Fletch Page 2
“Hey, jerk!” The guy in the office was fat and bald. “You can’t change your pants in here. You can’t strip in a public place.”
“I did.”
“Wise ass. What if some ladies were around?”
“There are no ladies in California.”
He flicked on the tape recorder before he left the garage. The safety belt strapped the big tape recorder to the passenger seat. He had put the camera in the glove compartment.
The wire was draped around his neck. The microphone dangled beneath his chin.
“Alan Stanwyk,” he said, waving as he passed the man still shouting at him from the office, “after keeping me under surveillance a few days while I have been investigating the source of drugs in The Beach area for the News-Tribune, has just commissioned me to murder him in exactly one week—next Thursday night at eight-thirty. His surveillance convinced him that I am in fact a drifter and a drug addict.
“At least I think it is Alan Stanwyk who has commissioned me to murder him. I had never seen Alan Stanwyk before, but the man who commissioned me to murder him brought me to the Stanwyk residence on Berman Street, The Hills. I know there is such a person as Alan Stanwyk—as Amelia Shurcliffe of the News-Tribune doubtlessly has referred to him a thousand times: Alan Stanwyk, the wealthy young socialite.
“A quick check of the picture files at the office will establish whether or not the man who commissioned me to murder him is in fact Alan Stanwyk.
“I must follow the journalistic instinct of being skeptical of everything until I personally have proved it true.
“Stanwyk’s justification for this unique request, that I murder him, is that he is dying of cancer. I am without any diagnostic training, but I must say that to a layman’s eye he looks a well and fit man.
“On the other hand, his manner is totally convincing.
“Further justification for the request is that his life is insured for three million dollars. Direct and obvious suicide on his part would nullify the insurance.
“The man who says he is Stanwyk says he has a wife and child.
“The plan he has worked out for his murder is detailed.
“Having a passport, I am to enter the Stanwyk house through the french windows in the library next Thursday evening at eight-thirty. His wife will be at a committee meeting at the Racquets Club. The servants will be gone.
“Stanwyk will have arranged the house to make it appear a robbery has been committed. He will have opened the safe.
“I am to take a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson from the top right-hand drawer of the desk in the library and shoot Stanwyk to kill him, as painlessly as possible. He has shown me that the gun is loaded.
“I am then to drive his car, a gray Jaguar XKE, license number 440-001, to the airport and board the TWA eleven o’clock flight to Buenos Aires. A reservation in my name for that flight will be made tomorrow.
“For this service to Stanwyk, he has agreed to pay me fifty thousand dollars. He will have the cash in the house, in the opened safe, in tens and twenties when I arrive next week.
“Originally, he offered twenty thousand dollars. I pressed the price to fifty thousand dollars, in an effort to gauge his seriousness.
“He appeared serious.
“His investigation of me he believes to have been adequate. He watched me a few days and saw precisely that image I had been assigned to project: that of a drifter and a drug addict.
“He did not know my name or anything else about me.
“What Stanwyk doesn’t realize is that I am the great hotshot young reporter, I.M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune, who so dislikes his first names, Irwin Maurice, that he never signs them. I am I.M. Fletcher. Down at The Beach trying to break a drug story.
“The questions at this point appear obvious enough.
“Is the man who commissioned me to murder him Alan Stanwyk?
“Does he have terminal cancer?
“Is he insured for three million dollars?
“Does he really mean for me to murder him?
“In the answer to any one of these questions, there is probably a helluva story.
“And although I admit to having been in the killing business for a while, in Indochina, I am now back in the helluva story business.
“Any story concerning Alan Stanwyk is worth getting.
“Therefore, I have agreed to murder Alan Stanwyk.
“My agreeing to murder him gives me exactly a week, in which I can be fairly sure he will not commission anyone else to murder him.
“Dishonest of me, I know.
“But as Pappy used to say about violating virgins, ‘Son, if you’re not the first, someone else will be.’ ”
3
“Carradine.”
“This is I.M. Fletcher.”
“Yes, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I write for the News-Tribune.”
“Oh.”
“You are the financial editor, aren’t you?”
“Are you that shit who wrote that piece saying we are headed for a moneyless state?”
“I did write something of the sort, yes.”
“You’re a shit.”
“Thanks for buying the Sunday paper.”
“I didn’t. I read it Monday in the office.”
“You see?”
“What can I do for you, Fletcher?”
A head peered through the door of Fletch’s cubicle and smiled victoriously. The head was about forty years old, male, with bleached blond hair. Seeing Fletch on the telephone, it withdrew.
“I need some information about a man named Stanwyk. W-Y-K.”
“Alan Stanwyk?”
“Yes.”
The picture file on Fletch’s desk was clearly of the man he had met yesterday. Alan Stanwyk in business suit, Alan Stanwyk in black tie, Alan Stanwyk in flight gear: Alan Stanwyk who wished to end his life—a murder mystery.
“He married Collins Aviation.”
“All of it?”
