Gregory Mcdonald - Confess, Fletch

Fletch
Fletch Won
Fletch, Too
Fletch and the Widow Bradley
Carioca Fletch
Confess, Fletch
Fletchs Fortune
Fletchs Moxie
Fletch and the Man Who
Son of Fletch
Fletch Reflected
Flynn
The Buck Passes Flynn
Flynns In
Skylar
Skylar in Yankeeland
Running Scared
Safekeeping
Who Took Toby Rinaldi? (Snatched)
Love Among the Mashed Potatoes (Dear Me)
The Brave
Exits and Entrances
Merely Players
A World Too Wide
The Education of Gregory Mcdonald (Souvenirs of a Blown World)

Gregory Mcdonald is the author of twenty-five books, including nine Fletch novels and three Flynn mysteries. He has twice won the Mystery Writers of Americas prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Mystery Novel, and was the first author to win for both a novel and its sequel. He lives in Tennessee

F L E T C H snapped on the light and looked into the den.

Except for the long windows and the area over the desk, the walls were lined with books. There were two red leather wing chairs in the room, a small divan, and a coffee table.

On the little desk was a black telephone.

Fletch dialled O.

Get me the police, please.

Is this an emergency?

Not at the moment.

The painting over the desk was a Ford Madox Browna country couple wrapped against the wind.

Then please dial 555-7523.

Thank you.

He did so.

Sergeant McAuliffe speaking.

Sergeant, this is Mister Fletcher, 152 Beacon Street, apartment 6B.

Yes, sir.

Theres a murdered girl in my living room.

A what girl?

Murdered.

Naked, her breasts and hips full, her stomach lean, she lay on her back between the coffee table and the divan. Her head was on the hardwood floor in the space between the carpet and the fireplace. Her face, whiter than the areas kept from the sun by her bikini, eyes staring, looked as if she were about to complain of some minor discomfort, such as, Move your arm, will you? or Your watchband is scratching me.

Murdered, Fletch repeated.

There was a raw spot behind the girls left ear. It had had time to neither swell nor bleed. There was just a gully with slim blood streaks running along it. Her hair streamed away from it as if to escape.

This is the Police Business phone.

Isnt murder police business?

Youre supposed to call Emergency with a murder.

I think the emergency is over.

I mean, I dont even have a tape recorder on this phone.

So talk to your boss. Make a recommendation.

Is this some kinda joke?

No. It isnt.

No ones ever called Police Business phone to report a murder. Who is this?

Look, would you take a message? 152 Beacon Street, apartment 6B, murder, the name is Fletcher. Would you write that down?

156 Beacon Street?

152 Beacon Street, 6B. Through the den door, Fletchs eyes passed over his empty suitcases standing in the hall. Apartment is in the name of Connors.

Your name is Fletcher?

With an F. Let Homicide know, will you? Theyll be interested.

F L E T C H looked at his watch. It was twenty-one minutes to ten.

Instinctively he timed the swiftness of the police.

He returned to the living room and mixed himself a Scotch and water at the sideboard. He would not bother with ice. He concentrated on opening the Scotch bottle, making more of a job of it than was necessary. He did not look in the direction of the girl.

She was beautiful, she was dead, and he had seen enough of her.

Sloshing the drink in his glass as he walked, he went back into the den and turned on all the lights.

He stood at the desk, looking closely at the Brown. The cottage behind the country couple was just slightly tilted in its landscape, as if it, too, were being affected by the wind. Fletch had seen similiar Browns, but never even a reproduction of this painting.

The phone made him jump. Some of his drink splashed on to the desk blotter.

He placed his glass on the blotter, and his handkerchief over the stains before answering.

Mister Fletcher?

Yes.

Ah, good, you did arrive. Welcome to Boston.

Thank you. Who is this?

Ronald Horan. Horan Gallery. I tried to get you earlier.

I went out to dinner.

Your letter mentioned youd be staying in Bart Connors apartment. We did some restoration work for him a year or two ago.

Its very good of you to call, Mister Horan.

Well, Im very excited by this Picasso you mentioned in your letter. You said its called Vino, Viola, Mademoiselle?

Its been called that. God knows how Picasso thought of it.

Of course, Im puzzled why you came all the way from Rome to Boston to engage me as your broker.

Theres some evidence the painting is in this part of the world. Possibly even in Boston.

I see. Still, I expect we could have handled it by correspondence.

As I wrote in my letter, there may be one or two other matters Id like to consult you about.

Yes, of course. Anything to be of service. Perhaps I should start by warning you that this painting might not exist.

It exists.

Ive looked it up, and there is no record of it anywhere that I can find.

I have a photograph of it.

Very possibly it does exist. There are a great many Picassos in existence which have never been recorded. On the other hand, the body of Picassos work very often has been victim to fakes. Im sure you know his work has been counterfeited more than the work of anyone else in history.

I do know, yes.

Well, I wouldnt be giving you professional service if I didnt bring these matters up to you. If such a painting exists, and its authentic, Ill do everything I can to find it for you and arrange for the purchase.

Rotating blue lights from the roofs of police cars storeys below began to flash against the long, light window curtains. There had been no sound of sirens.

Are you free to come by tomorrow morning, Mister Fletcher?

Fletch said, Im not sure.

I was thinking of ten-thirty.

Ten-thirty will be fine. If Im free at all.

Good. You have my address.

Yes.

Lets see, youre on Beacon Street across from the Gardens, right?

I think so.

Fletch pushed the curtains aside. There were three police cars in the street. Across the street was an iron railing. The darkness beyond had to be a park.

Then what you do is this: leave your apartment and turn right, that is, east, and go to the end of the Gardens. Then turn left on Arlington Street, that is, away from the river. Newbury Street will be the third block on your right. The gallery is about two and a half blocks down the street.

Thank you. Ive got it.

Ill send someone down to open the door to you at ten-thirty precisely. Were not a walk-in gallery, you know.

I wouldnt think so. Im sorry, Mister Horan, I think theres someone at my door.

Quite all right. I look forward to seeing you in the morning.

Fletch hung up.

The door buzzer sounded.

It was seven minutes to ten.

M Y N A M E S Flynn. Inspector Flynn.

The man in the well-cut, three-piece, brown tweed suit filled the den doorway. His chest and shoulders were enormous, his brown hair full and curly. Between these two masses of overblown brown was a face so small it had the cherubic quality of an eight-year-old boy, or a dwarf. Even with the hair, his head was small in proportion to his body, like a tiny, innocent-looking knob in control of a huge, powerful machine. Nothing indoors had the precise colour of his green eyes. It was the bright, sparkling green of sunlight on a wet spring meadow.