Confess, Fletch

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “I guess so.”

  “Then, indeed, you must be a most relentless writer-on-the-arts. I understand you used the Police Business phone to report the heinous deed rather than Police Emergency.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why not? Nothing could be done at the moment. The girl was clearly dead. I’d rather leave the Emergency line clear for someone who needed the police immediately, to stop a crime in progress, or get someone to a hospital.”

  “Mister Fletcher, people with stutters and stammers and high breathlessness call the Police Emergency number to report a cat in a tree. Did you look up the Police Business number in a book?”

  “The operator gave it to me.”

  “I see. Were you ever a policeman yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Just wondering. Something about your sophistication regarding bodies in the parlour. The conciseness of your answers. After a murder, usually it’s only the policeman who want to get to bed. Where was I?”

  “I have no idea,” Fletch said. “In the nineteenth century?”

  “No. I’m not in the nineteenth century, Mister Fletcher. I’m in Boston, and I’m wondering what you’re doing here.”

  “I’m here to do research. I want to try a biography of the Western artist, Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior. He was born and brought up here in Boston, you know, Inspector.”

  “I do know that.”

  “The Tharp family papers are here. The Boston Museum has a great many of his works.”

  “Have you ever been in Boston before?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anyone here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let’s go over your arrival in Boston again, Mister Fletcher. It makes such a marvellous story. This time, tell me the approximate times of everything. Again, I remind you that Grover will take it all down, and we’re not supposed to correct him later, although I always do. Now: when did you land in Boston?”

  “I was in the airport waiting for my luggage at three-forty. I set my watch by the airport clock.”

  “What airlines? What flight number?”

  “Trans World. I don’t know the flight number. I went through customs. I got a taxi and came here. I got here about five-thirty.”

  “I understand about going through customs, but the airport is only ten minutes from here.”

  “You’re asking me? I believe Traffic Control is also considered Police Business.”

  The representative of Boston Police said, “Ach, well, so, of course it was five o’clock. Where in particular did you get stuck?”

  “In some crazy tunnel with a dripping roof and chirruping fans.”

  “Ah, yes, the Callaban. I’ve sat in there myself. But at five o’clock the traffic in there usually gets stuck going north, not south.”

  “I shaved and showered and changed my clothes. I unpacked. I left here I would guess a little after six-thirty. I took a taxi to the restaurant.”

  “Which restaurant?”

  “The Café Budapest.”

  “Now, that’s interesting. How did you know enough to go to such a fine restaurant your first night in town?”

  “The man sitting next to me on the plane mentioned it.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “He never mentioned it. We didn’t talk much. Just while we were having lunch. I think he said he was some kind of an engineer. From someplace I think called Wesley Hills.”

  “Wellesley Hills. In Boston we spell everything the long way, too. Did you have the cherry soup?”

  “At the Budapest? Yes.”

  “I hear it’s a great privilege, for those who can afford it.”

  “I tried to walk home. It had seemed like a short ride in the taxi. I left the restaurant shortly after eight and got here, I would say, just before nine-thirty. In the meantime, I got thoroughly lost.”

  “Where? I mean, where did you get lost?”

  Fletch looked around the room before answering. “If I knew that, would I have been lost?”

  “Answer the question, please. Describe to me where you went.”

  “God. A Citgo sign. A huge, gorgeous Citgo sign. Remarkable piece of art.”

  “There, now, you see, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? You turned left rather than right. That is, you went west rather than east. You went into Kenmore Square. What did you do then?”

  “I asked a girl for Beacon Street, and it was right there. I walked along it until I came to 152. It was a long walk.”

  “Yes. That was a long walk. Especially after a Hungarian dinner. So you came into the apartment, and went into the living room. Why did you go into the living room?”

  “To turn off the lights.”

  “So you must have gone into the living room the first time you were in the apartment and turned on the lights.”

  “Sure. I looked around the apartment. I don’t remember whether I left the lights on in the living room or not.”

  “Undoubtedly you did. Anyone as likely a murderer as you are is apt to do anything. Now, why were you in Rome?”

  “I live there. Actually, I have a villa in Gagna, on the Italian Riviera.”

  “Then why didn’t you fly from Genoa, or Cannes?”

  “I was in Rome anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Andy has an apartment there.”

  “Andy-the-girl. You’ve been living with Andy-the-girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long.”

  “A couple of months.”

  “And you met with Bartholomew Connors, Esquire, in Rome?”

  “Who? Oh, no. I don’t know Connors.”

  “You said this is his apartment.”

  “It is.”

  “Then how are you in it, if you don’t know Mister Connors?”

  “Homeswap. It’s an international organization. I think their headquarters is in London. Connors takes my villa in Cagna for three months; I use his apartment in Boston. Cuts down on the use of money.”

  “You’ve never met?”

  “We’ve never even corresponded. Everything, even the exchange of keys, was arranged through London.”

