Confess, Fletch Page 6

  “If you get picked up, just don’t say where you got the truck painted.”

  Fletch said, “Screw ’em.”

  XII

  F L E T C H listened to the old elevator creak and clank as it climbed to the sixth floor.

  The door to apartment 6A opened. A miniature poodle preceded a woman on a leash. It was immediately obvious the woman was tipsy at one-thirty in the afternoon. While Fletch held the elevator door, she rummaged in her purse for her key. The dog watched Fletch curiously. Apparently satisfied she had her key, the woman slammed the door.

  “Watch your step,” Fletch said.

  The woman tripped anyway.

  He pushed the “L” button. They sank slowly.

  “You the man taking Bart’s apartment?”

  “Yes,” Fletch said. “Name of Fletcher.”

  How could the woman not have heard of the murder next door? Some drunk.

  Fletch patted the dog.

  “When did Bart leave, anyway?”

  “Saturday,” Fletch said. “Sunday. He’s using my house in Italy.”

  “Oh,” the woman said.

  Fletch wondered how far she could walk the dog.

  “That couldn’t be,” she said.

  “What couldn’t be?”

  “I saw Bart Tuesday.”

  “You did?”

  “Tuesday night. At the place right up the street. The Bullfinch Pub.”

  “What time?”

  She shrugged. She was tired of the conversation.

  “Drink time. Six o’clock.”

  “Are you sure it was Tuesday?”

  “He wore a tweed sports jacket. I knew he hadn’t just come from the office. Thought it odd. Pretty girl with him.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Pretty. Young.”

  The elevator clunked to a stop.

  Fletch opened the door.

  “Are you sure of this?” he asked.

  Passing him, she said, “I’m in love with Bart.”

  Thinking, Fletch watched her walk unevenly across the lobby.

  He caught up to her at the door. He put his hand on the knob to open it.

  “Did you speak to Bart Tuesday night?”

  “No,” she said. “I hate the son of a bitch.”

  He trailed her through the door.

  “That’s a nice dog you have there.”

  “Oh, that’s my love. Mignon. Aren’t you, Mignon?”

  On the sidewalk she extended a gloved hand to Fletch.

  “I’m Joan Winslow,” she said. “You must come by sometime. For a drink.”

  “Thank you,” Fletch said. “I will.”

  XIII

  T H E arrogance of the press,” Fletch said, standing to shake hands.

  It was two-fifteen. Knowing full well Jack Saunders would be late, Fletch had ordered and sipped a vodka martini. Through the window he had watched the plainclothesman standing in the alley. A day of quickly travelling clouds, sunlight switched on and off in the alley as if someone were taking time exposures of the discomfited cop. There had been no place for him to park his car. Through the dark window glass of Locke-Ober’s the man he was supposed to be watching was sitting at a white-clothed table, sipping a martini, watching him. Fletch had toyed with the idea of inviting him in for a drink.

  Jack Saunders said, “Sorry to be a little late. The wife got her eyelashes stuck in the freezer door.”

  Sitting down, Fletch said, “A reporter is always late because he knows there is no story until he gets there. Still drink gin?”

  Jack ordered a martini.

  He had not changed much—only more so: his glasses were a little thicker, his sandy hair a little thinner. His belly had let out more than his belt.

  “Olde times,” Jack said in toast. “With an ‘e’.”

  “To the end of the world,” said Fletch. “It will make a hell of a story.”

  They talked about Jack’s new job, where he was living now, their time together on the Chicago Post. They had a second drink.

  “God, that was funny,” Jack was saying. “The time you busted the head of the Internal Revenue Service in Chicago. The Infernal Revenue Service. The guy was as guilty as hell. They had him in court. They couldn’t get the evidence on him because his wife had all the evidence, and they couldn’t call her to testify because she was his wife, even though they were separated.”

  “The newspaper was being very polite about it,” Fletch said, “following the court in its frustration, as the man Flynn might say.”

  “Journalistic responsibility, Fletch. Journalistic responsibility. Will you never learn?”

  “Sloppy legwork,” Fletch said. “I didn’t do anything any junior-grade F.B.I, man couldn’t have done.”

  “What did you do, anyway?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Come on, I’m not your boss any more.”

  “You might be again one day, though.”

  “I hope so. Come on, we’re not in Illinois, the guy’s in jail….”

  “Why the hell should I give you ideas? You were reporting the court record as docilely as the rest of the idiot editors.”

  “Yeah, but when you got the story, I ran it.”

  “Yes, you did. Of course, you did. I’m supposed to be grateful? You won a prize and then made a bloody long speech about team efforts.”

  “I let you hold the prize. Ten or fifteen minutes. I remember handing it to you.”

  “And I remember your taking it back.”

  “You’re ashamed. You’re ashamed of what you did.”

  “I got the story.”

  “You’re ashamed of how you got it. That’s why you won’t tell me.”

  “I’m a little ashamed.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “I poured sugar in the wife’s gas tank and followed her home. When her engine died I stopped to help her. Did the whole bit, fiddled under her hood, pretended to adjust things, told her to try it again.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Drove her home. It was eight o’clock at night. She offered me a drink.”

