Fletch and the Widow Bradley

25

I N L A T E M O R N I N G the sun on the Pacific Ocean and on the white sand of the beach at San Orlando was dazzling, dizzying to anyone who had spent most of the previous night jack-rabbiting in airplanes. Fletch had arrived at the hotel at two forty five A.M., discovered there was nothing for him to eat, slept for three hours, awoke too hungry to sleep more, swam in the hotel pool until the breakfast room opened at seven, ate steak, eggs, bacon, homefries and fried tomatoes, then went out to the beach and fell asleep again.

The travel agent had been right. The airline’s connections had been terrible: three different flights, each with a wait longer than the flight. She had been right that Puerto de San Orlando was just beginning to be built: whole walls were missing from the hotel; the landscaping was typified by weeds growing through cement blocks; beaten paths led from decorated bar to diningroom to pool. The sounds of bull-dozers grinding, hammers bamming, saws buzzing filled the dusty air. She also had been right about Puerto de Orlando’s insuperable heat.

Late morning, Fletch took a table for two in the palm-roofed, open-sided bar on the beach and ordered a beer. Hot though he was, the beer was not cold. His eyes stung from the three jet airplane hops during the night, the brilliant sunlight reflected from the ocean and the beach, from swimming in the salt water. He drank his beer slowly and then ordered a Coca Cola. The Coke wasn’t cold, either.

Just before noon he saw Charles Blaine, in long plaid shorts and a yellow sports shirt, heavy horn-rimmed glasses and sandals, come through the hotel’s arched doorway and plod across the sand to the beach bar.

When Blaine came into the shade of the palm-leaf roof he stopped, looked around. His eyes passed over Fletch, sitting at the table in just swimming trunks, blinked, and looked back. Blaine frowned like an accountant spotting red ink on books he had felt were not perfectly sound. He turned to go, apparently thought better of it, looked again at Fletch, hesitated, and then walked over to Fletch’s table.

“You’d make a good accountant,” Charles Blaine said to Fletch. “You don’t give up.”

Fletch turned his head toward the sea. “I’d make a good reporter, too. Pity I can’t get a job as either.”

Blaine put his hand on the other chair. “Shall I sit down?”

“I didn’t come to Puerto de Orlando,” Fletch said slowly, “to drink the water.”

Blaine sat down.

“Drink?” Fletch asked. “Warm beer or warm Coke?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Sounds good,” Fletch said. “Me, too.”

“Mexico has excellent limes,” Blaine advised.

“I should think so.”

They ordered from the young waitress whose hips were stacked on her like lava flow on a volcanic mountain.

“Nice vacation?” Fletch asked Blaine.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sort of an out-of-the-way place you chose for a vacation.”

“It’s not too expensive—once you get here.” Charles Blaine then listed the exact price of everything purchasable in Puerto de Orlando, Mexico, in both pesos and dollars—every article of food, drink, clothing, every souvenir.

Fletch asked, “How’s your nervous breakdown doing?”

“Am I having one?”

“Enid Bradley says so.”

“Does she? One of us may be haying a nervous breakdown—either Enid or myself.”

“She says you are. She says you were so fond of her husband you can’t let him rest in peace. You can’t believe he’s dead. You keep referring to him in the present tense.”

“Me, fond of Thomas Bradley?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Thomas Bradley was my boss. I was as fond of him as I am of my desk, chair, filing cabinet, and desk calculator. He was a necessary piece of office equipment. As replaceable in my life as any other boss.”

“There’s some evidence,” Fletch said, “that you’re so eager to perpetuate the myth that Thomas Bradley is still alive that you even go so far as to forge memos from him.”

A small, quirky smile flashed on Blaine’s face.

“Why did you come here, Fletcher? What’s your question?”

Fletcher looked innocently at Charles Blaine. “Was Thomas Bradley really a carpet?”

Blaine’s eyebrows wrinkled. “I don’t get you.”

“I don’t wonder. I don’t get you, either.”

