The flight from Rome had been pleasant enough, even if the business he was on wasn’t exactly. His Italian fianc?e’s father had been kidnapped and presumably murdered, and Fletch is on the trail of a stolen art collection that is her only patrimony. But when he arrives in his apartment to find a dead body, things start to get complicated.
Inspector Flynn found him a little glib for someone who seemed to be the only likely suspect in a pretty clear case of homicide. He wasn’t exactly uncooperative, but it wasn’t like he was entirely forthcoming either. And Flynn wasn’t entirely convinced that the nineteenth-century Western artist Edgar Arthur Tharp really occupied most of Fletch’s thoughts.
With the police on his tail and a few other things to do beside prove his own innocence, Fletch makes himself at home in Boston, renting a van, painting it black, and breaking into a private art gallery. That is when he’s not “entertaining” his future mother-in-law
and visiting with the good Inspector Flynn and his family.
consolation or material attainment. Flynn stood, hands in his pockets, chin back, the amiable grin still on his face. “Supposing we were friends, Mister Fletcher,” he said. “What would I call you? Surely not Irwin Maurice. Are you used to the name Peter, yet? Or are you down to calling yourself ‘Pete’?” “Fletch,” Fletch said. “People call me Fletch.” “Fletch, is it? Now that’s an impudent enough name. Couldn’t an Irish poet dance a Maypole playing with a name like that, though?” “I recognize
“Not for the story?” “Of course not. What’s it got to do with you?” “Some girl was murdered in our old apartment. After Bart left for Italy. He rented the apartment to some schnook who says he found the body.” “You mean, your husband killed her?” “Bart? You’re kidding. There’s not an ounce of violence in him. Believe me, I should know. If he were going to kill anybody, he would have killed me.” “Have the police questioned you?” “Why should they?” From across the room, the harsh light from
“Thought it would if someone laid it out for you.” Robinson said, “All right.” He stood up stiffly and reached for his raincoat. “What am I supposed to say to you?” Fletch said, “Good-bye?” “I guess if I ever find out you are the murderer, I will kill you.” “Okay.” “Even if they put you in jail for twenty, thirty years, however long, when they release you, I will kill you.” “It’s a deal.” At the door, Robinson said, “Good-bye.” Fletch said, “Come again. When you’re feeling better.”
went to the airport, probably pretended he had just arrived from someplace, picks up the Trans World Airline Ground Hostess….” “I didn’t tell him what airlines I was flying.” “If he knows what day you’re arriving, he can find out what airlines, what flight number, and what arrival time with a single phone call. Surely you know that.” “Yes.” “As handsome a man as he is, looking as safe as your favourite uncle, he suggests Ruth Fryer join him for dinner, at some fancy place obviously he can
R99420. Have you got it?” “In general, yes.” “Kasner’s address is 20 East 66th Street, New York.” “I can remember.” “He’s expecting you this afternoon. Come into the foyer with me, as if you were leaving, anyway.” The doorbell rang. “Good morning, Inspector.” “Good morning, Mister Fletcher.” The little face on top of the huge body was bright and shining from a recent close shave. The green eyes were beaming like a cat’s. Fletch brought Menti forward by the elbow. “I’d like you to meet a