Confess, Fletch - By Gregory Mcdonald Page 0,3
prejudice against the Boston weather?”
“There are some family problems she has to straighten out.”
“And what would the nature of such problems be?”
“I attended her father’s funeral yesterday, Inspector.”
“Ach. Dicey time to leave your true love’s side.”
“She should be coming over in a few days.”
“I see. And what is it you do for a living?”
“I write on art.”
“You’re an art critic?”
“I don’t like the words ‘art critic’. I write on the arts.”
“You must make a fortune at it, Mister Fletcher. First class air tickets, this lavish, opulent apartment, the clothes you’re wearing….”
“I have some money of my own.”
“I see. Having money of your own opens up a great many careers which otherwise might be considered marginal. By the way, what is that painting over the desk? You can’t see it from where you are.”
“It’s a Ford Madox Brown.”
“It’s entirely my style of work.”
“Nineteenth-century English.”
“Well, that’s one thing I’m not, is nineteenth-century English. And who with a touch of humanity in him would be? When did you notice it yourself? The painting, I mean?”
“While I was calling the police.”
“You mean to say, while you were calling the police to report a murder, you were looking at a painting?”
“I guess so.”
“Then, indeed, you must be a most relentless writer-on-the-arts. I understand you used the Police Business phone to report the heinous deed rather than Police Emergency.”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“Why not? Nothing could be done at the moment. The girl was clearly dead. I’d rather leave the Emergency line clear for someone who needed the police immediately, to stop a crime in progress, or get someone to a hospital.”
“Mister Fletcher, people with stutters and stammers and high breathlessness call the Police Emergency number to report a cat in a tree. Did you look up the Police Business number in a book?”
“The operator gave it to me.”
“I see. Were you ever a policeman yourself?”
“No.”
“Just wondering. Something about your sophistication regarding bodies in the parlour. The conciseness of your answers. After a murder, usually it’s only the policeman who want to get to bed. Where was I?”
“I have no idea,” Fletch said. “In the nineteenth century?”
“No. I’m not in the nineteenth century, Mister Fletcher. I’m in Boston, and I’m wondering what you’re doing here.”
“I’m here to do research. I want to try a biography of the Western artist, Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior. He was born and brought up here in Boston, you know, Inspector.”
“I do know that.”
“The Tharp family papers are here. The Boston Museum has a great many of his works.”
“Have you ever been in Boston before?”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let’s go over your arrival in Boston again, Mister Fletcher. It makes such a marvellous story. This time, tell me the approximate times of everything. Again, I remind you that Grover will take it all down, and we’re not supposed to correct him later, although I always do. Now: when did you land in Boston?”
“I was in the airport waiting for my luggage at three-forty. I set my watch by the airport clock.”
“What airlines? What flight number?”
“Trans World. I don’t know the flight number. I went through customs. I got a taxi and came here. I got here about five-thirty.”
“I understand about going through customs, but the airport is only ten minutes from here.”
“You’re asking me? I believe Traffic Control is also considered Police Business.”
The representative of Boston Police said, “Ach, well, so, of course it was five o’clock. Where in particular did you get stuck?”
“In some crazy tunnel with a dripping roof and chirruping fans.”
“Ah, yes, the Callaban. I’ve sat in there myself. But at five o’clock the traffic in there usually gets stuck going north, not south.”
“I shaved and showered and changed my clothes. I unpacked. I left here I would guess a little after six-thirty. I took a taxi to the restaurant.”
“Which restaurant?”
“The Café Budapest.”
“Now, that’s interesting. How did you know enough to go to such a fine restaurant your first night in town?”
“The man sitting next to me on the plane mentioned it.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“He never mentioned it. We didn’t talk much. Just while we were having lunch. I think he said he was some kind of an engineer. From someplace I think called Wesley Hills.”
“Wellesley Hills. In Boston we spell everything the long way, too. Did you have the cherry soup?”
“At the Budapest? Yes.”
“I hear it’s a great privilege, for those who can afford it.”
“I tried to walk home. It had seemed like a short ride in the taxi. I left the restaurant shortly after eight