Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher Page B

for support. I didn’t say anything to Maria as I left, did not repeat my suggestion that she call me at the Savoy. I descended the stairs, slowly at first, picking up speed as I approached the ground floor. I stepped outside and took a series of deep breaths. It had been cool in London since my arrival, perfect early September weather. Now the humidity had begun to increase and I felt choked by it. A thick fog had developed in the short time I was in Jason’s flat.
    I walked with haste toward the Chinese restaurant on the corner, my heightened awareness causing the sound of my heels on the pavement to be louder than was the fact. I looked in the window and saw a few young people seated at two small tables. A Chinese man and woman were behind a counter. I wanted a cab. I looked for a telephone in the restaurant, but saw none. I took in the four corners of the intersection. No familiar red British phone booth on any of them.
    I started walking in the direction of Liverpool Street Station. Surely there would be taxis waiting there. The closer I got, the more alone I felt, even though there were people on the street, small groups, mostly young, the majority obviously not native-born. I forced myself to slow down, and to respond more realistically to my surroundings. There was nothing threatening about the people I passed. For the most part, they looked like everyday folks going about their business.
    I felt better after a couple more blocks and even considered stopping into one of the small, intimate restaurants for something to eat. No, I decided, I would wait until I got back to my hotel.
    I paused at a comer. To my right, a block away, was what appeared to be a main thoroughfare. I started in its direction, then realized that the block I had to travel was particularly dark. It occurred to me for a fleeting moment that I should return to the better lighted comer from which I’d come, but the allure of the traffic and lights on the larger street was too compelling.
    I reached a point approximately halfway along the street when I became aware of the presence of something—or someone—behind a tall pile of packing crates to my right. I froze; the presence was confirmed by the movement of a ten-foot shadow on the wall, followed by the person who’d cast it. He was young, and very punk. A wide steak of vivid pink ran through the middle of his Mohawk-styled blond hair from front to back. His acne was terminal. Three long silver earrings dangled from his left ear, and he was dressed in a black leather jacket with silver studs. He said in a distinct Cockney accent, “ ’Ere we go, give it to me now.” He stepped directly in front of me and grabbed the lapel of my raincoat. My bag hung on my right shoulder. I tried to yank free, but his other hand fastened on the strap of the bag and spun me around. I fell heavily to my knees, pain immediately radiating to my brain. Still, I continued to hold on to my handbag and started yelling.
    He cursed and gave a final tug on the strap, pulling it from my shoulder.
    “Stop!” I shouted as he took off on the run. I saw him disappear around the comer and realized it was futile to pursue him. Actually, it was foolish of me to have fought him at all. I’d established a habit years ago of keeping anything of value like credit cards, cash, and airline tickets in a small leather pouch around my waist whenever I was in a big city. My handbag contained nothing but cosmetics, my small flashlight, and two ten-pound notes.
    I stood and gently touched my kneecaps. The stockings on both were torn, and one knee was bleeding. I stumbled to the larger street, where two black London cabs waited at a corner. I opened the door of the first, said, “Savoy Hotel, please,” and collapsed on the backseat.
    “You all right, mum?” the young driver asked.
    “Yes ... no, I’m not. I’ve just been mugged.”
    “I’ll get a bobby,” he said.
    “No, please, just take me to the hotel. I’ll notify the