“Who do you think killed Ruthie?”
“I have a couple of ideas.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No.”
Robinson said, “You have the gun.”
“Yeah,” Fletch said, “But you might have another hundred dollars.”
Robinson’s white face moved as slowly as changes in the moon.
“Why don’t you to home?” Fletch said. “Go downstairs, get into a taxi, go to the airport, take the next plane to Washington, taxi to your apartment, have something warm to eat, go to bed, and tomorrow-morning go to work.”
Robinson said, “Sounds nice.”
“Thought it would if someone laid it out for you.”
Robinson said, “All right.”
He stood up stiffly and reached for his raincoat.
“What am I supposed to say to you?”
Fletch said, “Good-bye?”
“I guess if I ever find out you are the murderer, I will kill you.”
“Okay.”
“Even if they put you in jail for twenty, thirty years, however long, when they release you, I will kill you.”
“It’s a deal.”
At the door, Robinson said, “Good-bye.”
Fletch said, “Come again. When you’re feeling better.”
Before leaving the apartment himself, an hour or two later, Fletch wrote a note to the Countess saying he had gone to the airport to pick up Andy.
Twenty-nine
It was a dark brown, wooden Victorian house, three storeys under a slate roof, on the harborside, in Winthrop. It had a small front yard and cement steps leading up to a deep porch.
Looking between the houses, as he walked from where he had parked his car, Fletch saw their shallow backyards ended at a concrete seawall. Beyond was the cold, slate-gray, dirty water of Boston Harbor. The airport was a mile or two across the water.
On the porch, Fletch looked through the window, into the living room.
At the back of the room, four music stands were set up in a row. Behind them, to their right, was a baby grand piano, its lid piled with stacks of sheet music. A cello stood against the piano. The divan and chairs, coffee table, and carpet seemed incidental in the large, wainscoted room.
Two teenage boys who looked just alike, not only their blue jeans and cotton shirts, but in their slim builds and light coloring, were setting sheet music on the stands.
A jet, taking off from. the airport across the screamed overhead.
The storm door to Fletch’s right opened.
“Mister Fletcher?”
He had not rung the bell.
Flynn’s small face, at his great height, peered the corner at him.
“Hi,” Fletch said, backing away from the window he had been peering through. “How are you?”‘
I’m fine,“ Flynn said. ”Your police escort phoned to report you were approaching my house. They fear you threaten our well-being.“
“I do,” said Fletch, holding out a five-pound box. “I brought your family some chocolate.”
“How grand of you.” Flynn held the spring door open with his huge left arm and took the candy with his right had “Bribery, is it?”
“It occurred to me it was the City of Boston which owed me a bottle of whiskey—not the Flynn family.”
Flynn said, “Come in, Fletch.”
The vestibule was dark and scattered with a half-dozen pairs of rubbers. A baby carriage was parked at an odd angle.
Flynn led him into the living room.
Besides the boys in the room, one of whom now had a violin in his hands, there was a girl of about twelve, with full, curly blond hair and huge, blue saucer eyes. The color of her short, fluffy dress matched her eyes. The boys were about fifteen.
“Munchkin,” Flynn said. “This is Mister Fletcher, the murderer.” Flynn pointed off his children, “Randy, Todd, Jenny.”
Randy, bow and violin in one hand, extended his right. “How do you do, sir?”
As did his twin, Todd.
“Ach,” said Flynn. “My family gets to meet all sorts.”
A boy about nine years old entered. His hair was straight brown. Mostly he was glasses and freckles.
“This is Winny,” said Flynn.
Fletch shook hands with him.
“No Francis Xavier Flynn?”
“One’s enough,” said Flynn. “No bloody Irwin Maurice, either.”
Elizabeth Flynn entered through a door behind the piano.
Her light brown, straight hair fell to her shoulders. Her body, under her skirt and cardigan, was full and firm. Her unquestioning light blue eyes were deep-set over magnificent cheekbones. They were warm and humorous and loving.
“This is Fletch, Elsbeth. The murderer. I mentioned him.”
“How do you do?” She held his hand over the music stand. “You’d like some tea, I think.”
“I would.”
“He brought me some candy.” Flynn handed her box. “Better give him some tea.”
“How nice.” She looked at the box in her hands. “Perhaps for after supper?”
“We were about to have our musicale,” Flynn said. To the children, he said, “What is it today?”
“Eighteen—One.” Todd’s Adam’s apple seemed large for his sinewy neck, especially when he spoke. “F major.”
“Beethoven? We’re up to that, are we?”
Jenny said, “I am.”
“Sorry to wake you all up last night,” Fletch said.
Elizabeth had come in the other door with tea things.
“Come over and have a cuppa,” Flynn said
While Flynn and Fletch sat over their tea, Elizabeth at the piano helped the children tune their instruments. Todd had picked up a viola. Jenny had a less than full-sized violin.
Fletch spoke over the scrapings and plunks.
“Did you catch him?”
“Who?” Flynn poured a cup for Elizabeth as well.
“The arsonist.”
“Oh, yes,” said Flynn.
“Was it the gas station attendant?”
“It was a forty-three-year-old baker.”
“Not the gas station attendant?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Are you crushed?”
“Why was he burning down Charlestown?”
