Fletch’s Fortune

“Yes,” Rolly Wisham said. “He would have. But he can’t now. Can he, Eleanor? There are a lot of things he can’t do now. Aren’t there, Eleanor?”

A phone was ringing. Lying on his bed, half-asleep, Fletch wasn’t sure whether the phone was ringing in Eleanor Earles? room, or his own.

“You’re.…”

“Shall I leave the champagne?”

“You know what to do with it.”

“Good night, Eleanor.”

It was Fletch’s own phone ringing.

Twenty-seven

“Ye Olde Listening Poste,” Fletch said.

He had sat up, on the edge of his bed, and thrown the switch on the marvelous machine before answering the phone.

“Hell, I’ve been trying to get you all night.”

“You succeeded. Are you calling from Boston?”

How many hours, days, weeks, months of his life in total had Fletch had to listen to this man’s voice on the phone?

“I’ve never known a switchboard to be so damned screwed up,” Jack Saunders said. “It’s easier to get through to the White House during a national emergency.”

“There’s a convention going on here. And the poor women on the switchboard have to work from only one room information sheet. Are you at the Star?”

Jack had been Fletch’s city editor for more than a year at a newspaper in Chicago.

More recently, they had met in Boston, where Jack was working as night city editor for the Star.

Fletch had even done Jack the minor favor of working a desk for him one night in Boston during an arsonist’s binge.

“Of course I’m at the Star. Would I be home with my god-awful wife if I could help it?”

“Ah,” Fletch said. “The Continuing Romance of Jack and Daphne Saunders. How is the old dear?”

“Fatter, meaner, and uglier than ever.”

“Don’t knock fat.”

“How can you?”

“Got her eyelashes stuck in a freezer’s door lately?”

“No, but she plumped into a door the other night Got the door knob stuck in her belly button. Had to have it surgically removed.” Fletch thought Jack remained married to Daphne simply to make up rotten stories about her. “I saw in the Washington newspaper you’re at the convention. Working for anyone?”

“Just the C.I.A.”

“Yeah. I bet. If you’re at a convention, you must be looking for a job. What’s the matter? Blow all that money you ripped off?”

“No, but I’m about to.”

“I figure you can give me some background on the Walter March murder.”

“You mean the Star doesn’t have people here at the convention?”

“Two of ’em. But if they weren’t perfectly useless, we wouldn’t have sent ’em.”

“Ah, members of the great sixteen-point-seven percent.”

“What?”

“Something a friend said.”

“So how about it?”

“How about what?”

“Briefing me.”

“Why?”

“How about ‘old times’ sake’ as a reason?”

“So I can win another award and you not even tell me but go accept it yourself and make a nice, humble little speech lauding teamwork?”

Such had actually happened.

Saunders said, “I guess technically that would come under the heading of ‘old times’ sake’—in this instance.”

“If I scoop the story, will you offer me a job?”

“I’ll offer you a job anyway.”

“That’s not what I asked. If you get a scoop on this, will you make with a job?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. You want background or gossip at this point?”

“Both.”

“Walter March was murdered,”

“No foolin’.”

“Scissors in the back.”

“Next you’re going to say he fell down dead.”

“You’re always rushing ahead, Jack.”

“Sorry.”

“Take one point at a time.”

“‘Walter March was murdered.’ I’ve written it down.”

“He was murdered here at the convention, where everybody knows him, and a great many people hate him.”

“He’s the elected president.”

“You know that Walter March kept a stable of private detectives on his permanent payroll?”

“Of course I do.”

“His use of them has irritated many people—apparently given many people reason to murder him. In fact, if you believe what you hear around here, dear old saintly Walter March was blackmailing everybody this side of Tibet.”

“Do you know whom he was blackmailing and why?”

“A few. He’s been having Oscar Perlman followed and hounded for years and years now.”

“Oscar Perlman? The humorist?”

“Used to work for March. His column got picked up by a syndicate, and has been running in March’s competing newspapers ever since.”

“That was a thousand years ago.”

“Nevertheless, he’s been hounding Perlman ever since.”

“So why should Perlman stab March at this point, when he hasn’t before?”

“I don’t know. Maybe March’s goons finally came up with something.”

“Oscar Perlman,” Jack Saunders mused. “That would be an amusing trial. It would make great copy.”

“Lydia March says she saw Perlman in the corridor outside their suite immediately after the murder. Walking away.”

“Good. Let’s stick Perlman. Anything for a laugh.”

“None of this is printable, Jack.”