Fletch and the Widow Bradley

30

F R I D A Y M O R N I N G A T quarter to eight, Fletch stood in the drizzle across the street from Francine Bradley’s East Side apartment house. He had bought a raincoat and a rainhat and, the night before, in Times Square, a pair of clear eyeglasses, and he was wearing all this, and under one arm he carried a copy of The New York Post. He supposed he looked like someone not wanting to be noticed.

He was waiting for Francine Bradley to come out of the apartment building, but to his surprise, at ten minutes past eight a taxi stopped in front of the building and Francine Bradley got out of the cab and dashed into the building. She was wearing a short raincoat and high boots.

At nine twenty she came out of the building dressed in a longer raincoat and apparently a suit or skirt and began hailing cabs. The doorman was blowing his whistle for her.

On his side of the street, Fletch got a cab more quickly.

Getting into the taxi, Fletch said, “U-turn and stop, please.”

The driver did so.

Fletch said, “See that woman trying to get a taxi?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to see where she’s going.”

The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. “You some kind of a pervert?”

Fletch said, “Internal Revenue Service.”

The driver said, “Bastard. Better you should be a pervert.”

They followed Francine’s cab downtown where it stopped in front of the Bennet Bank Building.

“See?” Fletch said. “The lady’s leading me to her money.”

“I wish I could charge you more.” The driver leaned over to read his meter. “I got to pay taxes, too, you know. Do you guys from Internal Revenue Service tip?”

“Yeah,” said Fletch. “And we report the person to whom we give the tip—name, date, and place—just to see if you report it.”

The driver turned around in his seat. “I don’t want your damned tip! Get out of my cab!”

“Okay,” Fletch said.

“Jeez!” the driver slapped the change into Fletch’s hand. “Government in front of me in blue uniforms … government in my back seat!”

“Sure you don’t have change of a dime?”

“Get outta my cab!”

Fletch waited a few minutes before entering the Bennet Bank Building.

On the sign board in the lobby was listed Bradley & Co.—Investments.

He returned to the bank building at noon and followed Francine Bradley to Wayne’s Steak House. She was accompanied by a man not much more than twenty carrying a brief case. His suit was not particularly good, his shoes were dull, he was without a raincoat, but his briefcase was new-looking. They were in the restaurant fifty minutes. Fletch followed them back to the building and loitered in the lobby an hour. During that time the young man did not leave the building.

Fletch returned to the Bennet Bank Building again just before five o’clock. At five ten Francine Bradley came out and took a taxi. At five twenty-five, the young man came out and began walking down the street.

Fletch followed him into the subway, onto the platform and, while ostensibly waiting for a train, drew attention to himself by staring at the young man. Eventually the young man gave Fletch a look of distaste, and it was then that Fletch approached him.

“Sorry,” Fletch said. “Trying to figure it out. Didn’t I see you at lunch today at Wayne’s Steak House with Francine?”

The young man’s facial expression cleared. “You know Ms. Bradley?”

“Sure,” Fletch said. “I’ve consulted her about some of my investments. Brilliant lady.”

“She is.” The young man nodded emphatically. “I think I’m damned lucky to be working for her. An education.”

“She handles her brother’s money, doesn’t she? It was Tom who sent me to her.”

“Well, we handle the Bradley Family Company. Mostly W agnail-Phipps, you know. Other stuff. Not much I mean, not millions. But she’s damned clever with what there is.”

“Why doesn’t Tom handle it himself?”

The young man looked surprised at Fletch, hesitated, then said, “Didn’t you know? Her brother died. A year ago.”

“Gee, I didn’t know. Too bad. Guess it’s been a while since I’ve seen good ol’ Tom. How long you been working with Francine?”

“Seven months.” A train was coming in. “Real education.”

The young man waited for Fletch to board the train first.

“Not my train,” Fletch said.

“This is the only train you can get from here,” the young man said.

“I’ll wait for a less crowded train,” Fletch said before noticing the train wasn’t crowded at all.

As the train pulled off, the young man stared at Fletch through the window. On his face, expressionlessness battled curiosity, and lost.

At eight o’clock, Fletch entered Chez Claire and found Francine Bradley waiting for him, already seated at a table for two against the back wall.

There was a candle on the table.