Fletch and the Widow Bradley (5 page)

“Keep laughin’, guys.”

“Or you could quote Thomas Bradley again,” said an old reporter, who was not smiling.

Fletch glanced at the big wall clock. “Guess I better hurry up, if I’m going to make that interview with
The New York Times
. Shouldn’t keep ’em waiting too long. They want a new managing editor, you know.”

“Gee, no, Fletch. We didn’t hear that,” said the photographer.

Terry said, “Ernie Pyle should get the job. Maybe H.L. Mencken.”

Al called after Fletch, as Fletch was leaving the city room. “Aren’t you cleaning out your desk?”

“Hell, no,” Fletch said. “I’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” the unsmiling reporter said. “Maybe in your next life.”

“
G 
O D
,   
I 
   
H A T E
this,” Tom Jeffries said. On a high metal bed on wheels, on which he was lying on his stomach in the tiny patio behind his house, he was dressed only in shorts and, from his waist to his head, plaster casts and metal braces. His friend, Tina, was sitting on a stool spooning scrambled egg into his mouth. She was dressed in a light, loose dress. “Everything you eat sticks in your throat. Give me more orange juice, will you, Tina?”

She held a glass of orange juice up to his face and placed the flexible straw in his mouth.

“Hang-gliding sure looks pretty,” Fletch said. He was sitting on the picnic table, his bare feet on the bench.

“It’s a pretty thing to do,” Tom said. “It feels pretty. It is pretty.

Soar like a bird.”

“Birds get broken backs very often?” Fletch asked.

“Sometimes you land pretty hard,” Tina said. “This was to be Tom’s last flight before we get married next Saturday.”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “I was going to give it up because Tina wanted me to. She said I might get hurt. Shows you what she knows.” Tom grinned at her.

“Wedding put off?” Fletch asked.

“No,” Tom said. “Instead of wearing a tuxedo Tina’s going to put a big red bow ribbon on my ass.”

“That’ll be nice,” Fletch said. “At least she’ll know what she’s marrying. How long you going to be wrapped up like that, in plaster and aluminum?”

“Weeks,” Tom groaned. “Months.”

“We’ll be married a long time,” Tina said quietly. “A few months won’t matter.”

She had offered Fletch breakfast, and he was hungry, but he had refused. He figured she had enough to do taking care of Tom.

“You heard what I did?” Fletch asked.

“Yeah,” Tom said. “Jack Carradine called me. At first I thought he was telling me a funny story. Then I realized he doesn’t think it’s even slightly funny. Somebody ran your piece on Wagnall-Phipps on his pages while he was out of town. You quoted a dead man, Fletch.”

“And got fired.”

“And got fired. Makes me look all the better.” Tom smiled at Fletch. “Which, under the circumstances, I don’t mind at all. The only job security I’ve got. You screwed up royally on a story originally assigned to me.”

“Tom, can you tell me any reason why Charles Blaine should show me, and let me quote from recent memos he said were from Thomas Bradley?”

“Sure,” Tom said. “He’s a creep. They’re all creeps at Wagnall-Phipps. Tom Bradley was a creep.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t know. Bradley lived way back, down deep inside himself—somewhere near his lower spine. He never seemed very real to me, if you know what I mean. Every word, gesture seemed calculated. Very self-protective. Always gave you the feeling he was hiding something—which is why we started that investigation into the financial dealings of Wagnall-Phipps a couple of years ago. Creepy. Made us suspicious. Sure enough, there he was, doing kick-backs,
pay-offs, running the ski house in Aspen neither he nor any of the other executives, employees of Wagnall-Phipps ever used. He was his own worst enemy.”

“Want some coffee, Tom?” Tina asked.

“Luke-warm decaffinated coffee through a glass straw,” Tom said. “No, thanks.”

“You, Fletch?”

“No thank you kindly, Tina.”

“Then I’ll go wash up the breakfast dishes.” She carried the dirty plates and cups into the house.

Fletch asked, “Bradley never used the Aspen ski house himself?”

“Naw. Wasn’t much of an athlete.”

“How do you know?”

“We checked pretty thoroughly on who was using that ski house and who wasn’t. Just politicians and purchasing agents. Bradley never went there. He never took his kids there. Sometimes his sales manager would go and play host for a drinking weekend. If you ski and have a ski house available, you use it, right?”

