Fletch

32

“Ah, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I just have to make a phone call. It will take me about twenty minutes.”

“Then we’ll take your luggage aboard, sir. Just the suitcase and these two attaché cases?”

“Yes. Is there a phone?”

“Use the phone in the office, sir. Just dial nine and then your number. We’ll be ready for departure when you are.”

Fletch dialed nine and then the recorder number of the News-Tribune. He sat at the wooden desk. The door with the opaque glass to the Command Air Charter Service lobby was closed.

“This is Fletcher. Who’s catching?”

“It’s me, Mr. Fletcher. Bobby Evans.”

“How are ya doin‘, Bobby?”

“Helluva story this morning, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Thanks for reading the News-Tribune. Look, Bobby, no one’s expecting this one. Will you square with the desk for me? I’m in sort of a hurry.”

“More of the same?”

“Sort of. I want to get out of here. Another thing, Bobby. I haven’t written this story yet. I’m just dictating off the top of my head.”

“Okay, Mr. Fletcher.”

“So if you hear anything wrong, grab it right away. I can’t go back over it.”

“Okay.”

“Another thing. When I get done with the story I’d like you to take a little note to Clara Snow.”

“That isn’t usually done.”

“I know, but I won’t be in the office in the morning. I’m going to have to miss an appointment.”

“Okay.”

“Is the blower on?”

“Go ahead, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Friday A.M. parenthesis fp unparenthesis Stanwyk Murder Fletcher.

“Alan Stanwyk, one l, a, w-y-k, thirty-three-year-old executive vice president of Collins Aviation, was shot and killed in the library of his home on Berman Street, The Hills, last night.”

“Wow.”

“Chief of Police of The Beach, Graham Cummings, is being questioned about the murder.”

“Wow, wow. Mr. Fletcher, there hasn’t been anything on the police radios about this yet.”

“I know. Paragraph three. Police estimate the time of the murder at nine-thirty.

“Paragraph. The body was discovered by the victim’s wife, Joan Collins Stanwyk, upon her return from a committee meeting at the Racquets Club at eleven o’clock.”

“Mr. Fletcher?”

“What?”

“You said the body was discovered at eleven o’clock.”

“I know.”

“It’s only ten-fifteen now, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I know.

“Paragraph. According to a police spokesman, Stanwyk was shot twice in the back through a window by a high-powered rifle. Death was instantaneous.

“Paragraph. Ballistic tests are being made this morning to determine if the murder weapon is the same as the high-powered Winchester rifle Cummings kept slung from the dashboard of his private car.

“Paragraph. Cummings, fifty-nine, was named in a News-Tribune report yesterday afternoon concerning the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.

“Paragraph. Evidence presented to the district attorney’s office yesterday morning by the News-Tribune included affidavits signed by a self-admitted drug peddler, Charles Witherspoon, thirty-eight, alias Vatsyayana, alias Fat Sam, and a self-admitted drug runner, Lewis Montgomery, seventeen, alias Gummy two m‘s,y. Other evidence was a note written in Cummings’s hand to Witherspoon concerning the drug traffic.

“Paragraph. Both affidavits named Cummings as the principal source of illegal drugs at The Beach.

“Paragraph. Beach police yesterday discovered the body of a fifteen-year-old girl, Roberta quote Bobbi unquote Sanders no u, buried in a sleeping bag in the sand near Witherspoon’s lean-to. She died of a drug overdose.

“Paragraph. Warrants for the arrest of Cummings were issued yesterday afternoon.

“Paragraph. Cummings had not been taken into police custody at the time of the murder at the Stanwyk residence.

“Paragraph. This reporter saw Cummings alone in his private car in the area of the Stanwyk residence at eight-thirty last night, and reported seeing him by telephone to assistant district attorney Alston Chambers one l.

“Paragraph. There is no evidence that Stanwyk and Cummings knew each other, although Stanwyk’s father-in-law, John Collins, president and chairman of the board of Collins Aviation, several times has pressured Cummings as chief of police to discover and destroy the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.

“Paragraph. Collins lives within walking distance of the Stanwyk house.

“Paragraph. Reportedly, Joan Stanwyk expressed surprise at finding the victim’s hair bleached blond. Her husband had dark hair and had not been known previously to bleach it.

“Paragraph. This morning the victim’s widow is under heavy sedation in the care of family physician, Dr. Joseph Devlin of the Medical Center.

“Paragraph. Insurance agent Burt Eberhart has confirmed that Stanwyk’s life was insured for three million dollars. The extraordinary amount of insurance coverage is explained by Eberhart as being related to Stanwyk’s frequent piloting of experimental aircraft.

