Fletch's Fortune (10 page)

“Yes. You had already run the tub?”

“Yes. While I was brushing my teeth. And all that.”

“So there must have been a period of time, while the tub was running, that you couldn’t have heard anything from the living room—not the front door, not the television, not talking?”

“I suppose not.”

“So the second time you heard the door close, when you were getting into the tub, you actually could have been hearing someone leave the suite.”

“Oh, my. That’s right. Of course.”

“It would explain your son’s not having returned, your husband’s not having left, and your not hearing talking.”

“How clever you are.”

“Then, what? You were sitting in the tub.…”

“I’m not sure. I think I heard the door open again. I believe I did. Because, later, when I went into the living room, when I… I… the door to the corridor was open.”

“All right, Mother.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Neale. This is difficult.”

“Would you like to take a break? Get some coffee? Something?”

“Would you like an eye-opener, Captain Neale?”

“An eye-opener?”

“I’m making myself a Bloody Mary,” Junior said.

“Oh, no, Junior,” Lydia March said.

“A little early, for me,” Neale said.

“Let’s get it over with,” Lydia said. “I heard Walter coughing. He never coughs. Not even in the morning. He’s never smoked.… Then I heard him choking. It got worse. I called out, ‘Walter! Are you all right? Walter!’”

“Take your time, Mrs. March.”

“Then the choking stopped, and I thought he was all right. The telephone began ringing. Walter always picked up the phone on the first ring. It rang twice, it rang three times. I became very alarmed. I screamed, ‘Walter!’ I got out of the tub as fast as I could, grabbed a towel, opened the door to the bedroom.…”

“Which bedroom?”

“Ours. Walter’s and mine.… Walter was sort of on the bed, the foot of the bed, his knees sort of on the floor, as if he hadn’t quite made it to the bed … he had come from the living room… the bedroom door
was open … the scissors … I couldn’t do a thing … he slipped sideways off the bed … Walter’s a big man … I couldn’t have caught him even if I had been able to move! He rolled as he slipped. He fell on his back … the scissors … face so white … Captain Neale, a big blood bubble came up between his lips.…”

“Mister March, why don’t you give your mother some of that?”

“Come on, Mother.”

“No, no. I’ll be all right. Just give me a moment.”

“Just a sip.”

“No.”

“We can postpone the rest of this, if you like, Mrs. March.”

“I don’t even remember going through the living room. I went through the open door to the corridor. I was just thinking, Helena, Helena, Jake… I knew they were in 7 … we had met for drinks there the night before … there was the back of a man … there was a man in the corridor walking away, lighting a cigar as he walked … I didn’t know who he was, from behind … I ran toward him … then I realized who he was … I ran to Helena’s door and began banging on it with my fist… Helena finally opened the door. She was in her bathrobe. Jake wasn’t there.…”

“Mrs. March, did you go back into that suite?”

“My mother has not been back in that suite since.”

“I was on Helena’s bed. They left me alone. For a long time. I could hear people talking loudly, everywhere. Eleanor Earles came in. I asked her to find Junior.…”

“Did you know, at that point, your husband was dead?”

“I don’t know what I knew. I knew he had landed on the scissors. I asked for someone to get Junior.”

“And, Mister March?”

“I was in the coffee shop. I heard myself being paged in the lobby. Eleanor Earles was on a house phone. I came right up.”

“What did Ms. Earles say to you, Mister March?”

“She said something had happened. My mother wanted me. She was in the Williams’ suite—Number 7.”

“She said, ‘Something has happened’?”

“She said, ‘Something has happened. Come up right away. This is Eleanor Earles. Your mother’s in Jake Williams’ suite—Number 7.’”

“What did all that mean to you?”

“I couldn’t imagine why Eleanor Earles was calling me about anything. In the elevator I was thinking, maybe there had been an accident. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Mrs. March, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. March. Who was the man in the corridor?”

“Perlman. Oscar Perlman.”

“The humorist?”

“If you say so.”

“Why didn’t you speak to him?”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry? You said you ran toward him, and then you didn’t speak to him.”

She said, “Oscar Perlman has been very unkind to my husband. For years and years. Very unfair.”

“Mother … realize what you’re saying.”

“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 pass 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 sophomoric 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.”

“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 balls—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 scraped 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 hell 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 bum 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
, 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 hell 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, shag a few facts for me. You’re unemployed?”

“Presently unencumbered 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.”