“He married the only daughter of the president and chairman of the board.”
“Job security.”
“You should be so lucky.”
“Frank, our supreme boss, doesn’t have any daughters. Just sons of bitches.”
“I believe Stanwyk is executive vice president of Collins Aviation.”
“Will wonders never cease.”
“I believe he’s due to be president, once he gets a little more age on him.”
“His future was made with the bed.”
“No, I understand he’s a competent fellow in his own right. Graduated from Harvard or Wharton—one of those places. A bright fellow who, as far as I know, is a perfectly nice man.”
“How is Collins Aviation doing?”
“Very well, as far as I know. He runs the place. His father-in-law is virtually retired. Spends all his time running tournaments at the Racquets Club down at The Beach. And paying for them. The stock is solid. I don’t know. I’d really have to look into it more. It’s not a very active stock. It is publicly traded, but mostly it’s held by Collins and a few of his cronies who are directors.”
“So anything could be true, eh?”
“Almost anything. Do you want me to look further into this?”
“Yes.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Everything. I want to know everything about Stanwyk, his wife, Collins, Collins Aviation, personal and professional.”
“Why the Christ should I do your work for you?”
“You’re the financial editor of the News-Tribune, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’d hate to make a mistake and have it reflect on you.”
“Me? How could it reflect on me?”
“I’ve talked with you already.”
“Clara Snow said you’re a shit.”
“My extension is 705. Many thanks.”
“Christ.”
“No. I.M. Fletcher.”
The telephone book was stuffed into the bo
okcase behind his desk. While he was pulling it out, ignoring the papers that spilled on the floor from above and below the telephone book, the man who was not blond came in and sat down in Fletch’s side chair.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
The man wore an open shirt and love beads.
“Yes.”
“I’m Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien.”
“No foolin’.”
“Your wife’s attorneys.”
“Which wife?”
“Mrs. Linda Fletcher, as she is now known.”
“Oh, really? Linda. How is she doin?”
“Not well, Mr. Fletcher. Not well at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s a nice kid.”
“She is very distressed that since the divorce you have not paid her one cent in alimony.”
“I took her to lunch once.”
“She has told me about the King-size Relish Burger several times now. Your generosity has been marked. The alimony you owe her is three thousand, four hundred and twenty-nine dollars. Because of your generosity regarding the King-size Relish Burger, the few odd cents can be forgotten.”
“Thanks.”
COLLINS AVIATION: 553-0477.
“Tell me something, Mr. Worsham—”
“Gillett.”
“As an attorney, I mean.”
“I would not be allowed to have you as a client. I might add that I would not want you as a client.”
“Nevertheless, there you are, sitting in a chair in my office, determined not to be thrown out, while I’m trying to get some work done. I know you come from a very distinguished law firm. Only partners of the most distinguished law firms come out personally to collect bills for three thousand dollars. You’ve been hanging around all week. It must be that your own office rent isn’t paid. Or are you nicking Linda for more than three hundred of the three thousand?”
“What is your question, Mr. Fletcher?”
“As an attorney, Mr. Gillett, do you think it makes any difference that I never agreed to any alimony settlement? I have never even agreed to the divorce.”
“I have nothing to do with that now. The court decided that you shall pay, and you shall.”
“I mean, doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that I came home one night and Linda wasn’t there and the next thing I know I’m divorced for abandoning her?”
“This is not the first time this has happened to you, Mr. Fletcher. For a boy in your early or mid-twenties, two divorces on your record seem more than adequate.”
“I’m sentimental. I keep believing in the old institutions.”
“As long as you keep getting married …”
“I promise. I won’t get married anymore. Being abandoned is too expensive.”
“Mr. Fletcher. Mrs. Fletcher has told me a great deal about you.”
“Did you ever buy her a King-size Relish Burger?”
“We’ve talked in my office.”
“I thought so.”
“She has told me that you are a vicious, violent man, a liar and a cheat, and that she left your bed and board because she absolutely couldn’t stand you anymore. She did not abandon you. She escaped with her life.”
“Vicious and violent. Bullshit. One night I stepped on the cat’s tail.”
“You pitched the cat through the window of your seventh-floor apartment.”
“The whole place smelled of cat.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, thinking reasonably that she might be the next one to go through the window, packed and left the very next time you left the apartment to go to work.”
“Nonsense. She didn’t smell. She was always in the shower. She washed her hair every half hour.”
“Mr. Fletcher, as you have pointed out, I have been looking for you all week. For some reason, your office would not let me know where you were. I have the choice of bringing you back to court, and this time, I assure you, you will appear. Now, do you wish to arrange to make this payment here and now, or do you force me to go back to court?”
“Easier done than said.” From his desk drawer Fletch took the checkbook he had found on the beach. The Merchants Bank. “It just so happens, Mr. Gillett, that I’ve been playing poker all week. I won seven thousand dollars. That’s why my office didn’t know where I was, of course. I deposited the money last night. If you would just take this check and hold it for ten days …”
“Certainly.”
