“She is.” The young man nodded emphatically. “I think I’m damned lucky to be working for her. An education.”
“She handles her brother’s money, doesn’t she? It was Tom who sent me to her.”
“Well, we handle the Bradley Family Company. Mostly W agnail-Phipps, you know. Other stuff. Not much I mean, not millions. But she’s damned clever with what there is.”
“Why doesn’t Tom handle it himself?”
The young man looked surprised at Fletch, hesitated, then said, “Didn’t you know? Her brother died. A year ago.”
“Gee, I didn’t know. Too bad. Guess it’s been a while since I’ve seen good ol’ Tom. How long you been working with Francine?”
“Seven months.” A train was coming in. “Real education.”
The young man waited for Fletch to board the train first.
“Not my train,” Fletch said.
“This is the only train you can get from here,” the young man said.
“I’ll wait for a less crowded train,” Fletch said before noticing the train wasn’t crowded at all.
As the train pulled off, the young man stared at Fletch through the window. On his face, expressionlessness battled curiosity, and lost.
At eight o’clock, Fletch entered Chez Claire and found Francine Bradley waiting for him, already seated at a table for two against the back wall.
There was a candle on the table.
31
“I T H I N K Y O U R nephew, Tom, is in serious trouble,” Fletch said. They had ordered vodka gimlets on the rocks. “I saw him last Sunday.”
Over the candle, he checked Francine’s facial expression and saw that it conveyed the proper concern. More than proper—genuine. Francine Bradley did not strike Fletch as simply the distant maiden aunt going through kind, formal motions toward her late brother’s family. Still, he realized, there had to be limits to her knowledge and her involvement with the family.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her tone near fear. “I understand Tom is in pre-med and doing very well.”
“Not quite. He’s using whatever education he has in chemistry to swallow oblivion.”
“Drugs? Tom’s on drugs?”
Fletch said, “Seems a mess. Hasn’t attended classes since last fall. His roommate has him ensconced in a cushioned bathtub where he dreams away his days and nights. Doesn’t know what else to do with him.”
“Oh, no! Not Tom.”
“I promised I would try to do what I could for him—which is another reason I’m seeing you. Of course, he makes no sense at all about his father’s death.”
“What does he say about Tom’s death?”
“He sort of says your brother killed himself. He sort of blames your brother for dying. Sort of common, I believe, for a young person to be angry at a parent for dying, for leaving him. Sometimes young people blame themselves for a parent’s death.”
“You’re playing psychiatrist again, Mister Fletcher.”
“I’m called Fletch,” Fletch said. “And I’m not playing psychiatrist. I’m in a crazy situation—and so are you— and I’m trying to understand it.”
“I’m not in any situation at all.”
“You are, too,” Fletch said. “The preponderance of funds you’re investing through your little company in the Bennet Bank Building came from your brother.” Instantly, her eyes narrowed. “I’m checking to find out what probate action has been taken on your brother’s estate—I suspect, none has. There’s a pretty good suspicion that you and Enid are simply avoiding taxes. It’s been stated to me by none other than Enid Bradley that you intend to go to California and take over the running of Wagnall-Phipps yourself. Anyone who didn’t guess you’ve been forging your brother’s initials to those accounting memos the last year would have to be myopic.”
The waiter laid their gimlets before them. As in most dimly lit restaurants Fletch had experienced, the waiter’s hands were dirty.
“You seem to be upset, Fletch.” Francine sipped her drink. “Will you call me Francine?”
“With pleasure.”
“Per usual with you,” Francine said, “I don’t really know what to say. You come in from California with all this information, all these questions … I am most upset by what you just said about Tom.”
“He needs help. Heavy help. Quicker than soonest.”
“I just had no idea …”
“Apparently he can fool his mother. He gets cleaned up, goes home, says he’s doing well in school, gets money, then settles back in his bathtub with a six pack of downers.”
In the candlelight, tears glistened in Francine’s eyes. “I assure you,” she said, “something will be done about it—immediately. Quicker than soonest. I appreciate your telling me.”
“In a way,” Fletch said, “Ta-ta, your niece, worries me just as much. Tom’s roommate refers to her as a wind-up toy. She seems to be straight-arming existence, protecting herself in a girls’ school, protecting Tom. I know their father died—a year ago—but they both seem inordinately troubled.”
“When I get out there …” Francine said. “There’s only so much Enid can handle.”
“When are you going?”
“I’m afraid it will be another few months. I still have things to wind up here.”
“You are going to run Wagnall-Phipps?”
“Tom wanted me to. Enid wants me to. I sold my business—a small business—a few years ago.”
Fletch considered his gimlet, sipped it, looked across the flame at her. “Do you have any answers to the questions I just asked?”
“You mean, are Enid and I perpetrating a tax fraud?”
“Yeah, for starters.”
“Not as far as I know. Of course, it’s entirely possible Enid hasn’t done things exactly right. In fact I’d say it’s highly likely. She’s not a Charles Blaine. She hasn’t any training, any experience, except for having lived with Tom. I would expect she’s screwed up mightily, but I’m sure with no intention to defraud.”
“Have you been forging those memos?” Fletch asked easily.
“I’ve been consulting with my sister-in-law by telephone. Almost daily. Seeing you’re so good at doing your homework—knowing about my office in the Bennet Bank Building and what I do there—you might check our telephone bills. Enid’s and mine. They’re monumental.”
“Then we’re still without explanations.”
“Why don’t we fortify ourselves with another drink, a good dinner, then go back to my apartment? We can talk more there. I suppose no one’s ever told you that you’re attractive?”
“Only a United States Customs Officer.”
She put her hand on his. “Don’t worry. I’m not one of these middle-aged women eager to get into the trousers of young men. Your orange juice-and-cereal innocence will remain intact with me.” She took her hand away and picked up the menu. “They serve a very good orange duck here.”
“Let’s go over this one more time,” Fletch said.
It was eleven fifteen when they entered Francine’s apartment. They had had three cocktails, four courses, shared two bottles of wine and finished up with brandy for him, creme de menthe for her. During most of the entree Francine had told a long, wandering story which had ended with a punchline more barnyard than funny.
At the apartment, Fletch dropped his coat on the divan and then himself. He loosened his shirt collar, and, slumped, put his head on the back rest.
Quietly, she said, “Anything you say.”
The lights were subdued. Francine Bradley was moving noiselessly around the room. The sounds of violins began coming from the walls.
