“It’s much easier when there’s a confession. It cuts down on the department’s court time.”
The moon bad disappeared,
Fletch said, “Lucy Connors didn’t kill Ruth Fryer.”
“Indeed not. She’s as innocent as a guppy. You must get over your prejudices, lad.”
“Did you know Horan was guilty this afternoon when I was talking to you? I mean, yesterday afternoon? In your office.”
Yes, lad. I’m sorry to say I deceived you something terrible. There I was, a wee lad again in Germany, asking you for your autograph while I took your picture to send on to London. By five o’clock yesterday we had matched up Horan’s prints with those in your apartment, and I had made an appointment to see him. The warrants were in process.“
“Flynn. Have you ever felt stupid?”
“Oh, yes. A cup of tea is a great help.”
Flynn gave Grover money for another toll.
“Good luck on the City Councilperson’s murder,” Fletch said.
“Ach, that’s over, all this long time.”
“Is it?”
“Sure, I’m just letting the politicians exercise their bumps so they’ll accept the solution when I give it to them. They so want to think the crime is political. They’ve all demanded police protection, you know. It makes them look so much grander when they go through the streets with a cop at their heels.”
“Who did it?”
“Did you say, ‘Who did it’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you have your humor yourself, don’t you? Her husband did it. A poor, meek little man who’s been in the back seat of that marriage since they pulled away from the church.”
“How do you know he did it?”
“I found the man who sold him the ice pick. A conscientious Republican, to boot. An unimpeachable witness, with the evidence he has, in a case involving Democrats.”
Outside 152 Beacon Street, before getting out of the car, Fletch put his hand out to Flynn.
“I’ve met a great cop,” he said.
They shook hands.
>
“I’m coming along slowly,” said Flynn. “I’m learning. Bit by bit.”
Thirty-nine
Ten-thirty Tuesday morning the buzzer to the downstairs door sounded.
Fletch gave his button a prolonged answering push to give his guest ample time to enter.
He opened the front door to his apartment and went into the kitchen.
Coming back across the hall with the coffee tray he heard the elevator creaking slowly to the sixth floor.
He put the tray on the coffee table between the two divans.
When he returned to the foyer, his guest, nearly seventy, in a dark overcoat, brown suit a little too big for him, gray bags under his eyes making him no less distinguished, was standing hesitantly in the hall.
Fletch said, “Hi, Menti.”
As he shook hands, the man’s smile was dazzling, despite the lines of concern in his face.
“I never knew you wear false teeth,” Fletch said.
Taking his guest’s coat and putting it in a closet, Fletch said, “They found your body a few days ago in a pasture outside Turin.”
Clasping his hands together the guest entered the living room and allowed himself to be escorted to a divan. Count Clementi Arbogastes de Grassi was not accustomed to a cold climate.
He sipped a cup of coffee and crossed his legs. “My friend,” he said.
Fletch was comfortable with his coffee in the other divan.
“Now I ask you the saddest question I have ever had to ask any man in my life.” The Count paused. “Who stole my paintings? My wife? Or my daughter?”
Fletch sipped from his cup.
“Your daughter. Andy. Angela.”
Menti sat, cup and saucer in one hand in his lap, staring at the floor for several moments.
“I’m sorry, Menti.”
Fletch finished his coffee and put the cup and saucer on the table.
“I knew it had to be one of them who arranged it,” Menti said. “For the paintings to have been stolen on our honeymoon. The theft at that time was too significant. The paintings had been there for decades. The house was usually empty, except for Ria and Pep. Few knew the paintings were there. But Sylvia was with me in Austria and Angela was here in school.”
“I know.”
Menti sat up and put his unfinished coffee on the table.
“Thank you for being my friend, Fletch. Thank you for helping me to find out.”
“Were you comfortable enough in captivity?”
“You arranged everything splendidly. I rather enjoyed being a retired Italo-American on the Canary Islands. I made friends.”
“Of course.”
“Where are the ladies now? Sylvia and Angela?”
“They flew the coop this morning. No note. No anything.”
“What does ‘flew the coop’ mean?”
“They left. Quickly.”
“They were here?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
“Under the very same roof.”
“Why did they leave, ‘flew the coop’?”
“Either they both left together, or Andy left when she heard Horan was arrested, and Sylvia took off after her. It must have been quite a scene. Sorry I missed it.”
The Count said, “Are they both well?”
“Grieving, of course, but otherwise fine.” He poured warm coffee into the Count’s half-empty cup. “I have fifteen of the paintings. Two have been sold, you know. The police are keeping one, the big Picasso, ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle,’ as evidence. You’ll probably never get it back without spending three times the painting’s financial worth in legal fees, taxes, international wrangling, and what have you. And we have the Degas horse.”
Menti absently turned the cup in its saucer.
“Everything is in a truck, downstairs,” Fletch said, “You and I can leave for New York as soon as you get warmed up.”
Menti sat back, sad and tired.
“Why did she do it?”
“Love. Love for you. I don’t think Andy cared that much about the paintings. She doesn’t care about the money.
“When her mother died,” Fletch continued, “Andy, as a little girl, thought she would take her mother’s place in your affection. You remarried. She has told me how heartbroken she was, and furious. She was fourteen. When your second wife left you, she was pleased. She thought you had learned your lesson. Because you had been married in France, you could divorce. Then, while Andy was in school here, you married Sylvia. Andy was no loner a little girl. She was old enough to express her rage. In her eyes, you had kept something from her all these years. She took something from you. The de Grassi Collection.”
