man must have been mighty surprised to have you show up the next day at his office as free as a birdie in an orchard.”
“I’m grateful to you.”
“Well, we got our man, although I had to withstand more than one tongue-lashing from that boyo up there in the front seat. Terrible tongue-lashings, they were.”
They were going down the driveway.
“So Horan bopped the young lady over the head with a full bottle of whiskey, before or after he tore the dress off her, put all the other liquor bottles away, put water in the carafe to make things as easy as possible for you to implicate yourself, knowing as sure as God made cats’ eyes any man coming into a strange apartment at night finding a naked murdered girl would go the nearest bottle and pour himself a big one.”
“Except you.”
“I might be tempted myself.”
The uniformed policemen were waiting for them on the gravel.
“Here’s the warrant,” said Flynn.
Cabot said, “There was an attempted burglary here tonight.”
“Was there, indeed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“‘Attempted,’ you say?”
“Yes, sir. The burglar or burglars didn’t actually gain entry to the house. The alarm scared them away.”
“And how do you know that already?”
“Mister Horan came out earlier. We went through the house with him. He said nothing was missing.”
“Is that where he was? Now isn’t that interesting? He said he was taking a ride in the moonlight. Now why didn’t he tell me?”
Cabot said, “In fact, he was here when we arrived.”
“Do you suppose he robbed himself?” Flynn squinted at Fletch. “Could he have known we were breathing down his neck?”
Fletch said, “How would I know?
Flynn looked at Grover, helpless, and shrugged.
“Well, let’s see what’s inside.”
“On the porch, Officer Cabot put his hand through the frame of the broken window and pushed the plywood free. It clattered to the kitchen floor. He reached around, released the locks, and opened the door.
In the kitchen, they crunched on glass.
Turning on and off lights as they went, the five men went through the house, the dining room, the living room, the library.
The house was furnished in the worst country house style—ill-fitting, ersatz Colonial pine furniture, threadbare rugs which should have been retired long since.
At the top of the stairs on the second storey, Flynn turned to Fletch.
“Am I wrong, or is there nothing at all of value in this house?”
The uniformed policemen were turning on lights in the bedrooms.
Fletch said, “So far I’ve seen nothing of value.”
Flynn said, “Then why the extensive, expensive burglar alarms?”
They went through the bedrooms. Again like the worst New England country houses, they were all furnished like boarding school dormitories. Everything solid, cheap, simple, and unattractive.
“From outside,” said Flynn, “you’d think this an imposing country mansion, stuffed with the wealths of Persia. Any burglar attracted to this house would be a swimmer diving into a dry pool.”
As they had preceded, Flynn had opened and the doors to empty closets absently.
In the middle bedroom, in the rear of the second storey, he opened the closet door.
“Now, that’s something. Look at the dust sheets, folded so neatly.” He pulled the chain to the overhead light. “Not much dust on the floor spaces near the walls. There’s a dust free space in the center of the floor, too. Do you see?”
Fletch looked over his shoulder.
“Do you think the paintings were here?”
“We’ll never know.”
He pulled the chain and closed the door.
Climbing the stairs to the attic, Flynn said to Officer Cabot, “Mister Horan was sure nothing was missing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You went through the house with him yourself, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you go through the closets in the bedrooms with him?”
“Yes, sir. Every one.”
After they looked around the attic rooms, Flynn asked Officer Cabot, “And are burglaries common around hare?”
“Yes.”
The other policeman said, “Three on this road this month.”
“Ah, things are getting to a terrible state.”
Again standing on the back porch, waiting for the Weston policemen to close up the house, Flynn said, “I don’t think the man Horan ever lived here at all. What was the house for?”
“Maybe he inherited it.”
Slamming the door behind him, Officer Cabot gave Flynn a friendly nod.
“What shall we say if Mister Horan asks us why we searched his house?”
“Mister Horan won’t be asking,” said Flynn. “We arrested him earlier this evening for first degree murder.”
They were driving east on the Turnpike Extension.
“It’s a puzzle,” said Flynn. “It is. How could he have known enough to rob himself? And what did he do with the paintings?”
Fletch said, “Perhaps you weren’t very convincing as a man who wanted to sell a Ford Madox Brown.”
“I spoke to him in German,” said Flynn.
“Inspector, I still don’t see that your evidence against Horan is any better than your evidence against me.”
“It is. His fingerprints were all over your apartment.”
“His? I asked you about fingerprints.”
“And I told you that we had yours, Mrs. Sawyer’s, Ruth Fryer’s, and a man’s presumed to be Bart Connors‘. We were never sure of the man’s prints. Mister Connors, you see, has never been in the service and he’s never been charged with any crime. His fingertips are as virginal as the day he was born. There is no record of his fingerprints. And all this time he’s been enjoying your house in Italy.”
“He certainly has.”
“We had Mister Horan’s fingerprints because been a Navy Commander, you know.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t until we were chatting over tea on Saturday and you allowed me to know why you were really in Boston—to see Mister Horan—that I considered we might try to match up the fingerprints we found in your apartment with those Mister Horan had on record. A perfect fit. He was a bit careless there. He thought he was so far removed from being a suspect for this particular crime, he never wiped up after himself. Even so, I suspect a more experienced man never would have suspected Mister Horan. Such a respectable man.”
“Does he know you have his fingerprints?”
“Oh, yes. He’s confessed.”
“You finally have, a confession. From someone.”
