Fletch’s Fortune f-3

by Gregory Mcdonald

  Captain Neale saw them from the terrace, and came down to the lawn to meet them.

  A couple of uniformed State Policemen followed him.

  Neale indicated the man across the saddle of Fletch’s horse.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  Fletch said, “Joseph Molinaro.”

  “Can’t be,” Neale said. “Molinaro’s only about thirty. Younger.”

  Still on his horse, Gillis said, “Look at his face.”

  Neale lifted Molinaro’s head by the hair.

  “My, my,” Neale said.

  Fletch handed his reins to one of the uniformed policemen.

  Neale asked Fletch, “Did Molinaro kill young March?”

  Fletch handed Neale the rifle. “Easy to prove. This is the weapon he was carrying.”

  Over Neale’s shoulder, Fletch saw Eleanor Earles appear on the terrace.

  “Did you speak to Lydia March?” Fletch asked Neale.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Neale said, “She’s dead. Overdose. Seconal.”

  Eleanor Earles was approaching them.

  Even at a distance, Fletch could see the set of her face. It seemed frozen.

  “She left a note,” Neale said. “To Junior. Saying she wouldn’t say why, but she had murdered her husband. The key thing is, she said the night they arrived she went back downstairs to the reception desk to order flowers for the suite, and stole the scissors she had seen on the desk when they’d checked in. Now that he’s reminded of it, the desk clerk says he was puzzled at the time why she hadn’t telephoned the order down. He had also been slightly insulted, because flowers had been put in all the suites, and Mrs. March had said the flowers in Suite 3 were simply inadequate.”

  Eleanor Earles was standing near them, staring at the man slung over the saddle.

  Neale noticed her.

  “Hey,” he said to the uniformed policemen, “let’s get this guy off the horse.”

  Gillis got off his horse, to help.

  Eleanor Earles watched them take Molinaro off the horse and put him on the ground.

  In a moment, her face still frozen, she turned and walked back toward the hotel.

  From what Fletch had seen, there was no way Eleanor Earles could have known, from that distance, whether her son was dead or alive.

  Thirty-six

  “Good afternoon. The Boston Star.”

  “Jack Saunders, please.”

  Fletch had gone directly to Room 102—Crystal Faoni’s room—and banged on the door.

  Tired and teary, she opened the door.

  Fletch guessed that, badly upset by her experience of trying to breathe life into a dead man—into a dead Walter March, Junior—Crystal had been napping fully clad on her bed in the dark room.

  “Wake up,” Fletch said. “Cheer up.”

  “Really, Fletch, at this moment I’m not sure I can stand your relentless cheer.”

  He entered her room while she still held onto the doorknob.

  He pulled the drapes open.

  “Close the door,” he said.

  She sighed. And closed the door.

  “What’s the best way to get a job in the newspaper business?” he asked.

  She thought a moment. “I suppose have a story no one else has. A real scoop. Is this another game?”

  “I’ve got a story for you,” he said. “A real scoop. And, maybe, if we work it right, a job in Boston with Jack Saunders.”

  “A job for me?”

  “Yes. Sit down while I explain.”

  “Fletch, I don’t need a story from you. I can get my own story. Amusing lad though you are, I sort of resent the idea I need to get a story from you or from anyone else.”

  “You’re talking like a woman.”

  “You noticed.”

  “Why are you talking like a woman?”

  “Because you’re talking like a man? You come bounding in here, offering to give me a story, arrange a job for me, as if I were someone who has to be taken care of, as if you, The Big He, are the source of The Power and The Glory Forever and Ever. Ah, men!”

  “Golly, you speak well,” Fletch said. “You just make that up?”

  “Just occasionally, Fletch, you have problems with male chauvinism. I’ve mentioned it to you.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “I know you try hard to correct yourself and better yourself but, Fletcher, darling, remember there can be no end to the self-improvement bit.”

  “Thank you. Now may we get on to the matter at hand?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’m not accepting a story from you. I’m not accepting a job from you. I wouldn’t even accept dinner from you.”

  “What?”

  “Well. Maybe I’d accept dinner.”

  After his ride into the hills to find Joseph Molinaro and his long walk back, Fletch was feeling distinctly chilled by Crystal’s air conditioner.

  “Crystal, do you think this is the way Bob McConnell would respond to such an offer from me?”

  “No.”

  “Stuart Poynton?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Tim Shields?”

  “They’re not women.”

  “They’re also not friends.”

  He popped his eyes at her.

  She looked away.

  Neither of them had sat down.

  He said, “Do you mind if I turn down your air-conditioning?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Can a man and woman be friends?” he asked.

  He found the air conditioner controls. They had been set to HIGH. He turned them to LOW.

  “Are friends people who consider each other?” he asked.

  She said, “I can get my own story.”

  “Do you know Lydia March killed herself?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know she killed her husband?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know that the shooting this afternoon was not an unsuccessful attempt on the life of the Vice-President, but a successful attempt on the life of Walter March, Junior?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who killed Walter March, Junior?”

  “No. But I can find out. Why are you telling me all this?”

  “You can’t find out in time to scoop everyone else and get a job with Jack Saunders on the Boston Star.”

