Fletch and the Widow Bradley Page 13

  —M.

  Dear Mister Fletcher:

  The Mayor has informed his office that he has decided to honor you with the Good Citizen of The Month Award in recognition of the heroic risking your own life to save the life of another citizen on the Guilden Street Bridge Sunday night.

  The ceremony is to take place in the Mayor’s office Friday at ten o’clock sharp.

  You are to report to Mrs. Goldovsky at The Mayor’s Office, City Hall, at eight-thirty sharp Friday morning. Mrs. Goldovsky will instruct you in what you are to do and to say during and after the ceremony. Any tardiness in meeting with Mrs. Goldovsky will not be tolerated.

  The ceremony will be by nature of a press conference, which is to say, members of the press—reporters, photographers, and cameramen will be in attendance. Your being dressed in normal business attire will be suitable.

  Sincerely,

  The Office of The Mayor

  Dear Mister Fletcher—

  I read about how you rescued that lady off the bridge? I need rescuing. My parents treat me awful bad. They’re never taken me to FANTAZYLAND—not even oncet, in all my life. Please come quick and rescue me up.

  Tommy address above

  Dear Mister Fletcher:

  Although I’m sure I join millions in praising your act of heroism Sunday night, in saving that expectant woman from suicide, perhaps only my associate, Mister Smith, of this hotel, and I know you to be not an entirely honest man. There was a report of your deed in this morning’s Chronicle. We were able to recognize from your picture the man who was in my office last Thursday, identifying himself as Geoffrey Armistad. You showed us a wallet you said you found somewhere off the hotels property containing twenty-five thousand dollars cash, apparently belonging to a recent guest of this hotel, a Mister James St. E. Crandall. Such were the names we gave to the police, in reporting this incident. You gave us every assurance you, too, would report to the police. Apparently, you did no such thing. In fact, the newspaper reports you resigned your job with the News-Tribune last Friday. (You stated to us you were employed as a parking-lot attendant.) All this indicates to us you have no intention of returning the money to its rightful owner. Mister Smith and I think it only fair to warn you that we have set matters right this end, and provided the police with your correct name, and, having spent two minutes with the telephone directory, your correct address. Doubtlessly they will be in touch with you, requiring you to turn the money over to them until proper disposition can be made.

  Yours, Sincerely,

  Jacques Cavalier,

  Manager

  Park Worth Hotel

  28

  “W H E R E’ S T H E T H O U S A N D dollars?”

  “Hell of a way to greet me.” At nearly midnight Moxie stood in the doorway of the apartment and dropped her airline’s bag onto the floor. The zipper of the bag was broken and sticking out of it were the playscript, a sneaker, and a towel.

  “Hello,” Fletch said from the divan.

  “Hello.”

  “You look bushed.”

  “I am bushed. Been rehearsing since noon. You look bushed with a sunburn. Oh, no! You have a sunburn!”

  Through the dim light of the livingroom she was looking at him like a cosmetician.

  “I have a sunburn. I fell asleep on the beach.”

  “Do you have it all over?”

  “All over what?”

  “All over your bod.”

  “No. Thank you for asking.”

  “That’s all right. I guess it will fade before opening night. You’ll just look funny tomorrow, that’s all. At rehearsal.”

  “I’m not going to rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “Fletch, you have to.”

  “I do?”

  “Sam is just impossible in the role. His manners are just so heavy. He’s so self-conscious.”

  “And don’t forget he’s cursed with thick thighs or something.”

  “You’d think he was playing Streetcar Named Desire. His timing is all off for comedy. I told Paul you’d absolutely be at the rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “Paul the director?”

  “Paul the director. He’s good to give you the chance, seeing you’ve never really acted before. I mean, in the theater.”

  “I will not be at the theater tomorrow absolutely. Or tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow. Isn’t that a line from somewhere?”

  “Almost. I told you you can act.”

  “I’ve already done the strip-tease once today. And that was without music.”

