Fletch's Fortune (24 page)

He said, “Unfortunately for you, the people who had the best motives and opportunity to kill your husband are all highly skilled at handling an interview. They’re all reporters. Rolly Wisham, for example, did nothing to divert suspicion from himself. Oscar Perlman didn’t even pretend he had an alibi. Lewis Graham didn’t hesitate to be open—almost indict himself. Even Crystal Faoni was quick to realize she was a possible suspect—and didn’t hesitate to admit it. Perhaps it was unconscious on their parts, but I think they all have
enough experience to have realized instinctively they had all been set up as clay pigeons.

“By you. By your choice of the time and the place of the murder.

“I always look for the controlling intelligence behind anything and everything. In this case, it was yours.

“Why? Why, why, why?”

Lydia March continued sitting primly in her chair. Her head had raised slightly, and she was looking somewhat down her nose at him.

“In October, 1928, you married Walter March, who was due to graduate from Princeton in June, 1929.

“Odd. Especially in those days. Not to have waited for graduation.

“Not so odd. Junior was born five months later, in March, 1929.

“What was the expression for it in those days? A shotgun marriage?

“Was Walter March the father of your child?

“Or, being the heir to a newspaper fortune, was he just the best catch around?

“Were you sure Walter was the father? Was he?

“You’re a wily woman, Mrs. March.

“You remained married to Walter March for fifty years. Never had another child.

“There was an enormous newspaper fortune to be inherited.

“But Walter was an old war-horse. He wouldn’t give up. Perfect health. He announced his retirement once, and then, when Junior goofed up, didn’t retire.

“And all this time, as Junior was getting to be fifty years old, losing his wife, his family, drinking more and more, you saw him becoming weaker and weaker, wasting away.”

Fletch stared a long moment at the floor.

Finally, he said, “There is a time for fathers to move
aside, to quit, to die, to leave room for their sons to grow.

“Even if they are just the image of the father, rather than the blood-father.

“Walter wasn’t moving aside.

“Did he somehow know, instinctively, Walter, Junior, wasn’t his son?”

Fletch jerked the marvelous machine’s wire from the wall socket.

“You killed your husband to save your son.”

He was wrapping up the wire. “Do you know your husband had another son? His name is Joseph Molinaro. Your husband had him with Eleanor Earles, I guess, while she was a student at Barnard.

“And did you know that Joseph Molinaro is here?

“He came here to see your husband.

“Maybe another son on the horizon—if you knew it—made you even more desperate to protect your own son.”

Fletch closed and latched the cover of the suitcase.

“Of course, I’m going to have to talk with Captain Neale—if you don’t first.

“By the way,” he said. “Thanks for the job offer.

“Same way you Marches do everything. Either buy people off, or blackmail them into a corner.

“After more than a century of this, you have a most uncanny instinct as to whom to buy off or blackmail.”

He stood up and picked up the suitcase.

“Oh,” he said. “The third, most terrible mistake you made in saying Oscar Perlman was in the corridor was that you said it in Junior’s presence.

“The big idiot has blown the game again.

“He’s gone and told Captain Neale that Perlman had an appointment to see your husband at eight o’clock Monday morning.”

Lydia was looking up at Fletch from her chair.

Her expression did not change at all.

Fletch said, “You don’t understand the significance of that, do you?”

Her expression still didn’t change.

“Again, Junior was overdoing the clever bit Why would he lie to support you, unless he knows you were lying?

“He knows you killed your husband.”

Her eyes lowered, slowly.

Her lips tightened, and turned down at their corners.

Her eyes settled on her hands, in her lap.

Slowly, her hands opened, and turned palms up.

“Mrs. March,” Fletch said. “You’re killing your son.”

Fletch was almost back to his room, carrying the marvelous machine, before he realized that during the time he had just spent with her, Lydia March had not said one word.

Fletch heard the helicopter banging away overhead as he crossed the lobby to the French doors.

Most of the conventioneers were on the terrace behind Hendricks Plantation House to watch the helicopter land on the lawn. The sunlight brought out the bright colors of their clothes. Mostly they were still chattering about Leona Hatch’s insider’s report on her eight terms as a White House reporter.

When Fletch came onto the terrace, the helicopter had retreated to the sky over the far ridge of trees.

Leona Hatch pulled herself away from an admiring group of young people, and approached Fletch.

“I’ll swear I know you,” she said “With my dying breath, I’ll swear.”

He put her hand out to her.

“Fletcher,” he said. “Irwin Fletcher.”

She shook hands, limply, her eyes searching his face, sharply.

“I feel I know you very well,” she said.

Fletch was looking for Captain Neale.

Junior, sallow and slump-shouldered, was standing with Jake Williams, watching the helicopter.

“I can’t get over this feeling, this certainty, that I know you well,” Leona Hatch said “But I can’t remember.…”

Fletch saw Neale standing with some uniformed Virginia State policemen.

“Excuse me,” he said to Leona Hatch.

