“The reason given for the estrangement is that his father forced him to box. Yet his father insists he urged Alan not to box.
“Despite the fact, confirmed by a call to the Nonheagan Inn, that Alan visits his parents every six weeks, he has never told them that he has a child and that they have a grandchild.
“Everyone says that Alan Stanwyk is buying a ranch in Nevada—his wife, his father-in-law, his stockbroker, his insurance man Everyone, that is, except the person whom both Stanwyk’s wife and insurance man identify as the real estate broker, Jim Swarthout. It was quite clear from his attitude, as well as from his explicit statements, that Swarthout has never done business with, or even met, Alan Stanwyk
“To some extent, these contradictions can be explained, now that we have some knowledge of the man
“I take the clue from Burt Eberhart’s statement ‘Al plays so close to his chest he wouldn’t tell you he was dying of cancer’.
“Although no one knows it, Alan Stanwyk could have terminal cancer
“There can be an answer to his strange relations with his parents. He could love them very much. Being an only son, he could have a profound sense of loyalty and duty toward them. Apparently he has for his old college roommate, Burt Eberhart. As Marvin Stanwyk says, he could find stopping off in his old hometown frequently a restful experience
“At the same time, he could realize that the world of Joan and John Collins is no place for Marvin and what’s-her-name Mother Stanwyk. He might feel they would be very out-of-place and very embarrassed Therefore, he might have fudged the date of his wedding, not told them they were grandparents, and told everyone else he was estranged from his parents—solely to save their feelings.
“There is even an answer to the mysterious ranch in Nevada He could have started to buy the ranch in Nevada for the best reason in the world: a good real estate investment. Neither he nor Joan needed to like the idea of living on a ranch. Thus the confusion in everybody’s mind about whose idea the ranch is—Alan’s or Joan’s. Neither of them really wants to do it. Buying the ranch is simply a good business idea.
“It is possible he took the first steps toward buying the ranch, which first steps for him would have been seeking the advice of his stockbroker, insurance man, wife and father-in-law. After he did this much, he discovered he was dying of cancer. He had to devote his time and energies to cleaning shop at Collins Aviation, subtly, so that no one knew what he was doing. That would take some effort. He knew he would not be able to see the land purchase through, but he could not tell people so without also telling them why, that he has terminal cancer. Therefore, he kept talking about it as if it were a real, developing thing. John Collins referred him to Jim Swarthout. It is very likely that subsequently, when John Collins or whoever asked about Swarthout and the ranch, Stanwyk answered, ‘Yes, yes, everything’s fine.’ Doubtless he even found himself agreeing to take his wife to the ranch next weekend when there isn’t any ranch, because Stanwyk knows that for him there isn’t any next weekend.
“Even the contradictions can be made to go together.
“Yet there remains one overwhelming question in my mind.
“If Alan Stanwyk wishes to commit suicide, why doesn’t he die the way everybody half-expects him to die?”
“Why doesn’t he crash an airplane?”
***
Still moving slowly, Fletch disposed of his sandwich wrappings and carton of milk.
In the bedroom, he carefully packed a large suitcase. Into it went tennis whites. Three pairs of blue jeans. Blue jean, shorts, T-shirts. Several dress shirts. Neckties. Underwear. His shaving kit. Two suits. Two sports jackets. Two pairs of slacks. His address book. Black shoes. Three pairs of black socks. Three pairs of brown socks. His passport.
He put typing paper and carbon paper into his typewriter case and closed it.
Then he dressed in brown loafers, brown socks, a dress shirt, necktie, trousers and a sports jacket. And sunglasses.
Taking his big tape recorder, typewriter case and suitcase, he went to the apartment garage. He lashed the tape recorder to the passenger seat of the MG. He put the typewriter case behind the front seats and the suitcase in the trunk.
Then he drove to the main gate of Collins Aviation and waited.
It was four o’clock when Fletch pulled up and parked across from the main gate of Collins Aviation.
At four forty-five, through sunglasses, he saw the gray-uniformed guard at the gate step briskly out of his guardhouse, whistle and wave people aside, clear the road and the sidewalk, and casually salute a car coming through. It was the gray Jaguar XKE, license number 440-001. It turned left into traffic.
Alan Stanwyk was driving.
Fletch followed him.
Joan Stanwyk had said Alan worked late Mondays and Wednesdays. On those two days of the week he seldom arrived home before midnight. He remained at the office.
It was Monday. Stanwyk had left the office before five.
He continued down Stevenson to Main and turned right on Main. Following him, Fletch thought Stanwyk might be heading for the expressway toward the city. But after twelve blocks, Stanwyk turned left on Seabury. At the corner of Seabury and Bouvard he pulled into the parking lot of a liquor store. Fletch waited across the street.
Watching Stanwyk amble into the liquor store and out again, Fletch could only think him a well man. An unconcerned man. A relaxed man. As he went in, Stanwyk’s hands were in the pockets of his slacks. His gait was slow and even. His face expressionless. When he came out, his face had the half smile of someone who had just passed pleasantries. In the bag he was carrying were at least three bottles of liquor. It took him a moment to find the right key on his keychain for the ignition.
Continuing the way he had been going, Stanwyk went another three blocks on Seabury and then turned left on Putnam. A half mile along Putnam, he turned into the tree-shaded parking lot of a garden apartment development. He parked the Jaguar in the shade of the trees at the far side of the parking lot. Fletch parked in the middle row of the parking lot, in the sunlight. Stanwyk locked his car.
Carrying the bag of liquor, he strolled across the parking lot, cutting through the middle row of cars within three cars of Fletch, walked fifteen yards down the sidewalk, turned left on a walk and into a doorway.
Fletch waited ten minutes by his dashboard clock.
Then he went into the doorway himself.
The doorway served two apartments. On the left, the name on the letterbox was Charles Rice. The box was full of mail.
The mailbox on the right was empty. The name on that box was Sandra Faulkner.
A sign in the recessed doorway warned trespassers and solicitors as well as loiterers and burglars. It was signed GREENE BROS. MANAGEMENT.
***
“Where’s Gummy?”
Someone had gotten up enough energy to make a campfire on the beach. It was a reasonably cool night. Farther up the beach there were other campfires.
Vatsyayana said, “Fletch.”
In a corner of the parking garage, Fletch had changed into jeans. Having had a sport coat on, he had not realized it had gotten cooler. He wished he had at least put on a T-shirt.
“Where’s Gummy?” he asked again.
July said, “I saw him earlier.”
“Where did he go? Did he say?”
July said, “No.”
“Anyone else seen Gummy?”
No one answered.
Vatsyayana asked, “Where’s Bobbi?”