“I guess so.”

“His thing was making mosaics, you know? Putting together mosaics with tiny bits of colored tile. Sort of pretty. He had some he had made in his office.”

“How did he get to be chairman of something called Wagnall-Phipps? Family?”

“Naw. Wagnall-Phipps was a defunct supply company. Probably they’d played the game honestly and gone broke. Bradley bought it for its debts. Doubt he put very much cash into it. Then he sold off the stock from the warehouses. I’m sure he put the price of everything up, but he made sure whoever bought from him got a kick-back, something with which to line his own pocket. So he had much more cash than he had put into the company, bought more supplies, more warehouses—he was off and running.”

“When was this?”

“Oh—twenty years ago I’d guess. Then, over the years, when one of the companies that supplied him got into financial difficulty, he’d buy all of it, or part of it. So now Wagnall-Phipps is a holding company owning lots of unrelated little companies manufacturing things like rubbish barrels and sidewalk brooms and nails—stuff like that. Nobody ever said he wasn’t smart. And, of course, it’s still a general supply company. You should know all this, Fletch. You did a story on the company last week. Remember?”

“Will I ever forget?”

“Blaine is sort of a turkey. I’ve talked with him. Always seems sort of confused, lost. Treasurer of the company. You know, one of those guys who wants to do his job nine-to-five and go home. Corcoran’s all right. At least he looks you in the eye and talks straight at you.”

“Alexander Corcoran, president.”

“Good for you, Fletch. Did you talk to him?”

“No. Blaine said he was at a golf tournament somewhere.”

“So Blaine was the only person you talked to?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“Gee, Fletch. You never do any story with only one source.”

“Tell me.”

“Sorry, Fletch. You don’t need me hitting you over the head, too. Some time I’ll tell you about some of the mistakes I’ve made.”

“As far as I knew I was doing a financial up-date on a little company the
News-Tribune
had already raked over the coals. Why should I talk to anyone other than the Vice-president and treasurer? I knew all the facts and figures he’d give me had to be on file somewhere—State Bureau of Corporations, or something. I felt safe. Why would he lie to me?”

“White people lie,” Tom Jeffries said. “Black people do, too.”

“Jeez, I don’t understand this. Tom, had anyone ever told you Thomas Bradley was dead?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I think if anyone had ever mentioned it to me I would have considered it with complete indifference. I mean, the company employs two, three thousand people at most. It’s not a publicly held company. Wagnall-Phipps is so-what’s-ville. The only reason we did that expose on it a couple of years ago—whenever we did it—was to show that it’s not just the giant corporations that spread the loot around illegally.”

“So if Wagnall-Phipps isn’t a public company, who owns it?”

“I think it’s entirely owned by Bradley. Bradley and his wife. Corcoran might have held some of the stock, but I doubt it. Wagnall-Phipps wasn’t that sort of a company, you know? I never had much of a sense of family, we’re-all-in-this-together kind of feeling you get from some small companies. Bradley was too laid back for that. Too much his own man. And Corcoran—call him president if you like—he was really sales manager. He didn’t run the company at all. Bradley did—as chairman. I think he gave Corcoran the title of president so he’d be more effective as sales manager.”

“What about the rest of Bradley’s life?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how could he die and nobody notice?”

“Lots of people do.”

“Wasn’t he important to anybody?”

“His wife. His kids. His company. Why should anyone else care?”

“Charities. Clubs. I mean, you go hang-gliding, Tom.”

“Used to go.”

“Used to. Didn’t Bradley play golf? Tennis? You said he wasn’t athletic.”

“Well, I don’t know, but he looked soft to me. Not like anyone who jogged, or anything. Maybe he wasn’t well.”

“Politics. Didn’t he have any life other than the company?”

“I didn’t know him that well. I’d see him in his office. Very quiet spoken. He made those mosaics I told you about. They were nice, but I don’t suppose they excited too many people. I don’t know what you want, Fletch.”

“I’m trying to get a handle on this guy.”

“Try the cemetery.”

“Very funny. I want to know why Blaine referred to him as alive when he’s dead.”

“Ask Blaine.”

“I’m going to.”

“Listen, Fletch, screwing the press isn’t exactly a new game. Purposely feeding us false information so they can deny it later and make us look bad? People do it all the time. You know that.”

