Fletch and the Widow Bradley

36

“H I,” S H E S A I D, opening the door of apartment 21M to him.

Fletch looked at Francine’s breasts.

It was just after six in the evening and the doorman had said Fletch was expected. The doorman would call Ms. Bradley to say Fletch was on his way up.

“Hi.”

Francine Bradley’s face had been freshly made up. She wore a pearl necklace. Her cocktail dress was a soft gray, cut low in front. Francine Bradley’s breasts were not large but appeared firm for a woman of her age, and, from the cut of her dress, Fletch surmised Francine Bradley was proud of her breasts.

“You look a little tired,” she said, closing the door behind him. “New York City life too much for my orange-juice-and-cereal innocent?”

“I’ve been visiting the suburbs,” he said.

She led the way into the livingroom but stopped near the liquor cabinet. He continued on to the far side of the room, to the big window, and looked down. Then he looked out the window.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Not just yet.”

“I guess I’ll wait, too.”

Francine sat on the divan. “You do seem tired.” She resettled a throw-pillow. “A little stiff, too.”

“No,” Fletch said from the window. “I’m not stiff.”

“I daresay you’re eager to hear our decision.”

“What decision?”

“I’ve had two or three long talks with Enid. Of course, I never told her all your crazy notions. I told her you’d turned up here and seemed distraught. I took you to dinner and heard you out. It was my understanding you lost your job, really, only because she and I deliberately had delayed news of Tom’s death, until Enid had become more established at Wagnall-Phipps. You got caught up in the middle somehow, what with Charles Blaine’s craziness and all. In fact, I told Enid you are more or less ruined in your profession—for life. Is that more or less correct?”

“More or less.”

“She said you’d been round to the Southworth Prep School, annoying Roberta. She didn’t seem to know you’d seen Tom. I told her you’d gone to see both of them, just to apologize. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“Enid finally came to understand that we’re at least partly to blame for what happened to you. She came to my way of thinking, and agreed we should help you out. I mean, financially.”

On a roof across the street Fletch could see an older man and woman sitting in garden chairs under a parasol. A martini shaker and a plate of crackers and cheese were on a small metal table between them. A newspaper lay at the man’s feet. As he watched, the woman said something that made the man laugh.

“Of course, we don’t know precisely what a reporter earns,” Francine continued. “But we figure it will take a good half-year for you to straighten out your life again, find a new interest, a new profession. To calm down and get over this obsession about us. Maybe travelling for a while would help. You could even use what we give you to go back to school.”

Fletch heard Francine take a deep breath.

“Of course, for my part, I’m grateful to you for telling me about Tom. We had no idea. Enid has gone to his rooms at college and discovered the sad truth about him. He was dozing in the bathtub—just as you said. Quite given up on life. Enid lost no time in putting him in the hands of experts. Of course it will take a while,” she said softly, “but he’ll be all right. If nothing else you’ve done or said makes any sense, Fletch, your making us realize the state Tom was in leaves us entirely in your debt. But that’s a human thing …”

Her voice trailed off.

On the roof across the street the man was pouring the woman another martini.

“So.” Francine’s voice brightened. “Enid and I have decided to try to make things up to you by giving you half a year’s pay. We’ll arrange it through Wagnall-Phipps somehow, so it won’t cost us so much. To do with as you like, go where you like. Give you a chance to straighten out your own life.”

“No.”

“What?”

Fletch continued to look through the window. “No.”

“Really,” Francine said after a moment. “Isn’t that really why you went to see Enid, and came to see me, Fletch? You felt we owed you something? Be honest with yourself. Weren’t you really hoping we’d have some understanding of what you’re going through, and, shall we say, help you out?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong? Aren’t we offering you enough? You do want our financial help, don’t you?”

“No.”

There was a long silence in the darkening room.

Fletch watched the older couple across the street fold up their garden chairs, gather up their newspaper, martini pitcher, glasses, plate of crackers and cheese, and disappear through the roof hatch.