Fletch and the Widow Bradley

3

“W A G N A L L-P H I P P S. GOOD morning.”

“Mister Charles Blaine, please.”

Fletch succeeded in keeping his voice steady. Still in the accounting office of the Park Worth Hotel he had dialed Long-distance Information and then called Wagnall-Phipps using his newspaper’s telephone credit card. With his fingers he picked his sweater away from his sweaty skin.

“Mister Blaine’s office.”

“Is he there?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Blaine has left for the day.”

Fletch glanced at his watch. “It’s only eleven thirty in the morning.”

“I know,” the secretary said. “Mister Blaine has the flu.”

“It’s terribly important I talk with him. This is jay Russell. I’m on a charity committee with Mister Blaine—the Committee to Preserve Antique Silver Clouds.”

There was a long pause. “Silver clouds?” the secretary asked. “How do you preserve them?”

“They’re a kind of car,” Fletch said. “A kind of Rolls Royce.”

“Oh,” said the secretary. “For a minute there I thought you were really on to something.”

“May I have Mister Blaine’s home phone number?”

“No, I’m sorry. That’s against company policy.”

“This is terribly important.”

“So’s company policy. At least to me. You wouldn’t want to get me fired.”

“I wouldn’t want to get anybody fired. Believe me. Mister Blaine will be very glad to hear from me. I can assure you there will be no recriminations if you give me his number.”

“I know there won’t be any recriminations—if I don’t give it to you at all.”

Fletch hung up.

His hand still on the receiver, Fletch said, “Damn, damn, damn!”

He checked his own billfold. He had two twenties, a ten, a five, and two one dollar bills, plus a blank check. He tried to remember whether he had a balance in his checking account of one hundred and twenty dollars, or if that had been the month before, or even the month before that. Sometime he had had a balance of one hundred and twenty dollars. At most he had less than two hundred dollars in cash, one paycheck due, and no job.

He picked up the phone and dialed a local number. He rang five times.

“Hello?” Moxie’s voice said sleepily.

“Are you just waking up?”

“I don’t know. What are you doing on the phone? Why aren’t you in bed beside me?”

“Always a good question.”

“Where are you?”

“Park Worth Hotel.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I went out to the car to check the computer terminal for messages. I found a wallet. That led me to the Park Worth Hotel. It’s a long story.”

“It’s always a long story with you, Fletch.”

“Some days you shouldn’t get up in the morning.”

“Most days you shouldn’t get up in the morning. Is something wrong with you, Fletch?”

“Ha—ha,” he said cheerily, “what could be wrong?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just one or two minor things. I’ll explain later. Do you still want to drive down the coast with me today?”

“Yeah. What time do you have to be back in the office?”

“In about three months.”

“What?”

“We’ve got plenty of time. Why don’t you get up, pack, make us a picnic lunch, a picnic supper, a picnic breakfast—”

“Can’t we stop along the way?”

“Not to eat.”

“All I’ve got is a jar of peanut butter. I’ve been letting the supplies run down.”

“Bring the whole jar. I’ll pick up the bread and orange juice.”

“Traveling with you sounds like a real treat.”

“Fifth class all the way. I’ll be by in about an hour.”

“An hour and a half.”

“It doesn’t take that long to pack a jar of peanut butter.”

“It does when I lost the top of the jar six weeks ago.”

“How can you lose the top of a peanut butter jar?”

“I think I mistook it for an elephant, and you know those elephants—”

“Yeah,” said Fletch. “Always getting lost. Don’t be too long. Thought we’d stop on the way down, beach I know, for a swim.”

“You have that much free time?”

“I have time,” said Fletch. “And it’s all free.”