Fletch and the Widow Bradley

35

B E F O R E D A W N T H U R S D A Y morning, Fletch was waiting across the street from Francine Bradley’s New York apartment house. It was a warm spring morning but he wore his raincoat, his hat. He also wore his clear glasses. He stood in the doorway of a dry cleaning store which had not yet opened. He was surprised to hear the sound of birds in New York City. As dawn broke, he could hear but still not see them. And, of course, he could hear the sirens. Standing anywhere in New York City, anytime, day or night, one can hear a siren from somewhere.

At a quarter to six a taxi cab pulled up in front of Francine’s apartment house. Briskly, dressed in a short raincoat and high boots, she left the building and got into the cab.

The taxi was several blocks away, on its way uptown, before Fletch was able to get his own cab. Traffic was light and it was easy to catch up. Fletch told the driver that in the other cab was his wife, who had forgotten her wallet.

They crossed Central Park at fairly high speed and again turned north.

Francine was let out at the corner of West 89th Street.

Fletch let his cab go and walked slowly to the corner. As he arrived at the corner, he saw Francine enter an alley halfway down the block.

Strolling with his head down, he walked past the mouth of the alley, glancing in. What he saw was an oddity in New York—a cobblestoned stableyard, complete with box stalls, a horse’s head above each half-door but one, bales of hay stacked in the corners of the yard. Three grooms were moving around, doing their morning chores. One groom was helping Francine mount a dappled gray.

Fletch continued walking. By the time he reached the end of that block he heard the clatter of hooves on a hard surface, and looked back.

Francine rode out of the alley and turned toward the park. She had removed her short raincoat.