  “If you know all this, why don’t you use it? You haven’t got a job either.”

  “I’m working on a book, Crystal. In Italy. On Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior.”

  “Oh, yeah.? She fiddled around the room, continuing to look unwell. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

  “Crystal, I have to get on a plane in a couple of hours. I can’t afford to miss it. I can’t do the follow-ups on this story. Now will you sit down?”

  “Is all this true?” she asked. “What you just said? Did Lydia March kill herself?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die in a cellarful of Walter March’s private detectives. Will you listen, please?”

  She sat in a light chair.

  At first, clearly, part of her mind was still on the terrace, kneeling over Walter March’s son, trying to breathe life into him; clearly, another part of her mind was still wondering why Fletch was insisting on giving her the biggest story of the year, of her career.…

  “You’re not listening,” Fletch said. “Please. You’ve got to be able to phone this story in pretty soon.”

  Gradually, as her attention focused on what he was saying, her eyes widened, color came back to her cheeks, her back straightened.

  Then she began saying, “Fletch, you can’t know this.”

  “I’m giving you much more background than you need, just so you’ll believe me.”

  “But there is no way you could know all this. It’s not humanly possible.”

  “Not all my methods are human,” he said.

  And she would say, “Fletch, are you sure?�
��

  And she would repeat, “Fletch, how do you know all this?”

  “I have a marvelous machine.”

  Finally, as the pieces fitted together, she became convinced.

  “Hell of a story!” she said.

  Despite her initial resistance and inattention, Fletch saw there was no reason to repeat any part of the story to Crystal.

  She said, “Wow!”

  Fletch picked up the telephone and put the call through.

  “Who’s calling?” a grumpy male voice finally asked.

  “I. M. Fletcher.”

  “Who?”

  “Just tell Jack Saunders a guy named Fletcher wants to talk to him.”

  Immediately, Jack Saunders’ voice came on the line.

  “I was hoping you’d call,” he said.

  “How do, Jack. Remember telling me you’d give a job to anyone who scooped the Walter March story?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “You did.”

  “Fletch, I said.…”

  “Remember Crystal Faoni? She used to work with us in Chicago.”

  “I remember she’s even fatter than my wife. Hell of a lot brighter, though.”

  “Jack, she has the story.”

  “What story?”

  “The Walter March story. The whole thing. Tied in a neat, big bundle.”

  “Last time we talked, you listed her as a suspect in the Walter March murder.”

  “I just wanted to bring up her name. Jog your memory. Let you know she’s here, at the convention.”

  “Crystal has the Walter March story?”

  “Crystal has the job?”

  There was only the slightest hesitation.

  “Crystal has the job.”

  Fletch said, “Crystal has the Walter March story.”

  “Let me talk to her a minute,” Jack Saunders said, “before I ask her to dictate into the recorder.”

  “Sure, Jack, sure.”

  Crystal came to the phone.

  “Hello, Jack? How’s Daphne?”

  Crystal listened a moment while doubtlessly Jack Saunders said something imaginative and rotten about his wife and she laughed and shook her head at Fletch.

  “Say, Jack? You’d better slip me on the payroll pretty quick. My savings are about gone. This has been an expensive convention. Too much to eat around here.”

  Fletch put the air conditioner dial back on MEDIUM.

  Crystal would be on the phone a long time, and it would be hot work.

  “Sure, Jack,” Crystal said. “I’m ready to dictate. Switch me over to the recorder. I’ll see you in Boston Monday.”

  Fletch opened the door.

  “Oh, boy!” Crystal, waiting for the Star to straighten out its electronics, cupped her hand over the telephone receiver. “Scoopin? Freddie.”

  Absently, Fletch said, “What?”

  “Scoopin’ this story will put me right up there in the big league with Freddie Arbuthnot.”

  “Who?”

  “Freddie Arbuthnot,” Crystal said conversationally. “Don’t you read her stuff? She’s terrific.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you read her on the Pecuchet trial? In Arizona? Real award-winning stuff. She’s the greatest Oh, yeah. You were in Italy.”

  “You mean, Freddie.…”

  Crystal, round-eyed, looked at him from the telephone.

  Fletch said, “You mean, Freddie is.…”

  “What’s the matter, Fletch?”

  “You mean, Freddie Arbuthnot is.…”

  “What?”

  “You mean, Freddie Arbuthnot is… Freddie Arbuthnot?”

  “Who did you think she is,” Crystal asked, “Paul McCartney?”

  “Oh, my God.” Verily, Fletch did smite his forehead. “I never looked her up!”

  As he began to stagger through the door, Crystal said, “Hey, Fletch.”

  He looked at her dumbly.

  Crystal said, “Thanks. Friend.”

  Thirty-seven

  “Nice of you to drop by.”

  Having spent a moment banging on Freddie Arbuthnot’s door, Fletch scarcely noticed the door to his own room was open.

  Freddie must have left for the airport.

  Robert Englehardt and Don Gibbs were in Fletch’s room.

  Gibbs was looking into Fletch’s closet.

  Englehardt had opened the marvelous machine on the luggage rack and was examining it.

