“How much?”
“The new offer? I think eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“All right, Mister Fletcher. Call me any time.”
“What about the other painting?”
“What other painting?”
“The Boccioni. ‘Red Space.’”
“Oh. A complete, blank.”
“Really?”
“I guess I was too subtle at first. He had no idea what I was talking about. I finally asked him, more directly. Mister Cooney clearly had never heard of Umberto Boccioni.”
“That’s puzzling.”
“I guess your source of information was dead wrong?”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Nothing’s hard to believe in this business, Mister Fletcher. Whoever told you Mister Cooney owns a Boccioni was incorrect. Call me when you decide about the Picasso.”
“I will.”
Andy was clearing the dishes from the dining room table.
“That was Horan,” Fletch said. “Our man in Texas never heard of Umberto Boccioni.”
Trusting the two plainclothesmen would not be puzzled by his not using the Ford Ghia, Fletch took a taxi to Flynn’s office on Craigie Lane.
It was a graystone pile at the edge of Boston Harbor. Inside, everything was painted regulation green, except the sagging wood floors, which were soft underfoot.
The policeman behind the counter sent him up a curved staircase with a heavy, carved wooden railing.
Grover was making tea in a corridor alcove on the second floor.
He led Fletch into Flynn’s office.
Flynn was behind an old, wooden desk, and behind him three arched, almost cathedral-like windows overlooked the harbor. A few straight-backed, wooden chairs stood about the room in no particular order. Along the inside wall was a long, wooden refectory table.
“Did you bring Mister Fletcher a cup of tea as well, Grover?” Flynn stood up to shake hands. “Pull a pew, Mister Fletcher. Make yourself at, home.”
Grover placed the two tea cups at the edge of the desk and went out to get a third.
“We’ll have a nice little tea party.”
Fletch moved one of the wooden chairs to be at an angle to the desk so he would have solid wail behind Flynn, not the late afternoon light from the windows.
“Homey,” said Fletch.
“I know.” Behind his desk, Flynn’s elfin face looked like that of a schoolboy playing teacher. “I came to look at you in an off-moment, Saturday, and you came to look at me in an off-moment, Sunday. That was our weekend. I learned you’re a peeping tom, besides being a reporter and a murderer, either one of which is bad enough, but did we accomplish anything else?”
After handing Fletch a cup of tea, without questions regarding cream and sugar (there was neither in the cup), Grover took his own cup, and dragged a chair over to the long table against the wall.
“You do want me to take notes, Inspector?”
“For what they’re worth. I think Mister Fletcher has something important to say, and I want a witness.”
Fletch asked, “How’s the other muder going? The chubby City Councilperson’s murder?”
“Slowly,” said Reluctant Flynn. “Very time-consuming, to be sure.”
“Was the axe murder solved?”
“0h, of course. Such things are usually family matters. I don’t know why we bother with them at all.”
“Look, regarding the Ruth Fryer business…”
“It’s called murder.”
“Yes. I want off the hook.”
“You want to go to Texas.”
“Probably.”
“We’ll be pleased to let you off the hook as soon as we find a more attractive candidate for charging than yourself.”
Fletch said, “I would guess not too much has been accomplished in recent days.”
“Will you listen to that, Grover? The candidate for hanging is getting impatient. And he had such a great lot of faith in the institution of the Boston Police to begin with.”
At the side of the room, Grover sat hunched over his table, writing slowly.
“I quite understand you’ve got other things to do,” Fletch said.
“One or two. One or two.”
“And undoubtedly there’s a lot of political press pressure on you regarding the City Councilperson’s murder.”
“I thank you for making my excuses.”
“But I’m being sort of a victim here. I didn’t kill Ruth Fryer.”
“You say you didn’t.”
“And the investigation has been dragging on almost a week now.”
“Mister Fletcher, the Complaint Department is downstairs. It’s a small room, with see-through wails.
“Another person in my position might have hired private detectives this last week…”
“However, being a great ex-investigative reporter yourself, you’ve done a little investigating on your own. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“And have you come to a conclusion?”
“I think I have.”
“Do you want time to sharpen your pencil, Grover? Oh, it’s a pen. I don’t want you to miss a word.”
“Okay,” said Fletch. “First of all, it is most likely the murderer must have had a key to the apartment. Not absolutely necessary. Thinking Bart Connors was in Italy and the apartment was empty, Ruth Fryer could have gone to the apartment alone or with some other person to use the apartment for sexual purposes. Or, not knowing Connors was in Italy, to surprise him. She could have had a key, which the murderer the took. Or Joan Winslow, in a state of advanced intoxication, could have let her in.”
“All highly unlikely,” said Flynn. “The Winslow woman supposedly was at the Bullfinch Pub. Ruth Fryer would have seen your suitcases in the hall, noted the airline’s tags in the name of Peter Fletcher and been scared off from whichever course of action she intended. For the last time, Mister Fletcher, I reject the idea that Ruth Fryer killed herself.”
“Narrow of you,” said Fletch, “but I accept it. So,” he continued, “the basic question is, who had a key to that apartment? Me,” he counted himself off on his little finger, “Mrs. Sawyer, whom you’ve investigated…”
“As pure as Little Eva.”
“…Joan Window…”
“Ach, she’s incapable of anything.”
“…Bart Connors…”
“Now he’s a real possibility. How come we haven’t thought of him, Grover?”
“…and Lucy Connors.”
“Lucy Connors?”
“Let’s consider Bart Connors first.”
