Fletch and the Widow Bradley

The salesman handed Fletch a boxed silver-backed brush and comb.

“Wow,” said Fletch.

“They’re made in England,” the salesman said.

“Real nice.” Fletch shook the salesman’s hand. “Real nice of you.”

“People make efforts so seldom for other people …” The salesman seemed embarrassed.

“Thank you,” said Fletch.

With suitcase in one hand and the boxed brush and comb in the other, Fletch proceeded to leave the store.

All the salespersons smiled at him as he went by, and applauded him.

“You don’t want to go to San Orlando,” the heavily made-up woman in the tight-fitting jacket said. On the wall of the travel agency posters recommended Acapulco, Athens, Nice, Naples, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, and Rio de Janiero. Fletch wanted to go to all of them.

“I must,” Fletch said.

“No one must go to San Orlando.” She had the phone to her ear, waiting for information from the airline. “You know where Puerto de San Orlando is? Way down the Mexican coast. Takes forever to get there. They haven’t finished building it yet. Barely started. One hotel. The place is insuperably hot, dusty—hello?” She noted information from the airline. “That’s terrible,” she said, hanging up. “Terrible connections all the way through. It’s a far more expensive trip than it’s worth, at this point. If you waited a few years, until after they’ve developed the place a little …”

Leaning on the counter she told Fletch about the bad connections to San Orlando, and the expense.

“Fine,” said Fletch. “Reservations for one, please.”

“For one?” The woman looked truly shocked.

“One,” Fletch said.

“Boy,” the woman said. “Is being a hero that bad?” She sat down at the small desk behind the counter. “Return when?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday? This is Monday.”

“Got to pick up a new suit,” Fletch said. “Thursday morning.”

She put the airline’s ticket form into the typewriter. “Some people’s idea of fun. It’s all right, I suppose, as long as they have the travel agent to blame.”

24

“H E Y,   F L E T C H!”   A L S T O N Chambers said, answering the phone to him. “You’re an unemployed hero again!”

In his apartment, sitting on the divan, Fletch put his coffee mug precisely over his own mug on the front page of the News-Tribune. Moxie had left the newspaper on the coffee table.

“I’m beginning to think that’s your natural condition,” Alston said. “Heroically unemployed.”

“Aw, shucks. ‘Twarn’t nothin’.”

“I wouldn’t have gone out on that bridge cable for a million dollars. A million plus loose change. Especially in the dark.”

“Actually, I never did decide to do it, Alston. I just did it.”

“It’s a good thing you’re thoughtless, Fletch.”

“Am I calling too early?” Fletch’s watch read two thirty.

“Nope. I called the U.S. Embassy in Geneva before I left home, and they answered here at the office before noon. Was the name you gave me Thomas Bradley spelled B-r-a-d-l-e-y?”

“Yeah.”

“No American citizen named Thomas Bradley has died in Switzerland.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“No Thomas Bradley has ever died in Switzerland?” Fletch admired his new suitcase standing on the floor just inside the apartment’s front door. “Do they know about deaths in private sanatorium?”

“They say they do. They assure me their records regarding in-country deaths are one hundred percent accurate. I should think they would be.”

“Even if the guy was cremated?”

“I asked them to check deaths and burials, removals, what have you, under all circumstances. Swiss paperwork, you know, leaves the rest of the world blushing. Wherever your man died, it wasn’t

Switzerland. Did you hear the announcement on the noon news the mayor is giving you The Good Citizen of The Month Citation?”

“The month isn’t over yet. What about the ashes I gave you, Alston?”

“Oh, yeah. I dropped them at the police lab on my way to work. Why did you give them to me, anyway?”

“What was the result?”

“The result was that the good gentlemen in white coats called when I got back from lunch and asked if the D. A. had really wanted those ashes analysed. I assured the gentleman solemnly that the D.A. did. I didn’t tell him that by ‘D.A.’ I meant a damned ass named Fletch.”

“Alston—”

“Carpet.”

“What?”

“Carpet. You know, rug? They were the ashes of a tightly woven, high quality carpet. Probably Persian.

“A carpet?”

“A quantity of petroleum, it says here, probably kerosene, a few wood ashes, probably pine, and a small measure of earth and sand.”

“Are those guys always right?”

“Listen, Fletch, these guys do the lab work for every suspected arson in the state. They know a burned rug when they see one. They were very curious as to which case of arson we’re working on. By the way, Fletch, which case of arson are we working on?”

“None I know of.”

“Is Moxie burning up the family heirlooms so she can get a job playing in Die Walkure?”

“Something like that.”

“Fletch, was Audrey right?”

“Probably. About what?”

“Are you on to a murder?”

“I don’t know that at this point.”

“What do you know at this point?”

“At this point …” Fletch thought a moment. “… I know Thomas Bradley was a carpet.”

Dear Moxie,

Gone to Mexico to see a man about a carpet. Try to manage dinner by yourself. If you take anything from the refrigerator, please leave a $1,000 bill in the ice tray. Probably I’ll be back Wednesday night.

-F.

25

I N   L A T E  M O R N I N G the sun on the Pacific Ocean and on the white sand of the beach at San Orlando was dazzling, dizzying to anyone who had spent most of the previous night jack-rabbiting in airplanes. Fletch had arrived at the hotel at two forty five A.M., discovered there was nothing for him to eat, slept for three hours, awoke too hungry to sleep more, swam in the hotel pool until the breakfast room opened at seven, ate steak, eggs, bacon, homefries and fried tomatoes, then went out to the beach and fell asleep again.