“I wonder if I have any life left. I am thirty-eight and feel one hundred.”
“You’ll get help.”
“Now I wish they would put me in jail for a long time.” Fat Sam inhaled again. “I suppose I don’t really. I’m smoking a joint. I shot up two hours ago. Oh, Buddha.”
“It’s time to do the deposition.”
“No, son. Move away from the typewriter. I’ll do it myself.”
Fletch lay down on the sand with the rest of the joint.
Fat Sam sat at the typewriter.
“Now let’s see if Vatsyayana remembers how to type. Let’s see if Fat Sam remembers how to type. Let’s see if Charles Witherspoon remembers how to type.”
To Fletch, stoned on the sand, the typing seemed very slow.
“It is Wednesday afternoon at three o’clock. Although I have what can be termed fresh intuitive evidence, I cannot pretend that I have much fresh factual evidence.
“My best guess at the moment, based on no factual evidence, is that Alan Stanwyk is absolutely straight— that what he says is the truth: he is dying of cancer; he wishes me to murder him tomorrow night at eight- thirty.”
Fletch had returned to his apartment, taken a shower, eaten a sandwich and poured a quart of milk down his throat.
On the coffee table before him were the two depositions and their copies, and the original of Cummings’s incriminating note to Fat Sam.
There was also the big tape recorder.
“Yesterday morning, Alan Stanwyk picked me up in his car again and confirmed my intention to murder him. We reviewed the murder plan.
“Conversationally, he asked me the flight number of the Trans World Airlines plane for Buenos Aires. I denied knowing the flight number, as he himself had not mentioned it to me. In fact, I did know the flight number, as I had confirmed the reservation with the airline.
“My apparent failure to know the flight number should have meant two things to him: first, he should continue seeing me in character, as a drifter—that is, I’m apparently as stupid and trusting as he thinks I am; second, he should be satisfied that if he is being investigated, I am not the source of the investigation.
“Conversationally, without appearing out of character, I was able to ask him one of my major questions: why, if he wishes to commit suicide, doesn’t he crash in an airplane, as everybody half-expects?
“His answer was one of pride: that after years of keeping airplanes in the air, he couldn’t aim one for the ground.
“This is an acceptable answer. As he pointed out, people do spend more than fifty thousand dollars in support of pride. Any man who lives in a house worth more than a million dollars can be expected to spend fifty grand on a matter such as this, which would so profoundly affect his most personal pride.
“Alan Stanwyk has a mistress, a Mrs. Sandra Faulkner, of 15641B Putnam Street. He spends Monday and Wednesday evenings with her.
“Mrs. Faulkner is a widow who used to work at Collins Aviation. Stanwyk and Mrs. Faulkner did not particularly know each other while Mrs. Faulkner worked at Collins Aviation.
“Sandra Faulkner’s husband was a test pilot who was killed while attempting to land on an aircraft carrier, leaving her childless.
“At the time of the death, Sandra Faulkner left her employment at Collins Aviation, ran through her insurance money and whatever other sums she had available, and in the process became a drunk.
“It was approximately a year after the death that Alan Stanwyk discovered the straits she was in and came to her with what can only be described as a genuine instinct of mercy. Being a test pilot himself, it can be properly assumed his sympathy for the widow of a test pilot was entirely sincere.
“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
