“Pretty horrible story. Maybe we should have run it.”
“I don’t. think so,” said Fletch. “It’s far away, has nothing to don with Boston. No use in advertising crime.”
Jack Saunders paid the bill.
“Nice eating off a newspaper again,” Fletch said. “As a kindness, I guess I should go get that cop off his flat feet. For him, I’ll take a taxi home. Otherwise, I would walk.”
“Congratulations,” Jack said. “I mean, about getting married.”
Fletch said, “This is the real thing.”
Fourteen
It would be nine-thirty at night in Cagna, Italy.
Fletch wandered around the apartment, with his coat and tie off. He toured the paintings.
He had evidence, from an unreliable witness, Joan Winslow from apartment 6A, that Bart Connors had been in Boston the night of the murder. Tuesday night. No, he had more than that. Flynn had said there was no evidence from the airlines Connors had flown out of the country anytime between his being seen by Mrs. Sawyer on Saturday night and Tuesday night. Yet yesterday, Wednesday, Andy had seen him in Cagna.
Should he tell Flynn what the woman in 6A had said?
Fletch had worked with the police before. With them, against them, around them. Flynn was pretty good, but it was Fletch’s freedom Fletch was fighting for. So far, he had been entirely too trusting.
He’d roust the quail whether its feathers were wet or not.
Fletch checked his watch again, and placed a call to his villa in Cagna.
“Hello?”
“Andy?”
“Fletch!”
“What are you doing in Cagna?”
“You asked me to come up.”
“That was yesterday.”
“Why did you call here, Fletch?”
“Did you spend the night?”
“Oh, I had car trouble.”
“The Porsche?”
“Bart said it was the diaphragm or something.”
“‘Bart said!’ This is the second night, Andy.”
“Yes. The car will be ready in the morning.”
“Andy!”
“Wait until I turn the record player down, Fletch. I can’t hear too well.”
She came back in a few seconds and said, “Hello, Fletch, darling.”
“Andy, what are you doing spending the night at my house with Bart Connors?”
“That has no business for you, Fletcher. Just because I marry you has nothing to do with where I spend last night.”
“Listen to me, will you? Is Bart Connors there?”
Andy hesitated. “Of course.”
“Then get out of that house. Sneak out and run down to the hotel or something.”
“But, darling, why?”
“There is some evidence your host has a terrible temper.”
“Temper? Nonsense. He’s a kitten.”
“Will you do as. I say?”
“I don’t think so. We’re just beginning dinner.”
“I think you’d better come here, Andy. To Boston.”
“I have to go back to Rome. See what the grand Countess is doing.”
“The Countess is here.”
“Where?”
“In Boston. Sylvia is here.”
“The bitch.”
“Why don’t you fly from Genoa?”
“I can’t believe you, Fletch. This is something you’re putting on. For jealousy. I’m not jealous of the people you spend time with.”
“Andy, you’re not listening.”
“No, and I’m not going to. I don’t know why you called here, anyway. I’m supposed to be in Rome.”
“To talk to Bart Connors.”
“Then talk to him.”
“Andy, after I talk to Connors, please come back on the phone.”
She said, “I’ll get him.”
The pause was interminable.
“Hello? Mister Fletcher?”
“Mister Connors? Everything all right at the villa?”
“Your girlfriend dropped in yesterday. She’d lost a necklace here. We put on quite a search for it.”
“What’s wrong with the car?”
“What car?”
“The Porsche.”
“It’s quite a long drive to Rome. Isn’t it?”
“When did you arrive in Cagna?”
“Yesterday.”
“Wednesday?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I thought you were going out on Sunday.”
“My plans got mixed up. The person I thought coming with me couldn’t make it.”
“You waited for her?”
“My powers of persuasion were not adequate to the task. Good thing I didn’t become a trial lawyer.”
“You flew through New York?”
“Montreal.”
“Why Montreal? Is that better?”
“I had a late business dinner there. It’s very nice of you to call, Mister Fletcher, but it’s sort of expensive for a chat. I hope you called collect—on your phone.”
“And Ruth said she wouldn’t go with you?”
“What?”
“Ruth. She said she wouldn’t go with you to Cagna?”
“Who’s Ruth?”
“The girl you were trying to take to Cagna with you.”
“I don’t understand you, Mister Fletcher.”
“Mister Connors, I think you had better think of coming back to Boston.”
“What?”
“A young woman was murdered in your apartment. Tuesday night. I found the body.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Her name was Ruth Fryer.”
“I don’t know anyone named Ruth Prior.”
“Fryer. She was hit over the head with a whiskey bottle.”
“Am I crazy, or am I just not understanding you?”
“A girl named Ruth Fryer was killed in your apartment Tuesday night.”
“Did you do it?”
“Mister Connors, it appears you are a suspect in a murder case.”
“I am not. I’m in Italy.”
“You were in Boston at the time of the murder.”
“I had nothing to do with it, and I’m going to have nothing to do with it. No one could have gotten into that apartment. You’re the only one who has a key.”
“And Mrs. Sawyer.”
“And Mrs. Sawyer. My key is here. Is this some kind of a joke?”
“You were seen in Boston on Tuesday night, Mister Connors.”
“I stayed at the Parker House Monday night. I had already moved out of the apartment and didn’t want to mess it up. Look, Fletcher, I don’t know what the hell you’re saying. Was there any damage to the apartment itself?”
“No.”
“I have nothing to do with this. I don’t know anyone named Ruth Fryer. And who the hell are you to question me, anyway?”
“Another suspect in the same murder case.”
“Well, don’t lay it off on me, pal. I’m sorry somebody’s dead, and I’m sorry somebody’s dead in my apartment, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“You’re a kitten.
“What?”
“Will you let me talk to Andy again?”
“If I came running back, then I would be involved. The newspapers would question me. I’m a lawyer in Boston, Fletcher. I can’t afford that. Jesus Christ, did you kill somebody in my apartment?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Whom have the police questioned so far?”
“Me.”
“Whom else?”
“Me.”
“Fletcher, why don’t you move out of my apartment?”
“No, I’m not going to do that.”
“I’ll call the law firm. Somebody’s got to protect my interest.”
“I thought you didn’t have an interest.”
“I don’t. Jesus. You’ve ruined dinner. Do you have another bottle of gin somewhere?”
“Yeah. In the lower cupboard in the pantry. It’s Swiss.”
“This is a terrible thing to happen. I’m staying away from it.”
“Okay. Let me talk to Andy.”
Connors exhaled, into the mouthpiece.