Blaine finished his drink and signaled the waitress for another. “Vacationing in Mexico,” Blaine said, “is enough to make a rummy of anyone. It’s hot and it’s dry and the injunction not to drink the water is well advertised. I calculate that because Mexico’s water is famous for causing diarrhoea, Mexico’s liquor sales are approximately three hundred percent higher than they otherwise would be.”

“No one’s more cynical than a good accountant,” Fletch said.

“That’s true,” Blaine said. “Or a good reporter, I guess.”

“If we’re both so good,” Fletch said, “how come we’re both sitting here on the edge of the world, about as popular with our employers as an earache and a toothache?”

Blaine sipped his new drink. “Do I understand, from what you said before, that you’ve lost your job?”

“I’ve lost my job. I’ve lost my career. I couldn’t get a job now even working for the Leavenworth Levity.”

“Is there such a newspaper?”

“Your wife’s aunt said you’re relentlessly literal-minded.”

“Happy? You talked with Happy?”

“Of course. That’s how I found you.”

“My wife’s aunt is sort of …”

“… happy?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s a nice lady. Which, by Fletch definition, means she fed me.”

“I’m surprised you had the resources to come find me,” Blaine said. “I mean, the financial resources. The money.”

“I don’t,” Fletch said. “Is Wagnall-Phipps paying for your so-called vacation?”

“Yes,” Blaine admitted.

“I’m glad Enid Bradley didn’t order you to go have your nervous breakdown on McDonald Island.”

“Where’s that?”

“Why don’t you stop being so literal about the trivial, Mister Blaine, and become literal regarding the material.”

Charles Blaine nodded his head, as if agreeing to difficult terms after a long negotiation. “All right.” He sat back in his chair. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“Finally we’re getting somewhere.”

“I admit I was using you. Intentionally. Not you, personally. For that, I’m sorry. I was using the press. I guess I was thinking it’s okay to use the press. I didn’t realize, I forgot, that the media is made up of people, flesh and blood, who can be hurt, damaged.”

“Damn,” said Fletch. “I forgot to bring my violin.”

“That was an apology,” Blaine said.

“Consider it accepted, until you hear otherwise. Now please move to the facts.”

“That’s what I don’t know,” Blaine said. “That’s what I want to find out. You can hardly blame me.”

“That, too, will be decided later.”

“Okay, I worked—work—for Wagnall-Phipps, Inc. Not one of the world’s top forty companies, but a nice, solid little concern turning over a healthy profit. Thomas Bradley, founder, creator, Chairman of the Board. A sensible man, a quiet man, a good business man. A quiet man except for the long, dirty stories he liked to tell.”

“You didn’t like his dirty jokes?”

“Didn’t understand most of them. My wife and I lead a fairly—what should I say—conventional life. Always have.” Blaine sneezed.

“I bet.”

“An able business man. He’d been married to Enid for twenty years or more. Two kids.”

“I’ve got all that.”

“Rode horseback for exercise, or pleasure, or for … whatever reason one rides horseback.”

“Good for the digestion.”

“Then I began hearing he was ill.”

“From whom? When?”

“Well, from Alex Corcoran, who, if you don’t know by now, is president of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“I do know.”

“Of course, next to Alex almost everyone looks ill. He’s a big, florid man, plays golf almost every day of the week. That’s all right. He makes more money for Wagnall-Phipps on the golf course than all the other sales personnel combined.”

“When did Alex mention to you he thought Bradley was ill?”

“About two years ago. I don’t know, really. I like to think I had noticed it myself, first.”

“What did you notice?”

“About Tom? A weight loss. He seemed to be … becoming quieter. More reserved. He seemed distracted. I really don’t know.”

“So you understood something was wrong with him.”

“Right. Then came the announcement that he was going to Europe for medical treatments. Prolonged medical treatments. Nothing was specified. When nothing is specified in a case like that, I guess, well, I guess we all thought the worst. Cancer.”

“So no one, as far as you know, pressed for a full explanation.”

“Of course not. It was announced that in his absence Enid Bradley would step in as Acting Chairperson.”

