“He says he never heard of the Picasso?”
“That’s what he said.”
“How did he sound to you?”
“What can I say? He sounded authentic.”
“This is crazy, Fletch. At least you don’t have the Countess de Grassi, to contend with.”
“Listen, Andy, would you do me a favor.”
“Anything, Fletch of my heart.”
“Will you go up to Cagna?”
“Now?”
“This guy, Bart Connors, who took the villa. One of us ought to have a look at him.”
“Why? Isn’t the apartment all right?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just that something has come up which makes me sort of curious about him.”
“I’m supposed to drive all the way up Cagna you’re curious about someone?”
“I flew all the way to Boston because you’re curious about someone.”
“Fletch, if I leave Rome, leave Roselli and the other old baboons to Sylvia…
“Nothing will happen. My curiosity about Connors is more than casual, Andy. I need to know what sort of a person he is.”
“Really, Fletch.”
“Take the Porsche, take the train, fly to Genoa, rent a car, do whatever is easiest for you. You need to get away a day or two, anyway.”
“Is that what you’re really thinking?”
“No. I really want to know about Bart Connors.”
“Your precious villa.”
“You’ll go?”
“Of course. How can I say no?”
“I thought you were saying no.”
“I wouldn’t think of it, darling. I’ll leave my father’s estate to wolf lawyers and vixen Sylvia, and fly to see if your tenant is happy.”
“I’ll appreciate it.”
“Anything else I can do, Big Boss?”
“Yeah. After you look at Connors, come to Boston. Have you ever made love in the fog?”
“Fletcher, I have to straighten things out here.”
“Forget it. The whole estate isn’t worth a fart in a gale of wind. We can take care of your precious Ria and Pep.”
There was a silence on the line.
“Andy?”
“I’ll come as soon as I can, Fletch. Until then.”
Five
Across the Charles River the Cambridge Electric sign, still lit, looked dull through the fog. Cars going along the highways on both sides of the river used parking lights or headlights.
After he shaved and took a cold shower, he did his hundred push-ups on the bedroom carpet, a towel spread under him.
Not dressing, he padded down the corridor.
The girl had run along here the night before. She had found herself in a situation she had had every right to think playful and fan but which suddenly went wrong, desperately wrong, hopelessly out of her control. She fled. Would she have fled the apartment naked?
Or was her running down the corridor, perhaps pretending to be frightened, part of her play?
In the living room, Fletch sat on the stool of the baby grand piano and stared at the spot where she had lain. The dim morning light, the shadows between the divan, beyond the coffee table, did little to alleviate the original shock of her presence, her smooth, sun-touched skin, the youthful fullness, leanness, shape of her body, the queer angle of her head, the discomfort in her face, her being dead.
Ruth Fryer. Ms. Fryer. Fletch knew more about her. She was about twenty-three. She had been brought up in health and self-confidence by loving parents. Boys, men had loved her. She had loved them, loved her freedom. She trusted. She had always been treated gently, considerately. Until last night.
Last night she had been murdered.
He went through the dining room, pushed open the swing door to the kitchen, and snapped on the light, There was no milk or cream in the refrigerator, but there were five eggs and some butter. He would scramble eggs with water. Instant coffee was in a cupboard.
While he was scrambling the eggs he heard the old iron grill of the elevator door clang shut. Then he heard a key in a lock.
To his surprise, the swing door from the front hall opened.
In the door stood a woman, carrying a plastic shopping bag by its handles. Her eyes were wide-set and huge, her cheekbones high, her lips curiously long and thin. Her raincoat was open, loose. Around her hair was a red, blue, and black bandanna. She was in her mid-fifties.
“Good morning,” Fletch said, staring from the stove.
“I’m Mrs. Sawyer. I clean here Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
“That’s all right.” Her smile was directed more at Fletch’s confusion than his nakedness. “I run naked around my place, too.”
“You arrive early.”
“Don’t apologize. I don’t buy those magazines, but I’m not so old I don’t enjoy seeing a naked man. ‘Course, you aren’t black, Honey.”
Fletch took the fork out of the frying pan.
When he turned, she was standing directly before him, searching his eyes.
“Before I do anything,” she said, “you answer me.”
Fletch was not about to back against the stove.
“You kill that girl last night?”
Fletch answered her eyes. “No.”
“You ever kill anybody, anytime?”
Fletch could not answer her eyes: “Yes.”
“When?”
“In a war.”
“All right.” She put her shopping bag on the table. “Your eggs are burning.”
“How do you know about it?”
“It’s in this morning’s
“Do you still have the newspaper?”
“No, I left it in the subway.” She took off her coat and laid it neatly across the table. “Here, give me that pan.”
Fetch looked down at himself.
She said, “So old Anne Sawyer can still do that to young men. My, my. I’ll remember that, Saturday night.”
“Does Connors like women, too?”
“Oh, yes. Especially after his wife left him for another woman. There’s been a parade through here. Everything but the brass bands and the fire trucks.”
Fletch said, “I’ll get dressed.”
“Your eggs are ready. From your tan marks, I’d say you’re not too used to wearing all that many clothes
