It was a lovely afternoon as I strolled the streets of Soho. It had, like New York’s Times Square, deteriorated because of a proliferation of striptease clubs and sex shops, but they seemed relatively innocuous in the daylight. Unlike the case with Times Square, legitimate business hadn’t fled the area, and Soho was still filled with quaint restaurants, fascinating newsstands, and boutiques.
I stopped in at St. Anne’s Church, bombed during the war, its tower and clock now faithfully restored. Behind it, in simple graves, were buried Dorothy Sayers, a churchwarden and no relation to the writer, and the other Hazlitt, William, no relationship to my friend Seth.
I stopped for tea at the York Minster Pub, known as the French Pub because its owners are probably the only French pub owners in all of Great Britain. Frank and I had enjoyed a beer there before going on to hear jazz at Ronnie Scott’s club on Frith Street. Afterward we’d had a scrumptious dinner in the Neal Street Restaurant; I could almost taste the grilled calf kidney I’d had that night, and a dessert I have never experienced again called tiramisu. Those were good memories but, because they could never be repeated, there was also a sense of sadness as I stood in front of the restaurant and looked through the window at the very table we’d shared.
Enough of that, I told myself, continuing my walk. I lingered in Soho Square, then went to Dean Street and looked for the address of Simpson Talent Bookers. I found it easily enough; it was above a strip club called Nell Gwynne’s. If the lurid photographs in the window were any indication of what went on inside, it was not a place I was likely to frequent.
I walked up a narrow set of stairs to the floor above the club. The door bearing the name of the agency was open, and I went inside. It was a waiting room, with cheap red and yellow vinyl chairs lined up along the walls, a few occupied by young women dressed either in trendy outfits or in jeans and T shirts. A middle-aged woman with orange hair and long red fingernails tipped with black sat behind a desk reading a magazine. She glanced up, and went back to her page. I approached her and said pleasantly, “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I would appreciate having a few minutes with Mr. Simpson, if he’s available.
She looked up, shifted gum from one side of her mouth to the other, pointed to a chair, and said, “Wait your turn.”
I cocked my head, was about to say something, then simply followed her instructions and sat, the new handbag Lucas had bought me at Harrods on my lap.
Ten minutes later, a door opened behind the receptionist and a handsome young man stood in the doorway. He wore gray slacks, an expensive, custom-tailored burgundy blazer with gold buttons, a white silk shirt, and a variegated ascot of primarily burgundy and blue. Black hair was carefully arranged on his head. His features were chiseled, and while he certainly was good-looking, there was a discernible cruelty to his mouth.
He looked around the room (undressed everyone is more like it) until his eyes rested upon me. He shook his head and said, “Sorry, I don’t have anything for you today.”
I got up and approached him, smiled, and said, “Mr. Simpson—”
“Look, I don’t know what your gimmick is, but you’re a little long in the tooth for what I have open. Sorry, I’d like to help you out but—”
“Mr. Simpson, I am not here looking for a job as a stripper. My name is Jessica Fletcher, and I would like to speak with you about the death of your stepbrother, Jason Harris.”
His expression changed now. He narrowed his eyes and asked, “What are you, a wopsie?”
“I don’t think so, but if you would tell me what that means, I might reconsider.”
He shook his head. “A policewoman?”
I laughed. “Heavens, no, I am not a policewoman, although I have known some. I am a writer of murder mysteries. I was one of Marjorie Ainsworth’s good friends and was unfortunate enough to have been the one to discover her body. I have been in touch with your stepbrother’s companion, Maria Giacona.” I was pleased he gave me the time to get all that out.
“Look, Mrs. Fletcher, you can see I’m busy. I’ve got jobs to fill tonight and not enough birds to fill them.”
“I can see you’re busy, and I don’t wish to intrude for more than a few minutes. Couldn’t you find those few minutes for me?”
He said to the others in the room, “Are you all available tonight?”
There was a chorus of “Yes.”
He said to his receptionist, “Carmela, send these two to Joey over at Raymond’s. Then get on the phone and see who you can hustle for these other openings. Come on,” he said to me. “Five minutes, no more.”
