Fletch's Fortune Part 32

Fletch opened the door to a bellman.

"Telegrams, sir. Two of them." He handed them over. "You weren't in your room earlier, sir."

"And sliding them under the door, you would have lost your tip. Right?"

The bellman smiled weakly.

"You've lost your tip anyway."

Fletch closed the door before opening the first telegram: GENERAL KILENDER ARRIVING HENDRICKS FOR BRONZE STAR PRESENTATION MID-AFTERNOON-LETTVTN.

I.R.S. was standing in his droopy drawers, attache case firmly in hand, staring at Fletch incredulously.

He came toward the door.

The second telegram said: BOAC FLIGHT 81 WASHINGTON AIRPORT TO LONDON NINE O'CLOCK TONIGHT RESERVATION YOUR NAME. WILL BE AT BOAC COUNTER SEVEN-THIRTY ON TO RECEIVE TAPES-FABENS AND EGGERS.

At the door, I.R.S. said, "Mister Fletcher, I must order you not to leave Hendricks, not to leave Virginia, and certainly not to leave the United States."

Fletch opened the door for him.

"Wouldn't think of it"

"You'll be hearing from us shortly."

"Always nice doing business with you."

As I.R.S. walked down the corridor, Fletch waved good-bye at him-with the telegrams.

Thirty-one.

9:30 A.M A.M.PROBLEMS WITH F FOREIGN C CORRESPONDENCE:.

On Renting a House in Nigeria, Finding a School For Your Kids in Singapore, Getting a Typewriter Fixed in Spain, and Other Problems Address by Dixon HodgeConservatory10:30 A.M A.M.WHAT T TIME I IS I IT IN B BANGKOK?: An Editor's View Address by Cyrus WoodConservatory[11:00 A.M A.M. Memorial Service for Walter March]St. Mary's Church, Hendricks11:30 A.M A.M.THE P PLACING OF F FOREIGN C CORRESPONDENTS:Pago Pago's Cheaper, but the Story's in TokyoAddress by Horsch AldrichConservatory

Fletch had a shower, swam a few laps in the pool, dressed, and went to the hotel's writing room, next to the billiards room at the back of the lobby.

On a bookshelf near the fireplace was a copy of Who's Who in America Who's Who in America, which he pulled down and took to a writing table.

Fletch had learned the habit a long time before of researching the people with whom he was dealing, through whatever resources were within reach.

Sometimes the most simple checking of names and dates could be most revealing: MARCH, WALTER C CODINGTON, publisher; b. Newport, R.I., July 17, 1907; s. Charles Harrison and Mary (Codington) M.; B.A., Princeton, 1929; m. Lydia Bowen, Oct., 1928; 1 son, Walter Codington March, Jr. March Newspapers, 1929-: treas., 1935; vice-pres., corp. affs., 1941; mergers & acquisitions, 1953; pres., 1957; chmn., pub., 1963-. Dir. March Forests, March Trust, Wildflower League. Mem. Princeton C. (N.Y.C.), American Journalism Alliance, Reed Golf (Palm Springs, Ca.), Mattawan Yacht (N.Y.C.), Simonee Yacht (San Francisco). Office: March Building, 12 Codington Pl New York City NY 10008MARCH, WALTER C CODINGTON, JR., newspaperman; b. N.Y.C., Mar. 12, 1929; s. Walter Codington and Lydia (Bowen) AH.: Princeton, 1941. m. Allison Roup, 1956: children-Allison, Lydia, Elizabeth. March Newspapers, 1950-: treas., 1953; vice-pres., corp. affs., 1968; pres., 1973-. Dir. March Forests, March Trust, Franklin-Williams Museum, N.Y. Symphonia, Center for Deaf Children (Chicago). Mem. American Journalism Alliance, Princeton C. (N.Y.C). Office: March Building, 12 Codington Pl New York City NY 10008EARLES, ELEANOR (M (MRS. O OLIVER H HENRY), journalist; b. Cadmus, Fla., Nov. 8, 1931; d. Joseph and Alma Wayne Molinaro; B.A. Barnard, 1952; m. Oliver Henry Earles, 1958 (d. 1959). Researcher, Life, 1952-54; reporter, N.Y. Post, 1954-58; with Nail. Radio, 1958-61, Eleanor Earles Interviews; Nat'l Television Net.: Eleanor Earles Interviews, 1961-65; with U.B.C., 1965-; Midday Dateline Washington, 1965-67; Gen. a.s.s'n. Evening News, 1967-74; Eleanor Earles Interviews, 1974-. Author: Eleanor Earles Interviews, 1966. Recipient Philpot Award, 1961. Dir. O.H.E. Interests, Inc., 1959-. Mem. American Journalism Alliance, Together (Wash., D.C.). Office: U.B.C., UN. Plz New York City NY 10017 Fletch put Who's Who Who's Who back on the shelf and crossed the lobby to the post office, where he bought a large, insulated envelope. back on the shelf and crossed the lobby to the post office, where he bought a large, insulated envelope.

Then he went to Room 82 to borrow the ca.s.sette tape recorder from the newly laconic Robert McConnell.

Much of the remainder of the morning he spent in his room, splicing tape.

Finished, he placed all the reels of used tape in the envelope (except the one spliced reel he left ready to play in his marvelous machine) and addressed the envelope to Alston Chambers, an attorney he knew in California. Boldly, he marked the envelope: "HOLD FOR I. M. FLETCHER."

