“Good luck on the City Councilperson’s murder,” Fletch said.
“Ach, that’s over, all this long time.”
“Is it?”
“Sure, I’m just letting the politicians exercise their bumps so they’ll accept the solution when I give it to them. They so want to think the crime is political. They’ve all demanded police protection, you know. It makes them look so much grander when they go through the streets with a cop at their heels.”
“Who did it?”
“Did you say, ‘Who did it’?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you have your humor yourself, don’t you? Her husband did it. A poor, meek little man who’s been in the back seat of that marriage since they pulled away from the church.”
“How do you know he did it?”
“I found the man who sold him the ice pick. A conscientious Republican, to boot. An unimpeachable witness, with the evidence he has, in a case involving Democrats.”
Outside 152 Beacon Street, before getting out of the car, Fletch put his hand out to Flynn.
“I’ve met a great cop,” he said.
They shook hands.
>
“I’m coming along slowly,” said Flynn. “I’m learning. Bit by bit.”
Thirty-nine
Ten-thirty Tuesday morning the buzzer to the downstairs door sounded.
Fletch gave his button a prolonged answering push to give his guest ample time to enter.
He opened the front door to his apartment and went into the kitchen.
Coming back across the hall with the coffee tray he heard the elevator creaking slowly to the sixth floor.
He put the tray on the coffee table between the two divans.
When he returned to the foyer, his guest, nearly seventy, in a dark overcoat, brown suit a little too big for him, gray bags under his eyes making him no less distinguished, was standing hesitantly in the hall.
Fletch said, “Hi, Menti.”
As he shook hands, the man’s smile was dazzling, despite the lines of concern in his face.
“I never knew you wear false teeth,” Fletch said.
Taking his guest’s coat and putting it in a closet, Fletch said, “They found your body a few days ago in a pasture outside Turin.”
Clasping his hands together the guest entered the living room and allowed himself to be escorted to a divan. Count Clementi Arbogastes de Grassi was not accustomed to a cold climate.
He sipped a cup of coffee and crossed his legs. “My friend,” he said.
Fletch was comfortable with his coffee in the other divan.
“Now I ask you the saddest question I have ever had to ask any man in my life.” The Count paused. “Who stole my paintings? My wife? Or my daughter?”
Fletch sipped from his cup.
“Your daughter. Andy. Angela.”
Menti sat, cup and saucer in one hand in his lap, staring at the floor for several moments.
“I’m sorry, Menti.”
Fletch finished his coffee and put the cup and saucer on the table.
“I knew it had to be one of them who arranged it,” Menti said. “For the paintings to have been stolen on our honeymoon. The theft at that time was too significant. The paintings had been there for decades. The house was usually empty, except for Ria and Pep. Few knew the paintings were there. But Sylvia was with me in Austria and Angela was here in school.”
“I know.”
Menti sat up and put his unfinished coffee on the table.
“Thank you for being my friend, Fletch. Thank you for helping me to find out.”
“Were you comfortable enough in captivity?”
“You arranged everything splendidly. I rather enjoyed being a retired Italo-American on the Canary Islands. I made friends.”
“Of course.”
“Where are the ladies now? Sylvia and Angela?”
“They flew the coop this morning. No note. No anything.”
“What does ‘flew the coop’ mean?”
“They left. Quickly.”
“They were here?”
“Yes.”
“Both of them?”
“Under the very same roof.”
“Why did they leave, ‘flew the coop’?”
“Either they both left together, or Andy left when she heard Horan was arrested, and Sylvia took off after her. It must have been quite a scene. Sorry I missed it.”
The Count said, “Are they both well?”
“Grieving, of course, but otherwise fine.” He poured warm coffee into the Count’s half-empty cup. “I have fifteen of the paintings. Two have been sold, you know. The police are keeping one, the big Picasso, ‘Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle,’ as evidence. You’ll probably never get it back without spending three times the painting’s financial worth in legal fees, taxes, international wrangling, and what have you. And we have the Degas horse.”
Menti absently turned the cup in its saucer.
“Everything is in a truck, downstairs,” Fletch said, “You and I can leave for New York as soon as you get warmed up.”
Menti sat back, sad and tired.
“Why did she do it?”
“Love. Love for you. I don’t think Andy cared that much about the paintings. She doesn’t care about the money.
“When her mother died,” Fletch continued, “Andy, as a little girl, thought she would take her mother’s place in your affection. You remarried. She has told me how heartbroken she was, and furious. She was fourteen. When your second wife left you, she was pleased. She thought you had learned your lesson. Because you had been married in France, you could divorce. Then, while Andy was in school here, you married Sylvia. Andy was no loner a little girl. She was old enough to express her rage. In her eyes, you had kept something from her all these years. She took something from you. The de Grassi Collection.”
“She wasn’t afraid Sylvia might have inherited them?”
“I’m not sure, but I have the impression Andy knew that under Italian law children of the deceased have to inherit at least a third of the estate. Have I got that right? I’m sure Sylvia had no idea of that. Knowledge of the law could have motivated either one of them to steal the paintings—from the other.”
“Angela wanted the whole collection.”
“I guess so. She doesn’t expect much sense of family from Sylvia. People like Ria and Pep are very important to Andy.”
“But how did she do it? A little girl, like that?”
“It took me a while to make the connection. I knew Andy had been to school in this country. I hadn’t realized her school was here in Boston, or Cambridge, which is just across the river. I knew her school was Radcliffe. I didn’t realize that Radcliffe is joined with Harvard. Radcliffe women now receive Harvard degrees. Horan, the Boston art dealer, was Andy’s professor at Harvard.”
“I see. But I think it would be difficult to get your professor to commit a grand, international robbery for you because you didn’t like your father marrying again, no?”
“One would think so. However, Horan, who had gotten used to a very expensive way of life, was going broke.”
“You know he was broke?”
“Yes. Five years ago he sold his wife’s famous jewel, the Star of Hunan jade, to an Iranian. I knew that before I came here.”
“Still&helllip;such a distinguished man.”
“He’s also a handsome, sophisticated man, Menti. An older man. For years, Andy had been wanting a certain kind of attention from you…”
Menti’s eyes were dull as they gazed at Fletch. “You believe their relationship was more intimate than is usual between a student and teacher?”
“I suspect so. For one purpose or another.”
“I see.” Menti sipped his coffee. “It happens. So, Fletcher, it was Horan who actually arranged for the paintings to be stolen.”
“Yes. You showed me the catalogues from the Horan Gallery. Two of the de Grassi paintings were being sold, or, in fact, had been sold. We made our plan. We left copies of the catalogues for each of the ladies to find.