Fletch(72)
Fletch smiled patronizingly, as attorneys always do when police officers use large legal terms.
“In my recognizance.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Mr. Gillett, of Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien. My firm is here in the city.”
Fletch watched one of the policemen write in a notebook: “Gillett—Gillett, Worsham and O’Brien.”
The other policeman said, “You do realize, sir, that if you do not surrender I. M. Fletcher tomorrow morning, you too will be liable for criminal arrest?”
“Of course I realize it,” Fletch said. “After all, I am a member of the California bar and an officer of the court.”
“Okay.”
Fletch said, “Wait a minute, officers, I’ll walk out with you. Which way is the elevator?”
“This way, sir.”
“Oh, thank you.”
Fletch then drove to the Stanwyk residence on Berman Street.
31
It was eight-thirty Thursday night.
Dressed in a full business suit, shirt and tie, Fletch opened the french windows to the library of the Stanwyk house and entered.
Alan Stanwyk, smoking a cigarette, was waiting in a leather chair the other side of the desk. He had bleached his hair blond.
“Good evening, Mr. Stanwyk. I.M. Fletcher, of the News-Tribune. May I use your phone?”
Stanwyk’s left knee jerked.
Fletch picked up the phone and dialed.
“This won’t take a minute.”
He took the folded copy of the letter from his inside suit jacket and handed it across to Stanwyk while listening for the phone to be answered.
“Here, you can read this while you’re waiting. Copies go to those people indicated at midnight, unless I make a coded phone call saying not to send them. Hello, Audrey? Fletcher. Is Alston there?”
Stanwyk had leaned forward across the desk and taken the letter.
Mr. John Collins,
Chairman of the Board,
Collins Aviation
# 1 Collins Plaza
Greenway, California
Dear Sir:
Alan Stanwyk murdered me tonight.
The charred remains are mine, regardless of the evidence of the Colgate ring and the gold cigarette lighter identified as belonging to Stanwyk.
Stanwyk boarded a plane chartered from Command Air Charter Service in my name for Rio de Janeiro, where he intends to establish residence under my name with the aid of my passport.
For the purpose, he has bleached his hair blond. He stole the bleach from the apartment of his mistress, Sandra Faulkner, 15641B Putnam Street, Monday night.
With Stanwyk in Rio de Janeiro are a Mrs. Sally Ann Cushing Cavanaugh, and son, William, of Nonheagan, Pennsylvania. Stanwyk has been visiting Mrs. Cavanaugh in Nonheagan on the average of every six weeks for at least four years. This can be confirmed by a pilot called “Bucky” in your employ. Mrs. Cavanaugh was recently divorced from her husband.
Also with Stanwyk in Rio are three million dollars in cash. This money is the result of sales of stock by broker William Carmichael, who believed the cash was required as down payment for a ranch in Nevada being bought through Swarthout Nevada Realty.
Sincerely,
I.M. Fletcher
cc: Joan Collins Stanwyk
William Carmichael
Burt Eberhart
Alston Chambers
“Hello, Alston? Fletch.”
“The world’s greatest journalist?”
“The very same. How did everything go?”
“Terrific. The affidavits are fine. That handwritten note from Cummings is beyond belief. We picked up your little birds, Witherspoon and Montgomery, and they’ve been singing all afternoon.”
“Are they all right?”
“We have them in protective custody under assumed names in a hospital far, far away from here.”
“That’s great.” Stanwyk was reading the letter a second or a third time. “You do nice work, Alston.”
“You made quite a splash in the afternoon paper, Irwin. This case is the biggest local sensation of the year.”
“Would you believe I never saw it?”
“You ought to read your own newspaper.”
“I can’t afford to buy it on a reporter’s salary.”
Beside the desk were neatly placed two matching attache cases.
“There is one thing more, Alston.”
“What’s that, old buddy?”
“You haven’t arrested the chief of police yet. It’s only a small matter, I know, a minor detail, but the son of a bitch just followed me in his car.”
“Where are you?”
“He followed me from The Beach to The Hills.”
“Is he still with you?”
“I guess so. It was his car all right. The private car that looks like a police car.”
“Fletch, there are federal narcotics agents waiting for him both at the police station and at his home. They’ve been there for hours.”