Confess, Fletch

Twenty

Fletch 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 center 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 bullshitting 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 spit 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 heat 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 crating 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.”