Fletch f-1

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “He paid for her hospitalization and has been supporting her ever since. I would estimate this affair has been going on about two years.

  “Sandra Faulkner does not deny that she and Stanwyk have a sexual relationship.

  “Joan Collins Stanwyk is unaware of the fact of this relationship, as she is quick to refer to her husband’s working late at the office on Mondays and Wednesdays.

  “However, I have subjective knowledge that Joan Collins Stanwyk herself is unfaithful to her husband.

  “Returning to Sandra Faulkner: Stanwyk’s mistress is unaware that Stanwyk is terminally ill, if he is. She is unaware of any change in the relationship in the foreseeable future, such as the possibility of sudden death.

  “Her apartment and other belongings show no sign of being packed up.

  “She is of the opinion that Stanwyk’s health is excellent, and that their relationship will continue unchanged for the foreseeable future.

  “Otherwise, I would characterize the relationship of Stanwyk and his mistress as generous on his part, even noble. Here is a woman of no great attraction, a heavy drinking and emotional problem, who desperately needs a friend. Stanwyk, really from a great distance, perceives that problem and becomes the friend she needs. He has no real reason to exercise such a sensitivity toward the widow of a man he never knew, or toward an unknown and unimportant ex-employee of Collins Aviation.

  “Yet he does.

  “This is the most consistently surprising element in Alan Stanwyk’s character. The man has a peculiar principle and a unique sense of profound loyalty.

  “Evidence of this rare personality trait can be found in his extraordinary, frequent, and reasonably secret trips to his hometown, Nonheagan, Pennsylvania, where his mother and father still live; in his refusing to join a fraternity at Colgate until the fraternity had made his roommate, Burt Eberhart, equally welcome; his subsequent loyalty to this same ex-roommate, Eberhart, in virtually setting him up in a business, supporting him royally as his personal and corporate insurance man, when the two men really have nothing in common at this point, if they ever did have; in his relationship with a mistress from which the mistress has benefited far more than he and not just in worldly goods, but in mental, emotional and physical health.

  “Despite Stanwyk’s obvious personal ambition, which may be evidenced by his marrying the boss’s daughter, which remains possible as a result of genuine love, as Amelia Shurcliffe pointed out, one really must conclude that Alan Stanwyk is a remarkably decent and honest man. What he says is true.

  “Nevertheless, I am professionally obliged to retain my skepticism to the ultimate moment.

  “It is entirely possible I have not assembled the right facts, or noticed them, or put them in the right order. It is possible I have not asked the right questions.

  “I must continue to believe that Stanwyk’s basic statement, that he is dying of cancer, is not true until I have proved it true.

  “So far I have not proved this basic statement true.”

  Fletch turned off the tape recorder and stood for a moment in front of the divan, studying the Disderi—four photographs of a dreadfully unattractive woman in nineteenth-century bathing costume. In it were so many truths: the truth of momentary fashion, the truth of what the woman thought of herself, thought of the experience of being photographed, the hard truth of the camera.

  Fletch put down the microphone and rewound the Alan Stanwyk tape.

  Wandering around the room, he listened to the tape, his own voice droning on, at first against a background of traffic noise, then in the silence of this same room, remembering that at first, less than a week ago, he wasn’t sure who Alan Stanwyk was. The voice continued, not always succeeding in separating fact from speculation, observation from intuition, but nevertheless cutting through to a reasonable sketch of a man, his life and affairs: Alan Stanwyk.

  Fletch played the tape again, going over the six days in his mind, trying to remember the smaller observations and impressions he had failed to record on the tape—clearly irrelevant matters. Joan Stanwyk was visibly lonely and drinking martinis before lunch on the Saturday her husband was flying an experimental airplane in Idaho. Dr. Joseph Devlin had answered the phone too fast when he heard the call concerned Alan Stanwyk—and he did not appear to question that the call had come from the insurance company. Sandra Faulkner’s apartment had been burglarized, apparently by a child. Burt Eberhart thought Alan’s daughter, Julie Stanwyk, a brat. Alan Stanwyk did not use the cigarette lighter on the dashboard of his car. He, Fletch, had not yet bought a pair of gloves. Fletch sat on the divan again and picked up the microphone.

