Fletch waited for her breathing to become more regular.
“So you think he finally killed one of them.”
“Of course, he did. The bastard.”
She flat-heeled over to the serving table and poured herself a slug of straight gin and poured it down her throat.
“It wasn’t any girl he was killing. Any Ruthie what’s-her-name. It was Lucy. He was killing Lucy.”
For a moment, Fletch sat, saying nothing.
Mignon, sitting on the divan, was looking anxiously at her mistress.
Finally, Fletch said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No.” She brushed hair back from her forehead. “I think I’ll take a bath and go to bed.”
“No supper?”
“I’m too tired.”
Fletch dropped her key to Bart’s apartment on the coffee table.
“We can get a sandwich somewhere. It’s early yet. What about this pub you’ve mentioned? Up the street.”
“Really,” she said. “I’m much too tired. The police were here this morning. About Bart.”
“I understand.” Standing up, he said, “Someday I’d like to take Mignon for a nice long walk.”
“She’d love that.”
Joan Winslow showed him to the door. Her face looked dreadful.
“Good night.”
When he got to his own door he realized that supposedly he didn’t have the key.
Her door closed.
He shrugged, took his own key out of his pocket, and let himself in.
XX
F L E T C H was still wondering about the source of his own supper, trying to remember the name of the pub up the street, when his doorbell rang.
“Oh, my God.”
The Countess de Grassi was standing among her luggage on the landing.
A head with a taxi driver’s hat on it was descending down the elevator shaft.
“Eighteen, twenty miles you say! It’s no eighteen, twenty miles.”
“I said it wasn’t.”
“All the time you lie, Flesh.” She tried, but not very hard, to pick up one of her suitcases, the biggest. “A nice man let me in downstairs.”
“Sylvia, what do you think you’re doing?”
Sylvia could turn an elevator landing into a stage.
“You say Ritz too expensive for me.” Helplessness was expressed by widened eyes, arms thrown wide—even her cleavage seemed wider. “You right. They present me bill.”
“Did you pay it?”
“Of course I pay it. You think the Countess de Grassi some sort of crook? Everybody rob the Countess de Grassi. The Countess de Grassi rob no one!”
Fletch remained in the centre of the doorway.
“But why did you come here?”
“Why do I come here? What you think? Why should Countess de Grassi stay in too-expensive hotel when her son-in-law live around corner in magnificent apartment?”
“I’m not your son-in-law. Ye gods.”
“You marry Andy, you become my son-in-law. You become member de Grassi family. I, Countess de Grassi!”
“I’ve heard.” He faltered back a step. “What the hell is this? Son-in-step-law? Step-son-in-law? Son-in-law-step?”
“No! No English double-talk in American, please.”
“Me? Wouldn’t think of it.”
She entered through the small space his body left in the doorway.
He closed the door on her luggage.
“Very nice.” Her quick glance through the living room door was followed by a quick glance through the den door. “Okay enough. Very nice.”
“Sylvia, there are other hotels.”
“Not for the Countess de Grassi. Always number one place. What would poor, dead Menti say if Countess de Grassi stay in fleabag?”
“I think he’d probably say, ‘Thank God. I left a lousy estate.’”
“He left no lousy estate. He left magnificent estate. My paintings!”
“There are more middle-class hotels, Sylvia.”
“Middle-class? You crazy in the head, you bull-shitting son of a bitch. The Countess de Grassi is not middle-class.”
“I see.”
She flounced the white gloves in her hands, substituting the action for removing them. They had never been on. It was doubtful they would fit over her rather impressive diamond ring.
“Now. Where my room?”
“Sylvia, you wouldn’t be here just to keep an eye on me, would you?”
“Eye on you? Devil eye on you!”
Her eyes spat into his.
“Because, honestly, I’m not doing anything about your paintings. I know nothing about your paintings.” Fletch thought a shout would be worth trying. “I’m here researching a book about an American artist, and you’d be in my way!”
“You bet your cock I’ll be in your way!” One should never try to outshout a Brazilian who had been married to both a Frenchman and an Italian. And who was not middle-class. “You no make one move without me! I at the hotel! I might as well be in Rome! In Livorno! I’m not here to buy you a drink and go away again! I’m here to catch my paintings!”
“Sylvia, I know nothing about your paintings.”
“Now. Where is my room? Servants can bring in the luggage.”
“Sylvia, there are no servants.”
“No servants! Always you lie. Who answered your phone the other day? The woman who puts her eyelashes in the refrigerator!”
“Oh, boy.”
The Countess de Grassi marched down the corridor to the bedrooms, snapping on lights as she went.
While Fletch was still in the reception hall, the telephone rang.
He answered it in the den.
“Hello, Mister Fletcher?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Mister Horan, of the Horan Gallery.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Sorry to bother you on a Friday night, especially after seven, but I thought you’d be pleased to hear my good news.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’ve succeeded in locating the painting you were interested in, Picasso’s ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle’.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I’ve talked with the present owner. Like the rest of us, I guess, he’s suffering somewhat from a shortage of cash, and I think he was rather pleased that someone has come forward at this time with an interest in buying it. I suggested to him that as you had sought the painting out, he might get a slightly higher price than if he were simply to offer it on the market himself now or in the near future.”
