Confess, Fletch

They were driving east on the Turnpike Extension.

“It’s a puzzle,” said Flynn. “It is. How could he have known enough to rob himself? And what did he do with the paintings?”

Fletch said, “Perhaps you weren’t very convincing as a man who wanted to sell a Ford Madox Brown.”

“I spoke to him in German,” said Flynn.

“Inspector, I still don’t see that your evidence against Horan is any better than your evidence against me.”

“It is. His fingerprints were all over your apartment.”

“His? I asked you about fingerprints.”

“And I told you that we had yours, Mrs. Sawyer’s, Ruth Fryer’s, and a man’s presumed to be Bart Connors‘. We were never sure of the man’s prints. Mister Connors, you see, has never been in the service and he’s never been charged with any crime. His fingertips are as virginal as the day he was born. There is no record of his fingerprints. And all this time he’s been enjoying your house in Italy.”

“He certainly has.”

“We had Mister Horan’s fingerprints because been a Navy Commander, you know.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t until we were chatting over tea on Saturday and you allowed me to know why you were really in Boston—to see Mister Horan—that I considered we might try to match up the fingerprints we found in your apartment with those Mister Horan had on record. A perfect fit. He was a bit careless there. He thought he was so far removed from being a suspect for this particular crime, he never wiped up after himself. Even so, I suspect a more experienced man never would have suspected Mister Horan. Such a respectable man.”

“Does he know you have his fingerprints?”

“Oh, yes. He’s confessed.”

“You finally have, a confession. From someone.”

“It’s much easier when there’s a confession. It cuts down on the department’s court time.”

The moon bad disappeared,

Fletch said, “Lucy Connors didn’t kill Ruth Fryer.”

“Indeed not. She’s as innocent as a guppy. You must get over your prejudices, lad.”

“Did you know Horan was guilty this afternoon when I was talking to you? I mean, yesterday afternoon? In your office.”

Yes, lad. I’m sorry to say I deceived you something terrible. There I was, a wee lad again in Germany, asking you for your autograph while I took your picture to send on to London. By five o’clock yesterday we had matched up Horan’s prints with those in your apartment, and I had made an appointment to see him. The warrants were in process.“

“Flynn. Have you ever felt stupid?”

“Oh, yes. A cup of tea is a great help.”

Flynn gave Grover money for another toll.

“Good luck on the City Councilperson’s murder,” Fletch said.

“Ach, that’s over, all this long time.”

“Is it?”

“Sure, I’m just letting the politicians exercise their bumps so they’ll accept the solution when I give it to them. They so want to think the crime is political. They’ve all demanded police protection, you know. It makes them look so much grander when they go through the streets with a cop at their heels.”

“Who did it?”

“Did you say, ‘Who did it’?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you have your humor yourself, don’t you? Her husband did it. A poor, meek little man who’s been in the back seat of that marriage since they pulled away from the church.”

“How do you know he did it?”

“I found the man who sold him the ice pick. A conscientious Republican, to boot. An unimpeachable witness, with the evidence he has, in a case involving Democrats.”

Outside 152 Beacon Street, before getting out of the car, Fletch put his hand out to Flynn.

“I’ve met a great cop,” he said.

They shook hands.

>

“I’m coming along slowly,” said Flynn. “I’m learning. Bit by bit.”