  “I don’t have much time to visit,” Fletch said. “Got to pack and get to the airport.”

  “Pretty classy machine,” Englehardt said. “Did you use it well?”

  “All depends on what you mean by ‘well.’”

  “Where are the tapes?”

  “Oh, They’re gone.”

  Englehardt turned to him.

  “Gone?”

  “Don, as long as you’re in the closet, will you drag my suitcases out?”

  “Gone?” Englehardt said.

  “Yeah. Gonezo.”

  Fletch took the two suitcases from Gibbs and opened them on the bed.

  “Hand me that suit from the closet, will you, Don?”

  Englehardt said, “Mister Fletcher, you’re suffering from a misapprehension.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing aspirin and a good night’s sleep can’t fix. What about those slacks, Don. Thanks.”

  “Those men. In Italy. Fabens and Eggers.…”

  “Eggers, Gordon and Fabens, Richard,” helped Fletch.

  “They aren’t ours.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Through his horn-rimmed glasses, Englehardt’s eyes were as solemn as a hoot owl’s.

  Fletch said, “Gee. Not ours.”

  “They are not members of the Central Intelligence Agency. They don’t work for any American agency. They are not citizens of the United States.”

  “Anything in that laundry bag, Don?”

  “Mister Fletcher, you’re not listening.”

  “Eggers, Gordon and Fabens, Richard are baddies,” said Fletch. “I’ll bet They’re from the other side of the Steel Shade.”

  Englehardt said, “Which is why Mister Gibbs and I came down here to Hendricks. Foreign agents had set you up to provide them with information to blackmail the American press.”

  Fletch said, “Gee.”

  Englehardt said, “I don’t see how you could think the Central Intelligence Agency could ever be involved in such an operation.”

  “I checked,” said Fletch. “I asked you.”

  “We never said we were involved,” Englehardt said. “I said you had better go along with the operation. And then Gibbs and I came down here to figure it out.”

  “And did you figure it out?” Fletch asked.

  “We’ve been working very hard,” Englehardt said.

  Fletch said, “Yeah.”

  He took off his shirt and stuffed it into the laundry bag.

  After riding and walking around the countryside he needed a shower, but he didn’t have time.

  Englehardt was saying, “I don’t see how anyone could think the C.I.A. would be involved in such an operation.…”

  In the bathroom, Fletch sprayed himself with underarm deodorant.

  Don Gibbs said, “Fletch, did you know those guys weren’t from the C.I. A.?”

  “I had an inkling.”

  “You did?”

  “I inkled.”

  “How?”

  “Fabens’ cigar. It really stank. Had to be Rumanian, Albanian, Bulgarian. Phew! It stank. I mentioned it to him. American clothes. American accent. People get really stuck with their smoking habits.” Fletch lifted clean shirts from the bureau drawer to his suitcase. “Then, when the Internal Revenue Service wallah paid me a visit, I figured there were either crossed wires, or no wires at all. There was no good reason for putting that kind of pressure on me at that moment.”

  He was putting on a clean shirt.

  Sternly, Englehardt said, “If you knew—or sus
pected—Eggers and Fabens weren’t from the C.I.A., then why did you give them the tapes?”

  “Oh, I didn’t,” Fletch said.

  “You said They’re gone.”

  “The tapes? They are gone.”

  “You didn’t give them to Eggers and Fabens?” Gibbs asked.

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “Fletcher,” Englehardt said, “we want Eggers and Fabens, and we want those tapes.”

  “Eggers and Fabens you can have.” Fletch took their telegram from the drawer of his bedside table and handed it to Englehardt. “Says here you can pick ’em up tonight at the BOAC counter in Washington, any time between seven-thirty and nine. Very convenient for you.”

  Fletch grabbed a necktie he had already put in one suitcase. “Also indicates, if you read carefully, that I have not given them the tapes.”

  Englehardt was holding the telegram, but looking at Fletch.

  “Fletcher, where are the tapes?”

  “I mailed them. Yesterday.”

  “To yourself?”

  “No.”

  “To whom did you mail them?”

  Fletch checked his suitcases. He had already thrown in his shaving gear.

  “I guess that’s everything,” he said.

  “Fletcher,” Englehardt said, “you’re going to give us those tapes.”

  “I thought you said the C.I.A. wouldn’t be involved in a thing like this.”

  “As long as the tapes exist.…,” Gibbs said.

  “The tapes are evidence of information gathered by a foreign power,” Englehardt announced.

  “Bushwa,” said Fletch.

  He closed his suitcases.

  “Fletcher, do I have to remind you how you were forced to do this job in the first place? Exporting money illegally from the United States? Not being able to state the source of that money? Not filing federal tax returns?”

  “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “It will be my duty,” Englehardt said, “to turn this information over to the proper domestic authorities.”

  “You know,” Gibbs giggled, “we didn’t know any of that about you—until you told us.”

  “You’re blackmailing me,” Fletch said.

  Gibbs was standing behind him and Englehardt was standing near the door.

  “There’s a tape on the machine,” Fletch said. “Actually, it’s a copy of a tape. The original was mailed out with the others.”

  Englehardt looked at the tape on the machine.