Confess, Fletch

Nine

Lights were on in the apartment.

Taking off his coat, Fletch went directly into the den. He flung the coat over an arm of a chair.

On the desk was a note for him.

It read, “Call Countess de Grassi at Ritz-Carlton—Mrs. Sawyer.”

Aloud, Fletch said, “Shit!”

“Would,, it be more bad news for you, Mister Fletcher?”

Inspector Flynn was looking is at him from the hall.

“I fear we must add to it.”

Grover joined Flynn from the living room.

“Your Mrs. Sawyer allowed us to remain after she left,” Flynn said, “after we had fully proven ourselves not only Boston Police officers but fully virtuous men as well.”

Fletch left the note upside down on the desk.

“If you want to talk to me, let’s not sit in here,” he said. “I got sort of tired of this room last night.”

“Precisely why we were waiting for you in the living room.” Flynn stood back to let Fletch pass. “It’s airier.”

“Do you gentlemen want a drink?”

“Don’t let us spoil your pleasure.”

Fletch abstained.

He sat in one, of the divans at the fireplace—the one nearer where the corpse had lain, and therefore not is view of the site.

“You’ve led us a merry chase,” Flynn said, letting himself down in the opposite divan. “After you disappeared this morning, you would have found it impossible to leave the City of Boston—at least by public transportation.”

“Disappeared?”

“Now you can’t tell us you went in one door of the Ritz-Carlton and out the side door in a flash, thereby dropping our tail on you, out of the purest of all innocence!”

“Actually, I did,” Fletch said. “I just stopped in to buy a newspaper.”

“Such an innocent man, Grover. Have we ever met such a blissfully innocent man? Here, stalwart men of the Boston Police have been staking out all the terminals all the day, the airport, the train stations, the bus stations, armed with the description of our murder suspect here, and our Mister Fletcher pops up at the cocktail hour like a proper clubman with the entirely reasonable explanation that he went in one door of a hotel and out another simply to buy a newspaper!”

“I bought a map of Boston, too.”

“We were just about to leave,” Flynn said, “having heard you rented a car a half hour ago. A blue Ford Ghia, whatever that is—I suppose it’s got wheels—license number what-is-it; Grover?”

“R99420,” Grover read from his notebook.

“By the by, Grover. Go call off that all-points bulletin on that car. Let the troopers on the Massachusetts Turnpike relax tonight. Mister Fletcher is at home.”

Grover returned to the den to use the telephone.

Flynn said, “Is that turpentine I smell?”

“It’s a new men’s cologne,” Fletch answered. “Eau Dubuffet. Very big in France at the moment.”

“I’d swear it’s turpentine.”

“I can get you a bottle of it,” Fletch said.

“Ach, no, I wouldn’t put you to the trouble.”

“No trouble,” Fletch said. “Honestly.”

“Is it expensive stuff?”

“Depends,” Fletch said, “on whether you buy it by the ounce or the quart.”

“No offense intended,” Flynn said, “but I’m not sure I’d want to smell that way. I mean, like a housepainter coming home. Supposed to be manly, is it?”

“Don’t you think it is?”

“Well, noses play funny tricks on people. Especially the French.”

Grover came back into the living room.

“Inspector, I smell turpentine,” he said. “Do you?”

Flynn said, “I do not.”

Grover stood in the middle of the, room, white at the wrists, wondering how he should settle.

“Do you want me to take the conversation down, Inspector?”

“In truth, I don’t want you to take anything down, ever. I have a very peculiar talent, Mister Fletcher. Being a writer-on-art you must have a heightened visual sense. I gather you have a more refined olfactory sense as well, as you pay a fancy price for a French cologne which smells remarkably like turpentine to me. My talent is I never forget a thing I’ve heard. It’s these wonderful Irish ears.” The green eyes gleamed impishly as the big man pulled up on his own ears. “Ears of the poets.”

Grover was in a side chair, his notebook and pen in his lap at the ready.

In his soft voice, Flynn said, “Grover gave me quite a scolding last night, Mister Fletcher, on the drive home. For not arresting you, you understand. He’s convinced we have enough evidence to make a case.”

“You’re not?” Fletch asked.

“We have evidence,” Flynn said, “which is getting thicker by the minute. I explained to Grover I’d rather leave a man his own head and follow him. It’s easier to get to know a man when he’s free and following his own nature than it is when he’s all scrunched up and defensive with his lawyers in a jail cell. A terrible scolding I had. And then this morning you slip our tail, all quite innocently, of course, and fritter away the day doing we know not what.”

Fletch did not accept the invitation to report his day.

“In the meantime,” he said, “aren’t you afraid I might murder someone else?”

“Exactly!” blurted Grover from the side of the room.

Flynn’s look told Grover he was a necessary evil.