“Talking about a dead man as being alive?”

“It’s a weird one,” Tom said.

“There were kids involved. Bradley’s kids. People say to them ‘I saw your Daddy’s name in the newspapers the other day. What a fine man he must be!’ Shit, Tom, that’s cruel.”

“That’s sick.”

“Sick and cruel. So why would anyone do it?”

“Go ask the guy who did it.”

“Yeah.” Fletch jumped off the table. “Have a happy wedding.”

“I will,” Tom said. “I told Tina she’ll always be able to say I took this marriage lying down.”

“Anything you need before I go?”

“Yeah. Tell Tina I need her black hands out here spongin’ me off. I’m gettin’ sweaty.”

J 
A M E S
S 
T.
   E.  C
R A N D A L L
was seventy and stooped.

He stood on the porch of his shabby house in Newtowne, hands in the pockets of his dark green, baggy work pants. His eyes had not left Fletch’s face since Fletch had driven onto the dirt drive-way.

“Morning,” Fletch smiled as he approached the steps to the porch.

“Don’t want any,” Crandall said.

“Any what?”

“Any whatever you got.”

“You don’t know what I’ve got.”

“Don’t care to know.”

“You sure?”

“Absolute sure. You might just as well back that tin can you’re drivin’ back out into traffic and be on your way.”

“Are you James St. E. Crandall?”

“None of your business.”

“Are you James St. E. Crandall or not?”

“Want me to call the cops?”

“Sure,” Fletch said. “I’ll wait.”

The weathered skin around Crandall’s eyes puckered. “What makes you think you have a right to know anything?”

“I have a right to know everything.”

“Who says?”

Fletch grinned. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re a young punk.”

“That may be.”

“Don’t even wear shoes. Standin’ there in the dirt like white trash. Where’d you come from? You go to church? Where’d you get my name?”

“So you are James St. E. Crandall.”

“Maybe.”

“If you are, then I found your wallet.”

“Didn’t lose my wallet.”

“Your passport wallet.”

“Never had a passport. Never had a passport wallet.”

“Have you stayed at the Park Worth Hotel lately?”

“Haven’t stayed anywhere but at home.”

Fletch ran his eyes over the bungalow. The paint was so thin the wood was dried out. On the porch was one rocking chair. A burst cushion was in its seat.

“I guess you never stayed at the Park Worth Hotel.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Do you have a son, a grandson named James St. E. Crandall?”

“None of your business.”

“Look, mister. I found this wallet, see? It has money in it. And the name James St. E. Crandall, I’m trying to give the wallet back to its owner.”

“It’s not mine. I said that.”

“Your son’s?”

“Never had any children. My damned wife died thirty years ago, God rot her soul. Never had any nephews I ever heard of, and if I did, I hope they’re perishin’ in jail.”

“You’re a nice guy. You go to church?”

“ ’Course I do.”

“You ever heard of anyone else in the world named James St. E. Crandall?”

“Wouldn’t care if I had.”

“Sorry to have bothered you,” Fletch said. “Nice passin’ the time of day with you.”

“Let me see your license and registration.”

Fletch was still within the limits of Newtowne when the police car came up behind him, growled its siren at him, and pulled him over.

He handed the officer his papers.

“Irwin Maurice Fletcher,” the policeman read. “What kind of a name is that?”

“A stinky name. My parents were expecting a skunk.”

“Did they get one?”

“No, they had a nice kid.”

“And what kind of a scam is their nice kid pullin’ now?”

“I don’t get you,” Fletch said.

The policeman continued to hold Fletch’s papers in his hand. “Well, you go up to a man’s door and tell him you found his wallet and there’s money in it. What’s the swindle?”

“Jeez. Crandall did call the cops.”

“Never mind who called.”

“What a grouchy guy.”

“You want to come down to the police station and explain yourself?”

“I’ll explain myself here, officer.”

“I’m listenin’.”

“I found a wallet with the name James St. E. Crandall in it. No address. I’m trying to find the James St. E. Crandall it belongs to. I asked the one you’ve got here in your town and he damned near threw me off his place. And called you.”

“Let me see the wallet.”

“Why?”

“To save yourself from being arrested for trying a confidence game.”