Confess, Fletch

Three

“My name’s Flynn. Inspector Flynn.”

The man in the well-cut, three-piece, brown tweed suit filled the den doorway. His chest and shoulders ware enormous, his brown hair full and curly. Between these two masses of overblown brown was a face so smell it had the cherubic quality of an eight-year-old boy, or a dwarf. Even with the hair, his head was small in proportion to his body, like a tiny, innocent-looking knob in control of a huge, powerful machine. Nothing indoors had the precise color of his green eyes. It was the bright, sparkling green of sunlight on a wet spring meadow.

Below the break of his right trouser leg were a half-dozen dots of blood.

“Pardon my pants. I’m fresh from an axe murder.”

For such a huge chest cavity, for anyone, for that matter, his voice was incredibly soft and gentle.

Fletch said, “You’re an Irish cop.”

“I am that.”

“I’m sorry.” Fletch stood up. “I meant nothing derogatory by that”

Flynn said, “Neither did I.”

There was no proffer to shake hands.

As Flynn vacated the doorway, a younger and shorter man came in, carrying a notepad and ballpoint pen. He had the grizzled head of someone fried on a Marine Corps drill ground a score of times, like a drill sergeant. The rubbery skin around his eyes and mouth suggested his eagerness to shove his face in yours, tighten his skin, and shout encouraging obscenities up your nose. In repose, the slack skin gave him the appearance of a petulant basset. His suit and shirt were cheap, ill-fitting, but spotless, and his shoes, even this late on a drizzly day, gleamed.

“This is Grover,” said Flynn. “The department doesn’t trust me to do my own parking.”

He settled himself in a red leather chair..

Fletch sat down again.

It was, twenty-six minutes past ten.

He remained waiting in the den. A young, uniformed policeman waited with him, standing pat parade rest, carefully keeping his eyes averted from Fletch. Beyond the den, other police, plainclothesmen, moved around the apartment. Fletch wondered if any reporter had sneaked in with them. Fletch heard the murmur of their voices, but caught nothing of what they said. Occasionally, a streak of light from a camera flashbulb crossed the hall, from either the left, where the bedrooms were, or the right, where the living room was.

An ambulance crew entered, rolling a folded stretcher across the hall, toward the living rooms,

“Close the door, will you, Grover? Then make yourself comfortable at the wee desk there. We don’t want to miss a word of what this boyo in the exquisite English tailoring has to say.”

The uniformed policeman went through the door as Grover closed it.

“Has anyone read: you your rights?” Flynn asked.

“The first fuzz through the door.”

“Fuzz, is it?”

Fletch said, “Fuzz.”

“In more human language,” Flynn continued, “I ask you if you don’t think you’d be wiser to have your lawyer present while we question you.”

“I don’t think so.”

Flynn said, “What did you hit her with?”

Fletch could not prevent mild surprise, mild humor appearing in his face. He said nothing.

“All right, then.” Flynn settled more comfortably in his chair. “Your name is Fletcher?”

“Peter Fletcher,” Fletch said.

“And who is Connors?”

“He owns this apartment. I’m borrowing it from him he’s in Italy.”

Flynn leaned forward in his chair. “Do I take it you’re not going to confess immediately to this crime?”

His used his voice like an instrument—a very soft, woodland instrument.

“I’m not, going to confess to this crime at all.”

“And why not?”

“Because I didn’t do it.”

“The man says he didn’t do it, Grover. Have you written that down?”

“Sitting here,” Fletch said, “I’ve been rehearsing what I might tell you.”

“I’m sure you have.” Elbows on chair arms, massive shoulders hunched, Flynn folded his hands in his lap. “All right, Mister Fletcher. Supposing you recite to us your opening prevarication.”

The green eyes clamped on Fletch’s face as if to absorb with full credulity every word.

“I arrived from Rome this afternoon. Came here to the apartment. Changed my clothes, went out to dinner. Came back and found the body.”

“This is a dandy, Grover. Let me see if I’ve got it in all its pristine wonder. Mister Fletcher, you say you fly into a strange city, go to an apartment you’re borrowing, and first night there you find a gorgeous naked girl you’ve never seen before in your life murdered on the living room rug. Is that your story, in short form?”

