“Even the driver who delivered someone from the airport to 152 Beacon Street yesterday afternoon can’t identify you. Nor is his record clear on whether he was carrying one passenger or two.”
“Terrific.”
“Those fellows who work the airport are and independent lot. Fearful independent. And four taxis went from this area last night to the Cafe Budapest. None of the drivers can identify you or say whether you were alone or not.”.
“I’m greatly indebted to them all.”
“Not everyone is as cooperative as you, Mister Fletcher.”
“The bastards.”
“Nor did the waiters at the Cafe Budapest recognize you at all. For a man who wears such an expensive cologne, the fact that you can spend an hour or two in a fashionable restaurant and have no one—not even the waiters—recognize you the next day must cut.”
“It slashes,” said Fletch. “It slashes.”
“You’d think waiters would remember a man eating alone, taking up a whole table, even for two, all by himself, wouldn’t you? It affects their income.”
It was ten minutes to eight.
“That we discovered with your photograph. From your fingerprints we also found out some interesting.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“You touched two things in this room—middle-A on the piano keyboard, with your right index finger. I had no idea you are musical.”
“I’m not.”
“Did I say two things in this room other than the light switches? I meant to. I would guess when you came into this apartment and were looking around, you turned on the wall switch in the living room, went to the piano, hit middle A, went into the dining room and then the kitchen, leaving the lights on like a 1970 electric company executive.”
“I suppose I did.”
“The only other things your fingerprints were on in this room were the whiskey bottle and the water decanter.”
“That would be right.”
“It was a fresh bottle. You opened it.”
“Yes.”
“Mister Fletcher. The whiskey bottle was the murder weapon.”
The green eyes watched him intensely. Fletch felt them in his stomach. To his side he had the impression of Grover’s white face, watching him.
“There were no other fingerprints on the bottle, Mister Fletcher. It had been dusted. Liquor bottles are apt to be dusted while being set out.”
“What other fingerprints were in this room?” Fletch asked. “I mean, whose others?”
“Mrs. Sawyer’s, the gal’s—that is, Ruth Fryer’s—and the prints of one other person, a man’s, we presume to belong to Bartholomew Connors.”
“Were there many of the girl’s?”
“A few. Enough to establish she was murdered here. They were the fingerprints of a live person.”
Fletch considered his wisdom in saying nothing. At the moment he doubted he could say anything, anyway.
“The disconcerting thing is, Mister Fletcher,” continued Flynn with a nerve-shattering gentleness, “that if you remember your laws of physics, the whiskey bottle, would be a far more reliable, satisfactory, workable murder weapon when it is full and sealed than after it has been uncapped and a quantity has been poured out.”
“Oh, my God.”
“By opening the whiskey bottle and pouring, a quantity out, you meant to remove the whiskey bottle from suspicion, as the murder weapon.”
“It didn’t work,” said Fletch.
“Ah, that’s where my inexperience comes in. A more experienced police officer might have discounted the whiskey bottle completely. I remember having to persuade Grover to send it along. It took a few words, didn’t it, Grover? Not having come up through the ranks myself, and never having had the benefits of a proper education, I insisted. The boyos in the police laboratory were very surprised the murder weapon was an unbroken, open bottle.”
“How do they know it was?
“Minute traces of hair, skin, and bloods that match the girl’s.”
Flynn allowed a long silence. He sat quietly, watching Fletch.
Either he was waiting for Fletch to adjust to this new trauma or he was waiting for Fletch to be indiscreet.
Fletch exercised his right to remain silent.
“Now, Mister Fletcher, would you like, to call in a lawyer?”
“No.”
“If you think by not calling in a lawyer you’re convincing us of your innocence, you’re quite wrong.”
Grover said, “You’re convincing us of your stupidity.”
“Now, Grover. Mister Fletcher is not stupid. And now he knows we’re not stupid. Maybe he wants to skip the formalities of a lawyer altogether and go ahead with his confession, get the dastardly thing off his chest.”
Fletch said, “I know you’re not stupid. But I don’t know why I’m feeling stupid.”
You look angry.“
“I am angry.”
“At what?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I should have been doing something about this the last twenty-four hours. This murder.”
“You haven’t been?”
“No.”
“Your trust in us has been the most perplexing element in this whole affair,” Flynn said. “You’re not a naive man.”
“You read the record”
“I take it you’re not confessing to murder at this point?”
“Of course not.”
“He’s still not confessing, Grover. Take that down. The man’s resistance to self-incrimination is absolutely metallic. Let’s go on, then.” Flynn sat forward on the divan, elbows on knees, hands folded before him. “You said last night you had never seen Ruth Fryer before in your life.”
“Never to my knowledge,” answered Fletch.
“With the key number you provided us we went to her hotel, which, by the way, is at the airport. We went through her belongings. We interviewed her roommate. Then we interviewed her supervisor. Never having seen her before, can you guess what she did for a living?”
“You’re not going to say airline stewardess, a you?”
“I am.”
“Dandy.”
“Trans World Airlines, Mister Fletcher. Temporarily assigned to the job of First Class Ground Hostess at Boston’s Logan Airport. On duty to receive passengers aboard Flight 529 from Rome, Tuesday.”
“I never saw her! I would remember! She was beautiful!”
Flynn moved back on the divan, possibly in alarm, when Fletch jumped up.
Fletch went up the living room to the piano.
Grover had stood up.
Fletch banged the middle-G major chord.
Then he said, “This has something to do with me.”
Flynn said, “What?”
