Fletch and the Widow Bradley (15 page)

Charles Blaine smiled. “It seems to me you know more about this company than you did last week when we talked, Fletcher.”

“I’m doing this week what I guess I should have done two weeks ago. But, frankly, I still don’t think a twelve graf story about a piddly little company like Wagnall-Phipps is worth the effort.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“I’m worth the effort. I’m a good reporter.”

Blaine shoved his glasses back up his sweat-slippery nose. “Yes, I know about Francine. And, yes, I think your conjecture that Enid was consulting with her is legitimate. Reasonable. Sensible.”

“Thank you.”

“But that doesn’t explain the memos.”

“Now we come to the memos.”

“The memos kept coming. At first, I simply assumed they were in the pipe line—late in coming to me.”

“Another reasonable assumption.”

“Until they began referring to matters in the company which took place after Thomas Bradley’s death.”

“After.”

“I said,
after
, damnit,
after
.”

“Spooky.”

“Sufficient to make one wonder.”

“I should think so.”

“Initialed, of course. Not signed. Anyone can imitate initials. You saw the memos. You saw the initials.”

“Yes. I did. That’s rather the point. You showed them to me.”

“Can you blame me being curious? Not only were they initialed, as always, the style of writing never varied. Not that I’m any expert on that. Purposely I showed you memos from before I heard about Bradley’s death and after. Did you notice any difference?”

“I was not warned to look for any difference, thank you.”

“I was curious.”

“As well you might be. Did you ask anyone about these memos?”

“Yes, I mentioned the matter to Alex Corcoran. He didn’t seem to understand a word I was saying. He’s never understood me. I think I don’t speak loudly enough for him, or something.”

“He must have had some reaction. You showed him the memos, didn’t you?”

“He scarcely glanced at them. He didn’t understand what I was saying. He didn’t listen. I went to him twice, trying to get him to see what I meant. Finally, he said,
For cryin’ out loud, leave Enid alone, will you?”

“And did you?”

“I’m an employee, Mister Fletcher.”

“Okay, Mister Blaine. What was your best guess, at that point? Unless, of course, you believe that certain people have memo privileges from the beyond.”

“I don’t like to guess. I like to know.”

“You lived with this spooky situation for some months.”

“A few months.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Obviously, I thought that either Enid Bradley had been writing the memos all along, and signing her husband’s initials, you know, to give them added weight, authority, or …” Blaine shrugged.

“I’m filled with breathless anticipation.”

“…or the memos had been being written all along by his sister, Francine, who was forging his initials, or …”

“Two oars row a boat.”

“…or Thomas Bradley was not dead.”

“Three oars row us in a circle.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could have been forging the initials yourself.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re crazy.”

“I suppose from your point of view there’s that possibility.”

“What was your best guess?”

“You’re missing another possibility, Mister Fletcher. One that worried me very much. I don’t know if you can understand this. I consider myself a responsible businessman. I’m a Certified Public Accountant. This other possibility kept me awake nights.”

“Which was?”

“That a complete unknown was running the company, through Enid Bradley. Some completely irresponsible person, who had no true authority. Enid wouldn’t be the first widow to fall into the clutches of an unscrupulous parvenu, sooth-sayer, gigolo with ambitions, what have you.”

“Did the memos sound that way? Were they ignorant, irresponsible?”

“No. But some confidence men are awfully bright, or, so I understand. A soothsayer, or whatever you call ‘em, can be right nine times out of ten. It’s the tenth order you obey that puts everything into a cocked hat.”

“Well, Mister Blaine, that’s a possibility that I never considered.”

“Well, I did. And it worried me. You’ve referred to me several times in this conversation as literal minded. What I am, is honest. Something funny is going on here, clearly, and I had to find out what.”

“So along comes the reporter from the
News-Tribune
—”

“And, in honesty, I showed you the true instruments that are running the company of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Memos from a dead man.”

“Yes.”

“However, you weren’t honest enough to identify them to me as such. You didn’t tell me Bradley is dead.”

“I’ve apologized for that.”

“ ‘Oops,’ said the hangman, after he dropped the hatch.”

“I never realized you’d get fired. I admit to using you. I was trying to bring this matter out into the open. Clear this matter up. I have my responsibilities. Who the hell is running Wagnall-Phipps?”

“Mister Blaine, who benefits from the death of Thomas Bradley?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see that anyone would. The stock in Wagnall-Phipps is held in a family fund sort-of-thing, the exact nature of which I don’t know. And I don’t know about any personal insurance Bradley had. And I don’t know who might benefit emotionally from his death.”

“Interesting point that: emotionally.”

“Are you suggesting he may have been murdered?”

“Mister Blaine, I have a surprise for you. Are you ready for a surprise?”

“I’d love some answers.”

“This isn’t an answer. It’s just a surprise.”

“What is it?”

“Thomas Bradley did not die in Switzerland. I checked.”

Charles Blaine stared at Fletch a long moment. “That’s more of a question than an answer, isn’t it?”

“Precisely.”

