“How did you know it?”
“It’s on his police record. That and a six-month-old unpaid parking ticket in Los Angeles.”
“And why would you look up his police record if you are not investigating him?”
“I wanted to have some detail of information to convince you that I knew him.”
“I’m having great difficulty believing you would go to such lengths for one, unimportant paragraph in a news story which really doesn’t concern us.”
“Believe me. I’m absolutely honest.”
“Your phone is ringing.”
“I know.”
Joan Collins Stanwyk said, “In trying to focus upon what your line of questioning was, if there was one, I believed it had to do with your curiosity concerning my husband’s health.”
“How is he, by the way?”
“Fine, as far as I know. But your questions concerned his health. You even pinned down the name and address of his insurance agent. And I think—I’m not sure—you even mentioned the name of the family doctor.”
Standing in the room, looking at Joan Collins Stanwyk sitting with dignity on the divan, Fletch was full of joy. She was wonderful. A woman who penetrated his sense of play, could reconstruct it, come close to understanding his moves, he should love forever.
And in a few hours he was scheduled to murder her husband—at the request of the man himself.
He said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. All that was idle chatter.”
“Secondly, you directed a great many questions to me, and virtually none to my father. With him, again the question of Alan’s health came up.”
“What else is there to talk about? The weather. When one has nothing to talk about, one talks about either the weather or someone’s health.”
“Do you know anything about my husband’s health that I don’t know?”
“Honestly, I don’t.”
“How did you get into the Racquets Club, Mr. Fletcher?”
“I bought a pair of tennis shorts and said I was a guest of the Underwoods.”
“Do you know the Underwoods?”
“No. I read the name from a locker.”
“I will have to reimburse them for any expenses you incurred.”
“It shouldn’t be much. Two screwdrivers.”
“Nevertheless, I will reimburse them for two screwdrivers. You don’t even play tennis?”
“I play with people. Somehow I don’t like the word ‘court.’ Not even ‘tennis court.’ Once playing with people gets close to a court, things are apt to get boring.”
“Is that because in a court there are rules?”
“It may be.”
“Your phone is ringing.”
“I know.”
“Was our going to bed together Tuesday night a part of your investigation?”
“No. That was on my own time.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“Do you intend to tell your husband about I. M. Fletcher of the News-Tribune?”
“Mr. Fletcher, how can I?”
Fletch finally sat on the divan.
“People call me Fletch.”
“I have a committee meeting at the Racquets Club. It’s Thursday evening. I have to pick up Julie. The servants are away.”
“There’s always time.”
“Fletch. Your phone is ringing.”
“I know.”
At six o’clock the apartment doorbell rang again. Fletch was alone. He had showered and put on a suit. The downstairs lobby bell had not rung.
At the door were two very young, very scrubbed men who were very obviously police detectives.
“Mr. I. M. Fletcher?”
Fletch said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher isn’t in. I’m his attorney, Mr. Gillett of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You’re his attorney?”
“That’s right.”
“We have a warrant for the arrest of I. M. Fletcher of this address to face charges of criminal fraud.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve advised Mr. Fletcher on this matter.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, gentlemen, I’ll tell you. The man is as guilty as sin. He’s spending this afternoon and evening trying to wind up personal business. You do understand.”
“This isn’t the first time we’ve come here trying to locate him.”
“Never fear. I promise you I will bring Mr. Fletcher to the main police station tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, where he will surrender himself. He just needs tonight to iron things out for himself.”
“What’s tomorrow, Friday?”
“He will surrender himself Friday morning at ten o’clock.”
“In your recognizance?”