  Moxie was taking things out of her airline’s bag and spreading them around the floor. “Tell me: you were kidnapped and raped by a gang of Mexican Girl Scouts—right?”

  “Almost. Customs. Coming back. The United States Customs. They hustled me into a little room, made me strip, and proceeded to prod and poke in my every crevasse and orifice.”

  “Serious?”

  “I thought it was serious. I didn’t like it much. They X-rayed my boots, my suitcase, my teeth.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “They spent over two hours on me. Or in me.”

  “What for?”

  “They were unwilling to believe anyone my age flew on three airplanes to Puerto de Orlando, Mexico, and back on three airplanes for thirty hours on the beach. I told them I had some time off.”

  “They thought you were smuggling drugs or something.”

  “Something.” Fletch flicked a finger at the letter from the Mayor’s Office on the coffee table. “Hardly the way to treat the Good Citizen of the Month.”

  Moxie knelt on the divan next to him and took Fletch’s head in her arms. “Aw, my poor Fletch. Were you able to fart on cue?”

  “Of course it didn’t help convince them of my innocence that I was carrying over one thousand dollars in cash in my pocket.”

  “Did they finally apologize to the Good Citizen?”

  “They said they’d catch me next time. Now may I ask where the thousand dollars is?”

  “What thousand dollars?”

  “The thousand dollars you took from the wallet.”

  “Oh, that thousand dollars.”

  “The very same.”

  “I bought a sweater.”

  “A thousand dollar sweater?”

  “A skirt. Some records. And some baloney. Want a baloney sandwich?”

  “We’re living higher on the hog.”

  “And a car.”

  “A car!”

  “A little car. Even smaller than yours.”

  “What kind of a car?”

  “Yellow.”

  “A yellow car. I see.”

  “And it does beep-beep nicely.”

  “A small yellow car with a horn. Have I got it right so far?”

  “I suppose it has an engine. It has an ignition key, which works.”

  “What a relief. No one should look at the engine until the ignition key doesn’t work. Might be bad luck.”

  “I needed a car. You know, to get around.”

  “So the thousand dollars is gone.”

  “No such thing! I have a skirt, a sweater, some records—some nice records—a car, and some baloney. That’s not gone, like, you know, if I threw it out the window. Want a baloney sandwich?”

  “Sure.”

  At the kitchen counter Moxie spread the mustard so thin the baloney didn’t even look slippery.

  “Are you trying to make it last until all men are free?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The mustard.” He took the jar and knife from her and slathered it on properly.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, she asked, “What were you doing in Mexico? I mean, other than smuggling diamonds and drugs and cruising in your yacht?”

  “I went to see Charles Blaine, Vice-president and treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps.”

  “Oh.”

  “And he tells me,” Fletch said, placing the top pieces of bread on the sandwiches carefully so they would not slip, “that he’s been receivin
g memos from a dead man.”

  “Seems I read that in the newspaper. Sort of.”

  “Indirectly, I suppose you did.”

  “So what’s new?”

  “Obviously, he has not been receiving memos from a dead man.”

  “It’s nice to hear you say that. For a while, you had me worried.”

  “So from whom has he been receiving memos?”

  “Must be Madame Palonka.”

  “Must be.” He handed her a sandwich. “Who’s Madame Palonka?”

  “A medium in San Francisco. She transmits messages from the dead. Wow. Too much mustard.”

  “Who has been continuing to write memos signed Thomas Bradley after Thomas Bradley died?”

  “A secretary stuck on routine?”

  “Who is running Wagnall-Phipps?”

  “Who cares?”

  “I think they thought no one would care—much.”

  “They’re right. Who are ‘they’?”

  “The great ‘they’. I dunno.”

  “You care.”

  “I either have to care, or consider myself a non-entity, you see.”

  “Phew! What a choice! To be a something or not to be a nothing … how does that work out? To be a something, or a something …? God! I can’t keep up with you.”