  “Alan Stanwyk is a decent man. A man of principle and profound loyalty. A strong man. An ambitious man.

  “Everything in his life is intelligible and consistent—with one exception.

  “I do not understand his relationship with his parents.

  “He didn’t invite his parents to his wedding. He hasn’t told them they have a five- or six-year-old granddaughter.

  “Yet he visits them across country every six weeks.

  “The answer has to be that his relationship is not with his parents, but with Nonheagan, Pennsylvania.”

  Fletch turned off the tape recorder and went into the bedroom to use the phone.

  It was four-thirty, Wednesday.

  28

  “Mr. Stanwyk? Believe it or not, this is Sidney James of Casewell Insurers again.”

  “I thought you’d call again. Once you long-distance dialers learn a telephone number, you’re apt to ring it a lot.”

  “I expect this will be the last time I bother you, sir.”

  “That’s all right, son. I hope it isn’t. I bought some more telephone stock yesterday.”

  “The hardware store must be doing pretty well.”

  “It’s doing all right. Ever since the price of labor went sky-high, people have been rushing to the hardware store to buy the wrong equipment for jobs around the house they never intend to do anyway. You’ve heard of selling used equipment? I bet half the stuff I sell never gets used in the first place.”

  “I thought you said the telephone company is the only business making money these days.”

  “The hardware business is doing pretty good, too. Although I’d only admit it long-distance to California.”

  “You seem to have things pretty well figured out, sir.”

  “How are you figuring these days? You picking up that Bronze Star?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “That’s good, son. That’s fine. Can we keep it for you?”

  “I noticed a space in the back of my sock drawer where I think it would fit.”

  “I thought you’d make the right decision. There never was a country that didn’t need to decorate people.”

  “Thanks for the offer, anyway. How’s Mrs. Stanwyk?”

  “Oh, I forgot: you’re a pulse-taker. When I was home for lunch, Mrs. Stanwyk was still ticking over nicely. The older models are the best, you know. Better built, and they use less fuel.”

  “Say, Mr. Stanwyk, the last time we talked you said your son, Alan, gave up boxing, refused to go to the nationals after winning the state’s Golden Gloves, because of girls.”

  “Yes, I did say that.”

  “Is that what you meant?”

  “Well, son, I believe a man of my age has sufficient motor memory to mean approximately the same thing when he says ‘girls’ as a young buck of your age. If I remember rightly, girls have a couple of legs under them, a hank o’ hair up top, and a couple of protuberances about grab height. That about right?”

  “That’s about right, sir.”

  “I thought so.”

  “What I mean is, did you mean girls, or girl?”

  “I’m in the hardware business, son. I’m apt to speak in gross lots.”

  “Did you mean any girl in particular? Was there any one particular girl who was the cause of Alan’s giving up boxing?”

  “The
re certainly was.”

  “Who was she?”

  “You insurance men ask some funny questions.”

  “We’ll be through with this case very soon, sir. We’ll stop bothering you.”

  “Mr. James, you sound more like a private investigator or somethin‘ than an insurance man.”

  “Going over this policy, Mr. Stanwyk, we noticed a small bequest we don’t understand. We have to check out whether the person is a relative or not, whether or not she is still alive, the current address, etc.”

  “I should think all that would be up to Alan, the insured.”

  “Your son’s a very busy man, Mr. Stanwyk. You’d be surprised how people fail to maintain the proper information on policies of this sort.”

  “I suppose I would.”

  “They experience the death of a friend, or get a postcard saying a friend’s address has changed, and it never occurs to them to update such a thing in an insurance file.”

  “I guess I understand. But if you hadn’t won a Bronze Star, Mr. James, I think I’d be inclined to tell you to go leap into the Pacific Ocean. Are you near the Pacific Ocean out there?”

