“No,” Fletch said. “I did not wonder where her clothes were.”
“You came in here and looked at a painting, instead.”
“Inspector, you’ve ‘got to understand there was a lot to wonder about at that moment. I was in a state of shock. I didn’t know where the girl came from. Why should I wonder where her clothes went to?”
“They were in your, bedroom, Mister Fletcher. With the bodice torn.”
Fletcher ran his eyes along a shelf of books.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard the word ‘bodice’ spoken before. Of course, I’ve read it in nineteenth-century English novels.”
“Would you like to bear my version of what happened here tonight?”
“No.”
“Let me run through it anyway. I can still get home in time for two o’clock feeding. You arrived at the airport, having left your true love in Rome, but also after having been confined to her company for two months, living in her apartment, the last few days of which have been sad days, seeing her to her father’s funeral.”
“Sort-of funeral.”
“You escaped the dearly beloved with divine celerity, Mister Fletcher. That’s a nice alignment of words, Grover. Have you got them all?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“In their proper order?”
“Yes, Inspector”
“You came here and introduced yourself to this huge, impressive apartment. Your sense of freedom was joined by a sense of loneliness, which is a potently dangerous combination in the loins of any healthy young man. You shave and you shower, spruce yourself up, never thinking ill of yourself for a minute. Are you with my version of the story so far?”
“I can’t wait to see how it comes out.”
“You take yourself out into the drizzle. Perhaps you do the obvious and stop in at the first singles bar you come to. You put forth your noticeable charm to the most attractive girl there, possibly a little under the drizzle from gin—by the way, Grover, we’ll want to know what’s in that girl’s stomach—entice her back here, to your bedroom, where she resists you, for some reason of her own. She promised Mother, or had forgotten to take her pills, or whatever it is young ladies say these days when they change their minds. You tear her clothes off her in the bedroom. Thoroughly frightened, she runs down the corridor to the living room. You catch up to her. She continues to resist you. Perhaps she is screaming, and you don’t know how thick the walls are. You’re in a new place. You left your fiancee this morning in Rome. Here’s the classic case of adults in a room, and one of them isn’t consenting. In frustration, in anger, in fear, In passionate rage, you pick up something or other, and knock her over the head. To subdue her—get her to stop screaming. Probably even you were surprised when she crumpled and sank to your feet.”
Flynn rubbed one green eye with the palm of his huge hand.
“Now, Mister Fletcher, why isn’t that the obvious truth?”
“Inspector? Do you think it is the truth?”
“No. I don’t.”
He pressed the palms of both hands against his eyes.
“At least not at the moment,” he said. “If you’d been drinking—yes, I’d believe it in a moment. If you were less attractive, I’d believe it. What else do these girls hang around for, if it’s not the Peter Fletchers of the old? If you were less self-possessed, I’d believe it. It’s my guess it would take less cool to get rid of a resisting girl than go through an initial police questioning for murder. Never can tell, though—we all have our moments. If you hadn’t called the Police Business phone, I’d be quicker to believe in your being in an impassioned, uncontrollable state. No. I don’t believe it, either.”
Graver said, “You mean, we’re not arresting him, Inspector?”
“No, Grover.” Flynn stood up. “My instinct is against it.”
“Sir!”
“I’m sure you’re right, Grover, but you must remember I haven’t the benefit of your splendid training. I’m sure any experienced policeman would put Mister Fletcher behind bars faster than a babe can fall asleep. It’s times like these, Grover, that inexperience counts.”
“Inspector Flynn…”
“Tush, tush. If the man’s guilty, and he most likely is, there’ll be more evidence of it. If I hadn’t seen the suitcases in the hall myself, I’d think the whole thing was a pack of lies. I suspect it is, you know. I’ve never met a writer-on-the-arts before, but I’ve not considered them such a randy, subspecies before, either.”
Fletch said, ,“I expect you’re going to tell me not to leave town.”
“I’m not even going to say that. In fact, Mister Fletcher, I’d find it very interesting if you did leave town.”
“I’ll send you a postcard.”
Flynn looked at his watch.
“Well, now, if Grover drives me home, I’ll be just in time for my cup of camomile with my Elizabeth and my suckling.”
“I will, Inspector.” Grover opened the door to the empty apartment. “I want to talk to you.”
“I’m sure you do, Grover. I’m sure you do.”
Four
Expecting the normal delays in completing a trans-atlantic, telephone call, as well as the normal difficulty of getting Angela de Grassi on the phone any time of the day or night, Fletch made his effort while remaining in bed in the morning.
He was greatly surprised when the call went through immediately, and Angela answered on what appeared to be the first ring.
“Andy? Good noon.”
“Fletch? Are you in America?”
“Arrived safely. Even you can fly to Boston and arrive in one piece.”
“0h, I’d love to.”
“Are you eating lunch?”
“Yes.”
“What are you having?”
“Cold asparagus with mayonnaise, a few strawberries. Have You, had breakfast?”
“No. I’m still in bed.”
“That’s nice. Is it a nice bed?”
“Sort of big for one person.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“This bed kept me awake all night, calling out ‘Andy! Andy! Where are you? We need you…’”
“My bed asked for you, too. Is the weather there?”
“I don’t,know. I can’t see it through the fog. How goes the battle?”
“Not so good. I spent all day with the lawyers and the commissioner of this and the commissioner of that. We’re never going to get this straightened out. All the legal officials tell us he’s dead, we must consider him dead, adjust to it and go live our own lives. Which is why we had the funeral service. But the lawyers insist everything must be left up in the air until we know more. Remember Mister Rosselli? He was at Poppa’s funeral Monday. Poppa’s lawyer. Chief mourner. Very big with his handkerchief. A day later, yesterday, he’s putting his hands in the air saying there’s nothing; they can do until more is known.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Keep trying, I guess. Everyone’s sympathetic.”
“But nothing’s getting done.”
“I’ve always heard lawyers will fiddle around forever, milking an estate—is that the expression?—like a cow, until they have grabbed everything in fees and nothing is left. Even a little estate like my father’s.”
“Sometimes it happens.”
“And Sylvia, of course, darling stepmother Sylvia, is acting her usual bitch self. She announces about every ten minutes that she is the Countess de Grassi. Every doorman in Rome must know she is the Countess de Grassi by now. I get to tag along like a poor waif.”
“Why don’t you forget about it all and come over here?”
“That’s the point, Fletch. Everyone tells us we must adjust, accept the facts, and go back to living our own lives. But we can’t do that without some kind of income from the estate. They’ve turned everything off.”
“I don’t she that it matters. You and I get married and it doesn’t matter how many years it takes to settle the estate. I mean, who cares?”