race.”
“Fletcher!”
“How much did I win this time? Two dollars and thirty-five cents?”
“Fletcher, I want you out of that house and I mean right now.”
“Ted, you sound serious.”
“I am serious! I want you out within the hour!”
“Gee, did I do something wrong, Ted? Use too much hot water? Didn’t know you had a problem.”
“None of your bull, Fletcher. I saw on TBS you’re running a circus in The Blue House. In my house! Frizzlewhit said he heard something about it on the morning news. I couldn’t believe it. You said you wanted to get away for a few days.”
“I am away. Trying to relax from the strain of being a race horse owner.”
“Moxie Mooney! Jeez!”
“Sleeping in your bed at the moment. Doesn’t that just make your old loins jump though?”
“Frederick Mooney!”
“You’ll need a new placard for the front door:
Mooneys, pere et—”
“Get them out of my house!”
“Why, Ted, their staying here increases the resale value of your property by at least, I’d say, another twelve thousand dollars.”
“Fletcher.” Sills spoke with the deliberation of a poker player playing his ace. “You’ve drawn a murder investigation to my house.”
“Oh, that.”
“That.”
“That will all come out in the wash.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Really, you should be here, Ted, if only you could afford the room rent. Edith Howell is here. John Meade is in and out. Gerry Littleford. Sy Koller. Geoff McKensie.”
“You’re running a hotel for murder suspects! Fugitives from justice!”
“Ted, why take it so personally? They’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Not in my house, damn it. I want you and that whole gang of murder celebrities out of The Blue House and I mean now. Within the hour.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean ‘no’?”
“You’re forgetting something, Ted.”
“I’ll never forget this.”
“You’re forgetting I didn’t borrow your house. I’m paying rent for it. If you had been kind, and let me borrow your house, of course I’d have no choice but to accede to your wishes. But as a rent payer, I have certain rights—”
“You’re not a rent-payer, you bastard. I never got the check.”
“No? The check is in the mail.”
“The deal isn’t complete. I never got the check. You don’t have anything to prove you sent the check.”
“But, Ted, I’m in the house. That means something.”
“It means you’re a guest. And I’m throwing you out.”
“Hell of a way to treat a guest.”
“I never got the check for the feed bills, either.”
“That’s coming in dimes and quarters. Look for the truck.”
“Fletcher, just hear me out. I let you have The Blue House—”
“At an outrageous rent.”
“I didn’t want you to have it at all. You never told me you were going to fill the house up with fugitives from a murder investigation.”
“Actually, that wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s my house. My home. I don’t want pictures of it all over the world on the front pages of police gazettes and scandal magazines.”
“Never knew you were so sensitive.”
“Get out. Get out. Get those people out of there. Get everybody out of that house. Instantly.”
The phone went dead.
Fletch looked into the phone’s mouthpiece. “Great instrument of communication,” he muttered to himself. “Designed for those who insist upon having the last word.”
Mrs Lopez was in the door of the study. “Anything you want, Mister Fletcher?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Lopez.”
“Coffee? Cold drink?”
Fletch picked up the script of
Midsummer Night’s Madness
from the desk. “Maybe I’ll pick up a cold drink as I go through the kitchen.”
She smiled. “Everyone is napping now.”
“Everyone except Mister Meade. He’s about to run an errand.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Shopping. It’s nice having so many people in the house. So many people I’ve only seen in the movies.” The woman fluttered her hand in a girlish gesture.
“Fletcher!”
“How much did I win this time? Two dollars and thirty-five cents?”
“Fletcher, I want you out of that house and I mean right now.”
“Ted, you sound serious.”
“I am serious! I want you out within the hour!”
“Gee, did I do something wrong, Ted? Use too much hot water? Didn’t know you had a problem.”
“None of your bull, Fletcher. I saw on TBS you’re running a circus in The Blue House. In my house! Frizzlewhit said he heard something about it on the morning news. I couldn’t believe it. You said you wanted to get away for a few days.”
“I am away. Trying to relax from the strain of being a race horse owner.”
“Moxie Mooney! Jeez!”
“Sleeping in your bed at the moment. Doesn’t that just make your old loins jump though?”
“Frederick Mooney!”
“You’ll need a new placard for the front door:
Mooneys, pere et—”
“Get them out of my house!”
“Why, Ted, their staying here increases the resale value of your property by at least, I’d say, another twelve thousand dollars.”
“Fletcher.” Sills spoke with the deliberation of a poker player playing his ace. “You’ve drawn a murder investigation to my house.”
“Oh, that.”
“That.”
“That will all come out in the wash.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Really, you should be here, Ted, if only you could afford the room rent. Edith Howell is here. John Meade is in and out. Gerry Littleford. Sy Koller. Geoff McKensie.”
“You’re running a hotel for murder suspects! Fugitives from justice!”
“Ted, why take it so personally? They’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Not in my house, damn it. I want you and that whole gang of murder celebrities out of The Blue House and I mean now. Within the hour.”
“No.”
“No? What do you mean ‘no’?”
“You’re forgetting something, Ted.”
“I’ll never forget this.”
“You’re forgetting I didn’t borrow your house. I’m paying rent for it. If you had been kind, and let me borrow your house, of course I’d have no choice but to accede to your wishes. But as a rent payer, I have certain rights—”
“You’re not a rent-payer, you bastard. I never got the check.”
“No? The check is in the mail.”
“The deal isn’t complete. I never got the check. You don’t have anything to prove you sent the check.”
“But, Ted, I’m in the house. That means something.”
“It means you’re a guest. And I’m throwing you out.”
“Hell of a way to treat a guest.”
“I never got the check for the feed bills, either.”
“That’s coming in dimes and quarters. Look for the truck.”
“Fletcher, just hear me out. I let you have The Blue House—”
“At an outrageous rent.”
“I didn’t want you to have it at all. You never told me you were going to fill the house up with fugitives from a murder investigation.”
“Actually, that wasn’t my intention.”
“It’s my house. My home. I don’t want pictures of it all over the world on the front pages of police gazettes and scandal magazines.”
“Never knew you were so sensitive.”
“Get out. Get out. Get those people out of there. Get everybody out of that house. Instantly.”
The phone went dead.
Fletch looked into the phone’s mouthpiece. “Great instrument of communication,” he muttered to himself. “Designed for those who insist upon having the last word.”
Mrs Lopez was in the door of the study. “Anything you want, Mister Fletcher?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Lopez.”
“Coffee? Cold drink?”
Fletch picked up the script of
Midsummer Night’s Madness
from the desk. “Maybe I’ll pick up a cold drink as I go through the kitchen.”
She smiled. “Everyone is napping now.”
“Everyone except Mister Meade. He’s about to run an errand.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Shopping. It’s nice having so many people in the house. So many people I’ve only seen in the movies.” The woman fluttered her hand in a girlish gesture.
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