The green eyes watched him intensely. Fletch felt them in his stomach. To his side he had the impression of Grover’s white face, watching him.
“There were no other fingerprints on the bottle, Mister Fletcher. It had been dusted. Liquor bottles are apt to be dusted while being set out.”
“What other fingerprints were in this room?” Fletch asked. “I mean, whose others?”
“Mrs. Sawyer’s, the gal’s—that is, Ruth Fryer’s—and the prints of one other person, a man’s, we presume to belong to Bartholomew Connors.”
“Were there many of the girl’s?”
“A few. Enough to establish she was murdered here. They were the fingerprints of a live person.”
Fletch considered his wisdom in saying nothing. At the moment he doubted he could say anything, anyway.
“The disconcerting thing is, Mister Fletcher,” continued Flynn with a nerve-shattering gentleness, “that if you remember your laws of physics, the whiskey bottle, would be a far more reliable, satisfactory, workable murder weapon when it is full and sealed than after it has been uncapped and a quantity has been poured out.”
“Oh, my God.”
“By opening the whiskey bottle and pouring, a quantity out, you meant to remove the whiskey bottle from suspicion, as the murder weapon.”
“It didn’t work,” said Fletch.
“Ah, that’s where my inexperience comes in. A more experienced police officer might have discounted the whiskey bottle completely. I remember having to persuade Grover to send it along. It took a few words, didn’t it, Grover? Not having come up through the ranks myself, and never having had the benefits of a proper education, I insisted. The boyos in the police laboratory were very surprised the murder weapon was an unbroken, open bottle.”
“How do they know it was?
“Minute traces of hair, skin, and bloods that match the girl’s.”
Flynn allowed a long silence. He sat quietly, watching Fletch.
Either he was waiting for Fletch to adjust to this new trauma or he was waiting for Fletch to be indiscreet.
Fletch exercised his right to remain silent.
“Now, Mister Fletcher, would you like, to call in a lawyer?”
“No.”
“If you think by not calling in a lawyer you’re convincing us of your innocence, you’re quite wrong.”
Grover said, “You’re convincing us of your stupidity.”
“Now, Grover. Mister Fletcher is not stupid. And now he knows we’re not stupid. Maybe he wants to skip the formalities of a lawyer altogether and go ahead with his confession, get the dastardly thing off his chest.”
Fletch said, “I know you’re not stupid. But I don’t know why I’m feeling stupid.”
You look angry.“
“I am angry.”
“At what?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I should have been doing something about this the last twenty-four hours. This murder.”
“You haven’t been?”
“No.”
“Your trust in us has been the most perplexing element in this whole affair,” Flynn said. “You’re not a naive man.”
“You read the record”
“I take it you’re not confessing to murder at this point?”
“Of course not.”
“He’s still not confessing, Grover. Take that down. The man’s resistance to self-incrimination is absolutely metallic. Let’s go on, then.” Flynn sat forward on the divan, elbows on knees, hands folded before him. “You said last night you had never seen Ruth Fryer before in your life.”
“Never to my knowledge,” answered Fletch.
“With the key number you provided us we went to her hotel, which, by the way, is at the airport. We went through her belongings. We interviewed her roommate. Then we interviewed her supervisor. Never having seen her before, can you guess what she did for a living?”
“You’re not going to say airline stewardess, a you?”
“I am.”
“Dandy.”
“Trans World Airlines, Mister Fletcher. Temporarily assigned to the job of First Class Ground Hostess at Boston’s Logan Airport. On duty to receive passengers aboard Flight 529 from Rome, Tuesday.”
“I never saw her! I would remember! She was beautiful!”
Flynn moved back on the divan, possibly in alarm, when Fletch jumped up.
Fletch went up the living room to the piano.
Grover had stood up.
Fletch banged the middle-G major chord.
Then he said, “This has something to do with me.”
Flynn said, “What?”
Fletch walked back toward Flynn.
“This murder, has something to do with me.”
“That’s your reaction, is it? Sit down, Grover. Clever man, this Mister Fletcher. It’s only taken him twenty-four hours to catch on.”
“You’ve done some wonderful work,” said Fletch.
Flynn said, “Oh, my god. Now it’s innocent flattery.”
“What am I going to do?”
“You might try confessing, you blithering idiot!”
“I would, Inspector, I would.” Fletch paced the room. “I still don’t think it’s personal.”
“Now what do you mean by that?”
“I don’t think the person who killed Ruth Fryer knows me personally.”
“If you’re saying you were framed, Mister Fletcher, you’ve already told us you know no one in town.”
“I didn’t say I don’t know anybody in the world. Lots of people hate me.”
“More every minute,” said Flynn. “Take Grover there, for example.”
“Everybody in Italy knew my plans. Everyone in Cagna, everyone in Rome, everyone in Livorno. The Homeswap people in London. I began making these plans three weeks ago. I wrote old buddies in California saying I would try to get out there while I was in the country. I wrote people in Seattle, Washington.”
“All right, Mister Fletcher, we’ll put the rest of the world in prison and leave you free.”
“But that’s not what I’m saying, Inspector. I don’t think this is a personal frame. Some sort of an accident happened. I happened to be the next guy in this room after a murder.”
“Oh, boyoboyoboy. Like a French philosopher thirty, years after he’s born he decides he might be involved with the world.”
Fletch said, “You guys want to join me for dinner?”
“Dinner! The man’s crazy, Grover. As a matter of fact, Mister Fletcher, we were both thinking of asking you to join us.”
“I don’t care,” Fletch said. “Either way. You know the city.”
“Well, the truth is,” Flynn said to the air, “to this minute the man hasn’t acted involved in this ease. He’s acted as innocent as a reliable witness. He still does. That’s the biggest puzzle of all. What are we going to do with him, Grover?”
“Lock him up.”
“A very succinct man, this Grover.”
“Charge him.”
“You know the man can afford to hire fancy lawyers, detectives, make bail, protest all over the press, get postponements, appeal, and appeal all the way to the Supreme Court.”
“Lock him up, Frank.”
“No.” Flynn stood up. “The man didn’t leave town yesterday. He didn’t leave town today, One may presume he won’t leave town tomorrow.”
“He’ll leave town tomorrow, Inspector.”
“Life is simpler this way. We haven’t got this man far enough in a corner yet. Although I thought we did.”
“What more evidence do we need?”
“I’m not sure. We have pounds of it. I had a hat when I came in. Oh, there it is. It’s not polite to talk in front of a man as if, he were dead, Grover.”
In the hall, Flynn settled the hat on his small head.
“I’m going to get another scolding, Mister Fletcher, I’m sure, an the way home. Maybe Grover can convince me you’re guilty. So far you haven’t. Good night.”