Fletch's Fortune Part 14

"I'm sorry, Mrs. March. You'll have to explain that."

"Well, years ago, Oscar used to work on one of the March family newspapers, and he thought he could write a humor column. He always was lazy. I've never thought him funny. Anyway, Walter encouraged him. He really developed the column for Oscar. Then, well, as soon as the column was established in one March newspaper, Oscar went off and sold it-and himself-to this syndicate.... Very unfair. Walter was terribly hurt. Even last year, when Walter was nominated for the presidency of the Alliance, Oscar was saying bad things about him. Or, so we heard."

"What sort of bad things?"

"Oh, foolish things. Like he tried to pa.s.s a bylaw saying only journalists could vote in the Alliance election, no private detectives."

"'Private detectives'? What was that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, who knows? Oscar Perlman's a fool."

"Mister March, do you know what 'no private detectives' means?"

"It doesn't mean anything," Walter March said. "Oscar Perlman has a coterie of followers-mostly Washington reporters-poker players all-and he keeps them entertained with these soph.o.m.oric gags. I don't know. March Newspapers is pretty well-known for its investigative reporting. Maybe he was trying to make some gag on that. I really don't know what it means. No one did."

"Utter hateful foolishness," Lydia March said.

"Mrs. March, your husband was a powerful man. He had been all his life...."

"I know what you're about to ask, Captain Neale. I've been lying awake, thinking about it myself. Walter was a powerful man. Sometimes powerful men make enemies. Not Walter. He was loved and respected. Why, look, he was elected President of the American Journalism Alliance. That's quite a tribute to a man-from his colleagues, people he had worked with all his life-now that Walter was, well, about to retire."

"Speaking of that, I'm a little uncertain. Who takes over, who runs March Newspapers, now that your husband...."

"Why, Junior, of course. Junior's president of the company. Walter was chairman."

"I see."

"And Walter was retiring as soon as he had served out his term, here at the Alliance."

"I see."

"No one in this world, Captain, had reason to murder my husband. Why, you can see for yourself. In this morning's newspapers. Even on the television. Hy Litwack's nice eulogy last night. The reporters are terribly upset by this. Every one of them, Captain Neale, loved my husband."

Fourteen.

11:00 A.M A.M.G.o.d I IS IN M MY T TYPEWRITER, I KNOW I ITAddress by Wharton KruseConservatoryBULLd.o.g.g.i.nG THE M MAJOR M MEDIA-OR B BIRDd.o.g.g.i.nG?Weekly Newspapers Group Discuss...o...b..bby-Joe Hendricks c.o.c.ktail Lounge

"Mister Fletcher?"

Fletch squinted up from the poolside long chair at the young man in tennis whites, HENDRICKS PLANTATION written on his shirt.

"Yeah?"

"You phoned for a court at eleven o'clock?"

"I did?"

"I. M. Fletcher?"

"One of us is."

"We have you down for a tennis court at eleven o'clock."

"Thanks."

"Will you be needing equipment, sir?"

"I guess so. Also a partner. Playing tennis alone takes too much running back and forth."

"You mean, you want the pro?"

"I guess not. Someone means to provide me with exercise."

"Stop at the pro shop a little before eleven. We'll fix you up with a racket and b.a.l.l.s-whatever you need. Have whites?"

"Send them to my room, will you? Room Seventy-nine."

"Sure. Thirty waist?"

"Guess so. Just ask the bellman to leave them inside the room. I have sneakers."

"Okay."

"Thanks," Fletch said.

A chair sc.r.a.ped next to him.

Fletch turned his head and squinted again.

"You're Fisher, aren't you?"

Stuart Poynton was sitting beside him, in expensive leisure clothes, green shirt, maroon slacks, yellow loafers-as pleasant to look at as lettuce, tomato soup, and a lemon.

"Fletcher," Fletch said.

"That's right. Fletcher. Someone told me about you."

