Confess, Fletch

“Pan American Airways. Miss Fletcher speaking.”

“What?”

“Pan American Airways. Miss Fletcher speaking.”

“Your name is Fletcher?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Ralph Locke.” .

“Yes, Mister Locke.”

“Miss Fletcher, I’d like to fly from Montreal to Genoa, Italy, late Tuesday night. Is that possible?”

“One moment, sir, I’ll check.” It was scarcely a moment. “TWA’s Flight 805 leaves Montreal at eleven P.M. Tuesday evening, with a connection in Paris for Genoa, Italy.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Linda, sir.”

“Linda Fletcher? You weren’t ever married to someone named Irwin Maurice Fletcher, were you?”

“No sir.”

“You didn’t sound familiar. How long does it take to fly to Montreal from Boston?”

“About forty minutes, actual flying time, sir. Eastern has a flight at eight P.M., which would give you plenty of time.”

“Is there a later flight?”

“Delta flies to Montreal at nine-thirty, P.M. That would still give you plenty of time.”

Talking to her, as obviously she was pushing buttons on a computer console, was like talking to someone in space. A short delay preceded her every answer.

“Should I make these reservations for you, Mister Locke?”

“Perhaps later. I’ll call back. Where are you from, Miss Fletcher?”

“Columbus, Ohio, sir.”

“Ohio’s a nice place,” Fletch said. “I’ve never been there.”