“Yes.”

“Well, now. If that doesn’t beat the belly of a fish. I trust you’ve got every, word, Grover, however few of them there were.”

Fletch said, “I thought it might help us all get to bed earlier.”

“‘Get to bed,’ he says. Now, Grover, here’s a man who’s had a full day. Would you mind terribly if I led the conversation for a while now?”

“Go ahead,” Fletch said.

Looking at his watch, Flynn said, “It’s been a near regular custom I’ve had with my wife since we were married sixteen years ago to get me home by two o’clock feeding. So we have that much time.” He glanced at the glass of Scotch and water Grover had moved to the edge of the desk blotter. “First I must ask you how much you’ve had to drink tonight.”

“I’ve had whatever’s gone from that glass, Inspector. An ounce of whiskey? Less?” Fletch asked, “You really have inspectors in Boston, uh?”

“There is one: me.”

“Good grief.”

“I’d say that’s a most precise definition. I’m greatly taken with it, myself, and I’m sure Grover is—Inspector of Boston Police as being ‘good grief.’ The man has his humor, Grover. However, we were speaking of the man’s drinking. How much did you have to drink at dinner?”

“A split. A half bottle of wine.”

“He’ll even define ‘split’ for us, Grover. A remarkably definitive man. You had nothing to drink dinner?”

“Nothing I was eating alone.”

“And you’re going to tell me you had nothing to drink on the airplane all way across the Mediterranean Sea and then the full girth of the Atlantic Ocean, water, water everywhere….”

“I had coffee after we took off. A soft drink with lunch, or whatever it was they served. Coffee afterwards.”

“Were you traveling first class?”

“Yes.”

“The drinks are free in first class, I’ve heard.”

“I had nothing to drink on the airplane, or before boarding the airplane. I had nothing to drink at the airport, nothing here, wine at the restaurant, and this half glass while I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Grover, would you make a note, that in my opinion Mister Fletcher is entirely sober?”

“Would you like a drink, Inspector?” Fletch asked.

“Ach, no. I never touch the dirty stuff. The once I had it, the night after being a student in Dublin, it gave me a terrible headache. I woke up the next morning dead. The thing is, this crime of passion would be much easier to understand if you had a bottle or two of the old, juice within you.”

“You may find that is so,” Fletch said. “When you find the murderer.”

“Are you a married man yourself, Mister Fletcher?”

“I’m engaged.”

“To be married?”

“I expect to be married. Yes.”

“And what is the name of this young lady whose luck, at the, moment, is very much in question?”

“Andy.”

“Now why didn’t I guess that myself? Write down ‘Andrew,’ Grover.”

“Angela. Angela de Grassi. She’s in Italy”

“She’s in Italy, too, Grover. Everyone’s in Italy except he who has just come from there. Make a social note. She didn’t come with you due to her prejudice against the Boston weather?”

“There are some family problems she has to straighten out.”

“And what would the nature of such problems be?”

“I attended her father’s funeral yesterday, Inspector.”

“Ach. Dicey time to leave your true love’s side.”

“She should be coming over in a few days.”

“I see. And what is it you do for a living?”

“I write on art.”

“You’re an art critic?”

“I don’t like the words ‘art critic.’ I write on the arts.”

“You must make a fortune at it, Mister Fletcher. First class air tickets, this lavish, opulent apartment the clothes you’re wearing….”

“I have some money of my own.”

“I see. Having money of your own opens up a great many careers which otherwise might be considered marginal. By the way, what is that painting over the desk? You can’t see it from where you are.”

“It’s a Ford Madox Brown.”

“It’s entirely my style of work.”

“Nineteenth-century English.”

“Well, that’s one thing I’m not, is nineteenth-century English. And who with a touch of humanity in him would be? When did you notice it yourself? The painting, I mean?”

“While I was calling the police.”

“You mean to say, while you were calling the police to report a murder, you were looking at a painting?”

“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?r

“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 parlor. The conciseness of answers. After a murder, usually it’s only the policemen 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 as 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 marvelous 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 Callahan. 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 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 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 head it’s a great 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 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 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 Cagna, 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 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 bear 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 apartment, 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 fiancee 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 moment. 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 old? 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.”

Graver 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.”