Fletch Page 11

  “I know she has nothin’. She doesn’t store. She uses. Always. Uses.”

  “What did Fat Sam say?”

  “He said he had nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”

  “When will the candy man come?”

  “He said he’d be back in business tomorrow.”

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Ten. Eleven.”

  Fletch said, “You’ll live.”

  Creasey said, “Yeah.”

  He went back up the beach and over the sea wall.

  Fletch had had concussions before, and he had suffered shock before, and he had spent nights on the beach before. He dreaded the hours before sunrise. They came. He remained on the beach, overviewing Vatsyayana’s lean-to. He forced himself to remain awake. The dew came. His jeans, his shirt became heavily wet. Even the inside of his nose became wet. He was horribly cold. He shivered violently, continuously. Staying awake was then no problem.

  He thought of Alan Stanwyk’s wanting to die in a few days. His wife, his daughter, his mansion. It was possible, but Fletch had not yet proved it. He had not yet checked everything. Not all the way. He had a good sense of the man, but not yet a complete sense of the man. He tried not to speculate. He went over in his mind, again and again, what he would say into his tape recorder next time. What he knew. What he had checked absolutely. He reviewed all the things he did not know yet, all the facts he had not checked absolutely. There were many such facts. He reviewed his sources. There were not many fresh sources left. He counted the days—four, really, only four—he had left.

  Sometime, he would have to sleep. He promised himself sleep. Sometime.

  Light came into the sky.

  Throughout that night, with the exception of Creasey, who was clearly carrying nothing, no one approached Vatsyayana’s lean-to. Fat Sam did not leave the lean-to.

  By eight forty-five, Fletch was sweating in the sun.

  People drifted onto the beach. Bodies that had remained on the beach all night moved. Some wandered down to the dunes to relieve themselves. Some did not bother to go to the dunes. No one spoke. They looked into each other’s eyes and got the message that Fat Sam had not yet received delivery. For a while, Fat Sam sat cross-legged in the opening of his lean-to, taking the morning sun. No one approached him. To a stranger, it would all look like young people sitting silently, half asleep, on the beach on a Sunday morning. Fletch saw the fear, the anxiety, the desperation in the darting eyes; the extraordinary number of cigarettes being smoked; the suppressed shaking of the hands. He heard the shattering silence. Some of these people had been hanging fire two or three days.

  At ten-thirty Gummy returned to the beach. He sat alone. Over his long jeans he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt like a tent. His shoulders seemed no wider than the back of his neck. His face in profile was hawkish. He sat absolutely still, staring straight in front of him.

  Bobbi came to the beach, and Creasey, and Sando, and July. They sat close to Fletch. No one said a word.

  Fat Sam had moved back into the shadow of his lean-to. He had withdrawn.

  “Jesus,” Sando said.

  People began to move toward the lean-to. People in shorts, jeans, shirtless. Bikinis. People carrying nothing but money. The store was open. Fletch had not perceived a signal of any sort. First Creasey. Then Bobbi. They stood around outside the lean-to, not speaking, looking at their feet, their hands, not at each other, ashamed of their desperation. July, Bing Crosby, Gummy, Florida, Filter-tip, Jagger. Fletch stood with them. Milling. In and out of the lean-to. Somebody must have dropped something. There was a supply. Everything. Fat Sam was dealing. People who had been served began to hustle off the beach. Squirrels with nuts to store. They were going to stash. They were going to relieve their tensions. They were going to shoot up.

  Fletch backed away, imitating the face of someone who had bought. Who was all right. Bobbi had scurried.

  Down the beach, Fletch jumped into the ocean. The morning-cold salt water helped glue the separated parts of his head together. The blood was too congealed to wash out of his hair.

  Walking back to his pad, past the Sunday-morning-closed stores of ordinary commerce, he heard the church bells ring. It was Sunday noon and everyone was shooting up.

  Fletch slept past midnight.

  17

  When Fletch woke at a quarter to three Monday morning, he found Bobbi lying in the sleeping bag beside him. He had not heard or felt her come in. It took him a moment to realize she was dead.