“I hope you didn’t make his mouth water too much.”
“No, no. Simply a negotiating device. But of course a seller does do better when a negotiation is initiated by the buyer. You do understand.”
“Of course.”
“He does slightly better. If, after we see the painting, you are still interested in its purchase, I will do my best to get it for you at the most reasonable price.”
“Tell me, Mister Horan, where is the painting?” There was a hesitation on the phone. “Who is its present owner?”
“Well, I don’t usually like to answer that question. I’m a private dealer.”
Fletch said nothing.
Horan said, “I guess there’s no reason why I shouldn’t answer you, in this instance. The painting is owned by a man named Cooney. In Dallas, Texas.”
“Texas. Texas is still big in the art market, eh?”
“There are some superb private collections in Texas. Mister Cooney has not been an active collector, to my knowledge, but he does have this piece and some others I know of. The Barclough Bank in Nassau has given you a credit reference more than adequate. Therefore, I have asked Mister Cooney to fly the painting up for our inspection. It should be here by morning.”
“The painting is coming here?”
“It should already be on its way. I tried to get you by phone this afternoon. Truth is, I had to spend considerable time advising Mister Cooney on the work’s proper c
rating and insurance.”
“I’m very surprised the picture is coming here.”
“Well, I want to see it myself. If it’s authentic I might want to purchase it myself, or find another purchaser for it, should you decide not to purchase it. Once an owner gets over what might be called a psychological hump and makes the basic decision that he might consider selling an object of art, if the price is right—as our Mister Cooney did this afternoon after lunch in Dallas—then a dealer should go forward with him and arrange a sale.”
“You did all this by telephone?”
“Oh, yes. I’m not unknown in Texas.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. What else can you tell me about Mister Cooney?”
“Not much. I was put on to him by a curator, friend of mine, at the Dallas Museum. My source knew Cooney owned a Picasso of your general description, but had never seen it. I called Mister Cooney last night and asked him bluntly if he owned a Picasso entitled ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle’, an impossible title. I gather he dropped his bourbon bottle. He answered in the affirmative. I said I might have a purchaser for it. He thought about it overnight. I believe he’s in ranching. Has something like eight children.”
“That’s why he needs some cash, right?”
“In any case, Mister Fletcher, albeit tomorrow is Saturday, I believe if you came here—is nine-thirty too early?—we could look at the painting together and perhaps make Mister Cooney an offer before the bourbon begins to flow again.”
“Yes. That would be fine. You say the painting is coming by air tonight?”
“Yes. If all goes well. If it’s not here in the morning, I’ll give you a ring. But I’m sure it will be here.”
Fletch said, “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sylvia stood in the doorway to the den.
“You’ll see who in the morning?”
At least she had not been listening on the extension.
“I have to see a man about a horse.”
“A Degas horse?”
“No, Sylvia. A pinto.”
“What is this, pinto horse. A painted horse, right?”
Now in a more kittenish manner, she sat in one of the leather chairs.
“What about my dinner?” she said.
“What about it?”
“No servants. Don’t you expect me to eat, Flesh? I am your guest!”
“Right,” Fletch said. “You’ve never tasted my cooking, have you?”
“You cook?”
“Like a dream.” He kissed the tips of his fingers and exploded them before his face. “Um! Better than the Ritz! Let’s see.” Thoughtfully, he paced the small room. “To begin with, a potage au cresson, yes? Timbales de foies de volaille. Good! Homard à l’americaine! Then, of course, a fricassée de poulet à l’indienne, with pois frais en braisage. What could be better! Eh? For dessert, charlotte Chantilly, aux framboises! Splendid!” He considered her anxiously. “Would that be all right, do you think? Countess?”
“It sounds all right.”
“Of course, it will take me some time.”
“I’m used to eating late. I want to see these things you cook.”
“I’d offer you a drink, but of course, I never would before such a dinner.”
“Of course not. I’ll take nothing to drink.”
“You sit right there. I’ll get busy in the kitchen.”
Briskly, Fletch crossed the reception hall and went through the swing door to the kitchen.
He also went through the kitchen, out of its back door, and down the stairs to the alley.
He ran to the garage on River Street.
Not taking time to figure a new route to 60 Newbury Street, he drove down Beacon Street, past his own apartment. The two plainclothesmen in the parked car across from 152 Beacon Street looked like bags of laundry. But they had their eyes firmly on the front door of the apartment house. Fletch scratched his left temple while passing them.
He turned left on Arlington Street and right on Newbury. Double parking outside a pharmacy, he ran in and ordered two sandwiches and some soft drinks to go. He also ordered two cups of coffee.
There was a place to park diagonally across the street from the Horan Gallery.
He turned off his lights and engine and settled down to wait.
It was then he realized he would need more than his suit jacket. He was cold.
