Flynn's In by Gregory McDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

Francis Xavier Flynn, a man whose background does not invite delving into. Suffice it to say, he has a brilliant record of running discreet investigations, let’s say, above the salt, with spectacular results.”
    “Shall I dance around the ring?” gently inquired Flynn, putting on what he hoped would be seen as a wry smile.
    Rutledge turned his face to Cocky seated across from Flynn, looking small and misshapen among the big, ruddy, well-cared-for men. “And this is Detective Lieutenant Walter Concannon who, I understand, took early retirement from the Boston Police some while ago. We weren’t really expecting Concannon, but under the circumstances, a guest of Flynn’s necessarily is a guest of ours.”
    Cocky kept his eyes in his empty stew bowl.
    At a table near the kitchen door Taylor stood with another white-coated man, Vietnamese, awaiting the courtesies to be over.
    Around the big dining room panelled in barnwood there were several other round tables, smaller, not set for lunch. Large leaded windows on one wall overlooked the lake.
    “Never thought we’d be entertaining investigators of any kind at The Rod and Gun Club,” Rutledge said, “but you all know of the tragic occurrence of last night, and those preliminary steps we have taken so far.”“Threw it all down the hill.” Naked, seventy year old Wendell Oland sat at table to Flynn’s left. Formerly, Flynn had dined with naked people, of course, but he could not remember having done so formally. “Quite right, too.”
    Rutledge said, “I promised Flynn he will have the cooperation of each and every one of us. It was agreed last night, gentlemen, that
we
want to know what happened and why before
we
decide what to do about it.”
    At first Flynn welcomed the flurry of skirt, the flash of stockinged leg, the tumble of silken hair which then appeared in the small door of the dining room.
    Then he realized how ungainly the apparition was.
    The person wearing these clothes was tall, broad-shouldered, and needed a shave.
    “Ah, Lauderdale,” chided Rutledge. “Late again.”
    “That’s Judge Lauderdale,” Wahler whispered from Flynn’s right. “He likes to wear dresses.”
    “He doesn’t wear them well,” observed Flynn.
    The man’s wig was off several degrees counterclockwise, his blouse screwed several degrees off clockwise, and the skirt was twisted counterclockwise. His stockings sagged.
    “He keeps closets of ’em here,” Wahler whispered.
    “Can’t say I don’t hear the damned gong,” Lauderdale said. “It gives me migraine.” The Judge pronounced it
me-graine
. “It rushes me so.”
    Lauderdale sat between Wahler and D’Esopo.
    From below his shaggy eyebrows, Eddy D’Esopo was looking worriedly at Flynn. He then looked worriedly at Cocky.
    “Permit me to finish the introductions.” Rutledge began at his immediate left. “Clifford… Arlington…” He skipped Cocky. “… Buckingham… Ashley…” He skipped D’Esopo. “…Lauderdale…” He skipped Wahler and Flynn. “…Oland…” Rutledge looked at the empty place set immediately to his right. “I guess Dunn Roberts didn’t make it to lunch. Must be out hunting.”
    “He’s napping,” Lauderdale said.
    “Crocked,” said Ashley. “Drank his breakfast. He’ll feel the better for it.”Clifford, Arlington, Buckingham and Ashley were those who had been playing poker so earnestly upon Flynn’s return to the clubhouse. Ashley had since changed from a bathrobe to a hunting jacket.
    Rutledge nodded toward the kitchen door.
    Taylor and the waiter began going around the table ladling stew into the bowls.
    “What about the gong?” Flynn quietly asked Wahler.
    The Sunday noon peace of the hills had been devastated by the sound of the gong, struck once. At its sound, Wahler had led Flynn from the storage room to the dining room.
    “Everything around here happens to the sound of the gong. Breakfast, lunch, sauna, swim, dinner. It’s a tradition.”
    “But where is