Fletch(74)
“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 1, 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.”