  The back of his scalp tingling, he scrambled out of the sleeping bag.

  As he knelt in the moonlight beside her, his scream choked with horror.

  Her eyes appeared to have receded entirely into her head. Her left arm was puffy at the elbow and shoulder. She showed no vital signs.

  He guessed she had overdosed.

  He spent until dawn ridding the room of every sign of her.

  Until eleven o’clock, then, he sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of the room. Rock still. Thinking.

  18

  Early Monday afternoon, Fletch spent forty minutes under a warm shower in his own apartment. He had driven up from The Beach at about the pace of a hearse. Bobbi was dead and sort of buried. He washed his hair five times. Finally, the blood, the sand, the congealed mess was gone. A crooked, narrow abrasion under his hair was sore to the touch of his fingertips.

  Sitting on the divan under the Disderi, he ate two delicatessen sandwiches and drank a bottle of milk. On the coffee table in front of him was the big tape recorder. On the wall across from him was a copy of William James’s Cherry Beach.

  After he had finished his sandwiches and milk, he went into the bedroom and lay on the bed. Facing him was a copy of Fredric Weiss’s 1968 photograph of a boy apparently walking in midair beneath two roofs, Boy Jumping.

  Fletch said, “Bobbi,” and picked up the phone and dialed the Nevada number.

  “Swarthout Nevada Realty Company.”

  It was the same voice that had answered Saturday.

  “Jim Swarthout, please.”

  “I’m not sure Mr. Swarthout … oh, here he is, sir. One moment, please.”

  Fletch sat up on the bed. He had to put Bobbi out of mind, now. Lighten his voice. Be convincing.

  “Jim Swarthout speaking.”

  “Hi, Jim. This is Bill Carmichael.”

  “Bill Carmichael?”

  “I’m a stockbroker for a bunch of thieves out here on the Coast known as John Collins and all. The John Collins family.”

  “Oh, yeah. How are you, Bill?”

  “I think we’ve met.” Fletch said.

  “Well, if you’ve ever in your life seen an overweight, bald-headed man who was probably drunk at the time, we’ve met.”

  “Alan tells me you’re doin’ a deal with him.”

  “Alan who?”

  “Alan Stanwyk.”

  “Who’s Alan Stanwyk?”

  “The guy who married Joan Collins.”

  “Oh. John’s son-in-law.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, Alan told me about his buying the ranch, and as I might be interested in buying a little piece of real estate out your way myself, I thought I’d give you a ring. The stock market, you know, Jim, isn’t all it might be.”

  “I’ve never heard from him.”

  “From whom?”

  “Alan what’s-his-name. John Collins’s son-in-law.”

  “You’ve never heard from him?”

  “Never. You said he’s buying a ranch through me?”

  “A big spread. Fifteen million dollars’ worth.”

  “Nope. It’s not happening.”

  “Golly. I thought he said it was quite definite.”

  “Maybe he’s just thinking about it. What’s his phone number?”

  “Could he be dealing with someone else?”

  “No. If there’s a fifteen-million-dollar ranch for sale anywhere in Nevada, I’d know about it. There isn’t one.”

  “Amazin
g.”

  “I’d know if such a property were available anywhere in the state. And right now there just isn’t one. Let me say that over. I can almost perfectly guarantee you that nowhere in the state of Nevada at the present time is there a piece of real estate of such value being sold or bought. Of course there is always the chance of a private deal, between friends or family, where a broker isn’t being used or consulted. But even then, I would be very much surprised if I hadn’t heard about it.”

  “In any case, Alan Stanwyk is definitely not using you or your office to buy any real estate in Nevada?”

  “Definitely not. As I say, we’ve never heard from him. I’m sure we could find something for him, though.”

  “Do me a favor, Jim?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t call him. You’d just be embarrassing me, and him, too. He mentioned it by the pool last night. He’d had a drink.”

  “Talking big, huh?”

  “I suspect so.”

  “That’s the way it is with these professional in-laws. Always talking about what they’re going to do with somebody else’s money.”

