Fletch and the Widow Bradley Read online

  At first she looked at him as if he were speaking a language she didn’t understand. “What do you mean, ‘recent’?”

  “Dated as recently as a few weeks ago.”

  “Tom died a year ago.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Francine looked at her red-polished finger nails in her lap. “What an odd thing.”

  “Yes. It is odd.”

  “What’s the explanation?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Who showed you these memos?”

  “Charles Blaine. Vice-president and treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps. Generally, one would think, a reliable source.”

  “Oh, Blaine. They’ve had trouble with him before. Enid has mentioned it. I think he might be very good at what he does, but … Enid says he takes everything so seriously. Sort of an ogre to his own department.” Francine nodded her head. “Yes, I can see that, from what I’ve heard of Blaine. If every T isn’t crossed, every I dotted apparently he has conniptions.”

  “This isn’t a case of T’s not crossed and I’s not dotted, Ms. Bradley. This is a case of memos which were initialed—by someone who wasn’t alive to initial them.”

  Francine shrugged. “Then someone’s playing a bad joke. Someone in the secretarial pool. One of the people working with Blaine. I can see where someone working under a tight man like Blaine might want to play a game on him, shake him up, confront him with something inexplicable.”

  “It could be.”

  “What did Enid say, when you asked her?”

  “She thinks Blaine is having a nervous breakdown. She sent him to Mexico for a vacation.”

  “Then that is probably so.”

  “I went to Mexico. He doesn’t seem to be having a nervous breakdown. He seems to be having a hot, dusty time.”

  “Are you qualified to judge, Mister Fletcher? Have you a degree in psychiatry?”

  “I left it in my other suit.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like a prosecuting attorney. It’s just that … most people can put on a good face. There’s always more going on under people’s surfaces than we’d suspect.”

  “Charles Blaine assures me he did not forge those memos.”

  Again Francine shrugged. “Then someone’s playing a nasty trick on him.” She smiled at Fletch pleasantly. “The Halloween spirit still walks the earth. People in offices love to play games on each other.”

  “Ms. Bradley, when precisely did your brother die?”

  “I’ve already said—a year ago.”

  “Enid says the same thing. Yet Corcoran and Blaine both say he died six months later—last November.”

  “Oh, that. I don’t blame you for being confused by that. Tom did die a year ago. We weren’t prepared for it. Enid had been put in as Acting Chairperson of Wagnall-Phipps in Tom’s absence, and she had hardly gotten her feet wet. I think people tolerated her in the job because they knew Tom was coming back. She was backed by Tom’s authority, you see. She talked to me about it. We decided to, let’s say, delay the news of Tom’s death until she was more firmly established as Chairperson. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes. I suppose.”

  “There was another consideration. A more human reason. Enid was terribly in love with my brother. From all I know, people working for Wagnall-Phipps—people like Corcoran and Blaine, others—were terrifically fond of him. Enid wanted to mourn alone a while. Trying to run the company—well, she just couldn’t take the long faces, the commiseration, of the people upon whom she had to depend. Do you see?”

  Fletch wrinkled his brow.

  “There were lots of reasons for delaying the news of the death.

  The younger staff would have deserted the company, at least until they had more confidence in Enid … lots of reasons.”

  “Your brother died a year ago. The news wasn’t given the people at Wagnall-Phipps until six months later, on a Friday afternoon in November. And it wasn’t until the following Tuesday that Enid left for Switzerland. Is that right?”

  Francine’s eyes ran over the mosaic on the wall as if she were trying to remember. “Yes. That’s about right.” Her eyes then met his. “You’re asking why we didn’t go to Switzerland immediately, six months earlier, at the news of Tom’s death?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “It was our decision of the moment. Tom was dead. We’d had no warning of it. The news didn’t reach Enid until twenty-four hours after the death. A cremation was recommended. Enid cabled permission. It wasn’t until six months later that we went to Switzerland, had a memorial service, for just the two of us, brought home Tom’s ashes.”