“Paragraph. Stanwyk, a native of Nonheagan, Pennsylvania, N-o-n-h-e-a-g-a-n, was a graduate of Colgate College and the Wharton School of Business. As a captain in the Air Force, he flew twenty-four missions over Indochina. Shot down twice, Stanwyk was a recipient of a Purple Heart.

“Paragraph. He served as treasurer of the Racquets, plural, Club. He was a member of the Urban Club.

“Paragraph. Besides his wife, Stanwyk leaves a daughter, Julia, five, and his parents, Marvin and Helen Stanwyk, of Nonheagan, Pennsylvania. Thirty. You got that?”

“Mr. Fletcher?”

“Yes?”

“You mean this all happened last night?”

“No. Tonight.”

“But how can you report a murder and even name the murderer when the body hasn’t even been found yet?”

“Just make sure everything is spelled right, will you, Bobby?”

“But you say the body is discovered at eleven o’clock and it’s only ten-thirty.”

“Yeah. I want to make first edition.”

“But, Mr. Fletcher, it hasn’t happened yet.”

“You’re right, Bobby. Advise the desk that photographers should be sent out to the Stanwyk residence, but ask them please to wait until the widow gets home and discovers the body. It’s only decent. For first edition they can use pictures from the library.”

“Okay, Mr. Fletcher.”

“One other thing, Bobby. I think I forgot to put in Mrs. Stanwyk’s age. She’s twenty-nine.”

“Right.”

“Please insert it.”

“What about the note you want me to take to Clara Snow?”

“Oh, yeah. Dear Clara. Leaving; area too hot tonight. Frank says you’re lousy in bed, too. Love, Fletch.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You want me to write that?”

“I sure do. Just don’t indicate you were the one who typed it. Good night, Bobby.”

***

“Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I’m ready.”

“A woman and child are waiting in the lobby. For some reason she won’t say for whom they are waiting. Are they waiting for you? We haven’t put their baggage aboard…”

“No, they’re not waiting for me.”

“The boy has mentioned an ‘Uncle Alan.’ We have no other flights tonight.”

Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh and son William were standing in the lobby with five pieces of baggage at their feet. The boy was looking through the opened office door at Fletch.

She looked like a wonderful person. A real person. The sort Marvin Stanwyk would like, as would his son. The sort Alan Stanwyk would never have forgotten and always would have needed. The sort of girl who could make a boy give up boxing and a man give up flying. She looked like home.

The boy’s stare was level and curious.

“No,” Fletch said. “They’re not waiting for me.”

***

On the chartered jet was a heavy leather swivel lounge chair into which Fletch buckled himself.

His suitcase and the two attache cases he had seen stored behind a drop-curtain in the stern.

With a minimum of fuss, and a maximum of silence, the Lear jet lifted into the sky.

It was eleven o’clock Thursday night.

“Would you like a drink and something to eat, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

The steward wore a white coat and black bowtie.

“Perhaps a drink first?”

“Yes. What’s aboard?”

“Beefeater gin. Wild Turkey bourbon. Chivas Regal scotch—”

“What is there to eat?”

“We’ve stocked both a capon dinner for you, and club steak.”

At ten o’clock in the morning, he would not have to be standing in court facing contempt charges for failing to pay his first wife, Barbara, eight thousand four hundred and twelve dollars in alimony.

“That sounds very nice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Vermouth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lemon?”

“Yes, sir.”

At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing in court facing contempt charges for failing to pay his second wife, Linda, three thousand four hundred twenty-nine dollars and forty-seven cents in alimony.

“Would you like a martini, sir?”

“I would like two martinis.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Each made fresh.”

At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing in the marine commandant’s office, with photographers’ flashbulbs popping, having the old tale told again, receiving the Bronze Star.

“Of course, sir.”

“Then I would like the capon. Do we have an appropriate wine?”

“Yes, sir. A selection of three.”

“All for the capon?”

“Yes, sir.”

At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing before the booking desk at the main police station being charged with criminal fraud.

“After the capon, I would like two scotches.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cracked ice.”

“Of course, sir.”

At ten o’clock the next morning, his two ex-wives, Barbara and Linda, each having given up her own apartment, would be moving into his apartment, to live with each other.

“Then I would like the club steak. Fairly rare.”

“As another supper, sir?”

“Yes.”

“I see, sir.”

And shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, a warrant for the arrest of Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien, would be issued, for aiding a fugitive escape justice.

“With the steak I would like an ale. Do we have ale on board?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s fine. It should be very cold.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fletch was flying over Mexico with three million dollars in tens and twenties in two attache cases.

“Would you like your first martini now, sir?”

“We’d better start sometime. We’re only going as far as Rio.”

***