Confess, Fletch - By Gregory Mcdonald Page 0,2
you.”
“I don’t think so.”
Flynn said, “What did you hit her with?”
Fletch could not prevent mild surprise, mild humour appearing in his face. He said nothing.
“All right, then.” Flynn settled more comfortably in his chair. “Your name is Fletcher?”
“Peter Fletcher,” Fletcher said.
“And who is Connors?”
“He owns this apartment. I’m borrowing it from him. He’s in Italy.”
Flynn leaned forward in his chair. “Do I take it you’re not going to confess immediately to this crime?”
He used his voice like an instrument—a very soft, woodland instrument.
“I’m not going to confess to this crime at all.”
“And why not?”
“Because I didn’t do it.”
“The man says he didn’t do it, Grover. Have you written that down?”
“Sitting here,” Fletch said, “I’ve been rehearsing what I might tell you.”
“I’m sure you have.” Elbows on chair arms, massive shoulders hunched, Flynn folded his hands in his lap. “All right, Mister Fletcher. Supposing you recite to us your opening prevarication.”
The green eyes clamped on Fletch’s face as if to absorb with full credulity every word.
“I arrived from Rome this afternoon. Came here to the apartment. Changed my clothes, went out to dinner. Came back and found the body.”
“This is a dandy, Grover. Let me see if I’ve got it in all its pristine wonder. Mister Fletcher, you say you fly into a strange city, go to an apartment you’re borrowing, and first night there you find a gorgeous naked girl you’ve never seen before in your life murdered on the living room rug. Is that your story, in short form?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now. If that doesn’t beat the belly of a fish. I trust you’re got every word, Grover, however few of them there were.”
Fletch said, “I thought it might help us all get to bed earlier.”
“‘Get to bed’, he says. Now, Grover, here’s a man who’s had a full day. Would you mind terribly if I led the conversation for a while now?”
“Go ahead,” Fletch said.
Looking at his watch, Flynn said, “It’s been a near regular custom I’ve had with my wife since we were married sixteen years ago to get me home by two o’clock feeding. So we have that much time.” He glanced at the glass of Scotch and water Grover had moved to the edge of the desk blotter. “First I must ask you how much you’ve had to drink tonight.”
“I’ve had whatever’s gone from that glass, Inspector. An ounce of whisky? Less?” Fletch asked, “You really have inspectors in Boston, uh?”
“There is one: me.”
“Good grief.”
“I’d say that’s a most precise definition. I’m greatly taken with it, myself, and I’m sure Grover is—an Inspector of Boston Police as being ‘good grief. The man has his humour, Grover. However, we were speaking of the man’s drinking. How much did you have to drink at dinner?”
“A split. A half bottle of wine.”
“He’ll even define ‘split’ for us, Grover. A remarkably definitive man. You had nothing to drink before dinner?”
“Nothing. I was eating alone.”
“And you’re going to tell me you had nothing to drink on the airplane all the way across the Mediterranean Sea and then the full girth of the Atlantic Ocean, water, water everywhere….”
“I had coffee after we took off. A soft drink with lunch, or whatever it was they served. Coffee afterwards.”
“Were you travelling first class?”
“Yes.”
“The drinks are free in first class, I’ve heard.”
“I had nothing to drink on the airplane, or before boarding the airplane. I had nothing to drink at the airport, nothing here, wine at the restaurant, and this half glass while I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Grover, would you make a note that in my opinion Mister Fletcher is entirely sober?”
“Would you like a drink, Inspector?” Fletch asked.
“Ach, no. I never touch the dirty stuff. The once I had it, the night after being a student in Dublin, it gave me a terrible headache. I woke up the next morning dead. The thing is, this crime of passion would be much easier to understand if you had a bottle or two of the old juice within you.”
“You may find that is so,” Fletch said. “When you find the murderer.”
“Are you a married man yourself, Mister Fletcher?”
“I’m engaged.”
“To be married?”
“I expect to be married. Yes.”
“And what is the name of this young lady whose luck, at the moment, is very much in question?”
“Andy.”
“Now why didn’t I guess that myself? Write down ‘Andrew’, Grover.”
“Angela. Angela de Grassi. She’s in Italy.”
“She’s in Italy, too. Grover. Everyone’s in Italy except he who has just come from there. Make a social note. She didn’t come with you due to her