  “You went to Switzerland with Enid?”

  “Didn’t I just say so?”

  “Where in Switzerland?”

  “Tom died in a small clinic outside Geneva.”

  Fletch took a deep breath and shook his head. “Ms. Bradley, your brother didn’t die in Switzerland.”

  Looking at him, her eyebrows shot up. “Now what are you saying?”

  Tiredly, Fletch said, “I’ve checked with the American Embassy in Switzerland. No American citizen named Thomas Bradley has died in Switzerland last year, or at any time in recent history.”

  Her lips a perfect little O, Francine sucked in breath. “They said that?”

  “So said the American Embassy in Geneva.”

  “That’s not possible, Mister Fletcher.”

  “And I’m sure they’re not playing a prank.”

  “Well.” And Francine opened and closed her mouth silently. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to chalk it up to a bureaucratic mistake. I’ll have someone look into it.”

  “This information came with the assurance from the Embassy that regarding in-country deaths, their records are one hundred percent accurate.”

  “Oh, Mister Fletcher. If you can ever show me any bureaucracy of any country being one hundred percent accurate about anything I’ll jump over the moon in a single leap.”

  Fletch sat forward on the divan. “You see, Ms. Bradley, I have many questions, about many things.”

  There was a buzzing from the foyer.

  “Excuse me,” she said. She went into the foyer and there was the sound of a phone being picked up and Francine Bradley said, “Hello? … yes. Please tell Mister Savenor I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  When Francine Bradley returned to the livingroom, Fletch was standing near the window. He said, referring to the unfinished mosaic on the low table, “You’ve even left the loose tiles out.”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re pretty in themselves.”

  “May we meet again?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m sure you mean to be helpful.”

  “I suspect I’ve surprised you enough for the moment, anyway.”

  “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for everything,” Francine Bradley said. “A nasty office prank … a death certificate misfiled at the Embassy.”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “That would be nice. Where, when?”

  “Do you like French cuisine?”

  “I like food.”

  “Why don’t you meet me at eight o’clock at Chez Claire? It’s only two blocks from here.” She pointed more or less south.

  “Eight o’clock,” he said.

  She followed him into the foyer. “I’m sorry I have to go now,” she said. “I’m curious about what more you have to say.” She held the door open for him. “I’m sure we can figure all this out,” she said. “Together.”

  Beside the doorman, there was only one man waiting in the lobby. He was a silver-haired man in his fifties in a pearl gray suit seeming to look comfortable in an impossibly stiff-looking, narrow-seated, high-backed chair.

  30

  F R I D A Y M O R N I N G A T quarter to eight, Fletch stood in the drizzle across the street from Francine Bradley
’s East Side apartment house. He had bought a raincoat and a rainhat and, the night before, in Times Square, a pair of clear eyeglasses, and he was wearing all this, and under one arm he carried a copy of The New York Post. He supposed he looked like someone not wanting to be noticed.

  He was waiting for Francine Bradley to come out of the apartment building, but to his surprise, at ten minutes past eight a taxi stopped in front of the building and Francine Bradley got out of the cab and dashed into the building. She was wearing a short raincoat and high boots.

  At nine twenty she came out of the building dressed in a longer raincoat and apparently a suit or skirt and began hailing cabs. The doorman was blowing his whistle for her.

  On his side of the street, Fletch got a cab more quickly.

  Getting into the taxi, Fletch said, “U-turn and stop, please.”

  The driver did so.

  Fletch said, “See that woman trying to get a taxi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want to see where she’s going.”

  The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. “You some kind of a pervert?”

  Fletch said, “Internal Revenue Service.”

  The driver said, “Bastard. Better you should be a pervert.”

  They followed Francine’s cab downtown where it stopped in front of the Bennet Bank Building.

  “See?” Fletch said. “The lady’s leading me to her money.”

