I asked if I could see him that day.
“I don’t see why not, although the day is a bit crushed, sales conference coming up, too many books in the hopper, not enough editorial hands to deal with them.”
“Would an hour from now be all right?” I asked. “I can be there by ten.”
“Jolly good, sounds fine to me, I’ll clear the decks for you.”
Every publisher’s office I’d ever visited was messy, but they were all bastions of order compared to his. Manuscripts were piled everywhere, including on the carpet in front of his desk, creating a maze for visitors to navigate. He was sweating profusely as he got up to greet me. “What a pleasure, what a pleasure,” he said, leading me to a chair and removing a pile of recently published books from it. “Sit, sit. Tea? Oh no, you probably prefer coffee. I’ll see to it that you have coffee.”
“Actually, Mr. Semple, I would prefer tea. One sugar and lemon.”
“Of course, of course.” He buzzed his secretary and put in an order for two cups of tea.
Once he was settled behind his desk again, he said, “Now, Mrs. Fletcher, what brings you here? This is such an honor.”
“Well, Mr. Semple, I appreciate your kind words, but I’m afraid I’m not here on a social visit.”
“Oh?”
“I was wondering whether you would have available Marjorie Ainsworth’s manuscript of Gin and Daggers.”
He frowned and went through a series of “hrummmphs” before saying, “Unusual request, highly irregular even for a writing colleague. Why, may I ask, do you wish to see it?”
“Mr. Semple, I won’t beat around the bush with you. I’m certain you’re aware of rumors that Marjorie did not write Gin and Daggers.”
“Yes, preposterous, no basis to them at all.”
“I feel the same way, but I think it’s very important that those rumors be put to rest. I thought… I thought that if I could see her manuscript, it might help me become more secure in my own mind that no other hand was involved.”
“Can’t see what the manuscript would tell you, Mrs. Fletcher. Just like any other manuscript from her, a few additions by pen in her hand, and our editorial notes and corrections.”
“Yes, I realize that, Mr. Semple, but there is a young man… was a young man named Jason Harris who, the rumor says, actually wrote the book. We met Mr. Harris at that fateful dinner at Ainsworth Manor.”
“Yes, I remember him. I’d met him before.”
“Really? Under what circumstances?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea, some literary party, cocktail bash, whatever. I’ve heard his name mentioned in connection with Gin and Daggers, too, and I dismiss him along with the rumor itself.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Semple, there is a growing and serious question about the authorship of Gin and Daggers. May I see the manuscript?”
He had a great deal of trouble flatly refusing me, but that’s what he ended up doing. “Mrs. Fletcher, I would consider that a violation of a publisher’s privilege. After all, the relationship between a publisher and an author is akin, somewhat, to that of solicitor and client. Agree?”
“No, not when murder has injected itself into the relationship. I really can’t see why you won’t allow me to at least look at the manuscript here in your office, Mr. Semple. I don’t intend to do anything with it, to carry it away, or to make a statement to the press about it. All I wish to do is see the pages.”
“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.”
I sat 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.