  “I guess so. He’d had a drink.”

  “Well, if he ever gets serious, and if he ever gets his hands on any of his father-in-law’s money, send him out to me.”

  “I will, Jim.”

  “Now, Bill, you said you were interested in a piece of property yourself.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Jim.”

  “You were just checking on the old boy.”

  “Something like that, Jim.”

  “What are you, the family financial nursemaid?”

  “Let’s just say I asked a question.”

  “And you got an answer. I understand. My own daughter is taking art lessons in Dallas, Texas, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Families, Jim. Families.”

  “I wouldn’t trade jobs with you, Bill. But call anytime you want. If old John’s hired you to nursemaid Alan what’s-his-name, it’s all right with me. Just wish I could hire you myself.”

  “You’re a sharp man, Jim. I owe you a drink.”

  “John Collins does. And from him, I’ll accept.”

  Fletch returned to the living room and sat heavily on the divan. He continued to have a mild headache.

  Snapping on the microphone in his hand, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He spoke slowly.

  “Although it is my instinct at this point to ramble on regarding the nature of truth, particularly the illusory nature of truth, I shall do my best to confine the following remarks concerning the Alan Stanwyk Murder Mystery to facts as I now know them.

  “One comment only for file, which may concern the nature of truth in general, or may, more significantly, concern the nature of facts specifically concerning Alan Stanwyk, to wit: almost every fact adequately confirmed about Alan Stanwyk has also been adequately denied.

  “In the case of almost each fact, it would have been easy to accept simple confirmation from an authoritative source. Further checking, however, frequently has resulted in an equally authoritative denial of that fact.

  “By now, in my investigation of Alan Stanwyk, I have talked, either in person or by telephone, with his secretary, his personal physician, his father, his wife, his father-in-law, his insurance man who is also his old college roommate. Indirectly, through a third party, I have had testimony from the man’s stockbroker. I have had corporate and personal financial views of Stanwyk, and a social view of himself and his wife. I have had a police report on him.

  “To the best of my ability, I have run this investigation-in-depth on him without there being any way of his knowing he’s being investigated. I have used different names, different identities, and never have I pressed the questioning far enough for the person being questioned to be suspicious, with the exception of Jim Swarthout in Nevada, and I believe I completely cooled his suspicions. He will not report the inquiry to either Stanwyk or his family.

  “The portrait of Alan Stanwyk that has emerged so far is that of a bright, healthy, energetic, ambitious man. A man solid in his community, family and business. I would even say a decent man. In fact, perhaps going a bit further than I should, a man of deep loyalties and principles.

  “First, he has a clean police record, with the exceptions of a six-month-old unpaid parking ticket from the City of Los Angeles and the complaint that as a lieutenant in the Air Force he buzzed a house with a training jet in San Antonio, Texas.

  “From his stockbroker, William Carmichael, we know that Alan Stanwyk is in pretty good financial condition. On paper, he may presently be worth as much as a million dollars. Eventually, because of both the nature of his employment and the nature of his marriage, he will both achieve personal wealth and share in, probably control, one of the world’s great fortunes. Even with this ultimate circumstance inevitable, and despite maintaining the highest standard of living available for his immediate family, Stanwyk has salted away over one hundred thousand dollars from salary over a very few years. The last few years, he must have been putting away twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars a year, simply because he hasn’t needed it.

  ‘This indicates, at least to me, that such a vice as compulsive gambling can be ruled out. The crime of embezzlement does not seem necessary. Apparently, Stanwyk is not being blackmailed.

  “We have from his family physician, and others, good evidence that Stanwyk does not have a drinking problem or a drug problem. Not only is he under consistent close scrutiny by professionals and others who depend upon Stanwyk’s physical and mental performance; his way of life, his known, witnessed habits preclude his harboring such addictions. No one can play squash and tennis, sail, and especially fly experimental aircraft with reflexes and nerves shot by depressants.

  “I think I can state as a fact that Alan Stanwyk drinks and smokes moderately. Period.

