Confess, Fletch

Thirty-four

Fletch went into the den to answer the telephone after a second helping of scrambled eggs and sausage.

It was past ten, and Sylvia apparently had gone out earlier to follow her own investigation, which, Fletch guessed, meant walking through Boston’s private galleries with the list of de Grassi paintings in her hand.

It was finally, a cloudless October day.

At breakfast, Fletch and Andy had decided to spend the day walking the old streets. She said she would show him his American history.

He worried about the moon.

It was Horan.

“Mister Fletcher, I was able to get Mister Cooney on the phone last night, too late to call you back.”

“That was very considerate of you. I did go to bed early.”

“There was little point in rushing to you with the news anyway.”

“Oh?”

“He says he won’t respond to your new offer for the Picasso, either. Contrary to my advice to you, he says you’re not even in the ballpark.”

“Did you remind him he has eight kids to feed?”

“He said he is looking for upwards of a million dollars for the painting.”

“Hungry kids. I thought beef was cheaper in Texas.”

“That’s the lay of the land. I don’t know if you want to go further with this negotiation, but I expect you’ll want to think about it.”

“Would you? I mean, would you go further?”

“I think I would. I think I’d make another offer for it. Of course, I have no idea how much of your resources you want to tie up in a single property.”

“Will you make another offer, if I don’t?”

“Mister Fletcher, I think I made a mistake there—one for which I apologize—an indicating to you I might be interested in purchasing this painting if you don’t. I’m your broker, in this case, and a client should never feel he would be in a position where he must bid against his own broker.”

“I was wondering about that.”

“I was greatly mistaken. What I meant was, if this negotiation between you and Cooney doesn’t work out, after a decent interval of time—and it would be a long, decent interval—I might reopen negotiations with Mister Cooney on my own, or even, conceivably, in behalf of another client.”

“I see.”

“As long as you leave your negotiation with Mister Cooney open, you will not be bidding against me, or any other client of mine, even potentially. I will continue to give you my best advice, to make your negotiation successful.”

“And what’s your advice now?”

“First, I think you should think about it. No reason for being too swift in these matters. After you consider your own resources, and the very real question of how much of those resources you want committed to a single property, I’d make a new offer, if I were so inclined.”

“How much?”

“The new offer? I think eight hundred thousand dollars.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“All right, Mister Fletcher. Call me any time.”

“What about the other painting?”

“What other painting?”

“The Boccioni. ‘Red Space.’”

“Oh. A complete, blank.”

“Really?”

“I guess I was too subtle at first. He had no idea what I was talking about. I finally asked him, more directly. Mister Cooney clearly had never heard of Umberto Boccioni.”

“That’s puzzling.”

“I guess your source of information was dead wrong?”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“Nothing’s hard to believe in this business, Mister Fletcher. Whoever told you Mister Cooney owns a Boccioni was incorrect. Call me when you decide about the Picasso.”

“I will.”