wouldn’t you say, to be hooked’ up with the likes of you?”
Somehow, what he was offering had a certain appeal. His knowledge of London, especially its less obvious aspects, would be helpful. “I’ll think about it,” I said.
“All right, but don’t take too long. I just might end up solvin’ this one on my own.”
He wangled a promise from me that I would call him as soon as possible with my answer. I thanked him for breakfast, we shook hands, and he called a cab that transported me back to the Savoy. Seth and Morton were having breakfast in the dining room, and I joined them.
“Tell me all about your fling last night,” I said.
Seth glanced at Morton, whose face had a slightly green tinge to it. Seth said, “We went to a very exclusive club, compliments of your Mr. Biggers.”
“Compliments of him? He told me he’d recommended it, that’s all.”
“That’s what I mean. Naturally, we would never have considered going to such a place if it had not been so highly recommended by a native like him.”
I smiled and looked down at the table. “I won’t ask any more questions,” I said.
“I learned one thing,” Morton said.
I looked up. “What’s that?”
“There’s lots of beautiful young French ladies in London who were born in Sweden.”
“Where’ve you been this morning?” Seth asked me.
“Having breakfast at the Red Feather with Jimmy Biggers. He’s made me a business proposition.”
Seth frowned. “I wouldn’t trust him, Jess. You’re not thinking of putting up any money in some scheme of his.”
“No, of course not. He wants us-him and me-to solve Marjorie Ainsworth’s murder together.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Morton.
“I told him I would give him an answer as soon as I could. Frankly, I’m tempted. He seems to be a veritable fount of information, and I’d like to be on the receiving end of it.”
“Jess…” Seth said, placing his hand on mine.
“Let’s face it,” I said, “I’ve already been sticking my nose into Marjorie’s murder: one, because she was a good friend, and two, because I have been a suspect all along, and three, because obviously I was born with an extra gene that makes me the way I am.” I quickly changed the subject and asked what their plans were. They said they intended to take it easy that day, which didn’t surprise me, considering the way they looked after their boys’ night out.
As I stood to leave, Seth asked me about the reading of Marjorie’s will.
“It was fascinating.”
“And she did leave you something?”
“Left me quite a bit, although I am donating it back to the study center she created. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Have to run. Enjoy your day of leisure.”
I went up to my suite and picked up the telephone. There was no answer at Jimmy Biggers’s office-apartment above the Red Feather, so I found the number of the pub itself and called it. He was still there; the owner put him on the line.
“You’ve got yourself a client, Mr. Biggers.”
“Good girl, Jess. You’ve made a very wise decision.”
“That will be determined when this is over. In the meantime, I’d like you to do two things for me. First, see if you can find Maria Giacona. Second, learn everything you can about the relationship between Jason Harris and David Simpson.”
“Whoa now, slow down, I’m not sure I like havin’ a woman give me orders like this.”
“I thought you wanted me to be your client.”
“That’s right, but-”
“Well, as I’ve always been taught, clients tell those working for them what to do.”
“Behind that pleasant, feminine facade, you are a tough duck, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Only when I’m a client, Jimmy. Will you do those things for me?”
“You bet. Just testing, seein’ how far I can go. Where will you be later in the day?”
“I don’t know, but you can leave a message with the hotel and I’ll get back to you. Thanks again for breakfast. It was excellent.”
I changed into a sweat suit and running shoes I’d brought with me and went downstairs with the intention of finding a pleasant jogging path along the Victoria Embankment on the river.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” a familiar male voice said. It was Montgomery Coots, the Crumpsworth inspector.
“Yes, Inspector?”
“On your way for a run, are you?” he asked, moving up and down on his toes.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I was. Would you care to join me?”
He looked down at the suit and leather shoes he wore and said, “Afraid I’m not quite dressed for such activity. Would you spare me a few minutes before you go?”
“Of course. Perhaps you’d like to walk with me. I feel an overwhelming need to be out of doors.”
We made our way around back of the hotel and headed down toward the Embankment. We stopped at a wooden bench beneath a clump of trees. Coots pulled out my gold pendant from his breast pocket and handed it to me.
“Thank you, Inspector. I was wondering whether I would ever see this again.”
“Never any fear of that with me, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t lose evidence like some others do.”