Confess, Fletch
By
Gregory McDonald
Dedication
To Judy and Lew, Susie and Chuck, Stuart, Karen and Robert, Jennette and Alan, HoRo, HoHo, Susi, Chris and Doug.
One
Fletch snapped on the light and looked into the den.
Except for the long windows and the area over the desk, the walls were lined with books. There were two red leather wing chairs in the room, a small divan, and a coffee table.
On the little desk was a black telephone.
Fletch dialed “0.”
“Get me the police, please.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Not at the moment.”
The painting over the desk was a Ford Madox Brown—a country couple wrapped against the wind.
“Then please dial ‘555-7523.’”
“Thank you.”
He did so.
“Sergeant McAuliffe speaking.”
“Sergeant, this is Mister Fletcher, 152 Beacon Street, apartment 6B.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a murdered girl in my living room.”
“A what girl?”
“Murdered.”
Naked, her breasts and hips full, her stomach lean, she lay on her back between the coffee table and the divan. Her head was on the hardwood floor in the space between the carpet and the fireplace. Her face, whiter than the areas a kept from the sum by her bikini, eyes staring, looked as if she were about to complain of some minor discomfort, such as, “Move your arm, will you?” or “Your watchband is scratching me.”
“Murdered,” Fletch repeated.
There was a raw spot behind the girl’s left ear. It had had time to neither swell nor bleed. There was just a gully with slim blood streaks running along it. Her hair streamed away from it as if to escape.
“This is the Police Business phone.”
“Isn’t murder police business?”
“You’re supposed to call Emergency with a murder.”
“I think the emergency is over.”
“I mean, I don’t even have a tape recorder on this phone.”
“So talk to your, boss. Make a recommendation.”
“Is this some kinda joke?”
“No. It isn’t.”
“No one’s ever called Police Business phone to report murder. Who is this?”
“Look, would you take a message? 152 Beacon Street, apartment 6B, murder, the name is Fletcher. Would you write that down?”
“156 Beacon Street?”
“152 Beacon Street, 6B.” Through the den door, Fletch’s eyes passed over his empty suitcases standing in the hall. “Apartments in the name of Connors.”
Your name is Fletcher?“
“With an ‘F.’ Let Homicide know, will you? They’ll be interested.”
Two
Fletch looked at his watch. It was twenty-one minutes to ten.
Instinctively he timed the swiftness of the police.
He returned to the living room and mixed himself a Scotch and water at the sideboard. He would not bother with ice. He concentrated on opening the Scotch bottle, making more of a job of it than was necessary. He did not look in the direction of the girl.
She was beautiful, she was dead, and he had seen enough of her.
Sloshing the drink in his glass as he, walked, he went back into the den and turned on all the lights.
He stood at the desk, looking closely at the Brown. The cottage behind the country couple was just slightly tilted in its landscape, as if it, too, were being acted by the wind. Fletch had seen similar Browns, but never even a reproduction of this painting.
The phone made him jump. Some of his drink splashed onto the desk blotter.
He placed his glass on the blotter, and his handkerchief over the stains before answering.
“Mister Fletcher?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, good, you did arrive. Welcome to Boston.”
“Thank you. Who is this?”
“Ronald Horan. Horan Gallery. I tried to get you earlier.”
“I went out to dinner.”
“Your letter mentioned you’d be staying In Bart Connors’s apartment. We did some restoration work for him a year or two ago.”
“It’s very good of you to call, Mister. Horan.”
“Well, I’m very excited. This Picasso you mentioned in your letter. You said it’s called ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle’?”
“It’s been called that. God knows how Picasso thought of it.”
“Of course, I’m puzzled why you came all the way from Rome to Boston to engage me as your broker…”
“There’s some evidence the painting is this part of the world. Possibly even in Boston.”
“I see. Still, I expect we could have handled it by correspondence.”
“As I wrote in my letter, there may be one or two matters I’d like to consult you, about.”
“Yes, of course. Anything to be of service. Perhaps I should start by warning you that this painting might not exist.”
“It exists.”
“I’ve looked it up, and there is no record of it anywhere that I can find.”
“I have a photograph of it.”
“Very possibly it does exist. There are a great many Picassos in existence which have never been recorded. On the other hand the body of Picasso’s work very often has been victim to fakes. I’m sure you know his work has been counterfeited more than the work of anyone else in history.”
“I do know, yes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be giving you professional service if I didn’t bring these matters up to you. If such a painting exists, and it’s authentic, I’ll do everything I can to find it for you and arrange for the purchase.”
Rotating blue lights from the roofs of police cars stories below began to flash against the long, light window curtains. There had been no sound of sirens.
“Are you free to come by tomorrow morning, Mister Fletcher?”
Fletch said, “I’m not sure.”
“I was thinking of ten-thirty.”
“Ten-thirty will be fine. If I’m free at all.”
“Good. You have my address.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see, you’re on Beacon Street across from the Gardens, right?”
“I think so.”
Fletch pushed the curtains aside. There were three police cars in the street. Across the street was an iron railing. The darkness beyond had to be a park.
“Then what you do is this: Leave your apartment and turn right, that is, east, and go to the end of the Gardens. Then turn left on Arlington Street, that is, away from the river. Newbury Street will be the third block on your right. The gallery is about two and a half blocks down the street.”
“Thank you. I’ve got it.”
“I’ll send someone down to open the door to you at ten-thirty precisely. We’re not a walk-in gallery, you know.”
“I wouldn’t think so. I’m sorry, Mister Horan. I think there’s someone at my door.”
“Quite all right. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.”
Fletch hung up.
The door buzzer sounded. It was seven minutes to ten.
Three
“My name’s Flynn. Inspector Flynn.”
The man in the well-cut, three-piece, brown tweed suit filled the den doorway. His chest and shoulders ware enormous, his brown hair full and curly. Between these two masses of overblown brown was a face so smell it had the cherubic quality of an eight-year-old boy, or a dwarf. Even with the hair, his head was small in proportion to his body, like a tiny, innocent-looking knob in control of a huge, powerful machine. Nothing indoors had the precise color of his green eyes. It was the bright, sparkling green of sunlight on a wet spring meadow.