Fletch and the Widow Bradley (13 page)

An observant passerby with a willingness to risk his life to save the life of another climbed out onto the superstructure of the Guilden Street Bridge after dark last night and talked a middle-aged female potential suicide victim back to safety
.

“
In this life we’re all in the same car together,” said Irwin Maurice Fletcher, 24
.

Until Friday of last week, Fletcher was a member of the
News-Tribune
editorial staff
.

Fletcher said his eye happened to be caught by the potential victim’s skirt fluttering in the breeze as he drove onto the bridge
…

The telephone rang. Absently, still reading, Fletch picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Fletch? Janey. Frank wants to talk to you.”

“Frank who?”

“Hey, Fletch!” Frank Jaffe’s voice sounded too cheery for a Monday morning. “You made the front page.”

“Not the first time, Esteemed Managing Editor.”

“The
News-Tribune
gave you quite a spread.”

“I have it in my lap. Nice of you guys to report in the third paragraph
you fired me last week. Really helps in the care and feeding of Irwin Maurice Fletcher.”

“Makes us look like shits, don’t it?”

“It do.”

“Had to report it. Journalistic honesty, you know?”

“You had to report it in the lead?”

“Yeah, well, I agree—that stinks. Some of the people around here are pretty burned off at you, in case I didn’t tell you before. One old desk man wondered aloud this morning why you didn’t let the woman jump so you could then interview her. After she drowned, that is.”

“I got the point, Frank.”

“Some of these guys have a truly vicious sense of humor.”

“Tell them if they don’t restrain themselves I won’t interview them after they’re dead.”

“I don’t suppose you want to hear the headline they really wanted to run.”

“I don’t suppose I do.”

“You might.”

“I doubt it.”

“I mean, with your irrepressible sense of humor?”

“Okay, Frank. Give it to me. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“The headline they wanted to run was GUILDEN STREET BRIDGE HERO FIRED BY THE NEWSPAPER YOU TRUST.”

“Too long for a headline. Why did you call, Frank? To congratulate me?”

“Hell, no. I’ve always known you could talk the bark off a tree. No big feat, talking a woman off a bridge. Not for you.”

“So why did you call?”

“It’s Monday morning. I’m in the office.”

“So?”

“You said I wouldn’t be. You cast aspersions at Clara Snow’s cooking.”

“You must have a goat’s stomach, Frank. I know you’ve got his horns.”

“Actually, I was thinking, Fletch.”

“I can smell the smoke.”

“You write pretty well.”

“When I have a chance.”

“You have the chance. I’m giving it to you. What I’m thinking is, this is a perfect opportunity for a first-hand account, you know? Big feature.”

“You mean, like, HOW I TALKED THE SUICIDE OFF THE BRIDGE BY I.M. FLETCHER?”

“You got it.”

“No, thanks, Frank.”

“Why not? You got something else to do today?”

“Yes. I have.”

“We’ll pay you. Guest writer’s rates.”

Guest writer’s rates were on the lower side of adequate.

“Gee, thanks, Frank. But I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”

“Might clean up your reputation a little.”

“Might sell you a few newspapers.”

“That, too.”

“Know what, Frank? You’re not a bad managing editor—even if you are burying that story about the Governor’s Press Secretary’s brother selling cars to the state police.”

“Know what, Fletch? You’re not a bad kid—even if you do interview dead people.”

“See you, Frank.”

“See you, Fletch.”

When Moxie came into the livingroom, she looked at the newspaper and said, “You’re not twenty-four.”

Still sitting on the divan, Fletch shook his head sadly. “Goes to show you. You should never believe everything you read in a newspaper.” He looked up at her, dressed only in his old, torn denim shirt. “Come on. Get dressed. I’ll drive you to the theater.”

“Where’s breakfast?” she asked.

“Same place that thousand dollar bill is, you stole from the wallet yesterday.”

She looked at him sharply. “Where’s that?”

He shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

“A 
R E   Y O U   T H E
manager of this bank?” Fletch asked the skinny man in a worn out suit who sat at a big desk the other side of a railing.

“Indeed I am.” The man smiled at him warmly. “You look like someone who could use a car loan. We can do very well for you on a car loan.”

