Confess, Fletch

Eighteen

Fletch found Jack Saunders in the city room.

Someone had handed him a wire photo, which he showed to Fletch.

It was a picture of the President of the United States trying to put on a sweater without first removing his visored cap and sunglasses.

“That’s news, uh?”

“Actually, it is,” said Fletch. “I always thought he stepped into his sweaters.”

Jack dropped the picture on the copy desk.

“Send it over to the. Sunday feature section. Maybe they’ll run it under ”Trends.‘“

“Jack, I’d like to see your art critic.”

“So would I,” said Jack. “I’m not sure I ever have. We get a lot of phone calls for him. Mostly angry. His name’s Charles Wainwright.”

They walked down a long, dark corridor to the back of the building.

Fletch said, “Do you remember Inspector Flynn in Chicago?”

“What Flynn? ‘Reluctant’ Flynn?”

“Yeah. Your copy said he was a precinct Chief of Detectives in Chicago before coming here.”

“The Star said that?”

“Your very own newspaper.”

“Frank Flynn was never in Chicago. Not two years ago. And not with that rank. I would have had to know him.”

“I don’t remember him, either.”

“That’s a mystery,” said Jack.

“That’s a mystery.”

Charles Wainwright was the filthiest man Fletch had ever seen indoors.

His face was only relatively shaved, as if beard had been pulled out in tufts. In his fifties, particularly his nose and chin gave sustenance to many black-headed pimples. His shirt collars were turning up in decay. And on the shirt front, where the protruding stomach had stopped their fall, were evidences of at least a dozen meals. Tomato sauce had dribbled onto egg yolk.

“This is our great art critic, Charles Wainwright, Ralph,” Jack said. “Charles, Ralph Locke is from Chicago, here working on a story.”

Fletch braced himself to shake hands, but the slob didn’t require it.

“Do what you can for him, eh?”

“Why should I?”

It took Jack a second to realize the question was serious.

“Because I ask you too.”

“I don’t see why I should do this man’s work for him. I have work of my own to do.”

Fletch said, “Actually, I’m not working on a story, Mister Wainwright. There’s a rumor around Chicago that one of your Boston dealers might donate a painting to the museum there, and the publisher just asked me to stop by and have you fill me in on him.”

“What do you mean? You want me to do a story on him?”

“If the guy actually donates the painting, I’d think you’d be the first person we’d call.”

“Who is it?”

“Horan.”

“Ronnie?”

“Is that what he’s called?”

Not concealing his disgust, Jack said to Fletch, “Good luck,” and left.

In the small office newspapers and books were piled everywhere, other newspapers and books thrown on top of them. And on top of that was mildew and then dust.

Wainwright sat at his desk. He rather sank among the piles.

“I’ve known Ronnie for years.”

There was no other place in the room to sit. Although apparently permanent, none of the piles looked stable enough to bear weight.

Wainwright said, “We went to Yale together.”

“Hygiene Department?”

“I guess he could give a painting to Chicago, if wanted to. I can’t think why he’d want to.”

“Ah, the old city still turns a few people on. Rare beef and frequent wind, you know. Gets the blood up.”

“Maybe Grace had some connection with Chicago. Maybe that’s it. Her family was in the rubber business. Grace Gulkis. Gulkis Rubber.”

“Not following you.”

“Ronnie married Grace after the war. When he back taking his doctorate at Harvard.”

“And she’s rich?”

“Was rich. She died after they had been married a few years. One of those terrible diseases. Cancer, leukemia, something. Ronnie was heartbroken.”

“And rich.”

“I suppose he inherited. He started the gallery about that time. And you don’t start a gallery like that off the pay of a Harvard instructor.”

“He never married again?”

“No. I’ve seen him with a lot of women over the years, but he never remarried. Ever hear of the Star of Hunan jade?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a big rock. A famous jewel. Grace used to own it. I’m just wondering now what became of it. I must ask Ronnie.”

“You’ll ask him what he did with his wife’s jewels?”

“There’s no such thing as an improper question—just an improper answer.”

“So Horan has plenty of money.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much he inherited from Grace, how much went back into her family coffers. These are things you don’t know about people, especially in Boston. You know what’s happened to money since the 1950s.”

“Heard rumors.”

“He lives well, in that castle on Newbury street where he has his gallery. The top two floors are his penthouse apartment. He drives a Rolls-Royce. And anyone who drives a Rolls-Royce must be broke.”

“Doesn’t he have another house somewhere?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I mean, he can’t just live over the shop.”

“I’ve never heard he has another place.”

“Was he in the service?”

“Yes. Navy. Pacific Theater during World War Two. He was an aide to Admiral Kimberly. ”

“That was before he married La Gulkis?”

“Yes.”

“So how did he have enough political muscle to land a cushy Admiral’s aide job?”

“Well,” Wainwright said, “he went to Yale. A very smooth, attractive guy. Very polished.”

“Where’s he from, originally?”

“Some place up-country. Maine or Vermont. I forget. There’s no money, there. He was broke at Yale.”

“I see.”

“He still teaches at Harvard. Some kind of freshman art survey course. He’s written a couple of turgid books.”

“Turgid?”

“Academic. I was never able to get through them. You know the kind of book where the author spends one hundred and fifty thousand words correcting the opinion of someone else who didn’t matter anyway.”

“Turgid.”

“Your name is Ralph Locke?”

“Yeah.”

“What paper?”

“Chicago Post.”

“You write on art?”

“Oh, no,” said Fletch. “I’m a sports writer. Hockey.”

“Vulgar.”

“Rough.”

“Primitive.”

“Simple.”

“Violent.”

“I take it you like writing on the arts.” Fletch looked around the room. “You must have a great visual sense.”

The filthy man sitting in the filthy room neither confirmed nor denied the assertion.

Fletch said, “Tell me more about the Horan Gallery. Is it doing well?”

“Who knows? As an art. dealer, Ronnie’s the crème de la crème. Horan is not a walk-in gallery. He’s an international art dealer making deals that are so private even the parties involved aren’t sure what they’re doing. He has to play very close to the chest. He could have made millions. He could be stone broke, for all I know.”

“Which do you think?”

“Well, the art market in recent years has had extraordinary ups and downs. First, the Japanese came along and invested heavily. Then, some of them had to dump on the market. Then Arabs came along, trying to bury petrodollars. Many Japanese weren’t deeply schooled in Western art. And Islam has a distinct prejudice against representations of the human or animate figure. So there have been funny, unpredictable distortions in the market. Plus, of course, the art market reflects every distortion in the nature of money itself. Some people have made killings off the market. Others have gotten badly stuck.”

“And you don’t know which has been Horan’s experience.”

“No. But I’m interested to hear he might give a painting to Chicago. I might use the item in my column.”

“By all means, do,” said Fletch. “I’m very grateful to you for all your help.”