He touched Neale’s elbow.

Neale looked at him.

The slight expression of annoyance in Neale’s face was replaced by a gentle, respectful curiosity.

Obviously, Neale was remembering from lunch that Fletch seemed to know more about the murder of Walter March than the others did, and, in addition, could make some very good guesses.

Fletch said, quietly, “I think you should go talk with Lydia March.”

Neale looked at Fletch a moment, probably considering questions to ask, but deciding not to ask any.

Captain Neale nodded, and went through the crowd and into the lobby of the hotel.

The helicopter was approaching the lawn below the terrace very slowly.

Fletch had been aware that a group of five men, moving together, had come onto the terrace.

It was not until they were standing at the front of the terrace, next to Junior and Jake Williams, that Fletch looked directly at the men.

Hands in pockets, appearing totally relaxed, watching the helicopter land, was the Vice-President of the United States.

Helena Williams spotted him the same time Fletch did.

She began to rush toward him from the other side of the terrace.

What she was saying was drowned out by the noise of the helicopter.

Junior, remaining oblivious to the presence of the Vice-President of the United States beside him, suddenly rocked back on his heels.

He put his hand up to his face, as if he were about to sneeze.

Fletch saw blood on Junior’s neck.

Then a splotch of blood appeared on Junior’s white shirt, next to his necktie.

Fletch started toward Junior.

Junior lost his balance and fell against the Vice-President.

Someone screamed.

Jake Williams yelled, “Junior!”

Junior rolled as he fell.

Landing on his back on the flagstones, the two splotches of blood, on his neck and on his shirt, were clearly visible.

Helena was kneeling over him.

Even over the sound of the helicopter, Fletch could hear Jake Williams shout, “Someone is trying to kill the Vice-President!”

One of the four men with the Vice-President spun him around, toward the hotel.

The other three surrounded him closely.

One held his hand out behind the Vice-President’s head, as if to shield him from the sun.

They pushed him through the crowd into the hotel.

Crystal Faoni had joined Helena Williams in kneeling over Junior.

Crystal was trying to blow air into Junior’s mouth.

The helicopter had settled on the lawn, and its door was opening.

Fletch looked across the lawn, and ran his eyes as closely as he could along the line of trees.

Men in Marine Corps uniform were getting off the helicopter.

At first, Fletch moved very slowly, backing away from the crowd, turning, jumping off the terrace, ambling across the lawn.

He did not break into a full run for the stables until he was well-concealed by the trees.

Fletch had no plan.

He could find no one at the stables, so he saddled the horse he had used twice before, fumbling, as he hadn’t saddled a horse himself in a long time, alarming the horse with his haste.

Once clear of the paddock area, he laid the whip on her and she poured on speed, but only for a very few moments.

She was a pleasant horse, but not too swift.

Clearly, in all her days on Hendricks Plantation, she had never been asked to be in a sincere hurry.

By the time they had climbed the ridge and were approaching the camper along the timber road she was winded and resentful.

Fletch left her in the deep shade of the woods about twenty meters up the hillside from the camper.

He still had no plan.

The camper was open, but the keys weren’t in the ignition.

He looked for the keys under the driver’s seat, over the visor, in the map compartment, then, hurrying, moved back into the camper, flipping over the mattress of the unmade bed, glancing in the cabinets, the oven, under the seat cushions of the two chairs.

He went through the pockets of a dark suit hanging from a curtain rod.

On a shelf was an old cigar box. Inside were screws, nails, a few sockets for a wrench, half a pouch of Bull Durham tobacco, and a set of keys, somewhat rusted.

He tried the keys in the ignition.

The third key on the chain fit.

He left it in the ignition.

Standing by the camper, he realized he still didn’t have a plan.

From down the road, around the bend, he heard someone cough.

Mentally, Fletch thanked his horse, up in the woods, for being quiet.

Fletch flattened himself against the wall of the camper, next to the rear wheels.

He stuck his head out for a look only once.

Joseph Molinaro was walking toward the camper, ten meters away, a rifle under his right arm.

It had not occurred to Fletch before this that, of course, Joseph Molinaro would be carrying a rifle.

He had not thought to arm himself.

There was no time to go back into the camper.

The few branches and stones in the road at his feet were too small and light to make good weapons.

He had no more time to think.

Fletch had left the camper through the driver’s door.

Molinaro was at the back of the camper, heading for the door near the right rear wheels.

Crouching, looking under the camper, Fletch watched Molinaro’s feet.

As soon as Molinaro was on the other side of the camper, Fletch moved around to its rear and along its wall.

Just as Molinaro was beginning to climb the three steps into the camper, beginning to bend to go through the door, Fletch hit him on the back of his head, hard, with the side of his hand.

The force of the blow knocked Molinaro’s head against the solid door frame.

Instinctively tightening his arm over the rifle, Molinaro fell up the steps, half-in and half-out of the camper.

He rolled over.

His eyes remained open only a second or two.