Fletch

22

Fletch rang the bell of 15641B Putnam Street and looked back the few feet to where his MG was parked at the curb. Through sunglasses, the green of the car seemed the same as the green of the lawn.

An elfin voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”

Fletch bent and shouted into the mouthpiece: “Greene Brothers Management, Miss Faulkner.”

“Just a minute.”

Fletch smoothed his tie beneath his buttoned suit jacket.

Sandra Faulkner’s face was not particularly friendly when she opened the door. She was wearing black slacks and a loose blouse. Her hair was bleached blond and touseled.

Fletch was astonished. Sandra Faulkner was nowhere near as attractive as Joan Collins Stanwyk. She must be better in bed.

“I’m from Greene Brothers Management,” he said sternly.

She said nothing. She was looking at him as if he were a piece of month-old fish.

“The people who manage these apartments.”

“So what do you want?”

“We want to talk with you.”

“Do you have some identification?”

“If I were you, miss, I would not take this opportunity to be insolent.”

“What?”

“We’ve had complaints from the neighbors about you, and we’re here to discuss the possibility of evicting you on morals charges.”

“You must be kidding.”

“We are not kidding at all. Now, if you wish to continue standing here on the doorstep talking about it, it’s all right with me. If you prefer to go inside, out of earshot of your neighbors, we can.”

She drew back, leaving the door open.

He entered and closed the door.

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,” he said. “Are you alone now?”

“Jesus Christ!”

He stalked into the living room, which was furnished in what once had been termed Danish modern.

“The use of foul and abusive language will do nothing to further your defense.”

“Defense? What defense?”

He pushed open the door of the bathroom, which struck him as peculiarly empty. In the bedroom was a king-size bed, with a mirror suspended from the ceiling over it. The bed was made, at ten-thirty, with a red silk coverlet smoothed over it. On a sideboard in the kitchen was a used bottle of vermouth, a half-empty bottle of vodka, and an empty bottle of California chablis.

“What in Christ’s name are you talking about?” Sandra Faulkner asked.

“What’s that suspended from the ceiling of the bedroom?”

“It’s a mirror. What-the-hell business is it of yours what it is?”

“Miss Faulkner, your lease precisely prohibits hanging anything from the ceiling of this apartment.”

“Jesus.”

Nowhere in the apartment were there signs of anyone packing.

Fletch sat on a living room chair. He took a notebook and pen out of his pocket.

“Is your real name Sandra Faulkner?”

“Yes. Of course. What’s all this about, anyway?”

“Miss Faulkner, you live in a residential community. There are young families who live in these apartments around you. Families with young children.”

“I know. So what?”

“It has become clear to some of the mothers, and, I might add, some of the fathers, that you have no visible means of support.”

“Jesus.”

“You haven’t worked in some time.”

“Why is that anybody’s business?”

“There is a question of whether your hanging around all the time is good for the moral fiber of the community’s young.”

“Wow. Who’d believe this?”

“Second, it is quite clear what your means of support are. You keep this apartment solely by your means to sexually entertain.”

“My God! You’re something from the last century.”

“Greene Brothers Management is responsible for these apartments, Miss Faulkner, and responsible to some extent for what goes on inside them. At least we must be responsive to complaints.”

“You can just get the hell out of here.”

Fletch said, “How long have you known Alan Stanwyk?”

Her face changed from fury to suppressed horror mingled with sickness.

“Sit down, Miss Faulkner.”

She did. On the edge of the divan.

“How do you know about Alan?”

“Neighbors recognized him. His picture is frequently in the newspapers, after all.”

“Jesus. Leave Alan out of this.”

“He is paying for this apartment and your support, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. You’re keeping this apartment through illicit means. You had better tell us everything.”

“Why?”

“Miss Faulkner, would you like to see Alan Stanwyk named in an eviction action? An eviction action taken on moral grounds?”

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe this is happening. Who complained?”

“It is our policy not to report that sort of thing.”

“Make the world safe for informers, huh?”

“We’re very grateful to people who tell us when things are amiss among our apartments. How else would we know? Now, I suggest that you take our attempt to grant you a fair hearing sincerely, and tell us all.”

