Confess, Fletch
Page 14
“I haven’t started yet. I’ve had distractions.”
“‘Distractions!’ You find the paintings.” He could feel breath from each nostril going against his side. “Where are the paintings?”
He was awake. And he was beginning to want it.
He said nothing.
She placed the side of her knee over his crotch and moved it.
She said, “Where are the paintings? Eh, Flesh?”
“You’re a hell of a negotiator, Sylvia.”
“You will help me, Flesh. Won’t you?”
“You help me first.”
“America!” Fletch shouted.
It was at the worst possible moment that the telephone rang.
It was a cable. From Andy. Angela de Grassi.
“ARRIVING BOSTON SUNDAY SIX-THIRTY P.M. TWA FLIGHT 5.40. IS SYLVIA WITH YOU. MUCH LOVE.—ANDY.”
Fletch said, “Oh, shit.”
She never could keep herself to ten words or less.
He said, “Oh, Christ.”
He said, “What, in hell, am I doing?”
Sylvia, “Come on, Flesh.”
He said, “All right.”
It was a somewhat better moment the next time the telephone rang.
Fletch said, “Hello?”
“Are you drunk?”
It was Jack Saunders. Fletch could hear the city room clatter behind him.
“No.”
“Were you asleep?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“I’ve got it. Are you about through?”
“Buzz off, will you, Jack?”
“Wait a minute, Fletch. I’m stuck.”
“So am I.”
“Really stuck. Will you listen a minute?”
“No.”
“Fires are breaking out all over Charlestown. A torch is at work. I haven’t got the rewrite man I need.”
“So?”
“One is drunk and ready for the tank. The other one is pregnant and just left for the hospital to have a baby. Nothing I can do about it. I can’t find the day guy. His wife says he’s at a ball-game somewhere. I’m three short on the desk, two with vacations and one with the ‘flu. The guy I’ve got on rewrite now is a kid; he’s not good enough for a big story like this.”
“Sounds like very poor organization, Jack.”
“Jeez, who’d think all hell would break loose on an October Saturday night?”
“I would.”
“Can you come in?”
“For rewrite?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I can’t handle it myself, Fletch. I’ve got to remake the whole paper.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten minutes to nine.”
“What time do you go to bed?”
“We’ll front-page big cuts for the first edition which goes at ten-twenty.”
“Jack, I’m a murder suspect.”
“Ralph Locke isn’t.”
“I don’t know the city.”
“You know how to put words together.”
“I’m rusty.”
“Please, Fletch? Old times’ sake? I can’t talk much longer.”
Fletch looked through the dark at Sylvia, now on his side of the bed.
“I’ll be right there. Bastard.”
XXVI
“F R A N K ?”
“Who do you want?”
The young voice was sleepy.
It was two-twenty-five Sunday morning.
“Inspector Flynn.”
The telephone receiver clattered against wood.
At a distance from the phone, the voice said, “Da’?”
After a long moment, Flynn answered.
“Now who might this be?”
“I. M. Fletcher.”
“God bless my nose. Where are you, lad? Would you be seizing upon this odd hour of the night to confess?”
“I’m at the Star, Frank.”
“Now what would you be doing there? Have you rejoined the enemy?”
“Charlestown is on fire. Someone is torching it.”
“I see.”
“An old friend from the Chicago Post asked me to come in and help out.”
“You have an old friend in Boston?”
“I guess so.”
“Where was he the Tuesday last? Did you ask?”
“I know he has Monday and Tuesday nights off.”
“No matter how much you talk to a man, ply him with drink, there’s always more to learn.”
“Frank, could I make this call quick?”
“You didn’t have to make it at all.”
“I’m sorry to wake you up.”
“It’s all right, lad. I was just filling in my time by sleeping, anyway.”
“I can’t get your Boston Police spokesman to listen to me.”
“And who’s speaking for us tonight?”
“A Captain Holman.”
“Ach, he’s a police spokesman, all right. That’s precisely what he is.”
“He calls every fifteen minutes with new facts, but I can’t get him to listen.”
“That’s what a spokesman is: a person with two mouths and one ear, a freak of nature. What would you like to say to him?”
“I’ve got some facts, too. We’ve got more reporters in the field than you have bulls.”
“‘We’ now, is it? An inveterate journalist, I do believe is Mister I. M. Fletcher.”
“Listen, Frank. It’s very simple. Eleven fires have been set since seven o’clock. Mostly tenements, a few warehouses, one church. Nothing consistent.”
“All empty?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s consistent.”
“Right. At the third, fifth, seventh, eighth, and ninth fires, empty, two-gallon containers of Astro gasoline have been found. You know, the kind of containers a gas station sells you when you’re out of gas on the road somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve sent a reporter back to the other fires to see if he can spot Astro containers there, too.”
“Haven’t the Fire Department’s arson boys caught on, yet?”
“No. They’re doing the usual. Watching the spectators. They won’t listen to the reporters who keep finding these containers. They’re just taking pictures.”
