“Maybe you should have been.”
“Did you steal the money in this country?”
“Yup.”
“How did you get the money out of the country?”
“Flew it out. In a chartered jet.”
“My God. That’s terribly criminal.”
“Why does my not paying taxes and illegally exporting money bother you more than the fact I stole the money in the first place?”
“Really!”
Fletch said, “Just an observation.”
Fletch picked up the phone and dialed Room 82.
“Bob? This is your friend Fletcher.”
There was a long pause before Robert McConnell said, “Oh, yeah. Hi.”
“Crystal tells me you have a cassette tape recorder with a tape splicer attachment.”
“Uh. Yes.”
“Wonder if I might borrow it for a few hours?”
Robert McConnell was envisioning his sensitive parts tied to a cathedral door if he said no. Dear Crystal.
“Uh. Sure.”
“That’s great, Bob. You going to be in your room?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be by in a few minutes.” Fletch started to hang up, but then he said into the receiver, “Bob, I appreciate. Let me buy you a drink.”
The only response was a click.
I.R.S. said, “Mister Fletcher, I hope you realize what you’ve admitted here.”
“What’s that?”
“That you stole money, illegally exported it from the country, failed to report it as income to the Internal Revenue Service, and have never filed a federal tax return in your life.”
“Oh, that. Sure.”
“Are you insane?”
“Just esthetic. Those tax forms….”
“Mister Fletcher, you seem to be signing yourself up for a long stretch in prison.”
“Yeah. Okay. Make it somewhere South. I really don’t like cold weather. Even if I have to be indoors.”
There was a knock on his door.
“Have I answered your questions satisfactorily?” Fletch asked.
“For a start.” I.R.S. was returning things to his attache case. “I can’t believe my ears.”
Fletch opened the door to a bellman.
“Telegrams, sir. Two of them.” He handed them over. “You weren’t in your room earlier, sir.”
“And sliding them under the door, you would have lost your tip. Right?”
The bellman smiled weakly.
“You’ve lost your tip anyway.”
Fletch closed the door before opening the first telegram:
GENERAL KILENDER ARRIVING HENDRICKS FOR BRONZE STAR PRESENTATION MID-AFTERNOON— LETTVTN.
I.R.S. was standing in his droopy drawers, attache case firmly in hand, staring at Fletch incredulously.
He came toward the door.
The second telegram said:
BOAC FLIGHT 81 WASHINGTON AIRPORT TO LONDON NINE O’CLOCK TONIGHT RESERVATION YOUR NAME. WILL BE AT BOAC COUNTER SEVEN-THIRTY ON TO RECEIVE TAPES—FABENS AND EGGERS.
At the door, I.R.S. said, “Mister Fletcher, I must order you not to leave Hendricks, not to leave Virginia, and certainly not to leave the United States.”
Fletch opened the door for him.
“Wouldn’t think of it”
“You’ll be hearing from us shortly.”
“Always nice doing business with you.”
As I.R.S. walked down the corridor, Fletch waved good-bye at him—with the telegrams.
Thirty-one
9:30 A.M.
PROBLEMS WITH FOREIGN CORRESPONDENCE:
On Renting a House in Nigeria,
Finding a School For Your Kids in Singapore,
Getting a Typewriter Fixed in Spain,
and Other Problems
Address by Dixon Hodge
10:30 A.M.
WHAT TIME IS IT IN BANGKOK?: An Editor’s View
Address by Cyrus Wood
[11:00 A.M. Memorial Service for Walter March]
11:30 A.M.
THE PLACING OF FOREIGN CORRESPONDENTS:
Pago Pago’s Cheaper, but the Story’s in Tokyo
Address by Horsch Aldrich
Fletch had a shower, swam a few laps in the pool, dressed, and went to the hotel’s writing room, next to the billiards room at the back of the lobby.
On a bookshelf near the fireplace was a copy of
Fletch had learned the habit a long time before of researching the people with whom he was dealing, through whatever resources were within reach.
Sometimes the most simple checking of names and dates could be most revealing:
MARCH, WALTER CODINGTON, publisher; b. Newport, R.I., July 17, 1907; s. Charles Harrison and Mary