  “I can see it through my window, Mr. Stanwyk. Who is the girl?”

  “Sally Ann Cushing. Or, as she is now known, Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh.”

  “Alan and she were in love?”

  “They were thicker than Elmer’s Glue. Sticky. For years there, you hardly saw one without seeing the other one attached. If they weren’t kissin‘, they were holdin’ hands. Here in town we had to widen the sidewalks for them. You couldn’t pry ‘em apart.”

  “Alan gave up boxing because of Sally Ann Cushing?”

  “As the old song says, ‘Love walked in.’ She set him on his ass like no long-armed middleweight ever did. He gave up boxing. He almost gave up everything, including breathing normally, for that girl. We had a hard time gettin‘ him to go to school.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, he went to Colgate and she went to Skidmore.”

  “They’re reasonably close together, aren’t they? I mean, as colleges?”

  “Scandalously close. That’s why the kids picked ‘em. And every weekend they came home and continued being a sexual inspiration to us all. You never saw two kids so in love.”

  “So why didn’t they get married?”

  “They did, but not to each other. Spring of their senior year in college, Sally Ann was visibly pregnant. I do believe my wife noticed it before Alan. Naturally, we thought it was Alan. We thought it was Alan’s kid. It wasn’t. I guess their relationship had been as pure as the driven snow. Alan was shaken to his foundation. The kid was caused by a man named Bill Cavanaugh, a town boy. Sally Ann said that she had had too much to drink at a party here in town one night, while Alan was at school, and Cavanaugh had driven her home. She said he had taken advantage of her. She insisted it happened only once, but as Mother Goose said, once is enough. At least it was that time. Or, more likely, she wasn’t telling the truth. I’ve always suspected she was a little impatient with my son. You know, Alan always played everything remarkably straight. There comes a time when a girl wants to get laid, and I suspect Alan was keeping the girl he intended to marry as untried as next year’s car.”

  “So Sally Ann Cushing married Cavanaugh?”

  “Yup. And Alan took up flying those damn-fool aircraft. Between the boxing and the flying, there was a hot and heavy romance with Sally Ann Cushing. Frankly, I think my son has always had a bit of a death urge. Although I suppose I shouldn’t tell you that. Your bein‘ his insurance man. A bit of the daredevil, except when it came to young love. He treated that very carefully. A bit too carefully, I’d say.”

  “This explains a lot.”

  “Does this explain that small bequest on the insurance policy?”

  “Yes. The name is Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh.”

  “That’s good. She’s a nice girl. I’ve always been a bit in love with her myself. Cavanaugh is a skunk, I’ve always thought. Never have liked him. The boy, young Bill, is about twelve years old now. One or the other frequently comes in the store, Sally Ann or young Bill. I feel toward them almost like family. Despite the pregnancy, Alan and Sally Ann still thought of getting married. But Cavanaugh had his rights, and he exerted them. Sally Ann was quite a catch for him. He’s in the insurance business, like you, only he’s no good at it.”

  “The Cavanaughs still live in Nonheagan?”

  “Well, yes and no. That’s what I was going to tell you. I can’t be too sure of Sally Ann’s address at this point.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sally Ann and Bill Cavanaugh got divorced a while back. I’m not sure exactly when. There was a separation. I know they were getting divorced, and she must have gotten it, because she sold her house and left town, taking the boy with her.”

  “When? When did she leave town?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Yup. They sold everything. Furniture, washer, dryer, beds and kitchenware. There was no moving van at all. She and the boy packed suitcases and took a taxi to the airport. It’s a bit of a mystery around here. According to my wife, they were very vague about where they were going. The kid said he was going to go live on the West Coast—out somewhere near you. In California. I expect that after almost thirteen years of marriage to that bum Cavanaugh, she just wanted to burn her bridges behind her. Find a new life somewhere. Anyway, be shut of this town. Cavanaugh gave her a pretty rough time.”

  “Mr. Stanwyk, thank you very much.”