Blaine leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “To answer your question more specifically: financially, I suspect the chief beneficiary of Thomas Bradley’s death would be The Internal Revenue Service.”

“And you said you can see no signs of estate taxes being paid.”

“Exactly. Which is another worry. I do not intend to be party to a tax fraud. I do not even want to look like I might have been party to a tax fraud.”

“Right,” said Fletch. “Better my career be ruined than yours.”

Sweating, his face colored, Blaine sat back. “I’m sorry it looks that way to you. It must. I did a very wrong thing.”

“Tut tut, think nothing of it. Petroleum on a duck’s feathers.”

Blaine looked at his empty glass. “I don’t get that expression. What happens when you put petroleum on a duck’s feathers?”

“The duck drowns.”

“Oh.” Blaine cast his eyes slowly over the beach, which was empty at noon time. “We don’t seem to know anymore than we did when we started, do we?”

“Has Enid Bradley ever explicitly stated to you that her husband is dead?”

“Yes. Last Thursday. After your newspaper report came out. Just before she said I must be crazy and insisted Mary and I take a nice long vacation to this Mexican paradise.” Blaine sneezed and then laughed.

“Was it Enid Bradley who specified Puerto de Orlando?”

“Yes. She’s paying.”

“But you’ve been to Mexico before.”

Blaine sneezed again. “Acapulco.”

“I see.”

“Dusty place, this. When are you going back?”

“Can’t get a plane until tomorrow noon.”

“What are you going to do until then?”

“Snooze on the beach, I guess.”

“Will you permit Mary and me to entertain you at dinner tonight?”

“Certainly,” Fletch said. “Nice of you.”

“Not really,” said Blaine. “Seems to me, without really meaning to, I did you a lot of harm.” He stood up. “Will nine o’clock be all right?”

“See you then,” Fletch said.

“The hotel’s terrace diningroom.” Blaine put out his hand to shake. “Why don’t we stop this ‘Mister Blaine, Mister Fletcher’ nonsense? I suspect we’re both victims of the same accident—or, I got you into my accident, or something.”

Fletch stood and shook hands. “Okay, Charley.”

“Do I call you Irwin?”

“Not if you want to live till dinner. I answer to the name Fletch.”

Blaine leaned toward Fletch, his eyes magnified through his glasses. “Fletch, am I crazy, or is the world crazy?”

“That,” said Fletch, “seems an eminently sane question.”

T 
H R E E   P E O P L E
,   M 
A R Y
   B 
L A I N E
, Charles Blaine and Fletch, at dinner under the stars on the hotel terrace in Puerto de Orlando, Mexico.

Charles: Gin and tonics, please, with lime.

Fletch (to Mary Blaine): I’ve met your Aunt. She’s a real nice lady.

She fed me.

Mary: Isn’t she marvelous? She says she was born happy, and I believe it. That woman has had such suffering, such tragedy. Yet she is relentlessly happy.

Fletch: I know her nickname is Happy. What’s her real name?

Mary: Mabel.

Mary: Look at the moon.

Charles: Even in Puerto de Orlando I suspect prices are a little higher per item than they need be. I know it’s a new resort, or a resort-to-be, and the Mexican government is trying to attract people here. But I daresay, if you drive a few miles inland, into some of the real villages, you’ll find everything from limes to curios at half the prices …

Charles: Gin and tonics, please. With lime.

Mary: There’s something unreal about Enid Bradley. I mean, she’s the only contemporary woman I know who seems to have been born in a corset.

Fletch: Originally, Tom Bradley was from Dallas, Texas? Mary: You mean from where men are men? Charles: I don’t know.

Mary: Enid always looks terrified of what the next moment will bring—you know, as if she’s afraid someone is going to say something dirty. Charles: Her husband usually does. I mean, did.

Charles: Gin and tonics. Lime.

Mary: Look at the moons.

Charles: Didn’t I say something this morning, Fletch, about people vacationing in Mexico drinking three times more alcohol than usual? They make a lot of money off our fear of drinking the local water.

Mary: I mean, I just don’t see anyone ever having a rollicking time
in bed with Enid Bradley, ever. I mean, I just can’t picture Enid Bradley without her sensible shoes on.

Mary: Isn’t this romantic, Charley? Look at the moons in the ocean. I have an idea. Why don’t we take this nice boy to bed?

Charlie: Mary, I think we should order dinner, don’t you?

Fletch: Is Thomas Bradley dead?

Mary: Why wouldn’t he be?

Charles: Frankly, I don’t think so. I think he committed some gross irregularity and decided to disappear. Trouble is, I can’t find what gross irregularity he committed. As Treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps, it’s my damned responsibility to find it. I’m a Certified Public Accountant, and I can’t find anything wrong. Please forgive me, Fletch. Please understand. This is very worrisome to me. Mary: He’s dead. It’s just that nobody cares much.

U 
P O N   H I S   R E T U R N
to his apartment late Wednesday night, Fletch found on the coffee table, beside the bills and junk mail, a note and three letters of interest.

F.—

Your X, Linda, called. I told her you’re cruising off Mexico on your yacht
.

—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
.