Fletch and the Widow Bradley

10

J A M E S S T. E. CR 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.”

“You haven’t enough proof for that.”

“To save yourself from being arrested for driving with no shoes on.”

“You can only give me a ticket for that.”

Referring to Fletch’s license, the policeman wrote out a ticket. “Twenty-five dollars fine,” the policeman said.

“Don’t retire until you get my check.”

The policeman handed Fletch the ticket. “Let me see the wallet.”

“No.”

“Are you leaving town?”

“Trying to.”

The policeman handed Fletch his license and registration. “Just keep on drivin’, Irwin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“By the way,” the policeman said, “your parents did have a skunk for a kid. What would you call someone tryin’ to swindle senior citizens?”

“I wouldn’t call him,” Fletch said. “I’d wait for him to call me.”