been counterfeited more than the work of anyone else in history.”
“I do know, yes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be giving you professional service if I didn’t bring these matters up to you. If such a painting exists, and it’s authentic, I’ll do everything I can to find it for you and arrange for the purchase.”
Rotating blue lights from the roofs of police cars stories below began to flash against the long, light window curtains. There had been no sound of sirens.
“Are you free to come by tomorrow morning, Mister Fletcher?”
Fletch said, “I’m not sure.”
“I was thinking of ten-thirty.”
“Ten-thirty will be fine. If I’m free at all.”
“Good. You have my address.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see, you’re on Beacon Street across from the Gardens, right?”
“I think so.”
Fletch pushed the curtains aside. There were three police cars in the street. Across the street was an iron railing. The darkness beyond had to be a park.
“Then what you do is this: Leave your apartment and turn right, that is, east, and go to the end of the Gardens. Then turn left on Arlington Street, that is, away from the river. Newbury Street will be the third block on your right. The gallery is about two and a half blocks down the street.”
“Thank you. I’ve got it.”
“I’ll send someone down to open the door to you at ten-thirty precisely. We’re not a walk-in gallery, you know.”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’m sorry, Mister Horan. I think there’s someone at my door.”
“Quite all right. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”
Fletch hung up.
The door buzzer sounded. It was seven minutes to ten.
Three
“My name’s Flynn. Inspector Flynn.”
The man in the well-cut, three-piece, brown tweed suit filled the den doorway. His chest and shoulders ware enormous, his brown hair full and curly. Between these two masses of overblown brown was a face so smell it had the cherubic quality of an eight-year-old boy, or a dwarf. Even with the hair, his head was small in proportion to his body, like a tiny, innocent-looking knob in control of a huge, powerful machine. Nothing indoors had the precise color of his green eyes. It was the bright, sparkling green of sunlight on a wet spring meadow.
Below the break of his right trouser leg were a half-dozen dots of blood.
“Pardon my pants. I’m fresh from an axe murder.”
For such a huge chest cavity, for anyone, for that matter, his voice was incredibly soft and gentle.
Fletch said, “You’re an Irish cop.”
“I am that.”
“I’m sorry.” Fletch stood up. “I meant nothing derogatory by that”
Flynn said, “Neither did I.”
There was no proffer to shake hands.
As Flynn vacated the doorway, a younger and shorter man came in, carrying a notepad and ballpoint pen. He had the grizzled head of someone fried on a Marine Corps drill ground a score of times, like a drill sergeant. The rubbery skin around his eyes and mouth suggested his eagerness to shove his face in yours, tighten his skin, and shout encouraging obscenities up your nose. In repose, the slack skin gave him the appearance of a petulant basset. His suit and shirt were cheap, ill-fitting, but spotless, and his shoes, even this late on a drizzly day, gleamed.
“This is Grover,” said Flynn. “The department doesn’t trust me to do my own parking.”
He settled himself in a red leather chair..
Fletch sat down again.
It was, twenty-six minutes past ten.
He remained waiting in the den. A young, uniformed policeman waited with him, standing pat parade rest, carefully keeping his eyes averted from Fletch. Beyond the den, other police, plainclothesmen, moved around the apartment. Fletch wondered if any reporter had sneaked in with them. Fletch heard the murmur of their voices, but caught nothing of what they said. Occasionally, a streak of light from a camera flashbulb crossed the hall, from either the left, where the bedrooms were, or the right, where the living room was.
An ambulance crew entered, rolling a folded stretcher across the hall, toward the living rooms,
“Close the door, will you, Grover? Then make yourself comfortable at the wee desk there. We don’t want to miss a word of what this boyo in the exquisite English tailoring has to say.”
The uniformed policeman went through the door as Grover closed it.
“Has anyone read: you your rights?” Flynn asked.
“The first fuzz through the door.”
“Fuzz, is it?”
Fletch said, “Fuzz.”
“In more human language,” Flynn continued, “I ask you if you don’t think you’d be wiser to have your lawyer present while we question you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Flynn said, “What did you hit her with?”
Fletch could not prevent mild surprise, mild humor appearing in his face. He said nothing.
“All right, then.” Flynn settled more comfortably in his chair. “Your name is Fletcher?”
“Peter Fletcher,” Fletch said.
“And who is Connors?”
“He owns this apartment. I’m borrowing it from him he’s in Italy.”
Flynn leaned forward in his chair. “Do I take it you’re not going to confess immediately to this crime?”
His used his voice like an instrument—a very soft, woodland instrument.
“I’m not, going to confess to this crime at all.”
“And why not?”
“Because I didn’t do it.”
“The man says he didn’t do it, Grover. Have you written that down?”
“Sitting here,” Fletch said, “I’ve been rehearsing what I might tell you.”
“I’m sure you have.” Elbows on chair arms, massive shoulders hunched, Flynn folded his hands in his lap. “All right, Mister Fletcher. Supposing you recite to us your opening prevarication.”
The green eyes clamped on Fletch’s face as if to absorb with full credulity every word.
“I arrived from Rome this afternoon. Came here to the apartment. Changed my clothes, went out to dinner. Came back and found the body.”
“This is a dandy, Grover. Let me see if I’ve got it in all its pristine wonder. Mister Fletcher, you say you fly into a strange city, go to an apartment you’re borrowing, and first night there you find a gorgeous naked girl you’ve never seen before in your life murdered on the living room rug. Is that your story, in short form?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now. If that doesn’t beat the belly of a fish. I trust you’ve got every, word, Grover, however few of them there were.”
Fletch said, “I thought it might help us all get to bed earlier.”
“‘Get to bed,’ he says. Now, Grover, here’s a man who’s had a full day. Would you mind terribly if I led the conversation for a while now?”
“Go ahead,” Fletch said.
Looking at his watch, Flynn said, “It’s been a near regular custom I’ve had with my wife since we were