His office was larger than I thought it would be. The walls were covered with the sort of photographs that adorned the windows downstairs, only some of them were much bigger, life-size. In one corner of the room was a small circular platform. Spotlights covered with blue and red gel were trained on it. I assumed that was where young women auditioned for him, to stretch the use of the word. The thing about the office that gained my immediate attention, however, was the overpowering combination of perfume, cologne, makeup, and incense that burned in a bowl on his desk.
“Okay,” he said, “what is it you want to talk to me about?”
“As I said, I wanted to discuss Jason Harris’s murder. I understand you were called in last night to identify the body.”
He sat back in a chair and looked at the ceiling. “Christ, that was something I didn’t need. I couldn’t believe what they’d done to him.”
“Yes, I know, I saw the body this morning.”
He sat up straight. “Why did you look at his body?”
“Because I was with Maria Giacona. I took her to the police station this morning. She was, as you can imagine, terribly upset.”
“Yes, I dare say she would be. They’d been lovers for a while. You met Jason?”
“As a matter of fact, I did, at Marjorie Ainsworth’s house the weekend she was killed. Actually, I was to meet him again at his flat. Maria wanted me to talk to him about an allegation that he’d played some part in helping Marjorie Ainsworth write her latest novel,
Gin and Daggers.”
His laugh was small and unpleasant. He lighted a cigarette, drew deeply on it, exhaled the blue smoke into the room—adding yet another odor—and said, “Mrs. Fletcher, Jason didn’t help her. He wrote the whole bloody thing.”
“I can’t believe that,” I said.
“Believe what you want, but it’s true. I told him he was daft to do it, that he ought to cut himself a better deal, get some kind of credit or at least get a piece of the action. He didn’t listen to me. She paid him a bloody pittance to lend his talent to that book, and look where it got him. He’s dead, nobody will ever know what a good writer he was, and her estate will make millions off his hard work. I think that stinks, Mrs. Fletcher, and I don’t mind telling you that.”
“If what you say is true, Mr. Simpson, I can understand your anger—and Maria’s too—but whether he did as much with the novel as you claim remains to be seen, at least for me. Under what circumstances did you and Jason become stepbrothers?”
“Simple. Jason’s father, an American, married my mother, a Brit.”
“And where are they?”
“Both dead, an automobile accident in the States.”
“No other family on either side?”
“I have cousins scattered about, but Jason had absolutely no one else. That’s why he carried a card indicating that if anything ever happened to him, I was to be called.”
“Of course. I’d already assumed that. Were you and Jason involved professionally, in a business sense?”
Simpson looked around his office and laughed. “Jason get involved in this business? No, he stayed far away. We kept our relationship purely social.”
“You were good friends, then, as well as stepbrothers.”
“Yes.”
I thought of Maria’s comment about them not liking each other.
“You don’t benefit from any success his writing might achieve, do you?”
“Hell, no. Why do you ask that?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I’m trying to find out as much as I can about Jason, about his life. Maria tells me that Jason used a number of names and incidents from his own life in
Gin and Daggers
as a way of proving his involvement with it. She says he made notations on the pages of the manuscript, but the manuscript seems to be missing. You wouldn’t have a copy of it, would you?”
Simpson shook his head. The door opened and his receptionist said, “I’ve got a couple more out here.”
“Yeah, one minute, don’t let them get away.” He said to me, “I’m afraid this is all the time I have, Mrs. Fletcher. It gets this way every afternoon. More clubs open up and need talent, and I make a living providing it.”
“Judging from the number of such establishments I’ve seen in Soho today like the one downstairs, you must be kept very busy. Are they ... I mean, do you only supply striptease artists?”
“We don’t call them that anymore. They’re exotic dancers.”
“Exotic. Of course. They certainly are.”
“I also book ethnic musical groups. If you ever need the best Greek or Arabic band in London, give me a call.”
“I will, although I don’t think I’ll be in the market for that in the near future.” I stood and extended my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Simpson. You’ve been very gracious.”
