Fletch f-1

by Gregory Mcdonald

  “Quite right.”

  “Are there three million dollars in those attache cases?”

  “Yes.”

  “You needed a chartered plane to avoid an airlines baggage check. Carrying three million dollars in cash on a commercial airliner would be noticed.”

  Stanwyk said, “Remarkable. At no point during this last week have I had the slightest sensation of being investigated.”

  “You thoroughly expected to murder me tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “After investigating you off and on all week, I must say that puzzles me. Generally speaking, you’re a decent man. How did you intend to justify murder to yourself?”

  “You mean, morally justify it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have the right to kill anyone who has agreed to murder me, under any circumstances. Don’t you agree?”

  “I see.”

  “Putting it most simply, Mr. Fletcher, I wanted out.”

  “Many people do.”

  ***

  “And now, Mr. Fletcher, what do we do?”

  “Do?”

  Stanwyk was standing, hands behind his back, facing the french windows. He could not see through the transparent curtain from the lighted room into the dark outdoors. The man was thinking furiously.

  He said, “I see I’ve put myself into a rather difficult position.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can see you are probably going to do precisely as I asked: you are going to murder me.”

  Fletch said nothing.

  “I have arranged the perfect crime against myself. We are alone. No wife, no servants. There is nothing to connect you and me. And I imagine that in your investigating me this week, you were very careful not to connect you and me.”

  “I was.”

  “I have guaranteed your escape. Only you take the charter flight rather than the TWA flight.”

  “Right.”

  “The difference is that there are three million dollars at your feet, rather than fifty thousand. Surely that’s enough to make any man commit murder.”

  In the air-conditioned room, Stanwyk’s face was gleaming with perspiration.

  “The only thing you don’t know is that the gun in the desk drawer is empty.”

  “I do know that. I checked it early this morning. You’re right. The servants always do leave the french windows unlocked.”

  “Therefore, I would guess you have brought your own implement of death, your own gun, and you do mean to kill me. Am I right?”

  Fletch opened the top right-hand drawer of the desk.

  “No. I just brought a full clip for this gun.”

  While Stanwyk watched-from the windows, Fletch picked up the gun in one hand; with the other hand he took a full .38 caliber clip from his pocket.

  “You pointed out to me the benefit of using your gun.”

  He removed the blank clip from the gun and inserted the full clip.

  Stanwyk said, “You’re not wearing gloves.”

  “Nothing a quick dust with a handkerchief can’t fix.”

  “Christ.”

  “You’ve not only arranged your own murder perfectly, you’ve even given me a moral justification for it. You say you have the right to kill anyone who has planned to murder you. Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why shouldn’t I murder you, Stanwyk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For three million dollars rather than fifty grand. Alone with you in your house, as you nicely arranged. Using your gun. Nothing to connect us to each other. With a prearranged, guaranteed escape. And a moral justification, provided by yourself. I’m sure I can make it look exactly like the usual burglary-murder you originally described.”

  “You’re playing with me, Fletcher.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I repeat my original request: if you’re going to murder me, do it quickly and painlessly.”

  “Either the head or the heart. Is that what you said?”

  “Have some decency.”

  “I’m not going to murder you.”

  Fletch put the gun in his pocket.

  “I’m not going to murder you, rob you, blackmail you or expose you. I can’t think of a single reason why I should do any of those things. You’ll just have to find another way to establish life with Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh.

  “Good night, Mr. Stanwyk.”

  “Fletcher.”

  Fletch turned at the door to the front hall.

  “If you’re not going to do any of those things, why did you go to all this effort?”

  Fletch said, “Beats tennis.”

  ***

  The room shattered.

  The light curtains over the french windows billowed forward as if caught by a sudden puff of wind. There were two explosive cracks. Glass tinkled.

  The front of Stanwyk’s chest blew open. His arms and chin jerked up. Without his having stepped, his body raised so that the toes of his black shoes pointed downward.

  From that position, he fell to the floor, his knees thudding against the rug. Stanwyk rolled to his right shoulder and landed on his back.

  “Christ.”

  Fletch knelt beside him.

  “You’ve been shot.”

  “Who? Who shot me?”

  “Would you believe the chief of police?”

  “Why?”

  “He thought you were me. We have the same bone structure, and you bleached your hair blond.”

  “He was trying to kill you?”

  “Stanwyk, you’ve killed yourself.”

  “Am I dying?”

  “I don’t know how you’re breathing now.”

  “Fletcher. Nail the bastard. Use the money. Nail the bastard.”

  “I already have.”

  “Nail the bastard.”

  “Okay.”

  ***

  With his handkerchief, Fletch removed his fingerprints from the gun and the gun clip. He exchanged clips and returned the gun to the drawer. He dusted the handle to the desk drawer, the telephone, the desk itself, and the outside handle to the french window.

  Stanwyk was dead on the rug.

  The copy of the letter he had addressed to John Collins was on the table beside the leather chair. Fletch folded it and put it back in his pocket.