“How come men are Chairmen and women are Chairpersons?”

“I don’t know. Enid did just fine. Sometimes I’d ask her a question and she didn’t have the answer, or hadn’t thought it out, but by next morning she would have the answer, and it would always prove to be the correct one.”

“How did you explain that to yourself? Did you think she had talked with Thomas Bradley overnight?”

“Yes, I did. At first. That made perfect sense to me, because many mornings, once or twice a week, I would get rather detailed memos from Bradley—I mean, Thomas Bradley. Nothing personal in them. Just memos regarding the backroom bookkeeping of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“What do you mean, you got them? In the mail? From where?”

“No. They’d just be on my desk. I assumed Enid Bradley was bringing them into the office and leaving them for me.”

“Okay. So the guy was in the hospital somewhere, maybe in Europe, keeping in touch with his wife by telephone, and keeping his hand in the business by communicating with his treasurer by detailed memoranda.”

“Yes. Then, last November, a Friday afternoon, the rumor went through the office that Thomas Bradley was dead. You know how rumors go through an office?”

“Ask the man who is one. A rumor, I mean.”

“No one really says anything. The sound level, the tone, of an office changes. People walk differently. The expressions on their faces are different. Sometimes you just figure something is wrong, and then try to figure what is wrong. Do you know what I mean?”

“Sure. But I can’t see a literal minded man like you leaving matters like that. If there’s a fact out there, somewhere, I suspect you pursue it.”

“I did. I was worried, anxious. At about eight o’clock that night, I telephoned Alex Corcoran. Well, how do I say this? He had been drinking. He sounded terribly upset. He confirmed my suspicion.”

“He said Thomas Bradley was dead?”

“He did. His speaking was uneven, his breathing was uneven. He said Enid was going through a terribly hard time. He asked me not to talk to Enid about it. She was being strong. She wanted no condolences, no flowers. She wasn’t planning a memorial service.”

“And that struck you as odd.”

“Not really. The Bradleys were very quiet, sort of withdrawn people. They had few friends, if any, that I know of. The socializing they did with people in the office was perfunctory, if you know what I mean. Anyway, Alex, in a sort of drunken manner, asked me not to confront Enid with the fact of her husband’s death.”

“And you didn’t.”

“No. I was surprised to see her in the office on Monday. She didn’t leave for Switzerland until Tuesday.”

“Do you know she went to Switzerland?”

“Let me think. I know Alex Corcoran said she went to Switzerland.”

“Because that’s where Thomas Bradley died?”

“Yes. So I understood.”

“How long was she gone?”

“Oh, she returned the end of the next week. Thursday or Friday.”

“Ten days, roughly.”

“Ten days. And all that’s all right. But, like an intelligent man, like any employee, intelligent or otherwise, I wondered what effect the death would have upon the company.”

“What effect did it have?”

“Zero. Except for Alex Corcoran’s statement to me, it was never stated that Thomas Bradley was dead.”

“You accept that.”

“Only more or less. I mean, Enid’s not a warm woman, but you’d think she’d plant a flower somewhere for her dead husband. She continued to be listed as Acting Chairperson, instead of Chairperson.”

“I understand that. Francine …”

“The routine remained as it was before. I mean, of course, I was expecting financial shifts in the company, little tell-tale signs, a cutting back of expenses, divestiture of certain assets, shifts of stock ownership. There was none of that. Of course the stock is held by an instrument called The Bradley Family Company.”

“You’re talking about the need to pay death taxes, estate taxes, whatever they’re called.”

“I presumed that the family had enough personal wealth to pay taxes without touching the assets of the firm.”

“Is that likely?”

“It’s possible. The Bradleys have never been big spenders. As far as I know, as a family they own one house, four cars, and a horse. How much does it cost to feed a horse? The. only other family expense I know of is tuition for the son.”

“Might as well be poured down the drain.”

“Why do you say that?”

“So everything, so far, Mister Blaine, is understandable.”

