Fletch and the Widow Bradley

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “You might say so,” Fletch drawled.

  “Well, you won’t find him.”

  “I’m beginning to get that idea.”

  “I’m pretty sure all that way’s a big owell.”

  “A big what?”

  “ ‘Course not sure of that number in particular. What’s you say the number is?”

  “Three forty nine.”

  “Might’s well get in. You look more like you can stand to lose the fare’n I can.”

  Inside his clothes Fletch’s body was running with sweat from the dry heat. After he closed the door of the back seat he heard the air conditioner whirring high. The interior of the car was degrees colder. The driver started the car and, not interfering with anyone in Dallas who wanted to get ahead of him, followed the traffic sedately. As he drove he rolled up his window, making the interior of the car even colder.

  “All that way’s up there a big owell.”

  At nine o’clock Monday morning Fletch had been at the Registry of Births and Deaths in downtown Dallas, Texas. A slim, gray-haired woman had taken his simple enquiry not only as a great interest and cause of her own but also as an opportunity to be hospitable to someone clearly not native Texan. She poured Fletch coffee from the office pot, offered him a doughnut, which she insisted had been ordered by mistake, disappeared into the stacks and returned with a volume really too big for her to carry and dusty enough to make her white blouse look like it had been run over by a bus. Besides the date of birth, she established that Thomas Bradley indeed had been born in Dallas, Texas, at the Dallas Hospital, of Lucy Jane (McNamara) and John Joseph Bradley, of three forty nine Grantchester Street.

  “I’m just tellin’ you it’s a big owell, sonny, so when we get that way you won’t turn on me mad for bringin’ you that way.”

  “I won’t turn mad,” Fletch promised.

  “ ‘Less you’re in ‘struction.”

  “In what?”

  “You looked like you’re in ‘struction I never would say nothin’. But you don’t.”

  “Oh, yes,” Fletch said.

  The sunlight reflected from a million mirrors as they drove along, from the windows of buildings, the windshields and chromium of cars. The driver was wearing sunglasses.

  The sweat on Fletch’s body froze. He held his arms close to his body.

  The lady at the Registry of Births and Deaths had been very kind and very helpful, dragging out volume after volume for him. He doubted her blouse would ever be pure white again.

  The taxi driver took a right turn, then another. The sign saying Grantchester was tipped.

  Ahead of them, both sides of the street, was an enormous construction site. Chain-link fence ran along both sidewalks. An idle bulldozer dozed among the rubble. There were no workers in sight. Whatever buildings, houses, trees which had been there had been knocked down. On neither side of the road had new building commenced.

  “Urban removal,” the driver said. He slowed the car and brought it nearer the dusty curb. “A big owell.”

  “Oh,” Fletch said. He had never gone so far to see a hole. “A neighborhood gone.”

  “No one here,” the driver said simply. “Whoever you’re lookin’ for.”

  “Guess not.”

  “No one even to ask after him.”

  “No.”

  “Lotsa ‘struction goin’ on in Dallas,” the driver said.

  “Makes you proud, don’t it?” Fletch said.

  He gave the driver the name of the hotel where he had spent Sunday night and would not spend Monday night.

  “Francine?”

  Fletch had not been sure she would pick up the phone to him. He had identified himself properly to her secretary.

  Returning to the hotel he had showered, changed to trunks, played around the hotel’s roof-top pool awhile, until he felt his Puerto de Orlando sunburn beginning to sting again. Now he was sitting on the edge of his bed, wondering which way to dress before checking out.

  “Yes, Mister Fletcher. I mean, Fletch.” Francine’s voice was low, sounded cautious and tired.

  “Any new thoughts?” Fletch asked. He had direct-dialled station-to-station. There was no way either the secretary or Francine could know he was calling New York from Dallas.

  “About what?”

  “About what we talked about Friday night.”

  “Well, I see that you’ve been damaged, Fletch. I understand that. Some mix-up at Wagnall-Phipps caused you to lose your job. Your profession. I’d like to talk to Enid about making it up to you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Financially. Whether it was Charles Blaine’s mistake, or some office mischief—or because of Enid’s and my decision to delay news of Tom’s death six months—the fact remains you got caught in the middle and suffered damage. It’s partly our fault—I see that—or the fault of Wagnall-Phipps. You’ve suffered damage at our hands. So much so that you’re imagining things. Wild things.”

  Her throaty voice was so soft Fletch realized he was pressing the phone receiver hard against his ear.

  “I’d like to recommend to Enid we make it up to you somehow—like give you half a year’s pay. Enough to let you go to Europe, or whatever, take a vacation, think out what you’re going to do next with your life.”

  “That’s kind of you,” he said.

  “Well, I really believe we owe it to you. I figure all this confusion happened just to protect Enid’s authority in the company, get her through a bad time. There’s no reason you should be wiped out by it.”

  “Francine, where were you born?”

  There was a silence before she said, “My father, you know, was an engineer. I was born on station.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Juneau, Alaska.”

  “I see.”

