something.”
“Maybe I could come in some afternoon, while you’re there.”
“You bet. Mondays and Tuesdays I take off. You’ll probably want to come sooner than that.”
“Yeah. God knows where I’ll be next Monday.”
“I’ve been to Norfolk Prison,” said Jack. “It’s not bad, as prisons go. Clean. Got a good shop. Overcrowded, of course.”
“Maybe that’s why Flynn hasn’t arrested me.”
“I don’t think you should come into the office using the name Fletcher, though. The publisher might resent a murder suspect going through our files.”
“Okay. What name should I use?”
“Smith?”
“That’s a good one.”
“Jones? I’ve got it—Brown.”
“Has a nice ring to it.”
“I’m not as inventive as you are, Fletch.”
“How about Jasper dePew Mandeville the Fourth?”
“That’s a good one. Very convincing.”
“I’ll use the name Locke.”
“John?”
“Ralph.”
“Ralph!”
“Somebody’s got to be called Ralph.”
They both had their coffee black.
Jack said, “For some reason, I’ve hesitated to ask you what you’re doing these days. I guess I’m afraid what you might tell me.”
“I’ve gone back to writing about art.”
“Oh, yeah. You were doing that in Seattle. Not quite as exciting as investigative reporting.”
“It has its moments.”
“How can you afford it? I mean, you’re not writing for anyone, right?”
“An uncle left me some money.”
“I see. I. M. Fletcher finally ripped somebody off. Always knew you would.”
“Did the de Grassi story come over the wires?”
“De Grassi?”
“From Italy. Count Clementi de Grassi.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s a weird one. I don’t think, we used it. What was the story? He was kidnapped, and then when the ransom wasn’t paid, he was murdered, right?”
“Right. I expect to marry his daughter, Angela.”
“Oh. Why didn’t they pay the ransom?”
“They didn’t have the money. Nothing like it.”
“A great tragedy.”
“There’s only the young wife, the present Countess de Grassi, about forty, and Angela, who is in her early twenties. They haven’t got a dime. Ransom was over four million dollars.”
“Then why was he kidnapped?”
“Somebody got the wrong de Grassi family. They have the title, you know, a falling-down palace outside Livorno, and they keep a small apartment at a good address in Rome.”
“Pretty horrible story. Maybe we should have run it.”
“I don’t. think so,” said Fletch. “It’s far away, has nothing to don with Boston. No use in advertising crime.”
Jack Saunders paid the bill.
“Nice eating off a newspaper again,” Fletch said. “As a kindness, I guess I should go get that cop off his flat feet. For him, I’ll take a taxi home. Otherwise, I would walk.”
“Congratulations,” Jack said. “I mean, about getting married.”
Fletch said, “This is the real thing.”
Fourteen
It would be nine-thirty at night in Cagna, Italy.
Fletch wandered around the apartment, with his coat and tie off. He toured the paintings.
He had evidence, from an unreliable witness, Joan Winslow from apartment 6A, that Bart Connors had been in Boston the night of the murder. Tuesday night. No, he had more than that. Flynn had said there was no evidence from the airlines Connors had flown out of the country anytime between his being seen by Mrs. Sawyer on Saturday night and Tuesday night. Yet yesterday, Wednesday, Andy had seen him in Cagna.
Should he tell Flynn what the woman in 6A had said?
Fletch had worked with the police before. With them, against them, around them. Flynn was pretty good, but it was Fletch’s freedom Fletch was fighting for. So far, he had been entirely too trusting.
He’d roust the quail whether its feathers were wet or not.
Fletch checked his watch again, and placed a call to his villa in Cagna.
“Hello?”
“Andy?”
“Fletch!”
“What are you doing in Cagna?”
“You asked me to come up.”
“That was yesterday.”
“Why did you call here, Fletch?”
“Did you spend the night?”
“Oh, I had car trouble.”
“The Porsche?”
“Bart said it was the diaphragm or something.”
“‘Bart said!’ This is the second night, Andy.”
“Yes. The car will be ready in the morning.”
“Andy!”
“Wait until I turn the record player down, Fletch. I can’t hear too well.”
She came back in a few seconds and said, “Hello, Fletch, darling.”
“Andy, what are you doing spending the night at my house with Bart Connors?”
“That has no business for you, Fletcher. Just because I marry you has nothing to do with where I spend last night.”
“Listen to me, will you? Is Bart Connors there?”
Andy hesitated. “Of course.”
“Then get out of that house. Sneak out and run down to the hotel or something.”
“But, darling, why?”
“There is some evidence your host has a terrible temper.”
“Temper? Nonsense. He’s a kitten.”
“Will you do as. I say?”
“I don’t think so. We’re just beginning dinner.”
“I think you’d better come here, Andy. To Boston.”
“I have to go back to Rome. See what the grand Countess is doing.”
“The Countess is here.”
“Where?”