  “For what it is worth, from what must be called a streetwalker in the town in which he is currently living, The Hills, a young girl named Roberta ‘Bobbi’ Sanders had never seen Alan Stanwyk. It might therefore be said that he is not known to have frequented, or cruised, the sexual meat market most convenient to his residence.

  “This does not mean that Alan Stanwyk’s sexual activity is confined to the marital bed. There is good reason to suspect otherwise.

  “However, it does indicate that Alan Stanwyk’s sexual activities are controlled in acceptable social patterns.

  “His stockbroker and presumed confidant, William Carmichael, doubts strongly that Alan Stanwyk maintains an extramarital sex life. Carmichael believes such an extramarital sex life would place in jeopardy Stanwyk’s relations with his wife and thus with his father-in-law employer.

  “However, without meaning to visit the sins of the wife upon the husband, I had the distinct impression that his wife, Joan Stanwyk, was perfectly willing to enjoy a sexual dalliance with this investigator. Her ardor may have been the result of tennis followed by martinis. This should be more thoroughly checked later. One expects that if a wife is playing around, a husband is, although the reverse is not always true. If the wife is playing around as openly as it seems, at least she would have little to complain about the husband’s extramarital affairs.

  “We also have testimony from a contemporary of Stanwyk’s father-in-law, News-Tribune society writer Amelia Shurcliffe, that extramarital affairs on the part of either Alan or Joan Stanwyk would not greatly disturb John Collins. Apparently the old boy has every reason of his own to be most understanding regarding such matters. According to Mrs. Shurcliffe, his own sexual activities have not been entirely confined to the marital bed.

  “Other matters concerning Alan Stanwyk’s health are more confusing.

  “So far, the only evidence that Alan Stanwyk has terminal cancer is from Alan Stanwyk’s own mouth.

  “His personal physician denies it. I take that back: his personal physician, Dr. Joseph Devlin of the Medical Center, states that as far as he knows, Alan Stanwyk is in perfect health. He
states he has not referred him to any specialist—ever. He also states he has not given him a complete physical examination recently enough to be viable.

  “His insurance company examines him every six months.

  “Stanwyk’s insurance agent and old college chum, Burt Eberhart, also states that Alan Stanwyk is in perfect physical condition. Although he did make an interesting slip, Freudian or otherwise. He said, ‘Al plays so close to the chest, he wouldn’t tell you if he were dying of cancer …’

  “I have since confirmed that Dr. Joseph Devlin is heavily invested in Collins Aviation. My source is Joan Collins Stanwyk. I have confirmed from several sources that if it were known that Stanwyk is terminally ill, at least until Stanwyk has a chance to prepare the company for his absence, Collins Aviation would be in financial trouble.

  “Burt Eberhart, besides being Stanwyk’s personal insurance man, is the broker for all Collins Aviation insurance. One can presume Eberhart is also heavily invested in Collins Aviation.

  “Mentioning cancer casually to Stanwyk’s wife, father, and father-in-law caused no discernible reaction. Unless everyone is a very good actor, and superbly in control of his emotions, or in complete ignorance, the people closest to Alan Stanwyk are not thinking of cancer in relation to him.

  “Therefore, this investigation is drawing a complete blank.

  “No aberrations or abnormalities are apparent thus far in Alan Stanwyk’s financial, sexual or health areas.

  “Alan Stanwyk’s social relations seem splendid. According to society writer Amelia Shurcliffe, the Stanwyks present a rather nice, solid, possibly dull image. She even believes they may be in love with each other. Alan Stanwyk could not have fitted into this society of extreme wealth and responsibility without undergoing intensive envious scrutiny. He must have a good glovemaker. Clearly, he has not committed the faux pas of ostentation, silliness, aloofness, what-have-you. He is generally admired and respected.

  “The same is true among his intimates. I would say he is intensely admired among family and close friends. Not that he is without criticism. His wife wishes he had more time for her. His father-in-law wishes he had a better sense of humor. His father wishes he wouldn’t spend so much time on the telephone. His old friend Burt Eberhart wishes Alan weren’t always so serious. Everyone wishes he would stop flying experimental aircraft.