“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 apartment. 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.
There was plenty of time for what he had to do.
At seven-thirty Fletch fell asleep with his alarm set for one-thirty Thursday morning.
At three-twenty Thursday morning, Fletch parked his car on Berman Street, The Hills, three hundred yards from the Stanwyk driveway.
In sneakers and jeans and a dark turtleneck sweater, Fletch entered the Stanwyk property by the driveway. Leaving the driveway immediately, he approached the side of the house by walking in an arc across the left lawn.
He entered the library of the Stanwyk house by the french window. He reflected that it had even been true that the servants perpetually forgot to lock that door.
Using only moonlight, he slid open the top right drawer of the desk.
As he suspected, the .38 caliber Smith .& Wesson revolver was still in the drawer.
And, as he had suspected, the bullet clip had been removed.