Softly, Flynn said, “It’s my argument that Irwin Maurice Fletcher, even alias Peter Fletcher, would not murder a gorgeous girl in a closed apartment—at lest not sober—and then routinely, almost professionally, call the police on himself. He could have wiped things clean, repacked his suitcases, gone back to the airport and been out of the country in the twitch of a rabbit’s nose.”

“Thank you,” said Fletch.

“Even better,” Flynn continued his argument with the side of the room, “he could have dressed the body, taken her down the back stairs in the dark of the night;, and left her anywhere in the City of Boston. It wouldn’t have disturbed his plans at all.”

Fletch had thought about that.

“Instead, what does our boyo do? He calls the police. He doesn’t precisely turn himself in, but he does call the police. He deserves some credit, Grover, for his remarkable and demonstrated faith in the institution of the public police.”

Grover’s ears were red. For a single, impetuous word in argument with his superior he was receiving a considerable chewing out.

“However,” said Flynn in a more relaxed manner, “evidence developed today adds considerable weight to Grover’s argument. Are you interested in it at all, Mister Fletcher?”

“Of course.”

“First of all, what’s your understanding as to when Mister Bart Connors went to Italy?”

“I don’t know,” Fletch answered. “He had occupancy of the villa as of last Sunday.”

“And this is Wednesday,” Flynn said. “Mrs. Sawyer confirms that Connors was here with her on Saturday, and that he asked her to come in Monday night for a few hours and do a special clean-up because of your arrival Tuesday, yesterday. She did so. Therefore, wouldn’t it be natural to assume Connors left for Italy sometime between Saturday night and Monday night?”

Fletch said, “I guess so.”

“To this point, we have not been able to establish that he actually did so,” Flynn said. “A check of the airlines turned up no transatlantic reservations in the name of Bartholomew Connors.”

“He could have flown from New York.”

“He didn’t,” Flynn said. “And as Mister Connors is a partner in an important Boston law firm, I can’t believe he would travel under a false passport, unless there is something extraordinary going on here at which we can’t even guess.”

Fletch said, “I suppose I could call the villa in Italy and see if he’s there.”

“We may come to that,” said Flynn, “But let’s not roust the quail until its feathers are wet.”

“What?”

“Next we come to Mrs. Sawyer. A widow lady with two grown daughters. One teaches school in Mattapan. She does not live with her mother. The other is in medical school in Oregon. Mrs. Sawyer confirms she has a key to this apartment, but that no one had access to it other than herself. She spent Sunday with a gentleman friend, who is a sixty-year-old divorced accountant, visiting his grandchildren in New Bedford.”

Fletch said, “Would you believe I never did suspect Mrs. Sawyer?”

“She had a key,” Flynn answered. “Never can tell what bad man might have been taking advantage of her, for reasons of his own. She says that six months ago Connors suffered a particularly—I might even say, peculiarly—painful separation from his wife. There will be a divorce, she says, and I don’t doubt it. She says there have been one or more women in this apartment since the separation. She finds their belongings around when she comes to clean. As clothes have never been left, in closets and drawers, she believes she can say no woman has actually lived here since the separation. It substantiates her belief that there has been ‘a parade of women through here.’ It also substantiates her belief that none of them was ever given, or had, a key.”

Grover sneezed.

“As there appear to be paintings in this apartment of great value—is that not right, Mister Fletcher?—we may suppose even further towards certainty that Mistier Connors did not dispense keys to this apartment like jelly beans.”

“Great value,” said Fletch. “Very great value.”

He had not toured the paintings to his own satisfaction yet, but he had seen enough to be impressed. Besides the Brown in the den, there was a Matisse in the bedroom, a Klee in the living room (on the wall behind Grover), and a Warhol in the dining room.

“The last thing to say about access to the apartment is that there is a back door, in the kitchen. The rubbish goes out that way. There is no key to it. It is twice a bolted from the inside. Mrs. Sawyer tells us she is most faithful about bolting it. In fact, when we arrived last night, both bolts were in place. No one could have gone out that way.”

“But someone could have come in that way,” said Fletch, “bolted the door behind him and gone out the front way.”

“Absolutely right,” said Flynn. “But how would they, without having known the back door was unbolted?”

“By chance,” said Fletch.

“Aye. By chance.” Clearly Flynn did not think much of chance.

“Now we come to you,” said Flynn.

Grover sat up and clicked his ballpoint pen.

“Washington was good enough to send us both your photograph and your fingerprints.” Flynn smiled kindly at Fletch. “Ach, a man has no privacy, anymore.”

The kindly smile increased Fletch’s discomfort.

“A man is many things,” said Flynn. “A bad check charge. Two contempt of court charges. Non-payment-of-alimony charges longer than most people’s family trees…”

“Get off it, Flynn.”

