of Tom’s death?”
“That’s the question.”
“It was our decision of the moment. Tom was dead. We’d had no warning of it. The news didn’t reach Enid until twenty-four hours after the death. A cremation was recommended. Enid cabled permission. It wasn’t until six months later that we went to Switzerland, had a memorial service, for just the two of us, brought home Tom’s ashes.”
“You went to Switzerland with Enid?”
“Didn’t I just say so?”
“Where in Switzerland?”
“Tom died in a small clinic outside Geneva.”
Fletch took a deep breath and shook his head. “Ms. Bradley, your brother didn’t die in Switzerland.”
Looking at him, her eyebrows shot up. “Now what are you saying?”
Tiredly, Fletch said, “I’ve checked with the American Embassy in Switzerland. No American citizen named Thomas Bradley has died in Switzerland last year, or at any time in recent history.”
Her lips a perfect little O, Francine sucked in breath. “They said that?”
“So said the American Embassy in Geneva.”
“That’s not possible, Mister Fletcher.”
“And I’m sure they’re not playing a prank.”
“Well.” And Francine opened and closed her mouth silently. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Neither do I.”
“I guess we’ll just have to chalk it up to a bureaucratic mistake. I’ll have someone look into it.”
“This information came with the assurance from the Embassy that regarding in-country deaths, their records are one hundred percent accurate.”
“Oh, Mister Fletcher. If you can ever show me any bureaucracy of any country being one hundred percent accurate about anything I’ll jump over the moon in a single leap.”
Fletch sat forward on the divan. “You see, Ms. Bradley, I have many questions, about many things.”
There was a buzzing from the foyer.
“Excuse me,” she said. She went into the foyer and there was the sound of a phone being picked up and Francine Bradley said, “Hello? … yes. Please tell Mister Savenor I’ll be down in five minutes.”
When Francine Bradley returned to the livingroom, Fletch was standing near the window. He said, referring to the unfinished mosaic on the low table, “You’ve even left the loose tiles out.”
“Yes,” she said. “They’re pretty in themselves.”
“May we meet again?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sure you mean to be helpful.”
“I suspect I’ve surprised you enough for the moment, anyway.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for everything,” Francine Bradley said. “A nasty office prank … a death certificate misfiled at the Embassy.”
“Probably.”
“Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”
“That would be nice. Where, when?”
“Do you like French cuisine?”
“I like food.”
“Why don’t you meet me at eight o’clock at Chez Claire? It’s only two blocks from here.” She pointed more or less south.
“Eight o’clock,” he said.
She followed him into the foyer. “I’m sorry I have to go now,” she said. “I’m curious about what more you have to say.” She held the door open for him. “I’m sure we can figure all this out,” she said. “Together.”
Beside the doorman, there was only one man waiting in the lobby. He was a silver-haired man in his fifties in a pearl gray suit seeming to look comfortable in an impossibly stiff-looking, narrow-seated, high-backed chair.
30
F R I D A Y M O R N I N G A T quarter to eight, Fletch stood in the drizzle across the street from Francine Bradley’s East Side apartment house. He had bought a raincoat and a rainhat and, the night before, in Times Square, a pair of clear eyeglasses, and he was wearing all this, and under one arm he carried a copy of
He was waiting for Francine Bradley to come out of the apartment building, but to his surprise, at ten minutes past eight a taxi stopped in front of the building and Francine Bradley got out of the cab and dashed into the building. She was wearing a short raincoat and high boots.
At nine twenty she came out of the building dressed in a longer raincoat and apparently a suit or skirt and began hailing cabs. The doorman was blowing his whistle for her.
On his side of the street, Fletch got a cab more quickly.
Getting into the taxi, Fletch said, “U-turn and stop, please.”
The driver did so.
Fletch said, “See that woman trying to get a taxi?”
“Yeah.”
“I want to see where she’s going.”
The driver looked at him through the rearview mirror. “You some kind of a pervert?”
Fletch said, “Internal Revenue Service.”
The driver said, “Bastard. Better you should be a pervert.”
They followed Francine’s cab downtown where it stopped in front of the Bennet Bank Building.
“See?” Fletch said. “The lady’s leading me to her money.”
“I wish I could charge you more.” The driver leaned over to read his meter. “I got to pay taxes, too, you know. Do you guys from Internal Revenue Service tip?”
“Yeah,” said Fletch. “And we report the person to whom we give the tip—name, date, and place—just to see if you report it.”
The driver turned around in his seat. “I don’t want your damned tip! Get out of my cab!”
“Okay,” Fletch said.
“Jeez!” the driver slapped the change into Fletch’s hand. “Government in front of me in blue uniforms … government in my back seat!”
“Sure you don’t have change of a dime?”
“Get outta my cab!”
Fletch waited a few minutes before entering the Bennet Bank Building.
On the sign board in the lobby was listed
He returned to the bank building at noon and followed Francine Bradley to Wayne’s Steak House. She was accompanied by a man not much more than twenty carrying a brief case. His suit was not particularly good, his shoes were dull, he was without a raincoat, but his briefcase was new-looking. They were in the restaurant fifty minutes. Fletch followed them back to the building and loitered in the lobby an hour. During that time the young man did not leave the building.
Fletch returned to the Bennet Bank Building again just before five o’clock. At five ten Francine Bradley came out and took a taxi. At five twenty-five, the young man came out and began walking down the street.
Fletch followed him into the subway, onto the platform and, while ostensibly waiting for a train, drew attention to himself by staring at the young man. Eventually the young man gave Fletch a look of distaste, and it was then that Fletch approached him.
“Sorry,” Fletch said. “Trying to figure it out. Didn’t I see you at lunch today at Wayne’s Steak House with Francine?”
The young man’s facial expression cleared. “You know Ms. Bradley?”
“Sure,” Fletch said. “I’ve consulted her about some of my investments. Brilliant lady.”