  “I wish I could charge you more.” The driver leaned over to read his meter. “I got to pay taxes, too, you know. Do you guys from Internal Revenue Service tip?”

  “Yeah,” said Fletch. “And we report the person to whom we give the tip—name, date, and place—just to see if you report it.”

  The driver turned around in his seat. “I don’t want your damned tip! Get out of my cab!”

  “Okay,” Fletch said.

  “Jeez!” the driver slapped the change into Fletch’s hand. “Government in front of me in blue uniforms … government in my back seat!”

  “Sure you don’t have change of a dime?”

  “Get outta my cab!”

  Fletch waited a few minutes before entering the Bennet Bank Building.

  On the sign board in the lobby was listed Bradley & Co.—Investments.

  He returned to the bank building at noon and followed Francine Bradley to Wayne’s Steak House. She was accompanied by a man not much more than twenty carrying a brief case. His suit was not particularly good, his shoes were dull, he was without a raincoat, but his briefcase was new-looking. They were in the restaurant fifty minutes. Fletch followed them back to the building and loitered in the lobby an hour. During that time the young man did not leave the building.

  Fletch returned to the Bennet Bank Building again just before five o’clock. At five ten Francine Bradley came out and took a taxi. At five twenty-five, the young man came out and began walking down the street.

  Fletch followed him into the subway, onto the platform and, while ostensibly waiting for a train, drew attention to himself by staring at the young man. Eventually the young man gave Fletch a look of distaste, and it was then that Fletch approached him.

  “Sorry,” Fletch said. “Trying to figure it out. Didn’t I see you at lunch today at Wayne’s Steak House with Francine?”

  The young man’s facial expression cleared. “You know Ms. Bradley?”

  “Sure,” Fletch said. “I’ve consulted her about some of my investments. Brilliant lady.”

  “She is.” The young man nodded emphatically. “I think I’m damned lucky to be working for her. An education.”

  “She handles her brother’s money, doesn’t she? It was Tom who sent me to her.”

  “Well, we handle the Bradley Family Company. Mostly W agnail-Phipps, you know. Other stuff. Not much I mean, not millions. But she’s damned clever with what there is.”

  “Why doesn’t Tom handle it himself?”

  The young man looked surprised at Fletch, hesitated, then said, “Didn’t you know? Her brother died. A year ago.”

  “Gee, I didn’t know. Too bad. Guess it’s been a while since I’ve seen good ol’ Tom. How long you been working with Francine?”

  “Seven months.” A train was coming in. “Real education.”

  The young man waited for Fletch to board the train first.

  “Not my train,” Fletch said.

  “This is the only train you can get from here,” the young man said.

  “I’ll wait for a less crowded train,” Fletch said before noticing the train wasn’t crowded at all.

  As the train pulled off, the young man stared at Fletch through the window. On his face, expressionlessness battled curiosity, and lost.

  At eight o’clock, Fletch entered Chez Claire and found Francine Bradley waiting for him, already seated at a table for two against the back wall.

  There was a candle on the table.

  31

  “I T H I N K Y O U R nephew, Tom, is in serious trouble,” Fletch said. They had ordered vodka gimlets on the rocks. “I saw him last Sunday.”

  Over the candle, he checked Francine’s facial expression and saw that it conveyed the proper concern. More than proper—genuine. Francine Bradley did not strike Fletch as simply the distant maiden aunt going through kind, formal motions toward her late brother’s family. Still, he realized, there had to be limits to her knowledge and her involvement with the family.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone near fear. “I understand Tom is in pre-med and doing very well.”

  “Not quite. He’s using whatever education he has in chemistry to swallow oblivion.”

  “Drugs? Tom’s on drugs?”

  Fletch said, “Seems a mess. Hasn’t attended classes since last fall. His roommate has him ensconced in a cushioned bathtub where he dreams away his days and nights. Doesn’t know what else to do with him.”