“…All charges dropped. I do not mean to act as your lawyer,” said Flynn, “although I seem to be doing a lot of that. May I recommend that as all these charges were mysteriously dropped, you do something to get them off your record? They’re not supposed to be there. And you never know when an official, such as myself, might come along and view them with extreme prejudice. On the principle, you know, that where there’s a hatrack there’s a hat.”

“Thanks for your advice.”

“I see you also won the Bronze Star. What the notation ‘not delivered’ means after the item, I can’t guess.”

Grover looked around at Fletch with a drill sergeant’s disdain.

Flynn said, “You’re a pretty dodgy fellow, Irwin Maurice Fletcher.”

Fletch said, “I bet you wouldn’t even want your daughter to marry me.”

“I would resist it,” Flynn said, “under the prevailing circumstances.”

“You guys don’t even like my cologne.”

“None of the gentlemen who drive the taxis in from the airport have identified you so far.”

“Why do you care about that?”

“We’d like to know if you came in from the airport alone, or with a young lady.”

“I see.”

“Even the driver who delivered someone from the airport to 152 Beacon Street yesterday afternoon can’t identify you. Nor is his record clear on whether he was carrying one passenger or two.”

“Terrific.”

“Those fellows who work the airport are and independent lot. Fearful independent. And four taxis went from this area last night to the Café Budapest. None of the drivers can identify you or say whether you were alone or not.”.

“I’m greatly indebted to them all.”

“Not everyone is as cooperative as you, Mister Fletcher.”

“The bastards.”

“Nor did the waiters at the Café Budapest recognize you at all. For a man who wears such an expensive cologne, the fact that you can spend an hour or two in a fashionable restaurant and have no one—not even the waiters—recognize you the next day must cut.”

“It slashes,” said Fletch. “It slashes.”

“You’d think waiters would remember a man eating alone, taking up a whole table, even for two, all by himself, wouldn’t you? It affects their income.”

It was ten minutes to eight.

“That we discovered with your photograph. From your fingerprints we also found out some interesting.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“You touched two things in this room—middle-A on the piano keyboard, with your right index finger. I had no idea you are musical.”

“I’m not.”

“Did I say two things in this room other than the light switches? I meant to. I would guess when you came into this apartment and were looking around, you turned on the wall switch in the living room, went to the piano, hit middle A, went into the dining room and then the kitchen, leaving the lights on like a 1970 electric company executive.”

“I suppose I did.”

“The only other things your fingerprints were on in this room were the whiskey bottle and the water decanter.”

“That would be right.”

“It was a fresh bottle. You opened it.”

“Yes.”

“Mister Fletcher. The whiskey bottle was the murder weapon.”

The green eyes watched him intensely. Fletch felt them in his stomach. To his side he had the impression of Grover’s white face, watching him.

“There were no other fingerprints on the bottle, Mister Fletcher. It had been dusted. Liquor bottles are apt to be dusted while being set out.”

“What other fingerprints were in this room?” Fletch asked. “I mean, whose others?”

“Mrs. Sawyer’s, the gal’s—that is, Ruth Fryer’s—and the prints of one other person, a man’s, we presume to belong to Bartholomew Connors.”

“Were there many of the girl’s?”

“A few. Enough to establish she was murdered here. They were the fingerprints of a live person.”

Fletch considered his wisdom in saying nothing. At the moment he doubted he could say anything, anyway.

“The disconcerting thing is, Mister Fletcher,” continued Flynn with a nerve-shattering gentleness, “that if you remember your laws of physics, the whiskey bottle, would be a far more reliable, satisfactory, workable murder weapon when it is full and sealed than after it has been uncapped and a quantity has been poured out.”

“Oh, my God.”

“By opening the whiskey bottle and pouring, a quantity out, you meant to remove the whiskey bottle from suspicion, as the murder weapon.”

“It didn’t work,” said Fletch.

“Ah, that’s where my inexperience comes in. A more experienced police officer might have discounted the whiskey bottle completely. I remember having to persuade Grover to send it along. It took a few words, didn’t it, Grover? Not having come up through the ranks myself, and never having had the benefits of a proper education, I insisted. The boyos in the police laboratory were very surprised the murder weapon was an unbroken, open bottle.”

“How do they know it was?

“Minute traces of hair, skin, and bloods that match the girl’s.”

Flynn allowed a long silence. He sat quietly, watching Fletch.

Either he was waiting for Fletch to adjust to this new trauma or he was waiting for Fletch to be indiscreet.

Fletch exercised his right to remain silent.

“Now, Mister Fletcher, would you like, to call in a lawyer?”

“No.”

“If you think by not calling in a lawyer you’re convincing us of your innocence, you’re quite wrong.”

