Fletch and the Widow Bradley Read Online Free PDF Page A

she’s being raped. So every time he tries to make love to her, she has him arrested. You see?”
    “Could be amusing, I suppose,” Frank Jaffe said.
    “But husbands can rape wives,” Fletch said.
    “The funny thing is,” said Moxie, looking into her martini glass, “the young couple really do love each other. They’re just terribly confused, you know, regarding their rights to each other, and themselves.”
    “A lawyer in every bedroom,” Frank said. “That’s what we need.”
    “Wagnall-Phipps,” Fletch said.
    Frank looked at him. “What?”
    “Can’t say you’re not talking business tonight, Frank. We interrupted a business meeting between you and Clara.”
    “I’m willing to talk newspaper business anytime,” Frank said. “I’m just not sure how willing I am to talk over Wagnall-Phipps with you. A goof’s a goof, Fletch. Hard to take, but there you are.”
    “A story’s a story, Frank.”
    “Don’t get you.”
    “The Vice-president and treasurer of Wagnall-Phipps refers to the chairman of his company as Thomas Bradley, shows me memos from him—recent memos—and someone else tells you that Thomas Bradley is dead. I need some facts.”
    “You needed some facts before you wrote the story,” Clara said.
    “Okay.” Frank looked from one employee to the other. “I read the early edition here at my breakfast table per usual. I only scanned your story, wondering who in heck had assigned you to a business news story. You with your cut-off blue jeans and bare feet—”
    “Bare foot boy with cheek,” Clara said softly.
    “You’ve never struck me as a business news writer,” Frank said, smiling at Fletch.
    “Tom Jeffries got hurt hang-gliding.”
    “I know. So I go into the office and there’s a call waiting for me from an Enid Bradley. She says she’s the chairperson of Wagnall-Phipps and has been since her husband died. While I’m listening to her mild voice on the phone, I open the newspaper to your story, scan it again and see that you’ve quoted her husband, Thomas Bradley, throughout. Recent quotes.”
    “From memos,” Fletch said.
    “You have copies of any of those memos?” Frank asked.
    “No.”
    “So I called Jack Carradine, the business news editor, who had just returned from a trip to New York—”
    “I know Jack’s the business news editor,” Fletch said.
    “—and he doesn’t seem sure whether Bradley’s dead or alive. Apparently Wagnall-Phipps isn’t that important a company. He calls the president of Wagnall-Phipps and is told the same thing—Bradley’s dead. Didn’t I tell you all this on the phone?”
    “No. You didn’t tell me Mrs. Bradley herself called you, or that she is now chairperson of Wagnall-Phipps, and you said you had confirmation from ‘executive officers’ of Wagnall-Phipps, not just one guy—the president.”
    Clara sighed and looked sideways at Frank.
    Frank said, “Dead’s dead.”
    Moxie said, “It’s none of my business, of course, but I think this Wagnall-Phipps company played a trick on Fletch. The
News-Tribune
did an expose on Wagnall-Phipps a couple of years ago—”
    “People play tricks on reporters all the time,” Frank said. “No one ever tells the exact truth. People always say to a reporter what serves their own interest best. Good reporters know this and just don’t get caught.”
    “Fletch got caught,” said Clara. “And that’s the end of the story.”
    “Frank, will you keep me on salary until I get this thing figured out?”
    “What’s to figure?” asked Frank. “Mrs. Phipps—I mean, Mrs. Bradley said she didn’t want her children reading in the newspaper things her husband recently said. Can you blame her? She said they’re just getting over the death now.”
    Fletch shook his head. “There’s something wrong, Frank.”
    “Sure there is.” Clara walked to the bar to pour herself a newdrink. “Irwin Maurice Fletcher and his sloppy reporting. That’s what’s wrong.”
    Frank leaned