Fletch’s Fortune

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“C.I.A., Mister Fletcher.”

“Um. Would you mind spelling that?”

Coming into the cool dark of the living room, blinded by the sun on the beach, Fletch had smelled cigar smoke and slowed at the French doors.

There were two forms, of men, sprawled on his living-room furniture, one in the middle of the divan, the other on a chair.

“The Central Intelligence Agency,” one of the forms muttered.

Fletch’s bare feet crossed the marble floor to the carpet.

“Sorry, old chaps. You’ve got the wrong bod. Fletch is away for a spell. Letting me use his digs.” Fletch held out his hand to the form on the divan. “Always do feel silly introducing myself whilst adorned in swimming gear, but when on the Riviera, do as the sons of habitués do—isn’t that the motto? The name’s Arbuthnot,” Fletch said. “Freddy Arbuthnot.”

The man on the divan had not shaken his hand.

The man in the chair snorted.

“Arbuthnot it’s not,” said the man in the chair.

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