Confess, Fletch

Thirty-seven

“Mister Fletcher? This is Francis Flynn.”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Did I wake you up?”

It was quarter to twelve, midnight.

“Just taking a shower, Inspector.”

“I am in the process of exercising two warrants. Is that how a real policeman would say it?”

“I don’t know.”

“In any case, I am.”

“Good.”

“The first is for the arrest of Ronald Risom Horan for the murder of Ruth Fryer.”

Fletch kept listening, but Flynn said no more.

“What?”

“Horan killed Ruth Fryer. Would you believe that, now?”

“No.”

“It’s as true as the devil inhabits fleas.”

“It’s not possible. Horan?”

“Himself. He’s in the back of a car now on his way to be booked at headquarters. Sure, and there’s no knowing what’s in a man’s heart. A respectable man like that.” Fletch listened, breathing through his mouth. “We had to wait for the man to get home. He says he took a ride in the country by himself, on this beautiful moonlit night. And, of course, we had to use a pretext to get to see him at all, such an exclusive dealer in art he is, sitting here by himself in this castle. I borrowed a page from your book, if you don’t mind—the book you haven’t written yet—and made an appointment with him by saying I had a small Ford Madox Brown I had to sell. Do I have that name right?”

“Yes.”

“And I said it was a nineteenth-century English work, to show him I knew my potatoes. Was that right?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Anyway, it must have worked, because he made the appointment with me. Serving the warrant was the easy matter. I let Grover do it. The lad gets such satisfaction from telling people they’re under attest, especially for murder.”

“Inspector, something’s…”

“The second warrant is to search both this house and the house in Weston for the de Grassi paintings.”

“Weston? What house in Weston?”

“Horan has a house in Weston. That’s a little town about twelve miles to the west of us. So Grover says.”

“There’s no Weston address listed for him in Who’s Who.”

“I think your Mister Horan keeps his cards pretty close to his necktie, if you know what I mean. He’s not in the telephone book out there, either.”

“Then why do you think he has a house in Weston?”

“We have our resources, Mister Fletcher.”

“Inspector, something’s…”

“Now what I’m asking is this: Seeing you’re such a distinguished writer-on-the-arts, and all, and therefore can be counted on to recognize the de Grassi paintings, I wonder of you’d be good enough to join me in my treasure hunt? I’m at the Horan Gallery now.”

“You are?”

“We’ll have a look around here, and if we find nothing, we’ll go out to Weston together and have a look around that house.”

“We will?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“Inspector, what makes you think Horan has the paintings? He’s a dealer. He works on assignments for other people.”

“I’ve sent Grover to your address. He’ll be sitting outside your door in a matter of minutes, if he’s not there already. If you’d pull up your braces, however late in the night it is, and let him drive you over here, I’d be deeply in your debt.”

“Inspector, something’s…”

“I know, Mister Fletcher. Something’s wrong. Will you come and correct the error in my ways?”

“Of course, Inspector.”

“There’s a good lad.”

Fletch left his hand on the receiver a moment after hanging up. It was sweating.

In the guest bedroom, he threw his jeans and sweater in the back of a bureau drawer and began to dress quickly in a tweed suit.

From the bed, Andy said, “Who was that?”

“The police. Flynn.”

“Where are you going?”

“He’s arrested Horan for the murder of Ruth Fryer.”

She sat up in bed.

“The girl?”

“He’s flipped his lid.”

Sylvia, in a flowing nightdress, was in the corridor.

Fletch got just a flash of her fenders as he dashed by.

“What happens? Where you go now? Angela! What happens?”

Fletch ran down the five flights to the lobby.

A black four-door Ford was double-parked in front of the apartment building.

Fletch glanced down the street, at where the black truck was parked in front of the Ford Ghia.

He got into the front passenger seat.

Grover turned the ignition key.

Fletch said, “Hi, Grover.”

Grover put the car in gear and started down Beacon Street.

“My name’s not Grover,” he said.

“No?”

“No. It’s Whelan. Richard T. Whelan.”

“Oh.”

He said, “Sergeant Richard T. Whelan.”

Going around the comer into Newbury Street, Fletch said, “Quite a man, your boss.”

Sergeant Richard T. Whelan said, “He’s a bird’s turd.”