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 suspected—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.
“Press the PLAY button,” Fletch said.
Englehardt hesitated a moment, apparently wondering what pressing the PLAY button might do to him, then bravely stepped to the machine and pressed the button.
The volume was loud.
They heard Gibbs’ voice?
“Snow, beautiful snow! Who’d ever expect snow in Virginia this time of year?… Who’d ever think my dear old department headie, Bobby Englehardt, would travel through the South with snow in his attache case? Good thing it didn’t melt!
“… Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, too, dear old department headie. ‘What’s that?’ you ask with one voice. Well! I’ve got a surprise for you! ’Member those two sweet little things in Billy-Bobby’s boo-boo-bar lounge? ‘Sweet little things,’ you say together. Well, sir, I had the piss-pa-cacity to invite them up! To our glorious journalists’ suite. This very night! This very hour! This very minute! In fact, for twenty minutes ago.”
broads’ Four naked, writhing girls? All in the same room?”
Englehardt turned off the marvelous machine.
“The tape continues,” Fletch said. “All through what I’m sure your superiors will provincially refer to as your drunken sex orgy. Lots more references to cocaine. Et cetera. ‘Switch!’” he quoted Gibbs, but with a drawl. “‘Switch!’”
Englehardt’s shoulders had lowered, like those of a bull about to charge.
His fists were clenched.
The skin around his eyes was a dark red.
“‘Live like journalists,?’ ” Fletch quoted. “‘Disgusting.’ ”
Gibbs was assimilating more slowly. Or he was in a complete state of shock.
His face had gone perfectly white, his jaw slack. Standing, he was staring at the floor about two meters in
