“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.”
There was an audible sigh of relief on his end. He said, “I have a favorite restaurant in Central Market called Bubbs that I thought you might enjoy. It tends to be somewhat masculine, but the food is quite good and I’m comfortable there.”
“Then I’m sure I will be, too.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to be running late here at the office. Would you consider it discourteous of me not to pick you up, to ask you to meet me there at eight-thirty?”
“Absolutely not.” He gave me the address and phone number of the restaurant.
I’d no sooner hung up when Lucas Darling called. “Jessica, I have missed you so. I never have the opportunity to see you because we live thousands of miles apart, and then you come all the way to London and I still am not able to see you. I insist that we have dinner tonight. Eleven Park Walk has absolutely become the city’s in place for people-watching, and I intend to treat you to an evening there.”
“Lucas, that’s awfully nice of you, but the last thing I want to do is watch people. I’d intended to spend the evening alone with a good book”-I glanced at the desk where the package sat-“but I’ve ended up with a dinner engagement with Inspector Sutherland from Scotland Yard.”
“Him again.”
“What do you mean, ‘him again’? You sound annoyed.”
“Jessica, I have been a model of patience since you arrived. I have put up with constant changes in the program schedule. A nutter has attacked my keynote speaker with a sword, the world’s most revered mystery writer has been murdered, bloody television crews keep getting in my way-not that I mind the publicity for ISMW, mind you-and, most painful, my good friend and colleague, Jessica Fletcher, has been conspicuous by her almost constant absence. I insist you come to dinner with me. Wear your finest. We’ll be watched, too.”
I’d known Lucas well enough over the years to know when it was possible to turn him down, and when doing so might send him to the brink of suicide. This was one of those times when I could be adamant in my refusal and still expect to see him in the morning. He muttered a few terms of disgruntlement, made me promise that I would meet with him the following day, and hung up.
I went to the desk, tore open the package, settled in a comfortable chair beneath the room’s most functional lamp, and stared down at the title page of Gin and Daggers. Scrawled across the top in red pen was the comment: “Proof copy-title was mine.”
Chapter Eighteen
I was getting out of my taxi in front of Bubbs when Inspector Sutherland came walking up the street, a newspaper casually tucked beneath his arm. “Please, let me,” he said, and paid the driver. “Shall we?” He offered his elbow. I took it and we entered the restaurant. “I prefer upstairs, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Not as fancy as down, but more conducive to serious eating. The food is good, and plentiful.”
He was greeted warmly by the host and staff, and we were settled in a corner of the upstairs dining room, the walls oxblood red, the linen frosty white. “Wine?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
“It won’t be a fancy vintage. The owners are rather bourgeois for Frenchmen in London.”
He insisted I taste the wine. “Never sure what I’m supposed to look for,” he said, laughing, “except a large piece of cork floating in it.” I tasted and approved, primarily because I didn’t see any cork.
He raised his glass. “To Jessica Fletcher, who seems to be in the midst of murder no matter where she is.”
“Frankly, I could do without that characterization.”
“Yes, I’m sure you could.” He sat back and was the picture of the relaxed, confident man. He wore a three-piece navy blue suit, probably not very expensive, but he was a man who wore clothes nicely, off the rack or custom-tailored. “Your friend Mr. Darling convinced me to conduct a panel tomorrow for your society.”
“Really? That wasn’t on the schedule.”