“No problem, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That if you want to do something worthwhile in this world, let it be known that my brother wrote
Gin and Daggers.”
“I’ll certainly think about that. Thank you again.”
As I crossed the waiting room, two girls who looked hardly older than teenagers giggled. I stopped, looked at them, and said with as much dignity as I could muster, “I have a gimmick.”
I decided to continue my leisurely stroll rather than return right away to the Savoy. Eventually I drifted into neighboring Mayfair, whose quiet elegance contrasted sharply with the more frenetic pace of Soho. I would have attempted to walk back to the Savoy, but I was running late for my drink with Seth and Morton. Besides, as sensible as my shoes were, my feet were beginning to feel the effects of the pavement.
“Well, Jessica, what kind of day did you have?” Seth asked as we sat in the Thames Foyer bar and sipped drinks.
“Absolutely lovely. I took the afternoon to be by myself and to walk around London. Do you know what was especially wonderful? No one recognized me, not a soul.”
Morton made a gagging sound.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“This isn’t a martini.”
I looked at Seth, and we both started to laugh. I should have warned Morton that when a martini is ordered in London, you generally get a glass of vermouth. The fact that he had specified a dry martini only meant that the vermouth poured over the ice cubes was of the dry variety. “You have to ask for a martini
cocktail,”
I said, feeling slightly superior at that knowledge. We motioned for a waiter and put in the new order.
“Tell me what you did and saw today,” I said to them.
“Morton wanted to see if we could get a tour of Scotland Yard, but I convinced him we ought to seek out a little more culture while in London. We spent the afternoon at the British Museum.”
“Isn’t it marvelous?” I said.
Morton, who obviously had not found an afternoon in the sprawling British Museum to be his cup of tea, shook his head and said, “You’ve seen one museum, you’ve seen them all, Jess.” He looked at Seth: “I wouldn’t mind seeing that famous wax museum they’ve got here in London.”
“Madame Tussaud’s on Marylebone Road,” I said. “I’ve been there. It’s interesting, but I wouldn’t put it high on my list of priorities.”
After discussing other possibilities for them to visit the next day, they asked what I was doing for dinner. I told them I was free. “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll dream up a place for dinner and make a reservation for seven. We’ll meet here in the lobby at six-thirty.” I had La Tante Claire in mind, a restaurant I’d heard so much about over the years but had never had the opportunity to visit. I also knew it was small and had probably been booked for weeks. I said to Morton as we walked from the bar, “Morton, you will have to change out of your uniform and put on a suit. You did bring a suit with you?”
“Of course I did, Jess, but like I told Seth, having me in uniform will keep us out of trouble on the streets, keep the pickpockets away.”
“What a ... splendid idea. See you at six-thirty.”
I called La Tante Claire. “My name is Jessica Fletcher,” I said, “and I was wondering whether you could accommodate three people this evening at seven.”
“Jessica Fletcher, the famous writer?” he asked in a French accent.
“Yes.”
“We keep one table open until six for important customers, Mrs. Fletcher. It is for you, of course.”
“Well, I ... that’s very nice of you. Thank you ... very much.”
Morton had changed into a nice brown suit, white shirt, and tie. Seth was his usual well-groomed self; he was always dressed properly, even to go to his drive-way in the morning to pick up the newspaper.
We climbed into a cab and told the driver to take us to La Tante Claire, on Royal Hospital Road. I was feeling very relaxed. Lucas had called as I was getting ready for dinner to admonish me for spending so much time away from the ISMW conference. I tried to explain that circumstances had changed, and that they would dictate, to some extent, how I spent the rest of my week. I sounded forthright and full of conviction, but I knew he was right. I promised that I would try to focus more on the conference in the days ahead.
As the cab pulled away from the curb and headed for the Strand, I noticed a large automobile, whose lights had been on, make a three-point U-turn and fall in behind us. It was a Cadillac, originally white but now battered and discolored. It had caught my attention because of its size; you seldom see automobiles like that on London streets. Then, as we happily talked about the gastronomic treat awaiting us, I completely forgot about it.