Free Fan Mail by Peter Robinson Page A

Huntsville, a modicum of fame, the esteem of his peers—but it had been rather boring of late. Here was an opportunity for adventure of a kind. Besides, he might get a story idea out of the meeting. Why not go and see?
    He finished his drink and smoothed the letter on his knee. He had to smile at that last bit. No doubt the man would recognize him from his book-­jacket photo, but it was an old one and had been retouched in the first place. His cheeks had filled out a bit since then and his thinning hair had acquired a sprinkling of grey. Still, he thought, he was a handsome man for fifty: handsome, clever and successful.
    Smiling, he picked up both letter and envelope and went back to the kitchen in search of matches. There must be no evidence.
    â€¢
    O VER THE NEXT few days Quilley hardly gave a thought to the mysterious letter. As usual in summer, he divided his time between writing in Toronto, where he found the city worked as a stimulus, and weekends at the cottage. There he walked in the woods, chatted to locals in the lodge, swam in the clear lake and idled around getting a tan. Evenings, he would open a bottle of Chardonnay, reread P. G. Wodehouse and listen to Bach. It was an ideal life: quiet, solitary, independent.
    When Wednesday came, though, he drove downtown, parked in the multi-­story at Cumberland and Avenue Road, then walked to the Park Plaza. It was another hot day. The tourists were out in force across Bloor Street by the Royal Ontario Museum, many of them Americans from Buffalo, Rochester or Detroit: the men in loudchecked shirts photographing everything in sight, their wives in tight shorts looking tired and thirsty.
    Quilley took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor and wandered through the bar, an old-­world place with deep armchairs and framed reproductions of old Colonial scenes on the walls. It was busier than usual, and even though the windows were open, the smoke bothered him. He walked out onto the roof lounge and scanned the faces. Within moments he noticed someone looking his way. The man paused for just a split second, perhaps to translate the dust-­jacket photo into reality, then beckoned Quilley over with raised eyebrows and a twitch of the head.
    The man rose to shake hands, then sat down again, glancing around to make sure nobody had paid the two of them undue attention. He was short and thin, with sandy hair and a pale grey complexion, as if he had just come out of hospital. He wore wire-­rimmed glasses and had a habit of rolling his tongue around in his mouth when he wasn’t talking.
    â€œFirst of all, Mr. Quilley,” the man said, raising his glass, “may I say how honored I am to meet you.” He spoke with a pronounced English accent.
    Quilley inclined his head. “I’m flattered, Mr. . . . er . . . ?”
    â€œPeplow, Frank Peplow.”
    â€œYes . . . Mr. Peplow. But I must admit I’m puzzled by your letter.”
    A waiter in a burgundy jacket came over to take Quilley’s order. He asked for an Amstel.
    Peplow paused until the waiter was out of earshot. “Puzzled?”
    â€œWhat I mean is,” Quilley went on, struggling for the right words, “whether you were serious or not, whether you really do want to—­”
    Peplow leaned forward. Behind the lenses, his pale blue eyes looked sane enough. “I assure you, Mr. Quilley, that I was, that I am entirely serious. That woman is ruining my life and I can’t allow it to go on any longer.”
    Speaking about her brought little spots of red to his cheeks. Quilley held his hand up. “All right, I believe you. I suppose you realize I should have gone to the police?”
    â€œBut you didn’t.”
    â€œI could have. They might be here, watching us.”
    Peplow shook his head. “Mr. Quilley, if you won’t help, I’d even welcome prison. Don’t think I haven’t realized that I might get caught,