Fletch and the Widow Bradley

1

“H E L L O,” F L E T C H S A I D. “My name is Armistad.”

Behind his desk in his office, the manager of the Park Worth Hotel neither stood nor answered. His eyes telegraphed cold rejection of Fletch’s sweater, with no shirt under it, jeans and sneakers. Clearly, in the manager’s eyes, Fletch was not up to being a guest in the Park Worth Hotel, or a worthy candidate for a job. Dressed that way, he was not particularly welcome in the hotel lobby.

“Your name is Cavalier?” Fletch asked. A triangular piece of wood on the man’s desk said the visage you’d see upon raising your eyes a mite would be that of Jacques Cavalier. Besides the olive wood desk in the manager’s office was a large safe, opened, odd stacks of printouts, and a plaster cast of Donatello’s David perched on a bookshelf full of National Social Registers.

The manager twitched his head as if recovering from a flick on the nose. “Yes?”

Fletch sat in one of the two semi-circular backed chairs. He held the wallet in his left hand. “As I said,” Fletch said, “my name is Armistad.” He pointed with the wallet to the manager’s telephone pad. “You might take that down.”

“You’re not a guest here,” the manager said.

“Geoffrey Armistad with G,” Fletch said. “One Three Four Nimble Drive, Santa Monica.”

He watched carefully while the manager made the note.

“I’m awfully sorry,” the manager said, while dotting the i’s. “You do come on like a storm, Geoffrey Armistad with a G, but we’re not short of busboys or bellhops, and, if you want kitchen work, you should apply to Chef.”

“James Saint E. Crandall,” Fletch said.

“Beg pardon?”

“James Crandall. Found his wallet this morning beside my car. Not the usual wallet.” Fletch opened it like a paperback book and indicated the plastic shield over the identification insert. “Name says James Saint E. Crandall. Only that. No address. No credit cards, pictures, etc.”

Looking at it, Cavalier said, “It’s a passport wallet.”

“So it is,” said Fletch.

“And you think this Mister—ah—Crandall is a guest of the Park Worth Hotel?”

“Yes and no. In this little pocket is a key.” Fletch dug it out with his fingers and held it up. “The key reads Park Worth Hotel, Room 2019.”

“Yes,” drawled Jacques Cavalier. “Your object is a reward.”

“My object,” said Fletch, “is to return the wallet to its owner.”

“That seems simple enough,” said the manager. “I’ll check and make sure Mister Crandall is registered here. If he is, you may leave the wallet with me, and I’ll see that he gets it.”

“It does seem simple, doesn’t it?” Fletch stared over the manager’s head at the wall. “You haven’t asked what’s in the wallet.”

Again Cavalier twitched his head. “A passport?”

Again Fletch opened the wallet. “Ten one thousand dollar bills this side…” He fanned the bills on his fingertips. “…Fifteen one thousand dollar bills this side.”

“Oh, dear.” The manager looked at Fletch with surprised respect. “I’m sure Mister Crandall will be very grateful to you.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Indeed I would.”

“He’s not.”

“You mean …” Cavalier cleared his throat. “He refused to negotiate a reward with you.”

Fletch leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk.

“I came into your hotel about forty-five minutes ago,” Fletch said. “Called Room 2019. A man answered. I asked him if he was James Saint E. Crandall, and he said he was. I told him I’d found his wallet. He seemed pleased. He asked me to wait in the coffee shop. He’d be down in five minutes. I told him I’m wearing a dark blue sweater. I waited in the coffee shop a half hour. Two cups of coffee. Not bad coffee, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“He never showed up. After a half hour, I called his room again. No answer. I went up and knocked on his door. No answer.”

“You must have missed him. When people say five minutes …”

“When a stranger is waiting to return twenty-five thousand dollars of your money in cash?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anyway, I checked at your desk. Between the time I first called Crandall and asked at the desk, he had checked out.”

“Oh, dear,” said the manager. “How very odd.”

“Isn’t it.”

The manager put his hand on the telephone. “I’m calling Mister Smith,” said the manager. “He’s our hotel detective. We’ll see what he can find out.”

“Good.” Fletch stood up. “While you’re doing that, do you mind if I make a phone call? I need to call my boss.”

“Of course.” The manager indicated another small office. “There’s a phone in there.”

“Thank you.”

“Mister Armistad.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you find it amusing our hotel detective’s name is Smith?”

Fletch grinned at him.

“People’s names frequently amuse me,” said Jacques Cavalier.