He gave the driver the name of the hotel where he had spent Sunday night and would not spend Monday night.
“Francine?”
Fletch had not been sure she would pick up the phone to him. He had identified himself properly to her secretary.
Returning to the hotel he had showered, changed to trunks, played around the hotel’s roof-top pool awhile, until he felt his Puerto de Orlando sunburn beginning to sting again. Now he was sitting on the edge of his bed, wondering which way to dress before checking out.
“Yes, Mister Fletcher. I mean, Fletch.” Francine’s voice was low, sounded cautious and tired.
“Any new thoughts?” Fletch asked. He had direct-dialled station-to-station. There was no way either the secretary or Francine could know he was calling New York from Dallas.
“About what?”
“About what we talked about Friday night.”
“Well, I see that you’ve been damaged, Fletch. I understand that. Some mix-up at Wagnall-Phipps caused you to lose your job. Your profession. I’d like to talk to Enid about making it up to you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Financially. Whether it was Charles Blaine’s mistake, or some office mischief—or because of Enid’s and my decision to delay news of Tom’s death six months—the fact remains you got caught in the middle and suffered damage. It’s partly our fault—I see that—or the fault of Wagnall-Phipps. You’ve suffered damage at our hands. So much so that you’re imagining things. Wild things.”
Her throaty voice was so soft Fletch realized he was pressing the phone receiver hard against his ear.
“I’d like to recommend to Enid we make it up to you somehow—like give you half a year’s pay. Enough to let you go to Europe, or whatever, take a vacation, think out what you’re going to do next with your life.”
“That’s kind of you,” he said.
“Well, I really believe we owe it to you. I figure all this confusion happened just to protect Enid’s authority in the company, get her through a bad time. There’s no reason you should be wiped out by it.”
“Francine, where were you born?”
There was a silence before she said, “My father, you know, was an engineer. I was born on station.”
“Where was that?”
“Juneau, Alaska.”
“I see.”
“Fletch, why don’t you let me talk to Enid about all this?”
“You don’t seem to have thought much of the evidence I presented you, Francine.”
“Oh, I’ve thought about it. And I find simple explanations, for everything, incredibly obvious. The one thing I will never tell Enid about, though, is that that Swiss undertaker gave her the ashes of a burned rug, or whatever you said. That’s horrid. I trust you’ll never let Enid know, either.”
Looking at his toes, Fletch smiled.
“May I see you again?” Fletch asked.
“I wish you would. Toward the end of the week?”
“Thursday night?” Fletch asked.
“Yes. Come to the apartment Thursday evening. By then I’ll have talked with Enid at length about all this. I will know what she thinks. I’m sure she’ll agree with me. A trip abroad might be nice for you, at this point in your life. Help you sort things out.”
Fletch said, “I’ll see you Thursday night.”
After putting the telephone receiver back in its cradle, Fletch walked across his Dallas hotel room to his suitcase and pulled out his sweater.
34
“M O X I E?”
“Fletch?”
“Hello.”
“Hey, we’re running through the last scene. Someone said I had a call from Juneau, Alaska, for Pete’s sake. I don’t know anyone in Juneau, Alaska.”
“You know me.”
“You’re in Juneau, Alaska?”
“Yup.”
“Boy, you can’t do anything right. You aim for Dallas, Texas and hit Juneau, Alaska, Fletch style. Linda warned me about you coming home from the office by way of Hawaii. At least she had a meatloaf to keep her company.”
“Stop a minute.”
“Are there dead people in Juneau, or what?”
“I was in Dallas yesterday.”
“Hey, Fletch. You’re not supposed to interrupt rehearsals, you know? I mean, suppose everybody got called to the phone. Opening night would never happen.”
“So why did you come to the phone?”
“Thought it might be dear old Freddy calling, demanding the presence of Ophelia again, or something. A lady with nerves of steel for his hard-times knife-throwing act.”
“I want to ask you something.”
“What? I’ve got to go back to rehearsal.”
“Have you ever been confronted with something you absolutely cannot understand?”
“Sure. My father.”
“I mean something which you just can’t put your mind around?”
“Sure. My father.”
“Where all the facts add up to something which simply isn’t possible?”
“Sure, My father.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I’m real serious, Moxie. When you prove out something which absolutely cannot be true?”
“No. I guess not.”
“If you were in such a situation, what would you do?” “Be very suspicious of my conclusion.”
“Yeah. I’ve tried that.”
“Doesn’t work?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ve got to go back to work.”
“I have another question.”
“What? When will you be home?”
“Maybe Friday night.”
“What’s your question?”
“How’s Rick?”
“Oh, he’s;—”
“I know. Bye, Moxie.”
35
B E F O R E D A W N T H U R S D A Y morning, Fletch was waiting across the street from Francine Bradley’s New York apartment house. It was a warm spring morning but he wore his raincoat, his hat. He also wore his clear glasses. He stood in the doorway of a dry cleaning store which had not yet opened. He was surprised to hear the sound of birds in New York City. As dawn broke, he could hear but still not see them. And, of course, he
