A crime would be reported. A follow-up story would report Flynn had been assigned to it. After a few days of absolutely static news stories, in which there would be no new news, there would be the “public outcry” story; Why has this crime not been solved? Impatient city editors who believed they were getting a runaround from the police were quick to report to the public its indignation. Immediately thereafter a police spokesperson would announce an imminent arrest. Not immediately thereafter, Flynn would be quoted, in response to questioning, as saying, “Nonsense. We’re not arresting anybody.” At first, this announcement would be followed by another “public outcry” story or one which regretfully questioned the compete of the Boston police.
Not in response, absolutely on his own time schedule, Flynn would announce an arrest. Frequently the arrest report appeared as a small item, on a back page.
Halfway through the file, references began to appear to Inspector Francis “Reluctant” Flynn. The “public outcry” and “police incompetence” stories became less frequent and then stopped altogether. The press had discovered they couldn’t push Flynn. They had also discovered he was pretty good.
One of the earliest reports referred to Flynn as “formerly Chicago precinct chief of detectives.”
“Do you need, anything, Mister Locke?”
The young hypocrite ambled up the row between the file cabinets.
“No, thanks, Randy.” Fletch shut the drawer. “I guess I’m done.”
“What’s the story you’re working on, Mister Locke?”
“Nothing very interesting. Feature on the history of New England celebrations of the American Revolution.”
“Oh.”
The kid appeared to agree it wasn’t very interesting. If Ralph Locke was working on such a nothing story, he wasn’t very interesting, either.
“I expect you’ll read it,” Fletch said. “It will be under my by-line.”
Eighteen
Fletch found Jack Saunders in the city room.
Someone had handed him a wire photo, which he showed to Fletch.
It was a picture of the President of the United States trying to put on a sweater without first removing his visored cap and sunglasses.
“That’s news, uh?”
“Actually, it is,” said Fletch. “I always thought he stepped into his sweaters.”
Jack dropped the picture on the copy desk.
“Send it over to the. Sunday feature section. Maybe they’ll run it under ”Trends.‘“
“Jack, I’d like to see your art critic.”
“So would I,” said Jack. “I’m not sure I ever have. We get a lot of phone calls for him. Mostly angry. His name’s Charles Wainwright.”
They walked down a long, dark corridor to the back of the building.
Fletch said, “Do you remember Inspector Flynn in Chicago?”
“What Flynn? ‘Reluctant’ Flynn?”
“Yeah. Your copy said he was a precinct Chief of Detectives in Chicago before coming here.”
“The
“Your very own newspaper.”
“Frank Flynn was never in Chicago. Not two years ago. And not with that rank. I would have had to know him.”
“I don’t remember him, either.”
“That’s a mystery,” said Jack.
“That’s a mystery.”
Charles Wainwright was the filthiest man Fletch had ever seen indoors.
His face was only relatively shaved, as if beard had been pulled out in tufts. In his fifties, particularly his nose and chin gave sustenance to many black-headed pimples. His shirt collars were turning up in decay. And on the shirt front, where the protruding stomach had stopped their fall, were evidences of at least a dozen meals. Tomato sauce had dribbled onto egg yolk.
“This is our great art critic, Charles Wainwright, Ralph,” Jack said. “Charles, Ralph Locke is from Chicago, here working on a story.”
Fletch braced himself to shake hands, but the slob didn’t require it.
“Do what you can for him, eh?”
“Why should I?”
It took Jack a second to realize the question was serious.
“Because I ask you too.”
“I don’t see why I should do this man’s work for him. I have work of my own to do.”
Fletch said, “Actually, I’m not working on a story, Mister Wainwright. There’s a rumor around Chicago that one of your Boston dealers might donate a painting to the museum there, and the publisher just asked me to stop by and have you fill me in on him.”
“What do you mean? You want me to do a story on him?”
“If the guy actually donates the painting, I’d think you’d be the first person we’d call.”
“Who is it?”
“Horan.”
“Ronnie?”
“Is that what he’s called?”
Not concealing his disgust, Jack said to Fletch, “Good luck,” and left.
In the small office newspapers and books were piled everywhere, other newspapers and books thrown on top of them. And on top of that was mildew and then dust.
Wainwright sat at his desk. He rather sank among the piles.
“I’ve known Ronnie for years.”
There was no other place in the room to sit. Although apparently permanent, none of the piles looked stable enough to bear weight.
Wainwright said, “We went to Yale together.”
“Hygiene Department?”
“I guess he could give a painting to Chicago, if wanted to. I can’t think why he’d want to.”
“Ah, the old city still turns a few people on. Rare beef and frequent wind, you know. Gets the blood up.”
“Maybe Grace had some connection with Chicago. Maybe that’s it. Her family was in the rubber business. Grace Gulkis. Gulkis Rubber.”
“Not following you.”
“Ronnie married Grace after the war. When he back taking his doctorate at Harvard.”
“And she’s rich?”
“Was rich. She died after they had been married a few years. One of those terrible diseases. Cancer, leukemia, something. Ronnie was heartbroken.”
“And rich.”
“I suppose he inherited. He started the gallery about that time. And you don’t start a gallery like that off the pay of a Harvard instructor.”
“He never married again?”
“No. I’ve seen him with a lot of women over the years, but he never remarried. Ever hear of the Star of Hunan jade?”
“What is it?”
“It’s a big rock. A famous jewel. Grace used to own it. I’m just wondering now what became of it. I must ask Ronnie.”
“You’ll ask him what he did with his wife’s jewels?”
