“Yes. We were,” said Fletch.“ I think we might offer Mister Cooney two hundred and seventy thousand dollars.”
Horan looked slapped.
“That would be totally unacceptable.”
“I know. I’ll go higher, of course. But tell Mister Cooney I am deeply anxious about the source of his painting.”
“I doubt he’ll talk in response to such an offer.”
“He might talk—a lot.”
Twenty-two
“Who’s there?”
“The big, bad pomegranate.”
It was eleven-thirty Saturday morning.
Fletch had had to go a little out of his way to find a hardware store on his way home from Newbury Street. He had bought a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, and a small can of household oil—all of which he had left in the truck.
After putting the truck in the River Street garage, he had cut through the alley and up the iron, cement-walled back stairs to his apartment.
He had forgotten Mrs. Sawyer would be there. Naturally, she had locked the back door.
“You go away,” she shouted through the door. “Nothing gets picked up on Saturdays.”
“It’s Mister Fletcher, Mrs. Sawyer! Please open up.”
“What are you doing out there?”
The two bolts slid free of the door.
,“Well, look at you!” she said. “Out caterwauling all night! Where’s your coat? You’re, wet like a puppy.”
“Good morning.”
“You have a European countess sleeping in your own bed, and you’re not even home to enjoy it.”
“In my bed?”
“She calls herself the Countess del Gassey.”
“She should.”
“I’ve never seen so much luggage. She expect to be buried here?”
“She slept in my bed?”
“Didn’t you leave her there?”
“I did not. Where is she?”
“She said something about going shopping, Then she said something about going to the museum and visiting some galleries.”
“Great.”
“I fed her, and she’s gone. Mercy, Lord, was she hungry! You’d think no one had fed her in a month.”
“No one has.” The bright, white kitchen was a complete contrast to the cold, dark, wet truck. “I’m wet.”
“Your hair looks like you spent the night tunneling through a haystack. Maybe that’s what you were doing. You want something to eat?”
“Sure would. Where are the countess’s things?”
“You’ll see. All over the apartment. I never met such a bossy woman. She talked to me like I was a platoon.”
“Would you move everything of hers into a guest room, please? And then close the door. Tight.”
“I’m not sure it will all fit! You want breakfast, or lunch?”
“Anything warm would be great. By the way where are the telephone books?”
After standing in a warm shower, he sat on the edge of his bed and checked all the local telephone books.
There was no listing for Lucy Connors.
However, there was a listing, on Fenton Street, in Brookline, for Marsha Hauptmann.
He dialed the number and waited through four rings.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is Martin Head, of Très Magazine. Is Ms. Connors there?”
Fletch guessed it was Ms. Hauptmann who said, “Just a moment, please.”
Another voice came on the line. “Hello?”
“Ms. Connors, this is Martin Head, of Très Magazine. I’ve been trying your number all week.”
“Yes?”
“Ms. Connors, I’d appreciate your listening very carefully to what I have to say, and see if you can’t agree to it.”
“I doubt I will.”
“Please. You’ll see our intention is good and, with your cooperation, the result may be good.”
“You’ve got me mystified. I don’t read your magazine.”
“We would like to do a sensitive, personal story—without mentioning any names, or using any photographs—on women who have declared themselves lesbian, especially after having gone through a few years of married life.”
“Where did you get my name?”
“Your husband.”
“Bart’s in Italy. I can’t believe that.”
“We met him Tuesday night, in Montreal. Apparently he’s far more understanding, or trying to be far more understanding, than many husbands in similar circumstances we have met.”
“Bart? I suppose so.”
“I believe you could give our readers some genuinely sensitive insights into what you’ve been through—some real understanding. You’d be an ideal interview.”
“I don’t think so. Is it Mister Head?”
“Martin.”
“Does this have anything to do with the murder?”
“What murder?”
“There was a murder in my husband’s apartment the other night. I wouldn’t want to comment on it. It’s perfectly irrelevant.”
“I didn’t know about that.” Fletch’s eyes wandered around Lucy and Bart Connote old bedroom. “If it’s irrelevant, why should it be mentioned?”
“I don’t think so, Martin. This has been bad enough, without publicity.”
“Lucy, think how bad it is for other women in the circumstances you were in. I daresay you felt pretty alone, going through it.”
“Certainly did.”
“It sometimes helps to be able to read that someone else has been through it. You’ve resolved your problems, fairly successfully, I gather…”
“You’re a very convincing fella, Martin.”
“Furthermore, I guarantee you, there will be no personal publicity. You’ll be referred to as ‘Ms. C,’ period. Nice, tasteful drawings, probably abstracts, will be made up as illustrations.”
“And what if you don’t?”
“You can sue us. We know we’re trespassing here on personal, intimate affairs. We’re doing a story on your feelings, rather than the facts. We’re not out to expose anybody, or anything.”
“I see. Would you let me read the story and okay it before it’s published?”
“We don’t like to do that. The editors sort of feel that’s their job.”
“I won’t talk to you unless I see the story before it’s published.”
Fletch forced himself to hesitate. “Okay, Lucy. I agree. It will have to be between us, but I’ll let you see the story before I hand it in. When can I see you?”
“Marsha and I are going shopping this afternoon if this rain ever lets up. And we’re seeing friends tonight.”
“May I come tomorrow morning?”
“Okay. About ten?”
“Ten-thirty. 58 Fenton Street?”
“Apartment 42.”
“Will Ms. Hauptmann be there?”
“You bet. You goof up one little bit, Babe, and we’ll both stomp you.”
Twenty-three
After steak and eggs, provided and prepared by Mrs. Sawyer, Fletch got into his freshly made bed with yesterday’s edition of the Boston Star.
The murder of Ruth Fryer received little space compared to the space devoted to the City Councilperson’s murder. Obviously there was no new news concerning Ruth Fryer’s murder. The City Councilperson’s murder was reported in the greatest detail, together with her full biography, with pictures of her throughout her career, a personal recollection piece by the paper’s chief local reporter, a sidebar of quotes from notables, political and nonpolitical, friends and enemies, all conspicuously generous. She was a jowly, mean-eyed woman. Indeed she must have been an unpleasant sight, bloody in her bath.
After more than an hour, Fletch saw an advertisement for an Alec Guinness matinée double bill, The Lavender Hill Mob and The Man in the White Suit. It was the right thing to do, on a rainy Saturday afternoon. According to his map, the theater was not far.