  “Well, if there’s any question about that little bequest to Sally Ann, you be a good fella and see that she gets what Alan wants to give her. Sally Ann is a wonderful person, and she’s had a rotten time.”

  “One other question: when your son would visit you in Nonheagan, did he ever see Sally Ann?”

  “Why, no. He was at the Inn on the telephone all the time, as far as I know. She was married. I suppose he could have seen her. He never mentioned it.”

  “Again, many thanks, Mr. Stanwyk. You’ve been a great help. We won’t bother you again.”

  “Any time, Mr. James. I’m very happy to have the opportunity to help out Alan.”

  ***

  Fletch went through the routine with five local hotels before finding the right one.

  “Desk, please.”

  “Desk.”

  “Has Mrs. Sally Ann Cavanaugh checked in yet?”

  The sixth hotel desk answered, “Yes, sir. Mrs. Cavanaugh and her son checked in yesterday. Do you want their room number?”

  “No. Thanks. We want to surprise her with some flowers. Can you tell me when she intends to check out?”

  “She’s keeping the room through Thursday night, sir, but she told us she would actually be leaving Thursday evening after supper. Tomorrow night about nine o’clock.”

  “That should give us plenty of time to send her flowers. Thanks very much.”

  ***

  “Trans World Airlines. Reservations.”

  “On your flight 629 to Buenos Aires tomorrow night,” Fletch said, “do you have a reservation for a Mrs. Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh and son?”

  “What’s the name, sir?”

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh and son, William.”

  “No, sir. We do not have reservations under that name. Should we make these reservations, sir?”

  “No, no. That’s all right. Do you have a reservation under the name of Irwin Fletcher for the same flight?”

  “Irwin Fletcher. Yes, sir. Flight 629 to Buenos Aires. Departure time eleven P.M. Thursday. That reservation has been confirmed.”

  “And you do not have a Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh registered aboard that flight?”

  “No, sir. We do not have either a Cushing or a Cavanaugh listed as passengers aboard flight 629.”

  Fletch said, “Thank you very much.”

  Before making the next telephone call, Fletch spent a few moments wandering around the ap
artment. In the kitchen he drank a glass of milk. In the bathroom he brushed his teeth. Back in the bedroom he spent a few minutes looking into the telephone directory.

  Then he picked up the phone.

  “Command Air Charter Service?”

  “Yes. Hello. Command Air Charter Service.”

  “This is Irwin Fletcher. I’m calling regarding my reservation for tomorrow night…”

  “Yes. Mr. Fletcher. We’re glad you called. Your cashier’s check arrived this morning, as we arranged. The flight is prepaid. An executive jet will be standing by tomorrow night from ten-thirty P.M. to twelve midnight for your flight to Rio de Janeiro. You don’t expect to be arriving later than twelve midnight, do you, sir?”

  “No. I don’t. At the airport, aren’t you right next to Trans World Airlines?”

  “Yes, sir. We use the same parking facilities.”

  “I see.”

  “We haven’t known where to call you, Mr. Fletcher, as you left no telephone number when we talked Friday of last week. You didn’t indicate whether or not you’d be traveling alone, sir.”

  “No. Does it matter?”

  “No, sir. Our only question is whether or not you wish a steward flying aboard.”

  “Is one usual?”

  “Well, sir, if you’re flying alone, the copilot usually can take care of such things as drinks and food…”

  “I see.”

  “Will you wish a steward, sir? It makes no difference in cost to you. It just means one of our able stewards will be flying to Rio and back.”

  “Yes. I will want a steward.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s fine. We’ll have a steward on board.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. And thank you for calling in. This flight will not need to be confirmed again.”

  After replacing the telephone receiver, Fletch remained sitting on the bed. It was ten minutes past seven.

  There were twenty-five hours and twenty minutes before he was next scheduled to meet Alan Stanwyk.

  Fletch went over in his mind precisely what he had to do in that twenty-five hours and twenty minutes, and ordered the doing of these things in a time sequence. After making the plan, he adjusted it and then reviewed it.