Confess, Fletch

Thirteen

“The 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 traveling 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 anymore.”

“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 th 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 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 traveling.”

“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 he 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 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 Châteaubriand.

“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 Conners, 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. Overcrowded, 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 don 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.”