  “Well, I’m sure I’ll catch up again with this world, one day. Don’t write that down, Grover. So, Mister Fletcher, you say you don’t know Bartholomew Connors at all, and you don’t know Ruth Fryer either?”

  “Who is she?”

  “You answered that question so perfectly I’m beginning to believe I’m talking to myself. Mister Fletcher, Ruth Fryer is the young lady they have just taken out of your living room.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh’, he says, Grover.”

  “Inspector, I believe I have never seen that young lady before in my life.”

  “Taking your story as the word from John—that’s Saint John, Grover—when you discovered the body, didn’t you wonder where the young lady’s clothes were? Or are you so used to seeing gorgeous girls naked on the Riviera you think they all come that way?”

  “No,” Fletch said. “I did not wonder where her clothes were.”

  “You came in here and looked at a painting, instead.”

  “Inspector, you’ve got to understand there was a lot to wonder about at that moment. I was in a state of shock. I didn’t know where the girl came from. Why should I wonder where her clothes went to?”

  “They were in your bedroom, Mister Fletcher. With the bodice torn.”

  Fletcher ran his eyes along a shelf of books.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the word ‘bodice’ spoken before. Of course, I’ve read it—in nineteenth-century English novels.”

  “Would you like to hear my version of what happened here tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Let me run through it, anyway. I can still get home in time for two o’clock feeding. You arrived at the airport, having left your true love in Rome, but also after having been confined to her company for two months, living in her apart
ment, the last few days of which have been sad days, seeing her to her father’s funeral.”

  “Sort-of funeral.”

  “You escaped the dearly beloved with divine celerity, Mister Fletcher. That’s a nice alignment of words, Grover. Have you got them all?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “In their proper order?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “You came here and introduced yourself to this huge, impressive apartment. Your sense of freedom was joined by a sense of loneliness, which is a potently dangerous combination in the loins of any healthy young man. You shave and you shower, spruce yourself up, never thinking ill of yourself for a minute. Are you with my version of the story so far?”

  “I can’t wait to see how it comes out.”

  “You take yourself out into the drizzle. Perhaps you do the obvious and stop in at the first singles bar you come to. You put forth your noticeable charm to the most attractive girl there, possibly a little under the drizzle from gin—by the way, Grover, we’ll want to know what’s in that girl’s stomach—entice her back here, to your bedroom, where she resists you, for some reason of her own. She promised mother, or had forgotten to take her pills, or whatever it is young ladies say these days when they change their minds. You tear her clothes off her in the bedroom. Thoroughly frightened, she runs down the corridor to the living room. You catch up to her. She continues to resist you. Perhaps she is screaming, and you don’t know how thick the walls are. You’re in a new place. You left your fiancée this morning in Rome. Here’s the classic case of adults in a room, and one of them isn’t consenting. In frustration, in anger, in fear, in passionate rage, you pick up something or other, and knock her over the head. To subdue her—get her to stop screaming. Probably even you were surprised when she crumpled and sank to your feet.”

  Flynn rubbed one green eye with the palm of his huge hand.

  “Now, Mister Fletcher, why isn’t that the obvious truth?”

  “Inspector? Do you think it is the truth?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  He pressed the palms of both hands against his eyes.

  “At least not at the moment,” he said. “If you’d been drinking—yes, I’d believe it in a minute. If you were less attractive, I’d believe it. What else do these girls hang around for, if it’s not the Peter Fletchers of the world? If you were less self-possessed, I’d believe it. It’s my guess it would take less cool to get rid of a resisting girl than go through an initial police questioning for murder. Never can tell, though—we all have our moments. If you hadn’t called the Police Business phone, I’d be quicker to believe in your being in an impassioned, uncontrollable state. No. I don’t believe it, either.”

  Grover said, “You mean, we’re not arresting him, Inspector?”

  “No, Grover.” Flynn stood up. “My instinct is against it.”

  “Sir!”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Grover, but you must remember I haven’t the benefit of your splendid training. I’m sure any experienced policeman would put Mister Fletcher behind bars faster than a babe can fall asleep. It’s times like these, Grover, that inexperience counts.”

  “Inspector Flynn….”

  “Tush, tush. If the man’s guilty, and he most likely is, there’ll be more evidence of it. If I hadn’t seen the suitcases in the hall myself, I’d think the whole thing was a pack of lies. I suspect it is, you know. I’ve never met a writer-on-the-arts before, but I’ve not considered them such a randy subspecies before, either.”

  Fletch said, “I expect you’re going to tell me not to leave town.”

  “I’m not even going to say that. In fact, Mister Fletcher, I’d find it very interesting if you did leave town.”

  “I’ll send you a postcard.”

  Flynn looked at his watch.

  “Well, now, if Grover drives me home, I’ll be just in time for my cup of camomile with my Elizabeth and my suckling.”

  “I will, Inspector.” Grover opened the door to the empty apartment. “I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m sure you do, Grover. I’m sure you do.”