  “Oh, no! Not Tom.”

  “I promised I would try to do what I could for him—which is another reason I’m seeing you. Of course, he makes no sense at all about his father’s death.”

  “What does he say about Tom’s death?”

  “He sort of says your brother killed himself. He sort of blames your brother for dying. Sort of common, I believe, for a young person to be angry at a parent for dying, for leaving him. Sometimes young people blame themselves for a parent’s death.”

  “You’re playing psychiatrist again, Mister Fletcher.”

  “I’m called Fletch,” Fletch said. “And I’m not playing psychiatrist. I’m in a crazy situation—and so are you—and I’m trying to understand it.”

  “I’m not in any situation at all.”

  “You are, too,” Fletch said. “The preponderance of funds you’re investing through your little company in the Bennet Bank Building came from your brother.” Instantly, her eyes narrowed. “I’m checking to find out what probate action has been taken on your brother’s estate—I suspect, none has. There’s a pretty good suspicion that you and Enid are simply avoiding taxes. It’s been stated to me by none other than Enid Bradley that you intend to go to California and take over the running of Wagnall-Phipps yourself. Anyone who didn’t guess you’ve been forging your brother’s initials to those accounting memos the last year would have to be myopic.”

  The waiter laid their gimlets before them. As in most dimly lit restaurants Fletch had experienced, the waiter’s hands were dirty.

  “You seem to be upset, Fletch.” Francine sipped her drink. “Will you call me Francine?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Per usual with you,” Francine said, “I don’t really know what to say. You come in from California with all this information, all these questions … I am most upset by what you just said about Tom.”

  “He needs help. Heavy help. Quicker than soonest.”

  “I just had no idea …”

  “Apparently he can fool his mother. He gets cleaned up, goes home, says he’s doing well in school, gets money, then settles bac
k in his bathtub with a six pack of downers.”

  In the candlelight, tears glistened in Francine’s eyes. “I assure you,” she said, “something will be done about it—immediately. Quicker than soonest. I appreciate your telling me.”

  “In a way,” Fletch said, “Ta-ta, your niece, worries me just as much. Tom’s roommate refers to her as a wind-up toy. She seems to be straight-arming existence, protecting herself in a girls’ school, protecting Tom. I know their father died—a year ago—but they both seem inordinately troubled.”

  “When I get out there …” Francine said. “There’s only so much Enid can handle.”

  “When are you going?”

  “I’m afraid it will be another few months. I still have things to wind up here.”

  “You are going to run Wagnall-Phipps?”

  “Tom wanted me to. Enid wants me to. I sold my business—a small business—a few years ago.”

  Fletch considered his gimlet, sipped it, looked across the flame at her. “Do you have any answers to the questions I just asked?”

  “You mean, are Enid and I perpetrating a tax fraud?”

  “Yeah, for starters.”

  “Not as far as I know. Of course, it’s entirely possible Enid hasn’t done things exactly right. In fact I’d say it’s highly likely. She’s not a Charles Blaine. She hasn’t any training, any experience, except for having lived with Tom. I would expect she’s screwed up mightily, but I’m sure with no intention to defraud.”

  “Have you been forging those memos?” Fletch asked easily.

  “I’ve been consulting with my sister-in-law by telephone. Almost daily. Seeing you’re so good at doing your homework—knowing about my office in the Bennet Bank Building and what I do there—you might check our telephone bills. Enid’s and mine. They’re monumental.”

  “Then we’re still without explanations.”

  “Why don’t we fortify ourselves with another drink, a good dinner, then go back to my apartment? We can talk more there. I suppose no one’s ever told you that you’re attractive?”

  “Only a United States Customs Officer.”

  She put her hand on his. “Don’t worry. I’m not one of these middle-aged women eager to get into the trousers of young men. Your orange juice-and-cereal innocence will remain intact with me.” She took her hand away and picked up the menu. “They serve a very good orange duck here.”