  “Something’s rotten in Denmark. Is that the same play?”

  “Nothing’s rotten in Denmark,” Moxie said. “I’ve been there. Surely no one in Denmark would give me a mustard sandwich which even the baloney is trying to slip away from.”

  “Charles Blaine cares who’s running Wagnall-Phipps.”

  “Fletch, do you think—just possibly—you’re slightly obsessed with this matter?”

  “It’s not often one sees memos from a dead man.”

  “I admit that.”

  “And it’s not often, I hope, that one’s career is ruined by the selfsame mysterious memos.”

  “So you insist that your compulsion to find out who wrote those memos and why is legitimate?”

  “I insist.”

  “Why don’t you forget this whole silly thing, come to rehearsals tomorrow, try out for the lead in In Love, work hard with me, and enjoy a smashing success? You might find a whole new career for yourself in the theater.”

  “Sure. And ever after I’d still be known as the journalist who got fired because I quoted a dead man.”

  “At least come to rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Going to New York.”

  “Going to New York? You can’t!”

  “Can do. Made my reservation on an early flight while I was waiting for you.”

  “Why are you going to New York?”

  “Because there’s still one person concerned with this whole matter I haven’t yet seen—Tom Bradley’s sister, Francine.”

  “What can she know about it? She’s all the way across the country!”

  “Yeah. I know. But she’s the only one I see benefitting from Bradley’s death. Unless, of course, you subscribe to the theory Mrs. Bradley benefits emotionally by having gotten rid of the old boy.”

  “I don’t subscribe to any theory. Except that there comes a time to give up! And you’re long past that time!”

  “Francine Bradley,” Fletch said patiently, “is going to come West at some point and take over, run Wagnall-Phipps. Tom Bradley has been consulting her for years. Enid Bradley consults her. Don’t you think I ought to at least go look in her eyes and try to figure out what all this means to her?”

  “I suspect she’ll look you back in the eyes and say you’re a nut. All this can be explained by a secretarial mistake, Fletch.”

  “I don’t think so. Charles Blaine doesn’t think so.”

  “Anyhow, it was announced in this morning’s News-Trib you’re being honored Friday in the Mayor’s Office for being Good Guy of The Week.”

  “Good Citizen of the Month, if you please.”

  “You can’t go to New York. You have an appointment with the Mayor.”

  “The Mayor has an appointment with the press. I don’t expect to be there.”

  “For goodness’ sake, why not? If we could announce by Friday you’re a member of the cast of In Love opening soon at The Colloquial Theater—”

  “Everybody’s got an angle.”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll be in New York Friday. You’re not eating your sandwich.”

  Moxie pushed her plate away from her. “Your culinary skills aren’t up to baloney sandwiches, Fletch. Better stick to peanut butter sandwiches for a while yet.”

  29

  T H E D O O R M A N O F the expensive, tall East Side New York apartment house put his hand over the mouthpiece of his telephone and said, with mild surprise and perfect respect, “Ms. Bradley says she doesn’t know you, Mister Fletcher.”

  Fletch held out his hand for the phone. “May I speak to her myself, please?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He handed the phone to Fletch and stepped back half a pace. He was young and lean and had steady eyes and the gold braid on his uniform looked as ridiculous as a spinnaker on an aircraft carrier.

  “Ms. Bradley?” Fletch said into the phone.

  The woman’s voice was throaty. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Bradley, my name is Fletcher. I need to speak to you regarding the management of your late brother’s company, Wagnall-Phipps. I have come all the way from California just to do so.”

  After a pause, Francine Bradley asked, “Who are you, Mister Fletcher?”

  “I’m a reporter—an ex-reporter—who did a story for the financial pages of the News-Tribune on Wagnall-Phipps. I guess I made some sort of a mistake in writing the story. Yet I still don’t know what the truth is.”