"Someone tells you about everyone."

To be polite, one could refer to Stuart Poynton as a syndicated political columnist.

No one was ever polite about Stuart Poynton.

His columns demonstrated very little interest in politics-just politicians, and other power people.

His typical column had four to six hot, tawdry, indicative items (years ago, Senator So-and-so and his family had vacationed at a hunting lodge owned by a corporation his subcommittee is now regulating; Judge So-and-so was seen leaving a party in Georgetown at three in the morning; Congressman So-and-so fudged his fact-finding junket to Iran so he could visit his son in Zurich)-some of which were accurate enough to attract suits.

Always going for the jugular, in his desire to reform others, over the years he had accomplished little-except to harden everyone's jugular.

"You know who I am?" he asked. "Poynton. Stuart Poynton."

"Oh," Fletch responded to this forced humility. "Nice to meetcha."

"Well, I was thinking this." Stuart Poynton was staring at his hands clasped between his knees, in thinking this. "Little hard for me to operate around here. Too much meeting and greeting going on. Well, point is, everyone here knows who I am, and everyone is sort of, you know, watching me." He looked sideways at Fletch. "Got me?"

"Gotcha."

"Makes it hard for me to operate, you know, carry on my own investigation. Find out anything. And this Walch March thing is a h.e.l.l of a story."

"You mean Walter March?"

"I said Walter March. Point is, I can ask questions and so forth, but these idiotic conventioneers-well, you know, they seem to get a great kick out of giving Stuart Poynton a b.u.m steer. Some of them have tried all ready. Jeez, you can't believe some of the crazy things they've told me around here-and with a straight face!"

Fletch said, "Gotcha."

"I can't blame 'em, of course. It's a convention after all. Fun and games are part of it."

Fletch had raised his chairback a few notches.

"Point is, I am Stuart Poynton." Again the sideways look. "Got me?"

"You got it right."

"And I am here."

"Gotcha."

"And the whole world knows that I'm here."

"Right."

"And here-here, at Kendricks Plantation-there's an important story."

"Hendricks Plantation."

"What?"

"Hendricks. H H, as in waffle."

"I feel I ought to come up with something on the Walch March murder."

"Walter."

"You know, as a decent, self-respecting journalist. Some insight. Something indicative. You know, some little item or items that will mean something, prove to be right through the apprehension, trial, and conviction of the murderer."

"I don't see how you can do that without solving the crime."

"Well, that would help."

"Solving the Walter March murder would make a good item for your column," Fletch said mildly. "Might be worth a 'graf or two."

"Point is," Poynton said, "everyone knows I'm here. Everyone knows there's a big story here. But I'm so well-known here, if you get me, my hands are tied."

"Gotcha."

"Jack Williams tells me you're a h.e.l.l of an investigative reporter."

"You mean Jake Williams?"

"That's what I said."

"Good old Howard."

"Yeah. Well, I asked him last night who he thought could help me out. You know, s.h.a.g a few facts for me. You're unemployed?"

"Presently unenc.u.mbered by earned income."

"You have no outlet?"

"Only the kind you can flush."

"I mean, if you had a story, it would probably be difficult for you to get it published?"

"There's no front page being held for me."

"I thought not. Maybe we can work something out. What I'm thinking is this." Poynton again went into his staring-at-hands-clasped-between-his-knees propositional pose. "You be my eyes and ears. You know-do legwork. Circulate. Talk to them. Listen to them. If you do any keyhole stuff, I don't want to know about it. Just the facts-all I want. See what you can dig up. Report to me."

Fletch let the next question hang silent in the air.

Poynton sat back in his chair. "'Pending on what you come up with, of course-when I get back to New York-well, maybe I could use another legman."

"'Maybe'?"

"The three I have are pretty well-known. Which is why I can't bring them in here. Everyone in the business knows who they are. In fact, they've about served their purpose."

"h.e.l.l of an offer," Fletch said.