Fletch(9)

“I said thank you.”

“And you have to sign out the file yourself. I’ve had enough of your denials that you never took something that simply disappeared after it was delivered to you.”

“I’ll be right down. Try not to have the out-to-lunch sign up when I get there.”

Fletch was halfway down the corridor to the library before he realized he had forgotten to put his sneakers back on.

“I would have brought the file to you myself, Mr. Fletcher, but Mr. Osborne said not to.” The great round frames to her eyeglasses made the girl look almost attractive.

“Fuck Mr. Osborne.”

“He has the file.”

Osborne had a large red nose and always looked hung over. He had been a good reporter once.

“Here’s where you sign, Fletch; thank you very much. And here’s your file. Shitty piece you did last week on the bookie joints.”

“Sorry.”

“My joint was closed all week. Couldn’t make a bet anywhere in town.”

“Good for what’s left of your character.”

“I kept track of the races. I figure you lost me about five hundred dollars.”

“I’ll send you a check, I get paid so much.”

“I’m just saying: thanks very much. Anytime I can do you a favor …”

“You can. Fuck off.”

“Return this file before you go home, sweetheart, or I’ll report you.”

“I.M. Fletcher. Reporter.”

“For now.”

The girl with the nice glasses looked at his bare feet and smiled.

“Fletcher!”

Clara Snow was in the corridor.

“For Christ’s sake, Fletcher!”

Beige suit, alligator accessories, all trim and proper for a trim and proper day.

“You just getting in, Clara?”

“For Christ’s sake, Fletcher, jeans and a T-shirt are bad enough; can’t you wear shoes in the office?”

“I’ve been here since seven-thirty.”

“You’re not supposed to be here at all. You’re supposed to be at The Beach.”

“I told you last night I was coming up.”

“And I told you not to come.”

“I had to do some research.”

“I don’t give a damn. I told you not to leave The Beach until you had that story. Do you have the story?”

“No.”

“Fletcher.” In the dark of the corridor her face was clearly purple. “I’ll talk to you later. I’m late for firing someone. Someone else.”

“What? Did you and Frank oversleep?”

“That’s not funny. It’s not even amusing.”

“That’s your problem.”

Fletch spread the file over his desk. The clips on Alan Stanwyk were from various sections of the newspaper, mainly society and financial, but also sports and run-of-paper. On each clip, Stanwyk’s name was circled in red the first time it appeared.

Fletch snapped on the tape recorder he had brought from the passenger seat of his MG. His bare feet on the desk, he leaned back in his swivel chair.

“Eleven A.M. Friday. Re: The Murder Mystery.

“So far we have established only a few things.

“First, from the picture files at the News-Tribune, I have established that the man I met last night, who brought me to the Stanwyk house, was Alan Stanwyk.

“Second, he is executive vice president of Collins Aviation, married to Joan Collins and has one child, Julia, age hopefully somewhat less than six.

“His private physician and family friend, Dr. Joseph Devlin, of the Medical Center, confirms that Stanwyk is insured for three million dollars. The reason Devlin offers for the heavy insurance is that Stanwyk’s father-in-law and company president, chairman of the board, wishes to discourage Stanwyk from continuing to fly experimental planes. So far, the discouragement induced by heavy premiums hasn’t worked. Stanwyk is still flying.

“So far, we have not had a reliable check on Stanwyk’s health. Nor do I think we’re going to get one.

“Devlin pleaded ignorance regarding Stanwyk’s physical condition, which is a queer thing for a family physician to do, unless he were covering himself.

“And, most significantly, the doctor indicated that Collins Aviation stock would fall if word got around that Alan Stanwyk is terminally ill. It’s a safe bet the dear old family doctor and friend has a large slice of his savings in Collins Aviation.

“It would be to his benefit to lie and to give Stanwyk all the time possible to put his house in order.

“Therefore, it is unconfirmed and probably unconfirmable whether or not Alan Stanwyk has terminal cancer.

“To me he looked a healthy man, but I’m not better at medical diagnosis than I am at safecracking, to everyone’s disappointment.”