Confess, fletch by Gregory McDonald

Author:Gregory McDonald [McDonald, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Policier
ISBN: 9780375713484
Published: 2002-03-12T17:18:56+00:00

XXIII

A F T E R steak and eggs, provided and prepared by Mrs. Sawyer, Fletch got into his freshly made bed with yesterday’s edition of the Boston Star.

The murder of Ruth Fryer received little space compared to the space devoted to the City Councilperson’s murder. Obviously there was no new news concerning Ruth Fryer’s murder. The City Councilperson’s murder was reported in the greatest detail, together with her full biography, with pictures of her throughout her career, a personal recollection piece by the paper’s chief local reporter, a sidebar of quotes from notables, political and nonpolitical, friends and enemies, all conspicuously generous. She was a jowly, mean-eyed woman. Indeed, she must have been an unpleasant sight, bloody in her bath.

After more than an hour, Fletch saw an advertisement for an Alec Guinness matinée double bill, The Lavender Hill Mob and The Man in the White Suit. It was the right thing to do, on a rainy Saturday afternoon. According to his map, the theatre was not far.

While he was dressing in slacks, loafers, open shirt, sweater and tweed jacket, he heard the door buzzers ring and presumed it was some enterprise of Mrs. Sawyer. She was trying to restock the kitchen shelves.

Coming down the corridor, then, he was surprised to see Inspector Flynn in the hall. His Irish-knit sweater made his chest and shouders look even more huge, his head even more minute.

“Ah!” Flynn grinned amiably. “I was hoping you’d be at home.”

He was carrying a package which was clearly a bottle of something.

“Where’s Grover?” Fletch asked, coming into the hall.

He took Flynn’s outstretched hand.

“I have some time of my own, you know,” Flynn said. “The department lets me off the leash sometimes on the weekend. Had to come near by—wanted to pick up a Schonberg score the store doesn’t have in yet—and happened to consider the City of Boston owes you a bottle of whisky.”

He presented his package with the full joy of giving.

“That’s damned nice of you.”

It was twelve-year-old Pinch.

“Hope I’m not disturbing anything?”

“Oh, no. I was just going to see a couple of Alec Guinness pictures at the Exeter Street Theatre. That’s near by, isn’t it?”

“What a darling man! He’s Irish, you know. Most English people you think of with talent are.” He rubbed his hands together. “I thought it being a rainy Saturday afternoon, you might like to sit with me over a taste…?”

“I thought you never touch the stuff?”

“I never do. But, like work itself, I never mind watching another man partake.” He turned to Mrs. Sawyer. “I don’t suppose you keep a camomile tea?”

She said, “I think we’ve got Red Zinger.”

“Any herb tea will do. Perhaps you’d bring a glass, some ice and water into the study as well, for Mister Fletcher here.”

The thing seemed decided.

Flynn stepped into the den.

Fletch snapped on the lights and began to open the odd-shaped bottle.

Flynn rummaged around inside his sweater, having driven his hand through the neck of it, and pulled two sheets of folded paper from his shirt pocket.

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