  IV

  E X P E C T I N G the normal delays in completing a transatlantic telephone call, as well as the normal difficulty of getting Angela de Grassi on the phone any time of the day or night, Fletch made his effort while remaining in bed in the morning.

  He was greatly surprised when the call went through immediately, and Angela answered on what appeared to be the first ring.

  “Andy? Good noon.”

  “Fletch? Are you in America?”

  “Arrived safely. Even you can fly to Boston and arrive in one piece.”

  “Oh, I’d love to.”

  “Are you eating lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you having?”

  “Cold asparagus with mayonnaise, a few strawberries. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No. I’m still in bed.”

  “That’s nice. Is it a nice bed?”

  “Sort of big for one person.”

  “Aren’t they all?”

  “No. This bed kept me awake all night, calling out ‘Andy! Andy! Where are you? We need you….’”

  “My bed asked for you, too. Is the weather good there?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see it through the fog. How goes the battle?”

  “Not so good. I spent all day with the lawyers and the commissioner of this and the commissioner of that. We’re never going to get this straightened out. All the legal officials tell us he’s dead, we must consider him dead, adjust to it and go live our own lives. Which is why we had the funeral service. But the lawyers insist everything must be left up in the air until we know more. Remember Mister Rosselli? He was at Poppa’s funeral Monday. Poppa’s lawyer. Chief mourner. Very big with his handkerchief. A day later, yesterday, he’s putting his hands in the air saying there’s nothing they can do until more is known.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep trying, I guess. Everyone’s being very sympathetic.”

  “But nothing’s getting done.”

  “I’ve always heard lawyers will fiddle around forever, milking an estate—is that the expression?—like a cow, until they have grabbed everything in fees and nothing is left. Even a little estate like my father’s.”

  “Sometimes it happens.”

  “And Sylvia, of course, darling stepmother Sylvia, is acting her usual bitch self. She announces about every ten minutes that she is the Countess de Grassi. Every doorman in Rome must know she is the Countess de Grassi by now. I get to tag along like a poor waif.”

  “Why don’t you forget about it all and come over here?”

  “That’s the point, Fletch. Everyone tells us we must adjust, accept the facts, and go back to living our own lives. But we can’t do that without some kind of income from the estate. They’ve turned everything off.”

  “I don’t see that it matters. You and I get married, and it doesn’t matter how many years it takes to settle the estate. I mean, who cares?”

  “I care. Listen, Fletch, I don’t care how long it takes to settle the estate. I don’t care about the rotten old house or the income. All I want is the will read. I want to know to whom the bulk of the estate goes—my father’s third wife, or my father’s only daughter. That matters to me.”

  “Why?”

  “If it goes to Sylvia, fine. That’s my father’s prerogative. I would never contest it. So I’d lose my family’s home. Okay, I can walk away from that. Never again would I think of the old servants as my responsibility. Remember, Fletch, Ria and Pep brought me up. If most of the estate goes to me, they’re my responsibilities. Right now I can do nothing about them. Not even answer the questions in their eyes. They are my responsibility. Sylvia can take her precious countess-ship and walk into the sea with it.”

  “Andy, Andy, this is an emotional matter. Between two women.”

  “You bet it’s an emotional matter. The whole situatio
n is bizarre enough without everything being left up in the air this way. I don’t care if the will is never executed, is that how you say? All I want to know is what the will says.”

  “I’m sort of surprised you can’t get the substance of the will somehow out of Rosselli.”

  “This man! He dandled me on his knee when I was a baby. Now he will tell me nothing!”

  “He’s still dandling you on his knee.”

  “And Sylvia doesn’t leave me alone for a moment. When she’s not two paces in front of me announcing to the world she is the Countess de Grassi, she is two paces behind me trying to find out what I do. Every minute she asks, ‘Where did Fletcher go? Why did he go there? What is he doing in Boston?’”

  “What have you told her?”

  “I said you went to Boston on personal business. Something about your family.”

  “Look, Andy. Don’t forget why I am in Boston.”

  “And you’d better find them, Fletch. It’s becoming very important. Even if Sylvia inherits most of the estate, she will never take care of the responsibilities. What’s happened so far?”

  “Horan, the man from the gallery, called last night. Almost the minute I arrived.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He never heard of such a painting. I’m meeting him this morning.”

  “He says he never heard of the Picasso?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “How did he sound to you?”

  “What can I say? He sounded authentic.”

  “This is crazy, Fletch. At least you don’t have Sylvia, the Countess de Grassi, to contend with.”

  “Listen, Andy, would you do me a favour?”

  “Anything, Fletch of my heart.”

  “Will you go up to Cagna?”

  “Now?”

  “This guy, Bart Connors, who took the villa. One of us ought to have a look at him.”

  “Why? Isn’t the apartment all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just that something has come up which makes me sort of curious about him.”

  “I’m supposed to drive all the way up to Cagna because you’re curious about someone?”

  “I flew all the way to Boston because you’re curious about someone.”

  “Fletch, if I leave Rome, leave Rosselli and the other old baboons to Sylvia….”