“That would leave me enough for taxes and to get the car washed, don’t you think?”
“I should think so.”
“Now, what was the amount again?”
“Three thousand, four hundred twenty-nine dollars and forty-seven cents.”
“I thought we were forgetting about the forty-seven cents. The Relish Burger.”
“Yes. All right.”
“Every penny counts, you know.”
Fletch wrote the check for three thousand, four hundred twenty-nine dollars payable to Linda Fletcher and signed it I.M. Fletcher in an illegible handwriting.
“There you are, Mr. Gillett. Thanks for stopping by. I’m sorry we’re not on the seventh floor.”
“It’s been nice doing business with you, Mr. Fletcher.”
Standing at the door, Gillett still held the check between his thumb and index finger. Fletch noticed that his clothes were weirdly cut—the man had no pockets. No pockets at all. How did he get around without pockets?
“By the way, Mr. Fletcher, I read your piece in the magazine regarding what you termed the unfairness of divorce settlements, alimony in particular.”
“Thank you.”
“I feel obliged to tell you what a stupid and wrong piece that was.”
“Wrong?”
“Dead wrong.”
“I understand your thinking so. You’re a divorce lawyer. Why don’t you take an advance in career and become a pimp?”
“I suspect that any divorce attorney, such as myself, could sue you for that piece and win.”
“I quoted divorce attorneys.”
“None I know.”
“I’m only allowed to quote legitimate sources.”
Before leaving, Gillett tried to look haughty, but only succeeded in looking as if he were in the early stages of a sneeze.
“Collins Aviation. Good morning.”
“Good morning. I wish to talk with Mr. Stanwyk’s secretary, please.”
“One moment, please.”
Beneath his desk, Fletch pried off his sneakers. The linoleum was cool on his bare feet.
“Mr. Stanwyk’s office.”
“Good morning. This is Bob Ohlson of the Chronicle-Gazette” Fletch said. “We’re doing a little women’s page feature over here, and wonder if you could help us out.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“This is just a silly little story, of no importance.”
“I understand.”
“What we’re doing is a piece on who the private doctors are of prominent people around town. We thought it would amuse people.”
“I see.”
“I wonder if you could tell us who Mr. Stanwyk’s private physician is?”
“Oh, I don’t think Mr. Stanwyk would like to give out that information.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes. He came in just a little while ago.”
“You might tell him what we want. If we print the name of his doctor, Mr. Stanwyk probably will never get another doctor’s bill. Remind Mr. Stanwyk that doctors themselves can’t advertise.”
“Yes, I see.” The secretary’s laugh indicated a finishing school with office skills. She had a finished laugh. “Hang on a moment, I’ll see.”
While he was waiting, Fletch took the envelope with ten one-hundred-dollar bills off his desk and threw it into a drawer.
“Mr. Ohlson? Mr. Stanwyk laughed and said it was all right to tell you that his private physician is Dr. Joseph Devlin of the Medical Center.”
“That’s great.”
The man arranges fo
r his own murder on Thursday night, and on Friday morning laughs at someone’s wanting to know who his private physician is. At least Stanwyk had good blood pressure.
“When will the piece appear in the newspaper, Mr. Ohlson?”
“Well, we’ll have to get a photograph of Dr. Devlin …”
“Can’t you guess when? We’d love to see it.”
“Friday of next week,” Fletch said. “I think.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll tell Mr. Stanwyk so he’ll be sure to buy the Chronicle-Gazette that day.”
“Right. Be sure to buy the Chronicle-Gazette. Friday of next week.”
Fletch hung up the phone of the News-Tribune.
Medical Center, Medical Center … Alan Stanwyk expects to be murdered next Thursday night. Failing that, he expects to pick up the Chronicle-Gazette Friday morning to read a reference to his private physician. Ah, life: neither was true … 553-9696.
“Medical Center. Good morning.”
“Dr. Joseph Devlin’s office, please.”
“One moment.”
“Dr. Devlin’s office. Good morning.”
“Good morning. Dr. Devlin, please.”
“Dr. Devlin is seeing a patient. May I be of any assistance?”
“I need to speak with Dr. Devlin himself, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear.”
“We are the carriers of the life and health policies of Mr. Alan Stanwyk …”
“Oh yes.”
“A little problem has come up regarding these insurance policies …”
“One moment, sir. I’ll see if Dr. Devlin is free.”
Fletch could hear the nurse-receptionist-secretary-whatever saying, “It’s Mr. Stanwyk’s insurance company. They have some question …”
Another phone was picked up instantly. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Dr. Devlin. As you know, we are the holders of policies on the life of Mr. Alan Stanwyk …”
“Yes.”
“Who is a patient of yours?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, I’m the Collins’ family doctor. John Collins and I were roommates in college. Stanwyk married his daughter, Joan Collins. So I guess I’m his physician. I usually only see him socially.”
“How long has Mr. Stanwyk been your patient, doctor?”