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.
“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
“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?”
“There 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.”