“I know their method. They’ll have a meeting in the morning, to compare notes. It gives them something to do, with their coffee.”
“The arsonist should be pinned tonight.”
“I agree,” said Flynn. “All that smoke is air polluting.”
“All these fires are taking place around Farber Hill. All sides of it, more or less equally. First a fire starts on the north side, then one on the south side, then one on the north-west side.”
“That could cause a terrific traffic jam of city equipment,” Flynn said. “Collisions.”
“I looked at a district map. In the geographic dead centre of the district, at the corner of Breed and Acorn streets, is a gas station.”
“And you’re going to tell me…?”
“The map doesn’t say which company runs the station, so I asked a reporter to drive over and look.”
“Did he collide with anything?”
“It’s an Astro station, Frank.”
“So whom are we looking for?”
“A young gas station attendant, who works at the Astro station at the corner of Breed and Acorn streets, and who got off duty at six o’clock.”
“Why young?”
“He’s moving awfully fast, Frank. Over fences. In second-storey windows.”
“So he must be agile, and therefore he is probably young. Quick in the knee, as it were.”
“And he has access to a lot of Astro gasoline containers.”
“All right, Fletch.” Flynn’s voice lowered. “I’ll pull on my pants and wander over to Charlestown. See if I can help out. I have a natural disl
ike of seeing a city on fire, you know?”
“I know.”
“Tell me, Fletcher. After we catch this arsonist boyo, will we also discover he’s the murderer of Ruth Fryer?”
“Good night, Frank. If you get the guy, will you call the Star?”
“I’ll see Captain Holman does.”
“Ask him to talk to Jack Saunders.”
“I’ll do that. I’m always very co-operative with the press, you know.”
XXVII
D R I V I N G through the light, Sunday mid-morning traffic in the Ghia, very considerate of the two policemen following him, Fletch easily found 58 Fenton Street in Brookline.
He had had four hours’ sleep in one of his own guest rooms.
He had not renewed contact with the guest asleep in his own bed.
Lucy Connors opened the door of Apartment 42 to him.
Purposely, he supposed, she was dressed in a full peasant skirt and a light blouse with low neck and puffy sleeves. She wore no make-up, nor jewellery.
“Martin Head?”
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “Très Magazine.”
Lucy’s eyes went from one of his empty hands to the other, possibly checking for a camera or a tape recorder.
“Good of you to see me,” he said. “Especially on a Sunday morning.”
“I wouldn’t dare have you come any other time. It might improve my reputation.”
The apartment was the usual one or two bedroom arrangement. A small dining table was in a corner of the living room. Along the wall next to it was a hi-fi rig, with album-filled shelves.
There was a cheap, old divan along the opposite wall, an undersized braided rug in front of it, a saggy upholstered chair to one side.
A drapeless window ran along the fourth wall, letting in a harsh light.
The only wall decoration in the room was a Renoir print over the divan.
“Marsha?” Lucy said.
That was the introduction.
Marsha Hauptmann was stretched out like a board, her slim haunches in the far corner of the divan, the heels of her moccasin topsiders on the floor in front of her, hands in the pockets of her blue jeans. She wore a heavy, blue naval shirt, opened at the throat, sleeves rolled above the elbows.
Her hair was a perfect black, shining pageboy, her skin as translucent as a well-scrubbed child’s.
She did not move her head, nor her body, as Fletch entered.
Her dark eyes moved into his, seeing nothing else, expressing more curiosity and challenge than hostility.
Fletch said, “Marsha.”
“Would you like some coffee, Martin?”
Clearly, Lucy was nervous. Her new way of life was about to be questioned by a detached professional.
“Not unless you’re having some.”
“We aren’t,” said Lucy.
She sat on the divan, a full seat away from Marsha.
Fletch sat in the chair.
“I’m glad you’re doing this, Lucy,” he said. “People need to understand what you’ve been through.”
“No one has understood,” she said. “Not my family, friends. Not Bart. I rather thought Bart might understand, or I wouldn’t have been so frank with him. He took it as some kind of a personal insult.”
She gave Marsha’s forearm a tug, pulling her hand out of her pocket. She held Marsha’s hand. “Really, Martin, it’s a matter of complete indifference to me as to who understands and who doesn’t.”
“Of course.” He coughed quickly. “You’ve solved your problems. Others haven’t.”
Marsha’s eyes warmed towards him.
“I’m afraid most people think this is the problem,” Lucy said. “I mean, Marsha and I living together. Like it’s acne or the ‘flu or something that will go away.” She gave Marsha’s hand a self-conscious squeeze. “I guess I went through that phase, too. But why are you more interested in me than in Marsha?”
“I’m interested in Marsha, too,” said Fletch. “But you’re a little older. You were married. I would guess you gave up quite a lot, in the way of material things, to live with Marsha. I would think you have had to make the bigger adjustments.”
