an accomplishment speeches, and he did. But he also took the occasion to announce his retirement. He said he was sixty-five and he had instituted and enforced the retirement age of sixty-five throughout the company and although he understood better how people felt reaching sixty-five, being forced to retire, when he felt in the prime of his life, years of experience behind him, years of energy ahead of him, wasted, blah, blah, he was no exception to his own rules, he was retiring himself.”
“I guess, ultimately, he considered himself an exception to his own rules,” Freddie said.
“He always did,” said Lewis Graham.
“He even said he was having his boat brought around to San Diego and was looking forward to sailing the South Pacific with wife of umpty-ump years, Lydia. He painted quite a picture. Sailing off into the sunset, hand in hand with his childhood sweetheart, sitting on his poop or whatever it is yachts have.”
“He owned a big catamaran, didn’t he?” Freddie asked.
“A trimaran,” said Lewis Graham. “Three hulls. I chartered it once.”
“You did?” Fletch said.
“A few years ago. The
“What happened?” Fletch said. “Boat spring a leak?”
Lewis Graham shrugged.
“I don’t see anything unusual in this,” Freddie Arbuthnot said. “Lots of people get cold feet when it comes time to retire.”
Fletch said, “Did he say when he was going to retire, Crystal? I mean, did he give any definite time?”
“In six months. The new plant was opened in December, and I clearly remember his saying he and Lydia were westward-hoing in June.”
“He was definite?”
“Definite. I reported it. We all did. It’s in the files. ‘WALTER MARCH ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT’. And he said the greatest joy of his life was that he was leaving March Newspapers in good hands.”
“Whose?” Freddie asked.
Crystal said, “Guess.”
“The little bastard,” Lewis Graham said. “Junior.”
“I saw him this morning,” Crystal said. “In the elevator. Boy, does he look awful. Dead eyes staring out of a white face. You’d think he’d died, instead of his father.”
“Understandable,” said Fletch.
“Junior looked like he was going somewhere to lie down quietly in a coffin,” Crystal said. “Everyone in the elevator was silent.”
“So,” Fletch said, “why didn’t Walter March retire when he said he was going to? Is that the question?”
“Because,” Lewis Graham said, “the bastard wanted to be President of the American Journalism Alliance. That’s the simple reason. He wanted it badly. I can tell you how badly he wanted it.”
Graham saw the three of them staring at him again, realized how forcefully he had spoken, and relaxed in his chair.
He said, “I’m just saying he wanted to cap his career with the presidency of the A.J.A. He spoke to me about it years ago. He was canvassing for support, eight, ten years ago.”
“Did you offer him your support?” Fletch asked.
“Of course I did. Then. He had a few years to go before retirement, and I had a whole decade. Then.”
The waiter was pouring the coffee.
“Two or three times,” Lewis Graham continued, “he got his name placed in nomination. I never did. And he never won.” Graham pushed the coffee cup away from him. “Until last year. Both our names were placed in nomination.”
“I see,” Fletch said.
“Well,” Graham said, “I don’t have the advantage Walter March had—I don’t own my own network.” Graham looked a little abashed. “I have to retire the first of this year. There’s no way I can hang on.”
Crystal said, “And the A.J.A. bylaws say our officers have to be working journalists.”
“Right,” Graham said with surprising bitterness. “Not retired journalists.”
“Is that why you stopped considering Walter March a friend?” asked Freddie. “Because you opposed each other in an election?”
“Oh, no,” said Graham. “I’m an old man, now, with much experience. Especially political. There are very few things in the course of elections I haven’t seen. I’ve witnessed some very dirty campaigns, in my time.” Graham deferred to the younger people at the table. “I guess we all have. One just never expects to be the victim of such a campaign.”
A bellman was having Fletch pointed out to him by the headwaiter.
Graham said, “I guess you all know Walter March kept a whole barnyard full of private detectives?”
Crystal, Freddie, Fletch said nothing.
Graham sat back in his chair.
“End of story,” he said.
The bellman was standing next to Fletch’s chair.
“Telephone, Mister Fletcher,” he said. “Would you come with me?”
Fletch put down his napkin and rose from his seat.
“I wouldn’t bother you, sir,” the bellman said, “except they said it’s the Pentagon calling.”
Eighteen
“One moment, sir. Major Lettvin calling.”
Fletch had been led to a wall phone down the corridor from the entrance to the dining room.
Leaving the dining room, he had seen (and ignored) Don Gibbs.
Through the plate glass window at the end of the corridor, a couple of meters away, he could see the midday sunlight shimmering on the car tops in the parking lot.
“How do,” the Major said. “Do I have the honor of addressing Irwin Maurice Fletcher?”
The drawl was thicker than Mississippi mud.
“Right,” said Fletch.
“Veteran of the United States Marine Corps?”
“Yes.”
“Serial Number 1893983?”
“It was. I retired it. Anyone can use it now.”
“Well, sir, some sharp-eyed old boy here in one of our clerical departments, reading about that murder in the newspaper, you know, what’s his name? where you at?”
The drawl was so steeped in courtesy everything sounded like a question.
After a moment, Fletch said, “Walter March.”
“Walter March. Say, you’re right in the middle of things again, aren’t ya?”
Fletch said, “Middle of lunch, actually.”
“Anyway, this here sharp-eyed old boy—he’s from Tennessee—I suspect he was pretty well-known around home for shooting off hens’ teeth at a hundred meters—well, anyway, reading this story in the newspaper about Walter March’s murder, he spotted your name?”
Again, it sounded like a question.
Fletch said, “Yes.”
“Say, you aren’t a suspect or anything in this murder, are ya?”
“No.”
