“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.”
Fletch let the next question hang silent in the air.
Poynton sat back in his chair. “’Pending on what you come up with, of course—when I get back to New York —well, maybe I could use another legman.”
“‘Maybe’?”
“The three I have are pretty well-known. Which is why I can’t bring them in here. Everyone in the business knows who they are. In fact, they’ve about served their purpose.”
“Hell of an offer,” Fletch said.
Poynton glanced at him nervously.
“Legman for Walter Poynton. Wow!”
“Stuart,” said Stuart Poynton.
Fletch looked at him, puzzled.
“‘Course, I’d pick up your expenses here at the convention, too,” Poynton said, “ ’cause you’d be working for me.” Poynton turned full-face to Fletch. “What do you say. Will you do it?”
“You bet.”
“You will?”
“Sure.”
“Shake on it.” Poynton held out his hand, and they shook. “Now,” he said, reclasping his hands, “what have you got so far?”
“Not much,” Fletch said. “I haven’t really been working.”
“Come on,” Poynton said. “Reporter’s instincts.…”
“Just arrived yesterday.…”
“Must have heard a few things.…”
“Well… of course.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I heard something funny about the desk clerk.”
“The desk clerk here at the hotel?”
“Yeah. Seems Walter March got very angry when he arrived. Desk clerk made some fresh crack at Mrs. March. March took his name and said he was going to report him to the manager in the morning.… Someone said the clerk’s pretty heavily in debt. You know—the horses.”
“That would tie in with the scissors,” Poynton said.
“What scissors?”
“The scissors,” Poynton said. “The scissors found in Walch March’s back. They came from the reception desk in the lobby.”
“Wow!” said Fletch.
“Also the timing of the murder.”
“What do you mean?”
“The clerk would have to nail March before he left his room in the morning. Before the hotel manager arrived at work. Before March had a chance to report the clerk to the manager.”
“Hey,” Fletch said. “That’s right!”
“Another thing,” Poynton said. “There’s been the question of how anyone got into the suite to murder March in the first place.”
Fletch said, “I don’t get you.”
“The desk clerk!” Poynton said. “He’d have the key.”
“Wow,” Fletch said. “Right!”
Again the nervous glance from Poynton.
“Sounds worth investigating,” he said. “See what you can dig up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Three youngsters were throwing something into the pool and then diving after it.
“I heard something else,” Poynton said.
“Oh? What?”
“Ronny Wisham.”
Fletch said, “You mean Rolly Wisham?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Must be the noise from the pool.”
“Seems Walch March had started an editorial campaign to get this Wisham character fired from the network, and ordered March newspapers coast-to-coast to follow up.”
“Really? Why would he do that?”
“Apparently this Wisham is one of these bleeding-heart reporters. An advocate journalist.”
“Yeah.”
Rolly Wisham did features for one of the networks, and they were usually on Society’s downside—prisoners, mental patients, migrant workers, welfare mothers. He always ended his reports saying, “This is Rolly Wisham, with love.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Fletch.
“March thought he was unprofessional. As President of the A.J.A. he wanted Ronny Wisham drummed out of journalism.”
“That would be a motive for murder, all right,” Fletch said. “Walter March could have succeeded in a campaign like that—to get rid of someone.”
“Jack Williams confirmed last night that these articles were going to run. Then there’d be an incessant campaign against this Ronny Wisham character.”
“And these articles are not going to run now?”
“No. Jack Williams feels beatin’ up on somebody like Ronny Wisham would result in a sort of bad image for Walch March.”
“I see,” said Fletch. “Very clear.”
Freddie Arbuthnot appeared around the hedge.
She was wearing tennis whites and carrying a racket.
“Williams said he was sure the other managing editors in the chain would feel the same way.”
“Sure,” said Fletch.
Poynton saw Freddie approaching them, and stood up.
“See what you can dig up,” he said.
