Below the break of his right trouser leg were a half-dozen dots of blood.
“Pardon my pants. I’m fresh from an axe murder.”
For such a huge chest cavity, for anyone, for that matter, his voice was incredibly soft and gentle.
Fletch said, “You’re an Irish cop.”
“I am that.”
“I’m sorry.” Fletch stood up. “I meant nothing derogatory by that”
Flynn said, “Neither did I.”
There was no proffer to shake hands.
As Flynn vacated the doorway, a younger and shorter man came in, carrying a notepad and ballpoint pen. He had the grizzled head of someone fried on a Marine Corps drill ground a score of times, like a drill sergeant. The rubbery skin around his eyes and mouth suggested his eagerness to shove his face in yours, tighten his skin, and shout encouraging obscenities up your nose. In repose, the slack skin gave him the appearance of a petulant basset. His suit and shirt were cheap, ill-fitting, but spotless, and his shoes, even this late on a drizzly day, gleamed.
“This is Grover,” said Flynn. “The department doesn’t trust me to do my own parking.”
He settled himself in a red leather chair..
Fletch sat down again.
It was, twenty-six minutes past ten.
He remained waiting in the den. A young, uniformed policeman waited with him, standing pat parade rest, carefully keeping his eyes averted from Fletch. Beyond the den, other police, plainclothesmen, moved around the apartment. Fletch wondered if any reporter had sneaked in with them. Fletch heard the murmur of their voices, but caught nothing of what they said. Occasionally, a streak of light from a camera flashbulb crossed the hall, from either the left, where the bedrooms were, or the right, where the living room was.
An ambulance crew entered, rolling a folded stretcher across the hall, toward the living rooms,
“Close the door, will you, Grover? Then make yourself comfortable at the wee desk there. We don’t want to miss a word of what this boyo in the exquisite English tailoring has to say.”
The uniformed policeman went through the door as Grover closed it.
“Has anyone read: you your rights?” Flynn asked.
“The first fuzz through the door.”
“Fuzz, is it?”
Fletch said, “Fuzz.”
“In more human language,” Flynn continued, “I ask you if you don’t think you’d be wiser to have your lawyer present while we question you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Flynn said, “What did you hit her with?”
Fletch could not prevent mild surprise, mild humor appearing in his face. He said nothing.
“All right, then.” Flynn settled more comfortably in his chair. “Your name is Fletcher?”
“Peter Fletcher,” Fletch said.
“And who is Connors?”
“He owns this apartment. I’m borrowing it from him he’s in Italy.”
Flynn leaned forward in his chair. “Do I take it you’re not going to confess immediately to this crime?”
His used his voice like an instrument—a very soft, woodland instrument.
“I’m not, going to confess to this crime at all.”
“And why not?”
“Because I didn’t do it.”
“The man says he didn’t do it, Grover. Have you written that down?”
“Sitting here,” Fletch said, “I’ve been rehearsing what I might tell you.”
“I’m sure you have.” Elbows on chair arms, massive shoulders hunched, Flynn folded his hands in his lap. “All right, Mister Fletcher. Supposing you recite to us your opening prevarication.”
The green eyes clamped on Fletch’s face as if to absorb with full credulity every word.
“I arrived from Rome this afternoon. Came here to the apartment. Changed my clothes, went out to dinner. Came back and found the body.”
“This is a dandy, Grover. Let me see if I’ve got it in all its pristine wonder. Mister Fletcher, you say you fly into a strange city, go to an apartment you’re borrowing, and first night there you find a gorgeous naked girl you’ve never seen before in your life murdered on the living room rug. Is that your story, in short form?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now. If that doesn’t beat the belly of a fish. I trust you’ve got every, word, Grover, however few of them there were.”
Fletch said, “I thought it might help us all get to bed earlier.”
“‘Get to bed,’ he says. Now, Grover, here’s a man who’s had a full day. Would you mind terribly if I led the conversation for a while now?”
“Go ahead,” Fletch said.
Looking at his watch, Flynn said, “It’s been a near regular custom I’ve had with my wife since we were married sixteen years ago to get me home by two o’clock feeding. So we have that much time.” He glanced at the glass of Scotch and water Grover had moved to the edge of the desk blotter. “First I must ask you how much you’ve had to drink tonight.”
“I’ve had whatever’s gone from that glass, Inspector. An ounce of whiskey? Less?” Fletch asked, “You really have inspectors in Boston, uh?”
“There is one: me.”
“Good grief.”
“I’d say that’s a most precise definition. I’m greatly taken with it, myself, and I’m sure Grover is—Inspector of Boston Police as being ‘good grief.’ The man has his humor, Grover. However, we were speaking of the man’s drinking. How much did you have to drink at dinner?”
“A split. A half bottle of wine.”
“He’ll even define ‘split’ for us, Grover. A remarkably definitive man. You had nothing to drink dinner?”
“Nothing I was eating alone.”
“And you’re going to tell me you had nothing to drink on the airplane all way across the Mediterranean Sea and then the full girth of the Atlantic Ocean, water, water everywhere….”
“I had coffee after we took off. A soft drink with lunch, or whatever it was they served. Coffee afterwards.”
“Were you traveling first class?”
“Yes.”
“The drinks are free in first class, I’ve heard.”
“I had nothing to drink on the airplane, or before boarding the airplane. I had nothing to drink at the airport, nothing here, wine at the restaurant, and this half glass while I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Grover, would you make a note, that in my opinion Mister Fletcher is entirely sober?”
“Would you like a drink, Inspector?” Fletch asked.
“Ach, no. I never touch the dirty stuff. The once I had it, the night after being a student in Dublin, it gave me a terrible headache. I woke up the next morning dead. The thing is, this crime of passion would be much easier to understand if you had a bottle or two of the old, juice within you.”
“You may find that is so,” Fletch said. “When you find the murderer.”
“Are you a married man yourself, Mister Fletcher?”
“I’m engaged.”
“To be married?”
“I expect to be married. Yes.”
“And what is the name of this young lady whose luck, at the, moment, is very much in question?”
“Andy.”
“Now why didn’t I guess that myself? Write down ‘Andrew,’ Grover.”
“Angela. Angela de Grassi. She’s in Italy”
“She’s in Italy, too, Grover. Everyone’s in Italy except he who has just come from there. Make a social note. She didn’t come with you due to her prejudice against the Boston weather?”
“There are some family problems she has to straighten out.”
“And what would the nature of such problems be?”
“I attended her father’s funeral yesterday, Inspector.”
“Ach. Dicey time to leave your true love’s side.”
“She should be coming over in a few days.”