“No, thanks. I have a car loan.” Fletch waved a thousand dollar bill. “I want to know if this is real.”

The manager saw the bill and gestured Fletch around the railing to his desk. The manager took the bill in the fingers of both hands and felt it as would a clothing merchant feeling material. He examined it closely through his eye-glasses. Especially did he examine closely the engraving of Grover Cleveland.

“Do you have any reason to doubt its authenticity?” the manager asked.

“Sure. I’ve never seen one before.”

“You don’t see too many pictures of Grover Cleveland.”

“Is that who it is? I thought it might be Karl Marx.”

The manager looked at him in shock. “Karl Marx?”

Fletch shrugged. “Don’t see too many pictures of him, either.”

The manager chuckled. “It looks okay to me.”

“Will you cash it for me?”

“Sure.”

Fletch took another thousand dollar bill out of the pocket of his jeans. “This one, too?”

The manager examined the second thousand dollar bill even more closely. “Where did you get these?”

“My employer is a little eccentric. Hates to write checks.”

“You must be well paid.” The manager looked closely at Fletch. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Have you?”

“Your picture. I’ve seen your picture—very recently.”

“Oh, that,” said Fletch. “I’m on the five-thousand dollar bill.”

“Maybe on a Wanted Poster?” The skinny man laughed. “How do you want these bills broken up?”

“Hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, fives.”

The manager stood up. “You just want it spendable, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The fistfulls of money the manager brought back to Fletch were bigger than Fletch expected. The manager counted it out again, on the desk in front of Fletch.

“Thank you.” Fletch was having difficulty stuffing the bills into the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m just slightly uneasy.” The manager looked closely again at Fletch’s face. “I’ve seen a picture of you somewhere—I think, this morning.”

“Did you read the funnies?”

“Yes,” the manager answered. “I read the funnies on the bus.” Fletch said, “That must be it, then.”

“When will the suit be ready?”

“Ten days.”

“Not soon enough.”

“When do you need it?”

“Wednesday.”

“This is Monday.”

“Thursday morning then.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Besides the well-cut, serious blue business suit, Fletch had bought, in the very expensive men’s shop, shirts, shoes, neck-ties, tennis sneakers, shorts, sport shirts, and, a suitcase.

“Going on a vacation?” the salesman asked.

“Yes,” answered Fletch. “I’d like to take everything with me, except the suit.”

“Certainly, Mister Fletcher. How do you choose to pay? We’ll accept your check.”

“Cash.” Fletch took a mess of bills from the pocket of his jeans.

“Very good, sir. I’ll have everything wrapped for you.”

“No need. I’ll just put everything in the suitcase.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

While the salesman added up the bill and made change, Fletch packed the suitcase.

“Mister Fletcher,” the salesman said slowly. “I wonder if you’d accept a gift from the store.”

“A gift?”

“That was quite a wonderful thing you did last night—talking that woman off the bridge.”

“You know about that?”

“Everyone knows about that.” The salesman’s eyes studied the deep carpeting. “Our cashier, last year, found herself in similar straits. You see, no one knew, understood …”

“So people do read newspapers.”

“We’re proud to have you a customer of our store.”

Other salespersons, Fletch now noticed, were standing around watching him.

The salesman handed Fletch a boxed silver-backed brush and comb.

“Wow,” said Fletch.

“They’re made in England,” the salesman said.

“Real nice.” Fletch shook the salesman’s hand. “Real nice of you.”

“People make efforts so seldom for other people …” The salesman seemed embarrassed.

“Thank you,” said Fletch.

With suitcase in one hand and the boxed brush and comb in the other, Fletch proceeded to leave the store.

All the salespersons smiled at him as he went by, and applauded him.

“You don’t want to go to San Orlando,” the heavily made-up woman in the tight-fitting jacket said. On the wall of the travel agency posters recommended Acapulco, Athens, Nice, Naples, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, and Rio de Janiero. Fletch wanted to go to all of them.

“I must,” Fletch said.