  “How could I help you?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ve talked with your sister-in-law, Enid Bradley, your niece, Roberta, your nephew, Tom—”

  “The person you should speak to is Alex Corcoran. He’s the president.”

  “I have spoken with him. I’ve also spoken again—a few days ago—with Charles Blaine.”

  There was a long pause. “You’ve spoken within the last few days with Charles Blaine?”

  “I went to Mexico to do so.”

  “Well, you certainly have gone far out of your way. Weren’t Corcoran and Blaine able to help you?”

  “Not much.”

  “I don’t see how I can help you. But come up. Anyone who’s gone to as much expense and trouble as you have shouldn’t be turned away at the door.”

  “Okay,” Fletch said. “I’ll give you back to the doorman.”

  “Really, Mister Fletcher—do I have the name right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could have saved yourself an awful lot of expense and bother if you’d simply called me from California. I probably could have told you on the phone whether I could help you …”

  Francine Bradley had opened the door of Apartment 21M, flickered her eyes at him in some surprise, and immediately began

  talking as if she were continuing the conversation they had had on the apartment house’s telephone.

  Her hair was blonde and well set. Her face looked as if she had had expensive skin care. Her necklace was of heavy gold braid; her earrings matched. Her dress was a well-made, comfortably formal green satin, cut low in front. She was noticeably slim for a lady in her mid-forties.

  “… I doubt I know as much about Tom’s company as you think.” She led the way into a livingroom furnished well but sparsely. Glare filled the room from the large window overlooking the city. “I know none of the personel out there, personally. I am acquainted with the figures, of course. Since Tom’s death, well, Enid has had to lean on me more than somewhat. Enid, as you probably know, had no experience in business.”

  Her back to the window, Francine faced Fletch, hesitated as if wondering if she had already answered all his questions. Only at his silence did she gesture toward
the divan. “Well, sit down. I’m expected out for dinner, shortly, but let me help you however I can in whatever time I have.”

  Sitting, Fletch unbuttoned his jacket, hitched up his trouser legs to avoid wrinkling his new suit.

  On the coffee table in front of him were her handbag and gloves.

  “I appreciate your seeing me,” Fletch said. She sat on a brightly flowered chair, her back to the light from the window. “You may think me odd before I’m done, but I hope at least you will understand my confusion.”

  “I’m sure I won’t think you a bit odd, Mister Fletcher.” She smiled as if she already thought him odd. “Although, I must admit, when you said you’re a reporter, an ex-reporter, I guess I was expecting to open the door to someone … more mature, older, I mean … someone who might look like he’s been through more wars than you do.”

  “I keep an innocent look.” Fletch smiled. “It comes from mixing orange juice with my cereal.”

  Francine Bradley laughed happily.

  Now that his eyes had adjusted to the glare in the room, Fletch saw the photographs on a book-shelf of Roberta Bradley, Thomas Bradley, Jr., school photographs of them at various ages, two photographs of Enid Bradley, a younger and an older, and a large group photograph of the family. Fletch assumed the dark-haired man with his arm around Enid’s waist was Thomas Bradley. On the wall facing him, Fletch saw a brown and black tile mosaic. On a low table near the window was an unfinished mosaic.

  “Did your brother do the mosaic on the wall?” Fletch asked.

  “Yes.” Francine looked sadly at it. Then she sighed and gestured at the unfinished mosaic on the low table. “And that’s one he was working on. Tom used to stay with me, you know, when he was in New York to see the doctors. He was working on that just before he went off to Switzerland. I’ve left it there. Silly of me, I suppose. It just makes him seem—well—sometimes when I come in at night I almost feel I can see him sitting there, in his robe and slippers, working on it.”

  “I guess my questions will seem strange to you.”

  “That’s all right.” She glanced at her watch. “I am being picked up

  “Yes. I guess the point of my questions is that when I went to do a report on Wagnall-Phipps I was shown recent memos from your brother, and quoted from them. As a result, of course, I was fired.”