Sandra Faulkner was looking at Fletch as a lady-in-waiting caught rolling in the hay with a court violinist might have looked at Queen Victoria.

“Do you always wear your sunglasses in the house?” she asked.

“I have a failing in the eyes,” Fletch said, “which is not a subject for general conversation.”

“I see. Wow. Okay. What do you want to know? I used to work as a receptionist at Collins Aviation. Alan Stanwyk is sort of important at Collins Aviation.”

“We know, Miss Faulkner.”

“I’m not Miss Faulkner. I’m Mrs. Faulkner. My husband was a test pilot. For the navy. One day, trying to land on an aircraft carrier, he missed and crashed. I couldn’t work for a long time thereafter. Jack and I had put off having children, thinking there would be plenty of time…”

“This person you refer to as Jack was your husband?”

“My husband. The insurance ran out. Unemployment ran out. I was drinking heavily. Very heavily. At first, Alan Stanwyk’s office would make a call to see how I was doing. It was just professional courtesy, I think. One morning, very early, I was drunk out of my mind, and I told the secretary to go fuck herself. The next day, Alan Stanwyk showed up at the door with his secretary and some flowers. This was more than a year after Jack had died. They put me in a hospital for a while. And paid for it. Alan is a flier himself. He was overseas. He has a scar on his belly from where he was wounded. The day I was released, Alan picked me up in his car and brought me home. It’s been that way ever since.”

“You see him twice a week?”

“Yes, about that. He’s given me something to live for. Himself. I hope someday to have his child.”

“He comes here on Mondays and Wednesdays?”

“The neighbors don’t miss much, do they? The sons of bitches.”

“Mrs. Faulkner, do you have any intention of ever marrying Mr. Stanwyk?”

“Why, no. He’s married. Joan Collins. He couldn’t divorce her. She’s the daughter of the chairman of the board, or something. John Collins.”

“You’ve never thought of marrying him?”

“No. We’ve never discussed it.”

“Yet you hope to have his child?”

“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Are you currently pregnant?”

“No.”

“In other words, Mrs. Faulkner, you intend to maintain this affair, unchanged, in this apartment, for the foreseeable future?”

“Yes. I do.”

“And Mr. Stanwyk has not indicated to you any desire for change?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it hardly needs pointing out, Mrs. Faulkner, you have no rights here. Alan Stanwyk could disappear next week, and you wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“Fine. If that’s what he wants to do. He owes me nothing. I could get a job now. I’m fine.”

“Is Mr. Stanwyk in good health?”

“Yes. Terrific. I wish I hadn’t let myself go so long.”

“And has he indicated any change in your relationship in the foreseeable future?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has he indicated to you that you might be taking a trip together?”

“No. I think I’m kept pretty much in the background. And I’ve never asked for any such thing.”

Fletch closed his notebook. He had written nothing in it.

“Very well, Mrs. Faulkner. I’ll make my report to Greene Brothers. I will ask them not to take any action on this matter, as it seems to be a discreet, adult affair.”

“Thank you.”

“There aren’t any other men who use this facility, are there?”

“By ‘this facility,’ do you mean this apartment, or me? The answer is no to both.”

“I see.” Fletch stood up. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Faulkner.”

She said, “You have a lousy management company.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you have a lousy management company. Not only are you nosy parkers, but these apartments are not adequately protected against burglary.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I was robbed last night.”

“You were?”

“Yes. All my cosmetics.”

“Your cosmetics?”

“All of them.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Come. I’ll show you.”

In the bathroom, she opened the medicine chest.

“This morning, that window was open, and all my cosmetics were missing.”

The medicine chest was bare, as were other shelves in the bathroom.

“Only your cosmetics were missing?”

“Some aspirin. My toothpaste.”

“Your towels are here.”

“No. One towel is missing.”

“One towel is missing. They must have used it to carry off the cosmetics.”

“That’s what I figure.”

“Surely, Mrs. Faulkner, that window is not large enough for an adult.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Some child in the neighborhood must have broken in and stolen your cosmetics.”

“I would say so.”

“Probably afraid to venture farther into the apartment.”

“I’m glad you’re so busy protecting the morals of the children in this neighborhood, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is, Greene Brothers Management. I’d hate to have them thinking dirty thoughts while they’re in jail for burglary.”