“Not at all. I said the routine remained identical. In conference with Enid Bradley, clearly she would not know the answers, what to do, how to decide. The next day, she would indeed have the answer for me, and, again, it would prove to be the correct answer.”

“And she wasn’t talking to her husband by telephone.”

“Not unless the telephone company has made a technological advance they haven’t publicized.” Charles Blaine’s paunch trembled with his own humor.

“Do you know about Thomas Bradley’s sister, Francine?”

“Yes. I understand she and Tom were very close. That she is very clever in business. That Tom frequently consulted her.”

“So Enid could have been getting advice from Francine on how to run the company.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“Do you know that Enid may be only filling in for Francine? That Francine might come out to take over Wagnall-Phipps?”

Charles Blaine smiled. “It seems to me you know more about this company than you did last week when we talked, Fletcher.”

“I’m doing this week what I guess I should have done two weeks ago. But, frankly, I still don’t think a twelve graf story about a piddly little company like Wagnall-Phipps is worth the effort.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“I’m worth the effort. I’m a good reporter.”

Blaine shoved his glasses back up his sweat-slippery nose. “Yes, I know about Francine. And, yes, I think your conjecture that Enid was consulting with her is legitimate. Reasonable. Sensible.”

“Thank you.”

“But that doesn’t explain the memos.”

“Now we come to the memos.”

“The memos kept coming. At first, I simply assumed they were in the pipe line—late in coming to me.”

“Another reasonable assumption.”

“Until they began referring to matters in the company which took place after Thomas Bradley’s death.”

“After.”

“I said, after, damnit, after.”

“Spooky.”

“Sufficient to make one wonder.”

“I should think so.”

“Initialed, of course. Not signed. Anyone can imitate initials. You saw the memos. You saw the initials.”

“Yes. I did. That’s rather the point. You showed them to me.”

“Can you blame me being curious? Not only were they initialed, as always, the style of writing never varied. Not that I’m any expert on that. Purposely I showed you memos from before I heard about Bradley’s death and after. Did you notice any difference?”

“I was not warned to look for any difference, thank you.”

“I was curious.”

“As well you might be. Did you ask anyone about these memos?”

“Yes, I mentioned the matter to Alex Corcoran. He didn’t seem to understand a word I was saying. He’s never understood me. I think I don’t speak loudly enough for him, or something.”

“He must have had some reaction. You showed him the memos, didn’t you?”

“He scarcely glanced at them. He didn’t understand what I was saying. He didn’t listen. I went to him twice, trying to get him to see what I meant. Finally, he said, For cryin’ out loud, leave Enid alone, will you?”

“And did you?”

“I’m an employee, Mister Fletcher.”

“Okay, Mister Blaine. What was your best guess, at that point? Unless, of course, you believe that certain people have memo privileges from the beyond.”

“I don’t like to guess. I like to know.”

“You lived with this spooky situation for some months.”

“A few months.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Obviously, I thought that either Enid Bradley had been writing the memos all along, and signing her husband’s initials, you know, to give them added weight, authority, or …” Blaine shrugged.

“I’m filled with breathless anticipation.”

“…or the memos had been being written all along by his sister, Francine, who was forging his initials, or …”

“Two oars row a boat.”

“…or Thomas Bradley was not dead.”

“Three oars row us in a circle.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could have been forging the initials yourself.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re crazy.”

“I suppose from your point of view there’s that possibility.”

“What was your best guess?”

“You’re missing another possibility, Mister Fletcher. One that worried me very much. I don’t know if you can understand this. I consider myself a responsible businessman. I’m a Certified Public Accountant. This other possibility kept me awake nights.”

“Which was?”

“That a complete unknown was running the company, through Enid Bradley. Some completely irresponsible person, who had no true authority. Enid wouldn’t be the first widow to fall into the clutches of an unscrupulous parvenu, sooth-sayer, gigolo with ambitions, what have you.”

“Did the memos sound that way? Were they ignorant, irresponsible?”

“No. But some confidence men are awfully bright, or, so I understand. A soothsayer, or whatever you call ‘em, can be right nine times out of ten. It’s the tenth order you obey that puts everything into a cocked hat.”

