“I went to see Charles Blaine, Vice-president and treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps.”
“Oh.”
“And he tells me,” Fletch said, placing the top pieces of bread on the sandwiches carefully so they would not slip, “that he’s been receiving memos from a dead man.”
“Seems I read that in the newspaper. Sort of.”
“Indirectly, I suppose you did.”
“So what’s new?”
“Obviously, he has not been receiving memos from a dead man.”
“It’s nice to hear you say that. For a while, you had me worried.”
“So from whom has he been receiving memos?”
“Must be Madame Palonka.”
“Must be.” He handed her a sandwich. “Who’s Madame Palonka?”
“A medium in San Francisco. She transmits messages from the dead. Wow. Too much mustard.”
“Who has been continuing to write memos signed Thomas Bradley after Thomas Bradley died?”
“A secretary stuck on routine?”
“Who is running Wagnall-Phipps?”
“Who cares?”
“I think they thought no one would care—much.”
“They’re right. Who are ‘they’?”
“The great ‘they’. I dunno.”
“You care.”
“I either have to care, or consider myself a non-entity, you see.”
“Phew! What a choice! To be a something or not to be a nothing … how does that work out? To be a something, or a something …? God! I can’t keep up with you.”
“Something’s rotten in Denmark. Is that the same play?”
“Nothing’s rotten in Denmark,” Moxie said. “I’ve been there. Surely no one in Denmark would give me a mustard sandwich which even the baloney is trying to slip away from.”
“Charles Blaine cares who’s running Wagnall-Phipps.”
“Fletch, do you think—just possibly—you’re slightly obsessed with this matter?”
“It’s not often one sees memos from a dead man.”
“I admit that.”
“And it’s not often, I hope, that one’s career is ruined by the selfsame mysterious memos.”
“So you insist that your compulsion to find out who wrote those memos and why is legitimate?”
“I insist.”
“Why don’t you forget this whole silly thing, come to rehearsals tomorrow, try out for the lead in
“Sure. And ever after I’d still be known as the journalist who got fired because I quoted a dead man.”
“At least come to rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Going to New York.”
“Going to New York? You can’t!”
“Can do. Made my reservation on an early flight while I was waiting for you.”
“Why are you going to New York?”
“Because there’s still one person concerned with this whole matter I haven’t yet seen—Tom Bradley’s sister, Francine.”
“What can she know about it? She’s all the way across the country!”
“Yeah. I know. But she’s the only one I see benefitting from Bradley’s death. Unless, of course, you subscribe to the theory Mrs. Bradley benefits emotionally by having gotten rid of the old boy.”
“I don’t subscribe to any theory. Except that there comes a time to give up! And you’re long past that time!”
“Francine Bradley,” Fletch said patiently, “is going to come West at some point and take over, run Wagnall- Phipps. Tom Bradley has been consulting her for years. Enid Bradley consults her. Don’t you think I ought to at least go look in her eyes and try to figure out what all this means to her?”
“I suspect she’ll look you back in the eyes and say you’re a nut. All this can be explained by a secretarial mistake, Fletch.”
“I don’t think so. Charles Blaine doesn’t think so.”
“Anyhow, it was announced in this morning’s
“Good Citizen of the Month, if you please.”
“You can’t go to New York. You have an appointment with the Mayor.”
“The Mayor has an appointment with the press. I don’t expect to be there.”
“For goodness’ sake, why not? If we could announce by Friday you’re a member of the cast of
“Everybody’s got an angle.”
“You bet.”
“I’ll be in New York Friday. You’re not eating your sandwich.”
Moxie pushed her plate away from her. “Your culinary skills aren’t up to baloney sandwiches, Fletch. Better stick to peanut butter sandwiches for a while yet.”
29
T H E D O O R M A N O F the expensive, tall East Side New York apartment house put his hand over the mouthpiece of his telephone and said, with mild surprise and perfect respect, “Ms. Bradley says she doesn’t know you, Mister Fletcher.”
Fletch held out his hand for the phone. “May I speak to her myself, please?”
“Of course, sir.”
He handed the phone to Fletch and stepped back half a pace. He was young and lean and had steady eyes and the gold braid on his uniform looked as ridiculous as a spinnaker on an aircraft carrier.
“Ms. Bradley?” Fletch said into the phone.
The woman’s voice was throaty. “Yes?”
“Ms. Bradley, my name is Fletcher. I need to speak to you regarding the management of your late brother’s company, Wagnall-Phipps. I have come all the way from California just to do so.”
After a pause, Francine Bradley asked, “Who are you, Mister Fletcher?”
“I’m a reporter—an ex-reporter—who did a story for the financial pages of the
“How could I help you?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve talked with your sister-in-law, Enid Bradley, your niece, Roberta, your nephew, Tom —”
“The person you should speak to is Alex Corcoran. He’s the president.”
“I have spoken with him. I’ve also spoken again—a few days ago—with Charles Blaine.”
There was a long pause. “You’ve spoken within the last few days with Charles Blaine?”
“I went to Mexico to do so.”
“Well, you certainly have gone far out of your way. Weren’t Corcoran and Blaine able to help you?”
“Not much.”
“I don’t see how I can help you. But come up. Anyone who’s gone to as much expense and trouble as you have shouldn’t be turned away at the door.”
