‘“Yes. Of course, you’re right, Mister Fletcher. We should ask the question. In the meantime, would you care to mention a specific price to Mister Cooney?”
Horan stepped behind his Louis Seize desk to answer the telephone. The ring had been muffled.
“Hello? Yes, this is Mister Horan…Who wishes to speak to me?…Hello? No, operator, no…I will accept no calls from anyone in Chicago today…This is the third call I’ve had from the
His footfalls on the rug repeated the quiet firmness with which he had hung up the phone.
“Some damn fool Boston newspaper reported I am going to give a painting to the Chicago museum.” Horan shook his head. “Totally untrue. Where do they get things like that?”
“There’s no accounting for the press,” said Fletch.
“We were discussing price.”
Fletch stood. He remembered he didn’t have a coat.
“Yes. We were,” said Fletch.“ I think we might offer Mister Cooney two hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”
Horan looked slapped.
“That would be totally unacceptable.”
“I know. I’ll go higher, of course. But tell Mister Cooney I am deeply anxious about the source of his painting.”
“I doubt he’ll talk in response to such an offer.”
“He might talk—a lot.”
Twenty-two
“Who’s there?”
“The big, bad pomegranate.”
It was eleven-thirty Saturday morning.
Fletch had had to go a little out of his way to find a hardware store on his way home from Newbury Street. He had bought a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and a small can of household oil—all of which he had left in the truck.
After putting the truck in the River Street garage, he had cut through the alley and up the iron, cement- walled back stairs to his apartment.
He had forgotten Mrs. Sawyer would be there. Naturally, she had locked the back door.
“You go away,” she shouted through the door. “Nothing gets picked up on Saturdays.”
“It’s Mister Fletcher, Mrs. Sawyer! Please open up.”
“What are you doing out there?”
The two bolts slid free of the door.
,“Well, look at you!” she said. “Out caterwauling all night! Where’s your coat? You’re, wet like a puppy.”
“Good morning.”
“You have a European countess sleeping in your own bed, and you’re not even home to enjoy it.”
“In my bed?”
“She calls herself the Countess del Gassey.”
“She should.”
“I’ve never seen so much luggage. She expect to be buried here?”
“She slept in my bed?”
“Didn’t you leave her there?”
“I did not. Where is she?”
“She said something about going shopping, Then she said something about going to the museum and visiting some galleries.”
“Great.”
“I fed her, and she’s gone. Mercy, Lord, was she hungry! You’d think no one had fed her in a month.”
“No one has.” The bright, white kitchen was a complete contrast to the cold, dark, wet truck. “I’m wet.”
“Your hair looks like you spent the night tunneling through a haystack. Maybe that’s what you were doing. You want something to eat?”
“Sure would. Where are the countess’s things?”
“You’ll see. All over the apartment. I never met such a bossy woman. She talked to me like I was a platoon.”
“Would you move everything of hers into a guest room, please? And then close the door. Tight.”
“I’m not sure it will all fit! You want breakfast, or lunch?”
“Anything warm would be great. By the way where are the telephone books?”
After standing in a warm shower, he sat on the edge of his bed and checked all the local telephone books.
There was no listing for Lucy Connors.
However, there was a listing, on Fenton Street, in Brookline, for Marsha Hauptmann.
He dialed the number and waited through four rings.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Martin Head, of
Fletch guessed it was Ms. Hauptmann who said, “Just a moment, please.”
Another voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Ms. Connors, this is Martin Head, of
“Yes?”
“Ms. Connors, I’d appreciate your listening very carefully to what I have to say, and see if you can’t agree to it.”
“I doubt I will.”
“Please. You’ll see our intention is good and, with your cooperation, the result may be good.”
“You’ve got me mystified. I don’t read your magazine.”
“We would like to do a sensitive, personal story—without mentioning any names, or using any photographs —on women who have declared themselves lesbian, especially after having gone through a few years of married life.”
“Where did you get my name?”
“Your husband.”
“Bart’s in Italy. I can’t believe that.”
“We met him Tuesday night, in Montreal. Apparently he’s far more understanding, or trying to be far more understanding, than many husbands in similar circumstances we have met.”
“Bart? I suppose so.”
“I believe you could give our readers some genuinely sensitive insights into what you’ve been through—some real understanding. You’d be an ideal interview.”
“I don’t think so. Is it Mister Head?”