“Well, Mister Blaine, that’s a possibility that I never considered.”

“Well, I did. And it worried me. You’ve referred to me several times in this conversation as literal minded. What I am, is honest. Something funny is going on here, clearly, and I had to find out what.”

“So along comes the reporter from the News-Tribune—”

“And, in honesty, I showed you the true instruments that are running the company of Wagnall-Phipps.”

“Memos from a dead man.”

“Yes.”

“However, you weren’t honest enough to identify them to me as such. You didn’t tell me Bradley is dead.”

“I’ve apologized for that.”

“ ‘Oops,’ said the hangman, after he dropped the hatch.”

“I never realized you’d get fired. I admit to using you. I was trying to bring this matter out into the open. Clear this matter up. I have my responsibilities. Who the hell is running Wagnall-Phipps?”

“Mister Blaine, who benefits from the death of Thomas Bradley?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see that anyone would. The stock in Wagnall-Phipps is held in a family fund sort-of-thing, the exact nature of which I don’t know. And I don’t know about any personal insurance Bradley had. And I don’t know who might benefit emotionally from his death.”

“Interesting point that: emotionally.”

“Are you suggesting he may have been murdered?”

“Mister Blaine, I have a surprise for you. Are you ready for a surprise?”

“I’d love some answers.”

“This isn’t an answer. It’s just a surprise.”

“What is it?”

“Thomas Bradley did not die in Switzerland. I checked.”

Charles Blaine stared at Fletch a long moment. “That’s more of a question than an answer, isn’t it?”

“Precisely.”

Blaine leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “To answer your question more specifically: financially, I suspect the chief beneficiary of Thomas Bradley’s death would be The Internal Revenue Service.”

“And you said you can see no signs of estate taxes being paid.”

“Exactly. Which is another worry. I do not intend to be party to a tax fraud. I do not even want to look like I might have been party to a tax fraud.”

“Right,” said Fletch. “Better my career be ruined than yours.”

Sweating, his face colored, Blaine sat back. “I’m sorry it looks that way to you. It must. I did a very wrong thing.”

“Tut tut, think nothing of it. Petroleum on a duck’s feathers.”

Blaine looked at his empty glass. “I don’t get that expression. What happens when you put petroleum on a duck’s feathers?”

“The duck drowns.”

“Oh.” Blaine cast his eyes slowly over the beach, which was empty at noon time. “We don’t seem to know anymore than we did when we started, do we?”

“Has Enid Bradley ever explicitly stated to you that her husband is dead?”

“Yes. Last Thursday. After your newspaper report came out. Just before she said I must be crazy and insisted Mary and I take a nice long vacation to this Mexican paradise.” Blaine sneezed and then laughed.

“Was it Enid Bradley who specified Puerto de Orlando?”

“Yes. She’s paying.”

“But you’ve been to Mexico before.”

Blaine sneezed again. “Acapulco.”

“I see.”

“Dusty place, this. When are you going back?”

“Can’t get a plane until tomorrow noon.”

“What are you going to do until then?”

“Snooze on the beach, I guess.”

“Will you permit Mary and me to entertain you at dinner tonight?”

“Certainly,” Fletch said. “Nice of you.”

“Not really,” said Blaine. “Seems to me, without really meaning to, I did you a lot of harm.” He stood up. “Will nine o’clock be all right?”

“See you then,” Fletch said.

“The hotel’s terrace diningroom.” Blaine put out his hand to shake. “Why don’t we stop this ‘Mister Blaine, Mister Fletcher’ nonsense? I suspect we’re both victims of the same accident—or, I got you into my accident, or something.”

Fletch stood and shook hands. “Okay, Charley.”

“Do I call you Irwin?”

“Not if you want to live till dinner. I answer to the name Fletch.”

Blaine leaned toward Fletch, his eyes magnified through his glasses. “Fletch, am I crazy, or is the world crazy?”

“That,” said Fletch, “seems an eminently sane question.”