  “You entrapped her.”

  “Is that the word? The friendship ripened….”

  “How was she in bed?”

  “Sort of cold.”

  “Jeez, you’d do anything for a story.”

  “She had her good points. They weren’t far from her chin.”

  “I’m sure you told her you were a member of the press.”

  “I think I told her I sold air-conditioning units. I don’t know how the idea occurred to me. Something about the cool breezes from her every orifice.”

  “But you plugged her in.” Jack’s eyes were wet from laughing. “And plugged her in. And plugged her in. And plugged her in.”

  “Look, the lady was blackmailing her husband and therefore he was embezzling from the United States government. The courts couldn’t get at her because she was still legally his wife. What did she deserve?”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t know how you did it.”

  “Well, we took a vacation together. In Nevada. The dear thing was divorced before she knew it.”

  “I remember the expense account. Oh, boy, do I remember the expense account. The Accounting Department did a dance all over my ass. With hiking boots. You mean the Chicago Post paid for somebody’s divorce?”

  “Actually, yes. Well, it freed her as a witness.”

  “Oh, that’s funny. If they only knew.”

  “I listed it properly—legal fees incurred while travelling.”

  “Jeez, we thought you got busted for pot or something. Maybe got caught with your pants down in a casino….”

  “Don’t ask. I told the lady we had to go back to Chicago to get married. Had to get my birth certificate, that sort of thing, you know.”

  “You actually told her you were going to marry her?”

  “Of course. Why else would she get a divorce? I mean, under those circumstances?”
>
  “You are a bastard.”

  “So my father said. Anyway, once the lady realized she was divorced and about to land at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, she panicked. She envisioned all sorts of men in blue suits waiting for her when she got off the plane. So I convinced her the best thing to do was to give me the evidence, pack her bags, and split immediately.”

  “Which she did?”

  “Which she did. All the evidence, plus a signed deposition, all of which, you may remember, we published.”

  “We certainly did.”

  “I told her I’d meet her in Acapulco as soon as I found my birth certificate.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I never heard. As far as I know, she’s still waiting in Acapulco.”

  “Oh, you’re a terrible man. You’re a son of a bitch. You’re a shit, Fletcher. But you’re funny.”

  “It was a pretty good story,” Fletch said. “Shall we eat?”

  They dug into their Chateaubriand.

  “Did you see the Star this morning?” Jack asked.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “We gave more space to your story this morning. Ran a picture of the girl.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Had to. Pretty damning evidence they’ve got on you, Fletch. Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”

  “The police gave you that?”

  “Yup.”

  “Trying to build a public case against me. The bastards.”

  “Poor Fletch. As if you never did such a thing yourself. What’s the next development to expect?”

  “My confession. But don’t hold your breath.”

  “I figure if Flynn hasn’t arrested you, he’s got a reason.”

  “If you look through the window to your right, you’ll see my flat-footed escort.”

  “Oh, yeah. Even paranoids have enemies, I’ve heard.”

  “Actually, I think I’ve got the case cracked. It was an impersonal, coincidental frame.”

  “So, who did it?”

  “One of two people. Rather not go into it now.”

  “You always did play stories close to the chest. Until you had them on paper.”

  “Twists and turns, Jack. Twists and turns. Every story has its twists and turns. By the way, do you think you’d let me use your library? There are some people I’d like to look up.”

  “Sure. Who?”

  “This guy, Bart Connors, for one. I’m using his apartment.”

  “Don’t know much about him. Partner in one of those State Street law firms. He’s taxation or something.”

  “Maybe I could come in some afternoon, while you’re there.”

  “You bet. Mondays and Tuesdays I take off. You’ll probably want to come sooner than that.”

  “Yeah. God knows where I’ll be next Monday.”

  “I’ve been to Norfolk Prison,” said Jack. “It’s not bad, as prisons go. Clean. Got a good shop. Over-crowded, of course.”

  “Maybe that’s why Flynn hasn’t arrested me.”

  “I don’t think you should come into the office using the name Fletcher, though. The publisher might resent a murder suspect going through our files.”

  “Okay. What name should I use?”

  “Smith?”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “Jones? I’ve got it—Brown.”

  “Has a nice ring to it.”

  “I’m not as inventive as you are, Fletch.”

  “How about Jasper dePew Mandeville the Fourth?”

  “That’s a good one. Very convincing.”

  “I’ll use the name Locke.”

  “John?”

  “Ralph.”

  “Ralph!”

  “Somebody’s got to be called Ralph.”

  They both had their coffee black.

  Jack said, “For some reason, I’ve hesitated to ask you what you’re doing these days. I guess I’m afraid what you might tell me.

  “I’ve gone back to writing about art.”

  “Oh, yeah. You were doing that in Seattle. Not quite as exciting as investigative reporting.”

  “It has its moments.”

  “How can you afford it? I mean, you’re not writing for anyone, right?”

  “An uncle left me some money.”

  “I see. I. M. Fletcher finally ripped somebody off. Always knew you would.”