On the way to lunch, Fletch returned McConnell's tape recorder and mailed the envelope.

Thirty-two.

12:30 P.M P.M. LunchMain Dining Room

Captain Andrew Neale was at the luncheon table for six, with Crystal Faoni and, of course, Fredericka Arbuthnot. No Robert McConnell. No Lewis Graham. No Eleanor Earles.

"Has anyone noticed," Fletch asked, "that anyone who shares a meal with the three of us never returns?"

"It's because you get along so well with everybody," Freddie said.

"Whom shall we have for lunch today?" Crystal asked. "Poor Captain Neale. Our next victim."

Sitting straight in his light, neat jacket, Captain Neale smiled distantly at what was clearly an in-joke.

"You're not thinking of keeping us all here beyond tomorrow morning, are you?" Crystal asked.

"Tonight, you mean," said Freddie. "I have to leave on the six-forty-five flight."

"You're not keeping us beyond the end of the convention." Crystal was only pa.s.sably interested in her fruit salad.

"I don't see how I can," Captain Neale said. "Almost everyone here has made a point of telling me how important he or she is. Such a lot of important people. The seas would rumble and nations would crumble if I kept any of you out of circulation for many more minutes than I had to."

Crystal said to Fletch, "I told you I'd like this guy."

"Have people been beastly to you?" Freddie, grinning, asked Neale.

"I thought reporters were people who report the news," Neale said. "The last couple of days, I've gotten the impression they are the news."

"Right," Crystal said solemnly to her fruit salad. "News does not happen unless a reporter is there to report it."

"For example," said Fletch, "if no one had known World War Two was happening...."

"Actually," Crystal said, "Hitler without the use of the radio wouldn't have been Hitler at all."

"And the Civil War," said Freddie. "If it hadn't been for the telegraph...."

"The geographic center of the American Revolution," Fletch said, "was identical to the center of the new American printing industry."

"And then there was Caesar," Crystal said. "Was he a military genius with pen in hand, or a literary genius with sword in hand? Did Rome conquer the world in reality, or just its communications systems?"

"Weighty matters we discuss at these conventions," Freddie said.

"Listen," Crystal said. "You know I take such comments personally. If I had two breakfasts, blame Fletch. Did you try those blueberry m.u.f.fins this morning?"

"I tried only one of them," Freddie said.

Crystal said, "The rest of them were good, too."

Captain Neale was chuckling at their foolishness.

Fletch said to him, "People here have given you a pretty rough time, uh?"

Captain Neale stared at his plate a moment before answering.

"It's been like trying to sing 'Strawberry Fields Forever' while your head's stuck in a beehive."

"Literary fella," Crystal told her salad.

"Musical, too," said Freddie.

"Questioning them, they question me."

"Reporters ain't got no humility," Crystal said.

"When they do answer a question," Neale continued, "they know exactly how to answer it-for their own sakes. They know exactly how to present facts absolutely to their own benefit-what to reveal, and what to conceal."

"I suppose so," said Freddie. "Never thought of it that way."

"I'd rather be questioning the full bench of the Supreme Court."

"There are only nine of them," said Freddie.

Crystal said, "I'd say from reading the press you've given away very little. There have been no news-breaks-except for Poynton's-since the beginning."

"Poynton's?" Neale asked.

"Stuart Poynton. You didn't read him this morning?"

"No," Neale said. "I didn't."

"He said you want to question a man named Joseph Molinaro regarding the murder of Walter March."

"That was in the newspaper?" asked Neale.

"Who is Joseph Molinaro?" Crystal asked.

Neale smiled. "I suppose you'd like to know."

"Oh, no," Crystal said airily. "I've just been through a list of those attending the convention, a list of all hotel employees, the voting list in the town of Hendricks, the membership list of the American Journalism Alliance, Who's Who Who's Who, and, by telephone, the morgue of People People magazine...." magazine...."

"You must be curious," commented Neale.

Freddie said, "Who is Joseph Molinaro?"

Captain Neale said, "This is the perfect day for a fruit salad. Don't you think?"

"In a way," Fletch said, quietly, "everyone here is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of Walter March. Or has been treated like one."

Neale dropped his fork, but caught it before it went into his lap.

Crystal said brightly, as if introducing a new topic, "Say, who is this Joseph Molinaro, anyway?"

Neale, applying himself to his lunch, seemingly unperturbed, said, "There is no way I can keep any of you beyond tomorrow morning, or tonight, or whenever."

"I understand I'm on the six-forty-five flight out of here." Fletch looked at Freddie. "Me and my shadow. I'm catching a nine o'clock from Washington to London."

She did not look at him.

Fletch said to Neale, "I don't see how you could have accomplished very much, in just a couple of days. Under the circ.u.mstances."

"We've accomplished more than you think," Neale said.

"What have you accomplished?" Crystal asked like a sledgehammer.

To Neale's silence, Fletch said, "Captain Neale has narrowed it down to two or three people. Or he wouldn't be letting the rest of us go."

Neale was paying more attention to the remainder of his salad than Crystal would do after trekking across a full golf course.

Fletch hitched himself forward in the chair and addressed himself to Crystal, speaking slowly. "The key," he said, "is that Walter March was murdered-stabbed in the back with a pair of scissors-shortly before eight o'clock Monday morning, in the sitting room of his suite."

Crystal stared at him dumbly.

"People lose sight of the simplicities," Fletch said.

Under the table, Freddie kicked him hard, on the shin.

Fletch said, "Ow."