Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher Page A

makeup she wore down her cheeks. Her hair had the look of having had too many fingers run through it too many times.
    “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