  “Fletch, why don’t you let me talk to Enid about all this?”

  “You don’t seem to have thought much of the evidence I presented you, Francine.”

  “Oh, I’ve thought about it. And I find simple explanations, for everything, incredibly obvious. The one thing I will never tell Enid about, though, is that that Swiss undertaker gave her the ashes of a burned rug, or whatever you said. That’s horrid. I trust you’ll never let Enid know, either.”

  Looking at his toes, Fletch smiled.

  “May I see you again?” Fletch asked.

  “I wish you would. Toward the end of the week?”

  “Thursday night?” Fletch asked.

  “Yes. Come to the apartment Thursday evening. By then I’ll have talked with Enid at length about all this. I will know what she thinks. I’m sure she’ll agree with me. A trip abroad might be nice for you, at this point in your life. Help you sort things out.”

  Fletch said, “I’ll see you Thursday night.”

  After putting the telephone receiver back in its cradle, Fletch walked across his Dallas hotel room to his suitcase and pulled out his sweater.

  34

  “M O X I E?”

  “Fletch?”

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, we’re running through the last scene. Someone said I had a call from Juneau, Alaska, for Pete’s sake. I don’t know anyone in Juneau, Alaska.”

  “You know me.”

  “You’re in Juneau, Alaska?”

  “Yup.”

  “Boy, you can’t do anything right. You aim for Dallas, Texas and hit Juneau, Alaska, Fletch style. Linda warned me about you coming home from the office by way of Hawaii. At least she had a meatloaf to keep her company.”

  “Stop a minute.”

  “Are there dead people in Juneau, or what?”

  “I was in Dallas yesterday.”

  “Hey, Fletch. You’re not supposed to interrupt rehearsals, you know? I mean, suppose everybody got called to the phone. Opening night would never happen.”

  “So why did you come to the phone?”

  “Thought it might be dear old Freddy calling, demanding the presence of Ophelia again, or something. A lady with ner
ves of steel for his hard-times knife-throwing act.”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  “What? I’ve got to go back to rehearsal.”

  “Have you ever been confronted with something you absolutely cannot understand?”

  “Sure. My father.”

  “I mean something which you just can’t put your mind around?”

  “Sure. My father.”

  “Where all the facts add up to something which simply isn’t possible?”

  “Sure, My father.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’m real serious, Moxie. When you prove out something which absolutely cannot be true?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “If you were in such a situation, what would you do?” “Be very suspicious of my conclusion.”

  “Yeah. I’ve tried that.”

  “Doesn’t work?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ve got to go back to work.”

  “I have another question.”

  “What? When will you be home?”

  “Maybe Friday night.”

  “What’s your question?”

  “How’s Rick?”

  “Oh, he’s;—”

  “I know. Bye, Moxie.”

  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.

  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.

  37

  F L E
T C H S A I D, “I’M sure Melanie is looking forward to your reincarnation.”

  He turned from the window in time to see Francine’s hands flutter, her effort to keep surprise, alarm from her face. Her final expression was patronizing. “Now what are you talking about?”

  “Melanie. Your horse. Your horse in California. No one ever sold your horse.”

  “What do you mean, my horse?”

  “I don’t get this even slightly.” Standing in front of the window, Fletch shrugged. “You’re Tom Bradley.”

  “My God!” Francine said. “Now the man has totally flipped!”

  His face screwed in perplexion, again he looked at her breasts. “Maybe.”

  “First you told me Enid murdered Tom, and now you’re telling me I am Tom!” Her laugh came entirely from her throat. “Maybe you do need more than half-a-year off!”

  Fletch, with the light of the window behind him, peered at her on the divan. “I must say,” he said, “you’re marvelous.”

  “Enid hasn’t sold Tom’s horse—Melanie, or whatever her name is—ergo I’m my brother? Enid’s been busy, you know—very busy. She’s been running a family, and a good-sized company. Selling a horse is the last thing she has to worry about.”

  “You ride horseback,” Fletch said. “I watched you this morning, on West 89th Street.”

  “Yes, I enjoy riding. My brother enjoyed riding. Does that make me my brother?”

  “The night we had dinner,” Fletch said, “last Friday night, you spent almost the entire time telling me a long, convoluted, not-very-funny barnyard story.”

  “So what? I’m sorry if you didn’t like my story. I’d had a drink. I thought it was funny.”

  “Long, not-very-funny dirty jokes are characteristic of Thomas Bradley. As reported to me by Mabel Franscatti, Alex Corcoran, Mary Blaine and Charles Blaine.”

  “Tom and I had certain characteristics in common. We’re brother and sister. Fletch, are you insane?”

  “Brother … sister. You are your brother.”

  “I’m also my own grandfather.”

  “Could be.”

  “What’s the point of this joke?”

  “The point is I have only one piece of paper, when I should have, by this time, three pieces of paper.” He took from his inside jacket pocket Thomas Bradley’s birth certificate and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. “Thomas Bradley was born in Dallas, Texas.”