“No one
must
go to San Orlando.” She had the phone to her ear, waiting for information from the airline. “You know where Puerto de San Orlando is? Way down the Mexican coast. Takes forever to get there. They haven’t finished building it yet. Barely started. One hotel. The place is insuperably hot, dusty—hello?” She noted information from the airline. “That’s terrible,” she said, hanging up. “Terrible connections all the way through. It’s a far more expensive trip than it’s worth, at this point. If you waited a few years, until after they’ve developed the place a little …”

Leaning on the counter she told Fletch about the bad connections to San Orlando, and the expense.

“Fine,” said Fletch. “Reservations for one, please.”

“For one?” The woman looked truly shocked.

“One,” Fletch said.

“Boy,” the woman said. “Is being a hero
that
bad?” She sat down at the small desk behind the counter. “Return when?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? This is Monday.”

“Got to pick up a new suit,” Fletch said. “Thursday morning.”

She put the airline’s ticket form into the typewriter. “Some people’s idea of fun. It’s all right, I suppose, as long as they have the travel agent to blame.”

“H 
E Y
,   F 
L E T C H
!”   A 
L S T O N
Chambers said, answering the phone to him. “You’re an unemployed hero again!”

In his apartment, sitting on the divan, Fletch put his coffee mug precisely over his own mug on the front page of the
News-Tribune
. Moxie had left the newspaper on the coffee table.

“I’m beginning to think that’s your natural condition,” Alston said. “Heroically unemployed.”

“Aw, shucks. ‘Twarn’t nothin’.”

“I wouldn’t have gone out on that bridge cable for a million dollars. A million plus loose change. Especially in the dark.”

“Actually, I never did decide to do it, Alston. I just did it.”

“It’s a good thing you’re thoughtless, Fletch.”

“Am I calling too early?” Fletch’s watch read two thirty.

“Nope. I called the U.S. Embassy in Geneva before I left home, and they answered here at the office before noon. Was the name you gave me Thomas Bradley spelled B-r-a-d-l-e-y?”

“Yeah.”

“No American citizen named Thomas Bradley has died in Switzerland.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“No Thomas Bradley has ever died in Switzerland?” Fletch admired his new suitcase standing on the floor just inside the apartment’s front door. “Do they know about deaths in private sanatorium?”

“They say they do. They assure me their records regarding in-country deaths are one hundred percent accurate. I should think they would be.”

“Even if the guy was cremated?”

“I asked them to check deaths and burials, removals, what have you, under all circumstances. Swiss paperwork, you know, leaves the rest of the world blushing. Wherever your man died, it wasn’t

Switzerland. Did you hear the announcement on the noon news the mayor is giving you The Good Citizen of The Month Citation?”

“The month isn’t over yet. What about the ashes I gave you, Alston?”

“Oh, yeah. I dropped them at the police lab on my way to work. Why did you give them to me, anyway?”

“What was the result?”

“The result was that the good gentlemen in white coats called when I got back from lunch and asked if the D. A. had really wanted those ashes analysed. I assured the gentleman solemnly that the D.A. did. I didn’t tell him that by ‘D.A.’ I meant a damned ass named Fletch.”

“Alston—”

“Carpet.”

“What?”

“Carpet. You know, rug? They were the ashes of a tightly woven, high quality carpet. Probably Persian.

“A carpet?”

“A quantity of petroleum, it says here, probably kerosene, a few wood ashes, probably pine, and a small measure of earth and sand.”

“Are those guys always right?”

“Listen, Fletch, these guys do the lab work for every suspected arson in the state. They know a burned rug when they see one. They were very curious as to which case of arson we’re working on. By the way, Fletch, which case of arson are we working on?”

“None I know of.”

“Is Moxie burning up the family heirlooms so she can get a job playing in
Die Walkure?”

“Something like that.”

“Fletch, was Audrey right?”

“Probably. About what?”

“Are you on to a murder?”

“I don’t know that at this point.”

“What do you know at this point?”

“At this point …” Fletch thought a moment. “… I know Thomas Bradley was a carpet.”

Dear Moxie
,

Gone to Mexico to see a man about a carpet. Try to manage dinner by yourself. If you take anything from the refrigerator
,
please leave a $1,000 bill in the ice tray. Probably I’ll be back Wednesday night
.