“I know. And it’s a very nice ring. Whom did you make it with this week?”
“Whom? What?”
“I didn’t hear your answer. You’re not acting like Fletch.”
“We need a place to park.”
“Over there. To the left.”
“I need two places to park.”
Headlights grew large in his rearview mirror.
“Absolutely,” she said, “I will not help you blame Bart Connors for a crime neither of you committed.”
He said, “Such loyalty.”
Going up in the creaky elevator, she said, “Try Horan again.”
Thirty-one
On the sixth floor landing, Fletch put the huge suitcase down to take his keys out again, to unlock the door.
Sylvia, arms wide, in an apron, opened the door.
Andy and Sylvia clutched and jabbered simultaneously in Italian.
He had to insinuate himself, with the luggage, though the crowded front door.
They sounded like a girls’ school reunion.
He understood Sylvia had prepared a magnificent supper for them. A dinner.
He left the luggage in the hall and walked empty-handed down the corridor to the telephone in the master bedroom.
Even through the closed door he could hear their delighted shrieks and exclamations while he dialed.
“Mister Horan? This is Peter Fletcher.”
“Ah, yes, Mister Fletcher.”
“Sorry to phone on a Sunday night…”
“Quite all right. I’m used to calls from anywhere, at any time. Have you decided to change your offer for the Picasso?”
“Have you spoken with Mister Cooney?”
“Yes, I did. He said he won’t respond to your offer at all.”
“He wouldn’t consider it?”
“No.”
“Was he any more ripen regarding the painting’s provenance?”
“No. I said you rightfully had questions. I outlined to him quite carefully what you had said regarding your responsibility to question the provenance. I went as far as I could, short of physically shaking him, which would be difficult over the phone, anyway.”
“And you got nowhere?”
“He didn’t even deign to offer the usual evasions. He said the authenticity of the painting can’t really be questioned…”
“Of course it can be.”
“Not really. I have thoroughly satisfied myself. No, he’s prepared to stand on the painting’s authenticity.”
“I see.”
“And, by the way, Mister Fletcher, our Texas cowboy friend rather surprised me by repeating something, you said.”
“Oh?”
“He referred to ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle’ as a ‘most significant Picasso.’ He referred to it as the ‘key work of the cubist period.’”
“Oh.”.
“So our cowboy with eight kiddies has no wool over his eyes, if I may coin a phrase.”
“If you insist. Mister Horan? Offer Mister Coney five hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollars for the painting.”
“Ah! Mister Fletcher. Now you’re in the arena. I most certainly will.”
“And you may remember originally I said I might ask you to help me on another problem or two?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if you would ask Mister Cooney if he has another particular painting in his possession?”
“You mean, another specific painting? I don’t understand.”
“Yes, another specific painting. An Umberto Boccioni entitled ‘Red Space.’”
“‘Red Space’? Again you’ve got me stumped. Mister Fletcher, you go from a key cubist work by Picasso to the work of an only relatively important Italian Futurist.”
“I know.”
“Fire and water.”
“Or water and fire, depending upon your point of view.”
“Well, again, professionally, I have to advise you that I don’t know if such a painting exists…”
“I do.”
“What makes you think Mister Cooney might have such a painting, Mister Fletcher?”
“We all have our little secrets.”
“You mean, you want me to ask him straight out if be, has this ‘Red Space’ by Boccioni?”
“Not necessarily straight out. After all, I’m offering him over half a million dollars for the Picasso…”
“It’s worth much more.”
“I think it’s a good enough offer to justify a little conversation. You might say that someone has mentioned the existence of such a painting, and you’d give anything to be able to locate it.”
“You want me to exercise craft, is that it?”
“Even deviousness,” suggested Fletch. “I’ll be interested in what he says.”
“It’s nearly eight o’clock now,” Horan said. “Of course, that’s not Dallas time. I guess I can try to call him tonight.”
“Will you call me in the morning?”
“If I reach him.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
Thirty-two
The dining room table had been set with crystal and silver. The light was subdued.
“Oh, it’s nothing, said Sylvia, removing her apron. ”I’ll serve.“
Fletch sat at the far end of the table. Before leaving the room, Sylvia indicated Andy should sit to his right.
Sylvia would sit at the other end of the table.
Fletch said to Andy, “Trust you don’t feel seven years old.”
“What’s going on here?”.
“Oh!” said Fletch. “Soup!”
“The first course,” said Sylvia. “A nice soup!”
In the flat bowls was about a cupful of consomme.
The bouillon cube, worn away only at its edges, sat an island of its own grease, surrounded by cool water.
“I can tell,” said Fletch. “You gave us big spoons.”
Applying the tip of the spoon to the bouillon cube accomplished nothing. A minute Michelangelo with hammer and chisel might make something of it.
