Confess, Fletch

“There’s no such thing as an improper question—just an improper answer.”

“So Horan has plenty of money.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how much he inherited from Grace, how much went back into her family coffers. These are things you don’t know about people, especially in Boston. You know what’s happened to money since the 1950s.”

“Heard rumors.”

“He lives well, in that castle on Newbury street where he has his gallery. The top two floors are his penthouse apartment. He drives a Rolls-Royce. And anyone who drives a Rolls-Royce must be broke.”

“Doesn’t he have another house somewhere?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I mean, he can’t just live over the shop.”

“I’ve never heard he has another place.”

“Was he in the service?”

“Yes. Navy. Pacific Theater during World War Two. He was an aide to Admiral Kimberly. ”

“That was before he married La Gulkis?”

“Yes.”

“So how did he have enough political muscle to land a cushy Admiral’s aide job?”

“Well,” Wainwright said, “he went to Yale. A very smooth, attractive guy. Very polished.”

“Where’s he from, originally?”

“Some place up-country. Maine or Vermont. I forget. There’s no money, there. He was broke at Yale.”

“I see.”

“He still teaches at Harvard. Some kind of freshman art survey course. He’s written a couple of turgid books.”

“Turgid?”

“Academic. I was never able to get through them. You know the kind of book where the author spends one hundred and fifty thousand words correcting the opinion of someone else who didn’t matter anyway.”

“Turgid.”

“Your name is Ralph Locke?”

“Yeah.”

“What paper?”

“Chicago Post.”

“You write on art?”

“Oh, no,” said Fletch. “I’m a sports writer. Hockey.”

“Vulgar.”

“Rough.”

“Primitive.”

“Simple.”

“Violent.”

“I take it you like writing on the arts.” Fletch looked around the room. “You must have a great visual sense.”

The filthy man sitting in the filthy room neither confirmed nor denied the assertion.

Fletch said, “Tell me more about the Horan Gallery. Is it doing well?”

“Who knows? As an art. dealer, Ronnie’s the creme de la creme. Horan is not a walk-in gallery. He’s an international art dealer making deals that are so private even the parties involved aren’t sure what they’re doing. He has to play very close to the chest. He could have made millions. He could be stone broke, for all I know.”

“Which do you think?”

“Well, the art market in recent years has had extraordinary ups and downs. First, the Japanese came along and invested heavily. Then, some of them had to dump on the market. Then Arabs came along, trying to bury petrodollars. Many Japanese weren’t deeply schooled in Western art. And Islam has a distinct prejudice against representations of the human or animate figure. So there have been funny, unpredictable distortions in the market. Plus, of course, the art market reflects every distortion in the nature of money itself. Some people have made killings off the market. Others have gotten badly stuck.”

“And you don’t know which has been Horan’s experience.”

“No. But I’m interested to hear he might give a painting to Chicago. I might use the item in my column.”

“By all means, do,” said Fletch. “I’m very grateful to you for all your help.”

Nineteen

Fletch led the plainclothesmen through Friday evening commuter traffic back to his apartment house.

After sharing Charles Wainwright’s critical vision, Fletch felt badly in need of a wash.

Taking his complimentary copy of the Boston Star with him (a quarter of the front page was devoted to the bathtub murder of the City Councilperson), Fletch walked up the five flights of stairs which squared the lobby elevator shaft and quietly let himself in the front door of his apartment.

Mignon did not bark.

After he washed, he went through the front door again, closing it quietly behind him.

He pushed the button for the elevator. It creaked up to the sixth floor.

He pulled open the iron-grilled doors. They clanged shut on their own weights.

After he waited a moment, he rang the bell to apartment 6A.

It took another moment for Joan Winslow to collect herself and open the door.

“I’m afraid I’ve locked myself out,” Fletch said.“By any chance do you have a key to 6B?”

The smell of gin was not stale, but it was mixed with the odor of an air purifier.

From beside the skirt of Joan’s housecoat, Mignon was looking at him with her usual polite courtesy.

“Who are you?” Joan asked.

“Peter Fletcher. I’m using Bart’s apartment. We met in the elevator yesterday.”

“Oh, yes.” She lurched heavily on her left foot as she turned to the small hall table. “You’re the man Bart dumped the body on.”

“Ma’am?”

The drawer of the hall table held many keys.

“The police were here. An enormous man. Name of Wynn, or something.”

“Flynn.”

“He spoke so softly I could hardly hear him. Came this morning. He showed me a picture of the murdered girl. I forget her name.”

“Ruth Fryer.”

“Yes.”

She stirred her hand through the key drawer.

Fletch said, “Yes?”

She pulled out a key with a white tag attached. It read, “Bart’s—6B.”

“There it is.”

She lurched toward the doorway, apparently thinking Fletch was still standing in it.

“Oh,” she said, finding him. “Now use this key and give it right back to me so next time one of you lock yourselves out I’ll have it.”

Key in hand, Fletch asked, “Did you let anyone into the apartment Tuesday night?”

“No. Of course not. I’ve never let anyone into that apartment. Except Bart. Lucy. And now you. Anyway, I wasn’t here Tuesday night. I had drinks and dinner with some friends.”

“Where did you have drinks?”

“Bullfinch Pub.” She knew she was repeating herself. “Just up the street.”

“I see.”