“I guess so. Marsha’s lucky. She’s always been a little dyke.” She smiled fondly at Marsha. “Straight through school. All those shower rooms after field hockey, eh, Marsha?” To Fletch, she said, “Marsha went to boarding school, a much better education than I had. Self-discovery. She started sleeping with girls when she was about twelve.”
Marsha remained silent, a lanky love object at the end of the divan.
“I had to go through the whole thing,” Lucy said. “Boy, was I thick.”
“Tell me about it.” Fletch took notebook and pen from his pocket. “Tell me about ‘the whole thing’.”
“As ‘Mrs. C?’”
“Absolutely.”
“And I get to see the manuscript before you hand it in?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay.” She exhaled. “Shit.” Still holding on to her hand, she glanced at Marsha. “You know. A nice girl. Brought up. Goals set for me. A role set for me. We lived in Westwood, a lawn in front, a lawn in back, a two-car garage. Dad owned an automobile agency. My mother was neurotic, a pill freak. Still is. I hated Jack, my older brother. He was plain, simply cruel. Big hockey player. I mean, when Mother was freaked out, he’d stick pins in the hamster. He’d stick pins in anything. I barely survived him. Bastard.”
Marsha’s eyes rolled to study Lucy’s face worriedly.
“I was considered good-looking,” Lucy said hesitantly. “You know what that means in an American public high school. First one in a training bra, first one to wear falsies, first one to bleach my hair—at thirteen. First one to beat the baby fat off my ass. Goal-oriented. Cheerleader. Little skirts and pompoms. First one to get laid. Very goal-oriented. I didn’t enjoy it. Getting laid, I mean. But it was a goal. The first guy to lay me, the full-back, must have weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. A fat, grey belly. It was not fun. Damned near broke me in two.
“I went to junior college. Went with a guy from Babson who played the violin and was full of the secret international commodity cartel he was going to run. A real drip.
“At a party I met Bart. I was getting near graduation. Bart was a goal. He looked normal, acted normal. Dartmouth College, Harvard Law. Going a little bald. Older than I was by twelve years. In a law firm. Very rich. I played innocent and let him thrill me. I was very dishonest, but people are, sometimes, in attaining their goals.”
Fletch asked, “Did you have any sexual feeling for him at all?”
“How did I know? I didn’t know what sexual feeling was. Look, I had been told boys turn girls on and girls turn boys on and that was it. There was nothing else. Whatever happened between me and a boy I figured I was turned on.”
“But you weren’t.”
“No way.”
“Never?”
Firmly, she said, “Never. I hear some are, but not me—ever. It was pure role-playing. I played the game with myself, ‘someday my crisis will come’. I wasn’t even excited. Only I didn’t even know it.”
“Come on, Lucy,” Fletch said. “You knew such a thing as lesbianism existed.”
“No, I didn’t. It never entered my head. I mean, I knew such a thing existed. Creatures like Marsha. Way over there, somewhere. Far out. They were different. Really weird. I mean, I didn’t relate to them at all. I was very successful at suppressing my own, real sexual nature. Totally successful.”
“Okay,” Fletch said.
“Soon after we were married, Bart started asking me about frigidity. Conversationally, you know? What did I know about it? He began having these long talks with the woman in the next apartment, and then coming to bed stinko. When he was on trips out of town, I picked up a guy or two. For Bart’s sake. Nothing ever happened. I mean, I never got turned on by anybody. So when he suggested a psychiatrist, I went along with it. He was beginning to make me think something was wrong.
“I was bitchy, irascible, tough, mean, violent. Bart and I had slugging matches. I hit him. I threw things at him. I mean, I hit him with things, objects, anything at hand.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“He had so many goddamned welts on his face, so often, he had to tell the people at the office he was doing boxing as a sport. He might as well have been living with a bad-tempered, second-string welterweight. I was really violent.”
“Are you still?”
“No.”
Marsha looked at her from beneath half-drawn lids.
“Well, I mean,” Lucy said. “Sometimes we play. You know?”
“Yeah,” said Fletch.
“I felt I was in some kind of a box, and had to fight my way out. Can you understand that, Martin?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a wonder I didn’t belt a few shrinks along the way. I took everything out on poor old Bart.”
“So how did you meet Marsha?” Fletch asked.
“One day I went into a boutique, and saw something I liked—Marsha. She waited on me. I bought a shirt. Next day I went back and bought a pair of pants. The third day I went in and started to buy a bikini. I called her into the dressing room to ask her how she thought it fitted me. I was feeling something. The tingle. I guess I was opened up enough then to the idea of girls. I had been forced to become conscious of my real desires. In the dressing room, Marsha put the palm of her hand against my hip, looked me in the eyes, and said, ‘Who are you bullshitting?’” Lucy picked up Marsha’s hand, and looked at it, wonderingly. “Her first touching me was the most satisfactory feeling I’d ever had.”
They looked at each other, apparently recalling the moment.
Fletch looked at his notebook.
Finally, Lucy said, “Are you straight, Martin?”
“You mean, do I like girls?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“I guess that’s how you can understand.”