  Then, taking the two attache‘ cases, Fletch carefully let himself out of the house.

  His MG was parked in front.

  32

  “Ah, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I just have to make a phone call. It will take me about twenty minutes.”

  “Then we’ll take your luggage aboard, sir. Just the suitcase and these two attaché cases?”

  “Yes. Is there a phone?”

  “Use the phone in the office, sir. Just dial nine and then your number. We’ll be ready for departure when you are.”

  Fletch dialed nine and then the recorder number of the News-Tribune. He sat at the wooden desk. The door with the opaque glass to the Command Air Charter Service lobby was closed.

  “This is Fletcher. Who’s catching?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Fletcher. Bobby Evans.”

  “How are ya doin‘, Bobby?”

  “Helluva story this morning, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Thanks for reading the News-Tribune. Look, Bobby, no one’s expecting this one. Will you square with the desk for me? I’m in sort of a hurry.”

  “More of the same?”

  “Sort of. I want to get out of here. Another thing, Bobby. I haven’t written this story yet. I’m just dictating off the top of my head.”

  “Okay, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “So if you hear anything wrong, grab it right away. I can’t go back over it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Another thing. When I get done with the story I’d like you to take a little note to Clara Snow.”

  “That isn’t usually done.”

  “I know, but I won’t be in the office in the morning. I’m going
to have to miss an appointment.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is the blower on?”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “Friday A.M. parenthesis fp unparenthesis Stanwyk Murder Fletcher.

  “Alan Stanwyk, one l, a, w-y-k, thirty-three-year-old executive vice president of Collins Aviation, was shot and killed in the library of his home on Berman Street, The Hills, last night.”

  “Wow.”

  “Chief of Police of The Beach, Graham Cummings, is being questioned about the murder.”

  “Wow, wow. Mr. Fletcher, there hasn’t been anything on the police radios about this yet.”

  “I know. Paragraph three. Police estimate the time of the murder at nine-thirty.

  “Paragraph. The body was discovered by the victim’s wife, Joan Collins Stanwyk, upon her return from a committee meeting at the Racquets Club at eleven o’clock.”

  “Mr. Fletcher?”

  “What?”

  “You said the body was discovered at eleven o’clock.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s only ten-fifteen now, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I know.

  “Paragraph. According to a police spokesman, Stanwyk was shot twice in the back through a window by a high-powered rifle. Death was instantaneous.

  “Paragraph. Ballistic tests are being made this morning to determine if the murder weapon is the same as the high-powered Winchester rifle Cummings kept slung from the dashboard of his private car.

  “Paragraph. Cummings, fifty-nine, was named in a News-Tribune report yesterday afternoon concerning the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.

  “Paragraph. Evidence presented to the district attorney’s office yesterday morning by the News-Tribune included affidavits signed by a self-admitted drug peddler, Charles Witherspoon, thirty-eight, alias Vatsyayana, alias Fat Sam, and a self-admitted drug runner, Lewis Montgomery, seventeen, alias Gummy two m‘s,y. Other evidence was a note written in Cummings’s hand to Witherspoon concerning the drug traffic.

  “Paragraph. Both affidavits named Cummings as the principal source of illegal drugs at The Beach.

  “Paragraph. Beach police yesterday discovered the body of a fifteen-year-old girl, Roberta quote Bobbi unquote Sanders no u, buried in a sleeping bag in the sand near Witherspoon’s lean-to. She died of a drug overdose.

  “Paragraph. Warrants for the arrest of Cummings were issued yesterday afternoon.

  “Paragraph. Cummings had not been taken into police custody at the time of the murder at the Stanwyk residence.

  “Paragraph. This reporter saw Cummings alone in his private car in the area of the Stanwyk residence at eight-thirty last night, and reported seeing him by telephone to assistant district attorney Alston Chambers one l.

  “Paragraph. There is no evidence that Stanwyk and Cummings knew each other, although Stanwyk’s father-in-law, John Collins, president and chairman of the board of Collins Aviation, several times has pressured Cummings as chief of police to discover and destroy the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.

  “Paragraph. Collins lives within walking distance of the Stanwyk house.

  “Paragraph. Reportedly, Joan Stanwyk expressed surprise at finding the victim’s hair bleached blond. Her husband had dark hair and had not been known previously to bleach it.

  “Paragraph. This morning the victim’s widow is under heavy sedation in the care of family physician, Dr. Joseph Devlin of the Medical Center.

  “Paragraph. Insurance agent Burt Eberhart has confirmed that Stanwyk’s life was insured for three million dollars. The extraordinary amount of insurance coverage is explained by Eberhart as being related to Stanwyk’s frequent piloting of experimental aircraft.

  “Paragraph. Stanwyk, a native of Nonheagan, Pennsylvania, N-o-n-h-e-a-g-a-n, was a graduate of Colgate College and the Wharton School of Business. As a captain in the Air Force, he flew twenty-four missions over Indochina. Shot down twice, Stanwyk was a recipient of a Purple Heart.

