anyway, regular.”
“I’ll get dressed.”
“Your eggs will get cold.”
Fletch said, “I’m cold.”
“All right.”
Six
The eggs were cold. They were also watery.
Mrs. Sawyer had set a place for him at the dining room table.
He presumed the telephone was for Bart Connors.
Mrs. Sawyer pushed open the kitchen door.
“It’s for you. A Mister Flynn.”
Fletch took his coffee cup with him, across the dining room, through the living room, through the hall, to the den. He also took the hotel room key.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
“Now who would this be?”
“Fletcher. You called me.”
“Oh, yes. Mister Fletcher. I forgot who I was calling.”
“Inspector, you’ll be glad to know I passed a lie detector test this morning.”
“Did you, indeed?”
“Administered by a Mrs. Sawyer, who comes in to clean twice a week. She arrives very early.”
“How did she administer it?”
“She asked me,if I killed the girl.”
“And I daresay you had the gall to say you didn’t?”
“She stayed to do her work.”
Flynn said, “I was reasonably startled when a live woman answered your phone this morning. I said to myself, ‘What is this boyo we have here?’ I thought of giving the woman some warning.”
“Which makes me think, Inspector. Did your men find a key to this apartment among the girl’s possessions?”
“Only a Florida driver’s license. And that was in her left shoe.”
“No key? Mrs Sawyer had a key.”
“Cleaning ladies are apt to have keys. Girl friends aren’t. But I take your meaning, Mister Fletcher. Other people might have keys to that apartment.”
“Mrs. Sawyer found a key this morning. Just off the carpet in the corridor.”
“A key to your apartment?”
“No. A hotel key.”
“How very interesting.”
Fletch looked at it in his hand.
“The tag on it says ‘Logan Hilton—223.’ How could your men have missed it?”
“How, indeed? It’s possible, of course, they didn’t miss it—that it wasn’t there at all. The suicide note hasn’t been found yet, either.”
“What?”
“Isn’t that the theory you’re working on this morning, Mister Fletcher? That the young lady let herself into your apartment with her own key, undressed in your bedroom, went into the living room, and hit herself over the head?”
“I’m not working on any theory, this morning, Inspector.”
“I know you’re not. You’re just trying to be helpful. Even your defensive theories are peculiarly lame. I’ve never known a man so indifferent to a murder be might have committed.”
“What did the driver’s license say?”
“That Ruth Fryer lived in Miami, Florida.”
“That all? Is that as far as you’ve gotten this morning?”
“Plodding along, Mister Fletcher, plodding along. Today should turn up some interesting facts.”
“I’ll keep this key for you.”
“We have turned up one curious fact already. I called customs officials this morning. You did arrive from Rome yesterday at about three-thirty. Trans World Airlines flight number 529.”
“What’s curious about that?”
“Your name isn’t Peter Fletcher. The name on your passport is Irwin Maurice Fletcher.”
Fletch said nothing.
Flynn said, “Now, why would a man lie about a thing like that?”
“Wouldn’t you, Inspector, if your first names were Irwin Maurice?”
“I would not,” said Flynn. “My first names are Francis Xavier.”
Seven
Fletch hesitated: at the corner of Arlington Street before turning left.
Walking along the brick sidewalk he turned up the collar of his Burberry. Lights were on in the offices of the brownstones to his right. After months of sun, the cool October mist felt good against his face.
He did not hesitate under the canopy, of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. He had seen the sign from a block and a half away. He went through the revolving door, across the lobby to the newsstand and bought a map of Boston and a
Turning away from the counter, he saw there was a side door and went through it. He was on Newbury Street.
He turned the pages of the newspaper as he walked. The story was on page five. It was only three paragraphs. No picture. He was identified in the second paragraph as “Peter Fletcher” and was attributed with calling the police. The third paragraph said, according to police sources, he had been alone in the with the murdered girl.
The bare facts made it seem he was guilty. And the Boston press did not care much about the story.
He knew. The only follow-up expected from such facts would be the indictment of Peter Fletcher. Not much of a story. No mystery.
Classified advertisements were In the back, of the paper, just ahead of the comics page. He tore out the strip concerning “Garages For Rent” and stuffed the rest of the newspaper into a small rubbish basket attached to a post at the corner. He put the piece of newspaper and the map in his coat pocket.
In the next block was the Horan Gallery. Of course, there was no sign. A building, an old town house, a thick, varnished wood garage door to the left, a recessed door with a doorbell button, two iron grilled windows to the right. The windows, on the second, third and fourth floors were similarly grilled. The place was a fortress.
The brass plate under the bell button gave the address only—no name.
The door opened as Fletch pushed the button.
The man, in his sixties, wore a dark blue apron from his chest to his knees. He also wore a black bow tie with his white shirt, black trousers, and shoes. A butler interrupted while polishing silver?
“Fletcher,” Fletch said.
To the right of the hall, in what had once been a family living room, was no furniture other than objects of art. Passing the door, Fletch saw a Rossetti on an easel. On the far wall was a Rousseau, over a standing glass case. On a pedestal was a bronze Degas dancer.
Going up the stairs, Fletch realized the house was entirely atmosphere-controlled. With thermostats every five meters along the walls, the temperature was absolutely even. The air was as odorless as if man had never
