Gregory Mcdonald - Fletch and the Widow Bradley

Fletch
Fletch Won
Fletch, Too
Fletch and the Widow Bradley
Carioca Fletch
Confess, Fletch
Fletchs Fortune
Fletchs Moxie
Fletch and the Man Who
Son of Fletch
Fletch Reflected
Flynn
The Buck Passes Flynn
Flynns In
Skylar
Skylar in Yankeeland
Running Scared
The Brave
Safekeeping
Who Took Toby Rinaldi? (Snatched)
Love Among the Mashed Potatoes (Dear M.E.)
Exits and Entrances
Merely Players
A World Too Wide
The Education of Gregory Mcdonald
(Souvenirs of a Blown World)

Gregory Mcdonald is the author of twenty-five books, including nine Fletch novels and three Flynn mysteries. He has twice won the Mystery Writers of Americas prestigious Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Mystery Novel, and was the first author to win for both a novel and its sequel. He lives in Tennessee.

H E L L O , F L E T C H S A I D . My name is Armistad.

Behind his desk in his office, the manager of the Park Worth Hotel neither stood nor answered. His eyes telegraphed cold rejection of Fletchs sweater, with no shirt under it, jeans and sneakers. Clearly, in the managers eyes, Fletch was not up to being a guest in the Park Worth Hotel, or a worthy candidate for a job. Dressed that way, he was not particularly welcome in the hotel lobby.

Your name is Cavalier? Fletch asked. A triangular piece of wood on the mans desk said the visage youd see upon raising your eyes a mite would be that of Jacques Cavalier. Besides the olive wood desk in the managers office was a large safe, opened, odd stacks of printouts, and a plaster cast of Donatellos David perched on a bookshelf full of National Social Registers.

The manager twitched his head as if recovering from a flick on the nose. Yes?

Fletch sat in one of the two semi-circular backed chairs. He held the wallet in his left hand. As I said, Fletch said, my name is Armistad. He pointed with the wallet to the managers telephone pad. You might take that down.

Youre not a guest here, the manager said.

Geoffrey Armistad with G, Fletch said. One Three Four Nimble Drive, Santa Monica.

He watched carefully while the manager made the note.

Im awfully sorry, the manager said, while dotting the is. You do come on like a storm, Geoffrey Armistad with a G, but were not short of busboys or bellhops, and, if you want kitchen work, you should apply to Chef.

James Saint E. Crandall, Fletch said.

Beg pardon?

James Crandall. Found his wallet this morning beside my car. Not the usual wallet. Fletch opened it like a paperback book and indicated the plastic shield over the identification insert. Name says James Saint E. Crandall. Only that. No address. No credit cards, pictures, etc.

Looking at it, Cavalier said, Its a passport wallet.

So it is, said Fletch.

And you think this MisterahCrandall is a guest of the Park Worth Hotel?

Yes and no. In this little pocket is a key. Fletch dug it out with his fingers and held it up. The key reads Park Worth Hotel, Room 2019.

Yes, drawled Jacques Cavalier. Your object is a reward.

My object, said Fletch, is to return the wallet to its owner.

That seems simple enough, said the manager. Ill check and make sure Mister Crandall is registered here. If he is, you may leave the wallet with me, and Ill see that he gets it.

It does seem simple, doesnt it? Fletch stared over the managers head at the wall. You havent asked whats in the wallet.

Again Cavalier twitched his head. A passport?

Again Fletch opened the wallet. Ten one thousand dollar bills this side He fanned the bills on his fingertips. Fifteen one thousand dollar bills this side.

Oh, dear. The manager looked at Fletch with surprised respect. Im sure Mister Crandall will be very grateful to you.

Youd think so, wouldnt you?

Indeed I would.

Hes not.

You mean Cavalier cleared his throat. He refused to negotiate a reward with you.

Fletch leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk.

I came into your hotel about forty-five minutes ago, Fletch said. Called Room 2019. A man answered. I asked him if he was James Saint E. Crandall, and he said he was. I told him Id found his wallet. He seemed pleased. He asked me to wait in the coffee shop. Hed be down in five minutes. I told him Im wearing a dark blue sweater. I waited in the coffee shop a half hour. Two cups of coffee. Not bad coffee, by the way.

Thank you.

He never showed up. After a half hour, I called his room again. No answer. I went up and knocked on his door. No answer.

You must have missed him. When people say five minutes

When a stranger is waiting to return twenty-five thousand dollars of your money in cash?

I dont know.

Anyway, I checked at your desk. Between the time I first called Crandall and asked at the desk, he had checked out.

Oh, dear, said the manager. How very odd.

Isnt it.

The manager put his hand on the telephone. Im calling Mister Smith, said the manager. Hes our hotel detective. Well see what he can find out.

Good. Fletch stood up. While youre doing that, do you mind if I make a phone call? I need to call my boss.

Of course. The manager indicated another small office. Theres a phone in there.

Thank you.

Mister Armistad.

Yes?

Dont you find it amusing our hotel detectives name is Smith?

Fletch grinned at him.

Peoples names frequently amuse me, said Jacques Cavalier.

H E L L O , J A N E . F R A N K wants to talk to me?

Who is this?

Gone two days and you dont recognize my voice.

Oh, hullo, Fletch. How are things up north?

Real excitin. Would you believe I was in a place last night that featured a bald nude dancer?

Female or male?

Whats exciting about a naked bald male?

I dont see what baldness has to do with it, Jane said.

Wheres Frank?

He didnt mention anything to me about wanting to talk to you.

The message was waiting for me in the portable terminal this morning. Call Managing Editor Frank Jaffe immediately. Most urgent.

Oh, you know, everything becomes most urgent with him after a few drinks.

Thats why hes a good managing editor.

Ill see if he remembers why he wanted you, Jane giggled.

On hold, Fletch was obliged to listen to nine bars of The Blue Danube Waltz. A telephone innovation. The business side of the newspaper thought it real classy. The reporters thought it for the birds. Maybe it soothes someone calling up to order advertising space, but someone calls newsside with a hot story, like The State House is burning down or The Governor just ran away with the Senators wife and he finds himself dancing a four-square in a telephone booth. Its hard to report temporary sensations and minor perfidies after having just heard violins work through The Theme from Doctor Zhivago.

Hello, Fletch, where are you? growled Frank Jaffe. Years of treating himself to whiskey had seared the managing editors vocal chords.

Good morning, esteemed leader. Im in the accountants office at the Park Worth Hotel.