  “Paragraph. He served as treasurer of the Racquets, plural, Club. He was a member of the Urban Club.

  “Paragraph. Besides his wife, Stanwyk leaves a daughter, Julia, five, and his parents, Marvin and Helen Stanwyk, of Nonheagan, Pennsylvania. Thirty. You got that?”

  “Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Yes?”

  “You mean this all happened last night?”

  “No. Tonight.”

  “But how can you report a murder and even name the murderer when the body hasn’t even been found yet?”

  “Just make sure everything is spelled right, will you, Bobby?”

  “But you say the body is discovered at eleven o’clock and it’s only ten-thirty.”

  “Yeah. I want to make first edition.”

  “But, Mr. Fletcher, it hasn’t happened yet.”

  “You’re right, Bobby. Advise the desk that photographers should be sent out to the Stanwyk residence, but ask them please to wait until the widow gets home and discovers the body. It’s only decent. For first edition they can use pictures from the library.”

  “Okay, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “One other thing, Bobby. I think I forgot to put in Mrs. Stanwyk’s age. She’s twenty-nine.”

  “Right.”

  “Please insert it.”

  “What about the note you want me to take to Clara Snow?”

  “Oh, yeah. Dear Clara. Leaving; area too hot tonight. Frank says you’re lousy in bed, too. Love, Fletch.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You want me to write that?”

  “I sure do. Just don’t indicate you were the one who typed it. Good night, Bobby.”

  ***

  “Anytime you’re ready, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “A woman and child are waiting in the lobby. For some reason she won’t say for whom they are waiting. Are they waiting for you? We haven’t put their baggage aboard…”

  “No, they’re not waiting for me.”

  “The boy has mentioned an ‘Uncle Alan.’ We have no other flights tonight.”

  Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh and son William were standing in the lobby with five pieces of baggage at their feet. The boy was looking through the opened office door at Fletch.

  She looked like a wonderful person. A real person. The sort Marvin Stanwyk would like, as would his son. The sort Alan Stanwyk would never have forgotten and always would have needed. The sort of girl who could make a boy give up boxing and a man give up flying. She looked like home.

  The boy’s stare was level and curious.

  “No,” Fletch said. “They’re not waiting for me.”

  ***

  On the chartered jet was a heavy leather swivel lounge chair into which Fletch buckled himself.

  His suitcase and the two attache cases he had seen stored behind a drop-curtain in the stern.

  With a minimum of fuss, and a maximum of silence, the Lear jet lifted into the sky.

  It was eleven o’clock Thursday night.

  “Would you like a drink and something to eat, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Yes.”

  The steward wore a white coat and black bowtie.

  “Perhaps a drink first?”

  “Yes. What’s aboard?”

  “Beefeater gin. Wild Turkey bourbon. Chivas Regal scotch—”

  “What is there to eat?”

  “We’ve stocked both a capon dinner for you, and club steak.”

  At ten o’clock in the morning, he would not have to be standing in court facing contempt charges for failing to pay his first wife, Barbara, eight thousand four hundred and twelve dollars in alimony.

  “That sounds very nice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Vermouth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lemon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing in court facing contempt charges for failing to pay his second wife, L
inda, three thousand four hundred twenty-nine dollars and forty-seven cents in alimony.

  “Would you like a martini, sir?”

  “I would like two martinis.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Each made fresh.”

  At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing in the marine commandant’s office, with photographers’ flashbulbs popping, having the old tale told again, receiving the Bronze Star.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Then I would like the capon. Do we have an appropriate wine?”

  “Yes, sir. A selection of three.”

  “All for the capon?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At ten o’clock the next morning, he would not be standing before the booking desk at the main police station being charged with criminal fraud.

  “After the capon, I would like two scotches.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cracked ice.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  At ten o’clock the next morning, his two ex-wives, Barbara and Linda, each having given up her own apartment, would be moving into his apartment, to live with each other.

  “Then I would like the club steak. Fairly rare.”

  “As another supper, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see, sir.”

  And shortly after ten o’clock in the morning, a warrant for the arrest of Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien, would be issued, for aiding a fugitive escape justice.

  “With the steak I would like an ale. Do we have ale on board?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s fine. It should be very cold.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fletch was flying over Mexico with three million dollars in tens and twenties in two attache cases.

  “Would you like your first martini now, sir?”

  “We’d better start sometime. We’re only going as far as Rio.”

  ***

  ALSO BY GREGORY MCDONALD

  CONFESS, FLETCH

  The flight from Rome had been pleasant enough, even if the business he was on wasn’t exactly. Fletch’s Italian fiancee’s father had been kidnapped and presumably murdered, and Fletch is on the trail of a stolen art collection that is her only patrimony. But when he arrives in his apartment to find a dead body, things start to get complicated. Inspector Flynn found him a little glib for someone who seemed to be the only likely suspect in a homicide case. With the police on his tail, Fletch makes himself at home in Boston, breaking into a private art gallery, “entertaining” his future mother-in-law, and visiting with the good Inspector Flynn.