nowhere. The people who brought us our biscuits and removed our pails just shrugged and smiled sweetly.
“Three days of this. Have you ever been in such circumstances? It’s an unreasonable thing. And you find yourself reasoning if they can do it for a day, they can do it for a month. Two days, why not a year? Three days, why not keep you in jail the rest of your life?
“I was sure the network would be yelling at the State Department, and the State Department doing whatever one does under such circumstances and, yes, all that was happening. It was a big news item in the United States and Europe. The network made plenty of hay out of it. They pulled their hair and gnashed their teeth on camera; they made life miserable for several people at the State Department. However, they didn’t do whatever was necessary under the circumstances to get us out of jail.
“The afternoon of the fourth day, two men showed up in the corridor between Sarah’s and my cells. One of them was an Albanian national. The other was the chief of the Rome bureau of March Newspapers. You know what he said? He said, ‘How’re ya doin’?’
“Someone unlocked our cells. The two men walked us out of the building, without a word to anyone, and put us, shivering, filthy, stinking into the backseat of a car.
“At the airport the two men shook hands.
“The March Newspapers bureau chief sat in the seat behind us, on the way to Rome, never saying a word.
“At the airport in Rome, all the other passengers were steered into Customs. An Italian policeman took the three of us through a different door, into a reception area, and there, seated in one chair, working from an open briefcase in another chair, was Walter March.
“I had never met him before.
“He glanced up when we came in, got up slowly, closed his briefcase, took it in one hand, and said, ‘All right?’
“He drove us into a hotel in Rome, made sure we were checked in, saw us to a suite, and then left us.
“An hour later, we were overcome by our own network people.
“He must have called them, and told them where we were.
“I didn’t see Walter March again for years. I sent him many full messages of gratitude, I can tell you, but I was never sure if any got through to him. I never had a response.
“When I finally did meet him, at a reception in Berlin, you know what he said? He said, ‘What? Someone was impersonating me in Rome? That happens.’”
Freddie said, “Nice story.”
Crystal said, “It brings a tear to my eye.”
“Saintly old Walter March,” Fletch said. “I’ve got to go, if you’ll all excuse me.”
During dinner he had received a note, delivered by a bellman, written on hotel stationery, with
He had shown the note to no one. (Crystal had expressed curiosity by saying, “For someone unemployed, you sure get interrupted at meals a lot. No wonder you’re slim. When you’re working, you must never get to eat.”)
Eleanor Earles said, “I take it you’ve worked for Walter March?”
“I have,” said Crystal.
“I have,” said Fletch.
Freddie smiled, and said, “No.”
“And he was tough on you?” Eleanor asked.
“No,” said Crystal. “He was rotten to me.”
Fletch said nothing.
Eleanor said, to both of them, “I suspect you deserved it.”
Twenty-five
9:00 P.M.
THERE’S A TIME AND A PLACE FOR HUMOR:
WASHINGTON, NOW
Address by Oscar Perlman
The door to Suite 12 was opened to Fletch by Jake Williams, notebook and pen in hand, looking drawn and harassed.
“Fletcher!”
They shook hands warmly.
Lydia, in a pearl-gray house gown, was standing across the living room, several long pieces of yellow Teletype paper in one hand, reading glasses in the other.
Her pale blue eyes summed up Fletch very quickly and not unkindly.
“Nice to see you again, Fletch,” she said.
Fletch was entirely sure they had never met before.
“We’ll be through in one minute,” she said. “Just some things Jake has to get off tonight.” Leaving Fletch standing there, she put her glasses on her nose and began working through the Teletype sheets, talking to Jake. “I don’t see any reason why we have to run this San Francisco story from A.P. Can’t our own people in San Francisco work up a story for ourselves?”
“It’s a matter of time,” Jake said, making a note.
“Poo,” said Lydia. “The story isn’t going to die in six hours.”
“Six hours?”
“If our people can’t come up with our own story on this within six hours, then we need some new staff in San Francisco, Jake.”
“Mrs. March?” Fletch said.
She looked at him over the frame of her glasses.
“May I use your John?”
“Of course.” She pointed with her glasses. “You have to go through the bedroom.”
“Thank you.”
When he came back to the living room she was sitting on the divan, demitasse service on the coffee table in front of her, not a piece of paper, not even her glasses, in sight.
She said, “Sit down, Fletch.”
He sat in a chair across the coffee table from her.
“Has Jake left?”
“Yes. He has a lot to do. Would you care for some coffee?”
“I don’t use it.”
He was wondering if his marvelous machine was picking up their conversation. He supposed it was.
He wondered what Mrs. March would say if he began singing Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the
“Fletch, I understand you’re not working.”
She was pouring herself coffee.