  “Did the de Grassi story come over the wires?”

  “De Grassi?”

  “From Italy. Count Clementi de Grassi.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s a weird one. I don’t think we used it. What was the story? He was kidnapped, and then when the ransom wasn’t paid, he was murdered, right?”

  “Right. I expect to marry his daughter, Angela.”

  “Oh. Why didn’t they pay the ransom?”

  “They didn’t have the money. Nothing like it.”

  “A great tragedy.”

  “There’s only the young wife, the present Countess de Grassi, about forty, and Angela, who is in her early twenties. They haven’t got a dime. Ransom was over four million dollars.”

  “Then why was he kidnapped?”

  “Somebody got the wrong de Grassi family. They have the title, you know, a falling-down palace outside Livorno, and they keep a small apartment at a good address in Rome.”

  “Pretty horrible story. Maybe we should have run it.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Fletch. “It’s far away, has nothing to do with Boston. No use in advertising crime.”

  Jack Saunders paid the bill.

  “Nice eating off a newspaper again,” Fletch said. “As a kindness, I guess I should go get that cop off his flat feet. For him, I’ll take a taxi home. Otherwise, I would walk.”

  “Congratulations,” Jack said. “I mean, about getting married.” Fletch said, “This is the real thing.”

  XIV

  I T W O U L D be nine-thirty at night in Cagna, Italy.

  Fletch wandered around the apartment, with his coat and tie off. He toured the paintings.

  He had evidence, from an unreliable witness, Joan Winslow from apartment 6A, that Bart Connors had been in Boston the night of the murder. Tuesday night. No, he had more than that. Flynn had said there was no evidence from the airlines Connors had flown out of the country anytime between his being seen by Mrs. Sawyer on Saturday night and Tuesday night. Yet yesterday, Wednesday, Andy had seen him in Cagna.

  Should he tell Flynn what the woman in 6A had said?

  Fletch had worked with the police before. With them, against them, around them. Flynn was pretty good, but it was Fletch’s freedom Fletch was fighting for. So far, he had been entirely too trusting.

  He’d roust the quail whether its feathers were wet or not.

  Fletch checked his watch again, and placed a call to his villa in Cagna.

  “Hello?”

  “Andy?”

  “Fletch!”

  “What are you doing in Cagna?”

  “You asked me to come up.”

  “That was yesterday.”

  “Why did you call here, Fletch?”

  “Did you spend the night?”

  “Oh, I had car trouble.”

  “The Porsche?”

  “Bart said it was the diaphragm or something.”

  “‘Bart said!’ This is the second night, Andy.”

  “Yes. The car will be ready in the morning.”

  “Andy!”

  “Wait until I turn the record player down, Fletch. I can’t hear too well.”

  She came back in a few seconds and said, “Hello, Fletch, darling.”

  “Andy, what are you doing spending the night at my house with Bart Connors?”

  “That has no business for you, Fletcher. Just because I marry you has nothing to do with where I spend last night.”

  “Listen to me, will you? Is Bart Connors there?”

  Andy hesitated. “Of course.”

  “Then get out of that house. Sneak out and run down to the hotel
or something.”

  “But, darling, why?”

  “There is some evidence your host has a terrible temper.”

  “Temper? Nonsense. He’s a kitten.”

  “Will you do as I say?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re just beginning dinner.”

  “I think you’d better come here, Andy. To Boston.”

  “I have to go back to Rome. See what the grand Countess is doing.”

  “The Countess is here.”

  “Where?”

  “In Boston. Sylvia is here.”

  “The bitch.”

  “Why don’t you fly from Genoa?”

  “I can’t believe you, Fletch. This is something you’re putting on. For jealousy. I’m not jealous of the people you spend time with.”

  “Andy, you’re not listening.”

  “No, and I’m not going to. I don’t know why you called here, anyway. I’m supposed to be in Rome.”

  “To talk to Bart Connors.”

  “Then talk to him.”

  “Andy, after I talk to Connors, please come back on the phone.”

  She said, “I’ll get him.”

  The pause was interminable.

  “Hello? Mister Fletcher?”

  “Mister Connors? Everything all right at the villa?”

  “Your girlfriend dropped in yesterday. She’d lost a necklace here. We put on quite a search for it.”

  “What’s wrong with the car?”

  “What car?”

  “The Porsche.”

  “It’s quite a long drive to Rome. Isn’t it?”

  “When did you arrive in Cagna?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I thought you were going out on Sunday.”

  “My plans got mixed up. The person I thought was coming with me couldn’t make it.”

  “You waited for her?”

  “My powers of persuasion were not adequate to the task. Good thing I didn’t become a trial lawyer.”

  “You flew through New York?”

  “Montreal.”

  “Why Montreal? Is that better?”

  “I had a late business dinner there. It’s very nice of you to call, Mister Fletcher, but it’s sort of expensive for a chat. I hope you called collect—on your phone.”

  “And Ruth said she wouldn’t go with you?”

  “What?”

  “Ruth. She said she wouldn’t go with you to Cagna?”

  “Who’s Ruth?”