Grover said, “You’re convincing us of your stupidity.”

“Now, Grover. Mister Fletcher is not stupid. And now he knows we’re not stupid. Maybe he wants to skip the formalities of a lawyer altogether and go ahead with his confession, get the dastardly thing off his chest.”

Fletch said, “I know you’re not stupid. But I don’t know why I’m feeling stupid.”

You look angry.“

“I am angry.”

“At what?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I should have been doing something about this the last twenty-four hours. This murder.”

“You haven’t been?”

“No.”

“Your trust in us has been the most perplexing element in this whole affair,” Flynn said. “You’re not a naive man.”

“You read the record”

“I take it you’re not confessing to murder at this point?”

“Of course not.”

“He’s still not confessing, Grover. Take that down. The man’s resistance to self-incrimination is absolutely metallic. Let’s go on, then.” Flynn sat forward on the divan, elbows on knees, hands folded before him. “You said last night you had never seen Ruth Fryer before in your life.”

“Never to my knowledge,” answered Fletch.

“With the key number you provided us we went to her hotel, which, by the way, is at the airport. We went through her belongings. We interviewed her roommate. Then we interviewed her supervisor. Never having seen her before, can you guess what she did for a living?”

“You’re not going to say airline stewardess, a you?”

“I am.”

“Dandy.”

“Trans World Airlines, Mister Fletcher. Temporarily assigned to the job of First Class Ground Hostess at Boston’s Logan Airport. On duty to receive passengers aboard Flight 529 from Rome, Tuesday.”

“I never saw her! I would remember! She was beautiful!”

Flynn moved back on the divan, possibly in alarm, when Fletch jumped up.

Fletch went up the living room to the piano.

Grover had stood up.

Fletch banged the middle-G major chord.

Then he said, “This has something to do with me.”

Flynn said, “What?”

Fletch walked back toward Flynn.

“This murder, has something to do with me.”

“That’s your reaction, is it? Sit down, Grover. Clever man, this Mister Fletcher. It’s only taken him twenty-four hours to catch on.”

“You’ve done some wonderful work,” said Fletch.

Flynn said, “Oh, my god. Now it’s innocent flattery.”

“What am I going to do?”

“You might try confessing, you blithering idiot!”

“I would, Inspector, I would.” Fletch paced the room. “I still don’t think it’s personal.”

“Now what do you mean by that?”

“I don’t think the person who killed Ruth Fryer knows me personally.”

“If you’re saying you were framed, Mister Fletcher, you’ve already told us you know no one in town.”

“I didn’t say I don’t know anybody in the world. Lots of people hate me.”

“More every minute,” said Flynn. “Take Grover there, for example.”

“Everybody in Italy knew my plans. Everyone in Cagna, everyone in Rome, everyone in Livorno. The Homeswap people in London. I began making these plans three weeks ago. I wrote old buddies in California saying I would try to get out there while I was in the country. I wrote people in Seattle, Washington.”

“All right, Mister Fletcher, we’ll put the rest of the world in prison and leave you free.”

“But that’s not what I’m saying, Inspector. I don’t think this is a personal frame. Some sort of an accident happened. I happened to be the next guy in this room after a murder.”

“Oh, boyoboyoboy. Like a French philosopher thirty, years after he’s born he decides he might be involved with the world.”

Fletch said, “You guys want to join me for dinner?”

“Dinner! The man’s crazy, Grover. As a matter of fact, Mister Fletcher, we were both thinking of asking you to join us.”

“I don’t care,” Fletch said. “Either way. You know the city.”

“Well, the truth is,” Flynn said to the air, “to this minute the man hasn’t acted involved in this ease. He’s acted as innocent as a reliable witness. He still does. That’s the biggest puzzle of all. What are we going to do with him, Grover?”

“Lock him up.”

“A very succinct man, this Grover.”

“Charge him.”

“You know the man can afford to hire fancy lawyers, detectives, make bail, protest all over the press, get postponements, appeal, and appeal all the way to the Supreme Court.”

“Lock him up, Frank.”

“No.” Flynn stood up. “The man didn’t leave town yesterday. He didn’t leave town today, One may presume he won’t leave town tomorrow.”

“He’ll leave town tomorrow, Inspector.”

“Life is simpler this way. We haven’t got this man far enough in a corner yet. Although I thought we did.”

“What more evidence do we need?”

“I’m not sure. We have pounds of it. I had a hat when I came in. Oh, there it is. It’s not polite to talk in front of a man as if, he were dead, Grover.”

In the hall, Flynn settled the hat on his small head.

“I’m going to get another scolding, Mister Fletcher, I’m sure, an the way home. Maybe Grover can convince me you’re guilty. So far you haven’t. Good night.”