Within twenty minutes the garage doors at 60 Newbury Street opened. Fletch saw the grille of a Rolls-Royce with its headlights on.
The sixty-year-old houseman, or gallery assistant or whatever he was, closed the doors after the Rolls pulled out.
There was only one way the Rolls could go on Newbury Street, it being a one-way west, and the car went west.
In the van Fletch followed Horan in the Rolls.
They went by several cross-streets. They went west to the end of Newbury Street.
After stopping at a red light, they crossed Massachusetts Avenue and dipped down a ramp on to the Massachusetts Turnpike Extension. And kept going west.
The Rolls proceeded at a stately fifty-five miles per hour. It went through a toll booth, making its proper genuflection to the exact change machine, and continued westward.
It curved right before the second toll booth, “WESTON”, Fletch read, “128 NORTH/SOUTH”.
At the end of the off-ramp, there was another toll booth.
In his own lane, Fletch caught up to Horan. He waited a moment before throwing change out of the window, as if he were having trouble finding the exact change.
The Rolls preceded him on to the Weston Road.
After stopping at a light, the two vehicles veered right. The road from there curved and climbed gently, past woods, a golf course, well-spaced antique farmhouses, and more contemporary estate houses.
Fletch dared not let the Rolls’ tail-lights get more than one hundred and fifty metres ahead of him.
Even that was almost too much, on that road.
After a curve the tail-lights were no longer ahead of him. Slowing imperceptibly, Fletch saw a car going through woods down a driveway to his left. The headlights were high and round, the shape of the car boxy, the tail-lights huge. It had to be the Rolls.
Fletch drove around the next curve and pulled over. He left his parking lights on.
He ran along the soft shoulder of the road back to the driveway he thought Horan had taken. The mailbox read MILLER.
Lights in a house further down to his left went on.
The mailbox on that driveway read HORAN.
Stepping around in the dark, he explored the area across from the driveway.
There was a break in the stone wall, with a rusty chain across it. The wall was only two metres from the road.
Fletch returned to his truck and turned it around.
Before reversing, to put the back bumper of his truck against the chain, he turned out its headlights.
The chain snapped easily.
Crunching through brush, Fletch backed up, turned the wheel, and then drove forward to the wall.
Through a light screen of brush in front of him, he had a perfect view of the Horan driveway.
In the silent dark, he had one sandwich and a cup of coffee.
He watched the lights go out in the Horan house. At a quarter to twelve all the lights were out in the neighbours’ house.
At one-thirty, Fletch walked up the shoulder of Horan’s gravel driveway. Moonlight came and went through the clouds.
After a patch of woods, a lawn appeared to the left, in front of the house. It had two levels. The upper level apparently was used as a patio. Under a green striped awning, white, wrought-iron furniture remained outdoors in October.
The house was a rather imposing, three-storied structure. Its slate roof reflected moonlight.
Going around the right of the house, Fletch had to cross a patch of gravel. He took off his shoes to do so.
A garage was connected to the house.
Around the garage ran a dirt
car track, to an unused, three-sided tractor shed. The extensive gardens at the back of the house had fallen into decay.
He examined the windows at the back of the house. All, including the windows in the kitchen door, were wired with a burglar alarm system.
Woods came up to the far side of the house.
Fletch returned to his van and had his second sandwich and the cold coffee.
By three-thirty he was cold enough to look in the back of the van for something to wrap around himself, although he was sure there was nothing there.
In fact, the painters had left a long piece of tarpaulin. The splattered paint on it was dry to the touch.
Returning to the driver’s seat, he wrapped the tarpaulin around him.
He was getting comfortably warm when dawn arrived.
Almost immediately, rain sounded against the truck’s roof. It obscured vision through the windshield.
Turning on the ignition, but not the engine. Fletch sent the wipers over the windshield every few minutes.
At a quarter past eight, he saw the grille of the Rolls-Royce in the driveway opposite.
It had been Fletch’s plan to pull the truck further back into the woods if he had forewarning of Horan’s departure. He had had none.
He hoped the combination of the rain and the screen of brush in front of him protected him somewhat from being seen.
The Rolls did not stop. It turned right, without hesitation, back the way it had come the night before.
After Horan went around the curve, Fletch extricated the truck from the bushes and followed him.
He followed him back to 60 Newbury Street.
Fletch was parked—halfway down the block—before the manservant opened the garage in response to Horan’s horn. The Rolls backed across the sidewalk into the garage.
It was ten minutes to nine, Saturday morning.
At nine-fifteen, Fletch drove to the pharmacy. There he bought a razor, a blade, and a can of shaving foam. He also bought a cup of tea to go.
In the truck he loosened his collar, threw out the tea bag, and, using the tarpaulin, as well as the razor, the blade, the shaving foam, and the tea, shaved himself.
At nine-thirty he rang the doorbell of the Horan Gallery.
XXI
T H E Picasso was on the easel in Horan’s office.
“Ah, good morning, Mister Fletcher. Wet morning.”
Confess, Fletch Page 10