Blaine shoved his glasses back up his sweat-slippery nose. “Yes, I know about Francine. And, yes, I think your conjecture that Enid was consulting with her is legitimate. Reasonable. Sensible.”
“Thank you.”
“But that doesn’t explain the memos.”
“Now we come to the memos.”
“The memos kept coming. At first, I simply assumed they were in the pipe line—late in coming to me.”
“Another reasonable assumption.”
“Until they began referring to matters in the company which took place after Thomas Bradley’s death.”
“After.”
“I said,
“Spooky.”
“Sufficient to make one wonder.”
“I should think so.”
“Initialed, of course. Not signed. Anyone can imitate initials. You saw the memos. You saw the initials.”
“Yes. I did. That’s rather the point. You showed them to me.”
“Can you blame me being curious? Not only were they initialed, as always, the style of writing never varied. Not that I’m any expert on that. Purposely I showed you memos from before I heard about Bradley’s death and after. Did you notice any difference?”
“I was not warned to look for any difference, thank you.”
“I was curious.”
“As well you might be. Did you ask anyone about these memos?”
“Yes, I mentioned the matter to Alex Corcoran. He didn’t seem to understand a word I was saying. He’s never understood me. I think I don’t speak loudly enough for him, or something.”
“He must have had some reaction. You showed him the memos, didn’t you?”
“He scarcely glanced at them. He didn’t understand what I was saying. He didn’t listen. I went to him twice, trying to get him to see what I meant. Finally, he said,
“And did you?”
“I’m an employee, Mister Fletcher.”
“Okay, Mister Blaine. What was your best guess, at that point? Unless, of course, you believe that certain people have memo privileges from the beyond.”
“I don’t like to guess. I like to know.”
“You lived with this spooky situation for some months.”
“A few months.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Obviously, I thought that either Enid Bradley had been writing the memos all along, and signing her husband’s initials, you know, to give them added weight, authority, or …” Blaine shrugged.
“I’m filled with breathless anticipation.”
“…or the memos had been being written all along by his sister, Francine, who was forging his initials, or …”
“Two oars row a boat.”
“…or Thomas Bradley was not dead.”
“Three oars row us in a circle.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have been forging the initials yourself.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re crazy.”
“I suppose from your point of view there’s that possibility.”
“What was your best guess?”
“You’re missing another possibility, Mister Fletcher. One that worried me very much. I don’t know if you can understand this. I consider myself a responsible businessman. I’m a Certified Public Accountant. This other possibility kept me awake nights.”
“Which was?”
“That a complete unknown was running the company, through Enid Bradley. Some completely irresponsible person, who had no true authority. Enid wouldn’t be the first widow to fall into the clutches of an unscrupulous parvenu, sooth-sayer, gigolo with ambitions, what have you.”
“Did the memos sound that way? Were they ignorant, irresponsible?”
“No. But some confidence men are awfully bright, or, so I understand. A soothsayer, or whatever you call ‘em, can be right nine times out of ten. It’s the tenth order you obey that puts everything into a cocked hat.”
“Well, Mister Blaine, that’s a possibility that I never considered.”
“Well, I did. And it worried me. You’ve referred to me several times in this conversation as literal minded. What I am, is honest. Something funny is going on here, clearly, and I had to find out what.”
“So along comes the reporter from the
“And, in honesty, I showed you the true instruments that are running the company of Wagnall-Phipps.”
“Memos from a dead man.”
“Yes.”
“However, you weren’t honest enough to identify them to me as such. You didn’t tell me Bradley is dead.”
“I’ve apologized for that.”
“ ‘Oops,’ said the hangman, after he dropped the hatch.”
“I never realized you’d get fired. I admit to using you. I was trying to bring this matter out into the open. Clear this matter up. I have my responsibilities. Who the hell is running Wagnall-Phipps?”
“Mister Blaine, who benefits from the death of Thomas Bradley?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see that anyone would. The stock in Wagnall-Phipps is held in a family fund sort-of- thing, the exact nature of which I don’t know. And I don’t know about any personal insurance Bradley had. And I don’t know who might benefit emotionally from his death.”
“Interesting point that: emotionally.”
“Are you suggesting he may have been murdered?”
“Mister Blaine, I have a surprise for you. Are you ready for a surprise?”
“I’d love some answers.”
“This isn’t an answer. It’s just a surprise.”
“What is it?”
“Thomas Bradley did not die in Switzerland. I checked.”
Charles Blaine stared at Fletch a long moment. “That’s more of a question than an answer, isn’t it?”
“Precisely.”
Blaine leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “To answer your question more specifically: financially, I suspect the chief beneficiary of Thomas Bradley’s death would be The Internal Revenue Service.”
“And you said you can see no signs of estate taxes being paid.”
“Exactly. Which is another worry. I do not intend to be party to a tax fraud. I do not even want to look like I might have been party to a tax fraud.”
“Right,” said Fletch. “Better my career be ruined than yours.”
Sweating, his face colored, Blaine sat back. “I’m sorry it looks that way to you. It must. I did a very wrong thing.”
“Tut tut, think nothing of it. Petroleum on a duck’s feathers.”
Blaine looked at his empty glass. “I don’t get that expression. What happens when you put petroleum on a duck’s feathers?”
“The duck drowns.”
“Oh.” Blaine cast his eyes slowly over the beach, which was empty at noon time. “We don’t seem to know anymore than we did when we started, do we?”
