“However,” said Flynn in a more relaxed manner, “evidence developed today adds considerable weight to Grover’s argument. Are you interested in it at all, Mister Fletcher?”
“Of course.”
“First of all, what’s your understanding as to when Mister Bart Connors went to Italy?”
“I don’t know,” Fletch answered. “He had occupancy of the villa as of last Sunday.”
“And this is Wednesday,” Flynn said. “Mrs. Sawyer confirms that Connors was here with her on Saturday, and that he asked her to come in Monday night for a few hours and do a special clean-up because of your arrival Tuesday, yesterday. She did so. Therefore, wouldn’t it be natural to assume Connors left for Italy sometime between Saturday night and Monday night?”
Fletch said, “I guess so.”
“To this point, we have not been able to establish that he actually did so,” Flynn said. “A check of the airlines turned up no transatlantic reservations in the name of Bartholomew Connors.”
“He could have flown from New York.”
“He didn’t,” Flynn said. “And as Mister Connors is a partner in an important Boston law firm, I can’t believe he would travel under a false passport, unless there is something extraordinary going on here at which we can’t even guess.”
Fletch said, “I suppose I could call the villa in Italy and see if he’s there.”
“We may come to that,” said Flynn, “But let’s not roust the quail until its feathers are wet.”
“What?”
“Next we come to Mrs. Sawyer. A widow lady with two grown daughters. One teaches school in Mattapan. She does not live with her mother. The other is in medical school in Oregon. Mrs. Sawyer confirms she has a key to this apartment, but that no one had access to it other than herself. She spent Sunday with a gentleman friend, who is a sixty-year-old divorced accountant, visiting his grandchildren in New Bedford.”
Fletch said, “Would you believe I never did suspect Mrs. Sawyer?”
“She had a key,” Flynn answered. “Never can tell what bad man might have been taking advantage of her, for reasons of his own. She says that six months ago Connors suffered a particularly—I might even say, peculiarly—painful separation from his wife. There will be a divorce, she says, and I don’t doubt it. She says there have been one or more women in this apartment since the separation. She finds their belongings around when she comes to clean. As clothes have never been left, in closets and drawers, she believes she can say no woman has actually lived here since the separation. It substantiates her belief that there has been ‘a parade of women through here.’ It also substantiates her belief that none of them was ever given, or had, a key.”
Grover sneezed.
“As there appear to be paintings in this apartment of great value—is that not right, Mister Fletcher?—we may suppose even further towards certainty that Mistier Connors did not dispense keys to this apartment like jelly beans.”
“Great value,” said Fletch. “Very great value.”
He had not toured the paintings to his own satisfaction yet, but he had seen enough to be impressed. Besides the Brown in the den, there was a Matisse in the bedroom, a Klee in the living room (on the wall behind Grover), and a Warhol in the dining room.
“The last thing to say about access to the apartment is that there is a back door, in the kitchen. The rubbish goes out that way. There is no key to it. It is twice a bolted from the inside. Mrs. Sawyer tells us she is most faithful about bolting it. In fact, when we arrived last night, both bolts were in place. No one could have gone out that way.”
“But someone could have come in that way,” said Fletch, “bolted the door behind him and gone out the front way.”
“Absolutely right,” said Flynn. “But how would they, without having known the back door was unbolted?”
“By chance,” said Fletch.
“Aye. By chance.” Clearly Flynn did not think much of chance.
“Now we come to you,” said Flynn.
Grover sat up and clicked his ballpoint pen.
“Washington was good enough to send us both your photograph and your fingerprints.” Flynn smiled kindly at Fletch. “Ach, a man has no privacy, anymore.”
The kindly smile increased Fletch’s discomfort.
“A man is many things,” said Flynn. “A bad check charge. Two contempt of court charges. Non-payment-of-alimony charges longer than most people’s family trees…”
“Get off it, Flynn.”
“…All charges dropped. I do not mean to act as your lawyer,” said Flynn, “although I seem to be doing a lot of that. May I recommend that as all these charges were mysteriously dropped, you do something to get them off your record? They’re not supposed to be there. And you never know when an official, such as myself, might come along and view them with extreme prejudice. On the principle, you know, that where there’s a hatrack there’s a hat.”
“Thanks for your advice.”
“I see you also won the Bronze Star. What the notation ‘not delivered’ means after the item, I can’t guess.”
Grover looked around at Fletch with a drill sergeant’s disdain.
Flynn said, “You’re a pretty dodgy fellow, Irwin Maurice Fletcher.”
Fletch said, “I bet you wouldn’t even want your daughter to marry me.”
“I would resist it,” Flynn said, “under the prevailing circumstances.”
“You guys don’t even like my cologne.”
“None of the gentlemen who drive the taxis in from the airport have identified you so far.”
“Why do you care about that?”
“We’d like to know if you came in from the airport alone, or with a young lady.”
“I see.”
“Even the driver who delivered someone from the airport to 152 Beacon Street yesterday afternoon can’t identify you. Nor is his record clear on whether he was carrying one passenger or two.”
“Terrific.”
“Those fellows who work the airport are and independent lot. Fearful independent. And four taxis went from this area last night to the Café Budapest. None of the drivers can identify you or say whether you were alone or not.”.
“I’m greatly indebted to them all.”
“Not everyone is as cooperative as you, Mister Fletcher.”
“The bastards.”
“Nor did the waiters at the Café Budapest recognize you at all. For a man who wears such an expensive cologne, the fact that you can spend an hour or two in a fashionable restaurant and have no one—not even the waiters—recognize you the next day must cut.”
“It slashes,” said Fletch. “It slashes.”
“You’d think waiters would remember a man eating alone, taking up a whole table, even for two, all by himself, wouldn’t you? It affects their income.”
It was ten minutes to eight.
“That we discovered with your photograph. From your fingerprints we also found out some interesting.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“You touched two things in this room—middle-A on the piano keyboard, with your right index finger. I had no idea you are musical.”
“I’m not.”
“Did I say two things in this room other than the light switches? I meant to. I would guess when you came into this apartment and were looking around, you turned on the wall switch in the living room, went to the piano, hit middle A, went into the dining room and then the kitchen, leaving the lights on like a 1970 electric company executive.”
“I suppose I did.”
“The only other things your fingerprints were on in this room were the whiskey bottle and the water decanter.”
“That would be right.”
“It was a fresh bottle. You opened it.”
“Yes.”
“Mister Fletcher. The whiskey bottle was the murder weapon.”