“Inspector? Do you think it is the truth?”
“No. I don’t.”
He pressed the palms of both hands against his eyes.
“At least not at the moment,” he said. “If you’d been drinking—yes, I’d believe it in a moment. If you were less attractive, I’d believe it. What else do these girls hang around for, if it’s not the Peter Fletchers of the old? If you were less self-possessed, I’d believe it. It’s my guess it would take less cool to get rid of a resisting girl than go through an initial police questioning for murder. Never can tell, though—we all have our moments. If you hadn’t called the Police Business phone, I’d be quicker to believe in your being in an impassioned, uncontrollable state. No. I don’t believe it, either.”
Graver said, “You mean, we’re not arresting him, Inspector?”
“No, Grover.” Flynn stood up. “My instinct is against it.”
“Sir!”
“I’m sure you’re right, Grover, but you must remember I haven’t the benefit of your splendid training. I’m sure any experienced policeman would put Mister Fletcher behind bars faster than a babe can fall asleep. It’s times like these, Grover, that inexperience counts.”
“Inspector Flynn…”
“Tush, tush. If the man’s guilty, and he most likely is, there’ll be more evidence of it. If I hadn’t seen the suitcases in the hall myself, I’d think the whole thing was a pack of lies. I suspect it is, you know. I’ve never met a writer-on-the-arts before, but I’ve not considered them such a randy, subspecies before, either.”
Fletch said, ,“I expect you’re going to tell me not to leave town.”
“I’m not even going to say that. In fact, Mister Fletcher, I’d find it very interesting if you did leave town.”
“I’ll send you a postcard.”
Flynn looked at his watch.
“Well, now, if Grover drives me home, I’ll be just in time for my cup of camomile with my Elizabeth and my suckling.”
“I will, Inspector.” Grover opened the door to the empty apartment. “I want to talk to you.”
“I’m sure you do, Grover. I’m sure you do.”
Four
Expecting the normal delays in completing a trans-atlantic, telephone call, as well as the normal difficulty of getting Angela de Grassi on the phone any time of the day or night, Fletch made his effort while remaining in bed in the morning.
He was greatly surprised when the call went through immediately, and Angela answered on what appeared to be the first ring.
“Andy? Good noon.”
“Fletch? Are you in America?”
“Arrived safely. Even you can fly to Boston and arrive in one piece.”
“0h, I’d love to.”
“Are you eating lunch?”
“Yes.”
“What are you having?”
“Cold asparagus with mayonnaise, a few strawberries. Have You, had breakfast?”
“No. I’m still in bed.”
“That’s nice. Is it a nice bed?”
“Sort of big for one person.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“This bed kept me awake all night, calling out ‘Andy! Andy! Where are you? We need you…’”
“My bed asked for you, too. Is the weather there?”
“I don’t,know. I can’t see it through the fog. How goes the battle?”
“Not so good. I spent all day with the lawyers and the commissioner of this and the commissioner of that. We’re never going to get this straightened out. All the legal officials tell us he’s dead, we must consider him dead, adjust to it and go live our own lives. Which is why we had the funeral service. But the lawyers insist everything must be left up in the air until we know more. Remember Mister Rosselli? He was at Poppa’s funeral Monday. Poppa’s lawyer. Chief mourner. Very big with his handkerchief. A day later, yesterday, he’s putting his hands in the air saying there’s nothing; they can do until more is known.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep trying, I guess. Everyone’s sympathetic.”
“But nothing’s getting done.”
“I’ve always heard lawyers will fiddle around forever, milking an estate—is that the expression?—like a cow, until they have grabbed everything in fees and nothing is left. Even a little estate like my father’s.”
“Sometimes it happens.”
“And Sylvia, of course, darling stepmother Sylvia, is acting her usual bitch self. She announces about every ten minutes that she is the Countess de Grassi. Every doorman in Rome must know she is the Countess de Grassi by now. I get to tag along like a poor waif.”
“Why don’t you forget about it all and come over here?”
“That’s the point, Fletch. Everyone tells us we must adjust, accept the facts, and go back to living our own lives. But we can’t do that without some kind of income from the estate. They’ve turned everything off.”
“I don’t she that it matters. You and I get married and it doesn’t matter how many years it takes to settle the estate. I mean, who cares?”
“I care. Listen, Fletch, I don’t care how long it takes to settle the estate. I don’t care about the rotten, old house or the income. All I want is the will read. I want to know to whom the bulk of the estate goes—my father’s third wife, or my father’s only daughter. That matters to me.”
“Why?”
“If it goes to Sylvia, fine. That’s my father’s prerogative. I would never contest it. So I’d lose my family’s home. Okay, I can walk away from that. Never again would I think of the old servants as my responsibility. Remember, Fletch, Ria and Pep brought me up. If most of the estate goes to me, they’re my responsibilities. Right now I can do nothing about them. Not even answer the questions in their eyes. They are my responsibility. Sylvia can take her precious countess-ship and walk into the sea with it.”
“Andy, Andy, this is an emotional matter. Between two women.”
“You bet it’s an emotional matter. The whole situation is bizarre enough without everything being left up in the air this way. I don’t care if the will is never executed, is that how you say? All I want to know is what the will says.”
“I’m sort of surprised you can’t get the substance of the will somehow out of Rosselli.”
“This man! He dandled me on his knee when I was a baby. Now he will tell me nothing!”
“He’s still dandling you on his knee.”
“And Sylvia doesn’t leave me alone for a moment. When she’s not two paces in front of me announcing to the world she is the Countess de Grassi, she is two paces behind me trying to find out what I do. Every minute she asks ‘Where did Fletcher go? Why did he go there? What is he doing in Boston?’”
“What have you told her?”
“I said you went to, Boston on personal business. Something about your family.”
“Look, Andy. Don’t forget why I am in Boston.”
“And you’d better find them, Fletch. It’s very important. Even if Sylvia inherits most of the estate, she will never take care of the responsibilities. What’s happened so far?”
“Horan, the man from the gallery, called last night. Almost the minute I arrived.”
“What did he say?”
“He never heard of such a painting. I’m meeting him this morning.”
