(Codington) M.; B.A., Princeton, 1929; m. Lydia Bowen, Oct., 1928; 1 son, Walter Codington March, Jr. March Newspapers, 1929-: treas., 1935; vice-pres., corp. affs., 1941; mergers & acquisitions, 1953; pres., 1957; chmn., pub., 1963-. Dir. March Forests, March Trust, Wildflower League. Mem. Princeton C. (N.Y.C.), American Journalism Alliance, Reed Golf (Palm Springs, Ca.), Mattawan Yacht (N.Y.C.), Simonee Yacht (San Francisco). Office: March Building, 12 Codington Pl New York City NY 10008
MARCH, WALTER CODINGTON, JR., newspaperman; b. N.Y.C., Mar. 12, 1929; s. Walter Codington and Lydia (Bowen) AH.: Princeton, 1941. m. Allison Roup, 1956: children—Allison, Lydia, Elizabeth. March Newspapers, 1950-: treas., 1953; vice-pres., corp. affs., 1968; pres., 1973-. Dir. March Forests, March Trust, Franklin-Williams Museum, N.Y. Symphonia, Center for Deaf Children (Chicago). Mem. American Journalism Alliance, Princeton C. (N.Y.C). Office: March Building, 12 Codington Pl New York City NY 10008
EARLES, ELEANOR (MRS. OLIVER HENRY), journalist; b. Cadmus, Fla., Nov. 8, 1931; d. Joseph and Alma Wayne Molinaro; B.A. Barnard, 1952; m. Oliver Henry Earles, 1958 (d. 1959). Researcher, Life, 1952-54; reporter, N.Y. Post, 1954-58; with Nail. Radio, 1958-61, Eleanor Earles Interviews; Nat’l Television Net.: Eleanor Earles Interviews, 1961-65; with U.B.C., 1965-; Midday Dateline Washington, 1965-67; Gen. Ass’n. Evening News, 1967- 74; Eleanor Earles Interviews, 1974-. Author: Eleanor Earles Interviews, 1966. Recipient Philpot Award, 1961. Dir. O.H.E. Interests, Inc., 1959-. Mem. American Journalism Alliance, Together (Wash., D.C.). Office: U.B.C., UN. Plz New York City NY 10017
Fletch put
Then he went to Room 82 to borrow the cassette tape recorder from the newly laconic Robert McConnell.
Much of the remainder of the morning he spent in his room, splicing tape.
Finished, he placed all the reels of used tape in the envelope (except the one spliced reel he left ready to play in his marvelous machine) and addressed the envelope to Alston Chambers, an attorney he knew in California. Boldly, he marked the envelope: “HOLD FOR I. M. FLETCHER.”
On the way to lunch, Fletch returned McConnell’s tape recorder and mailed the envelope.
Thirty-two
12:30 P.M. Lunch
Captain Andrew Neale was at the luncheon table for six, with Crystal Faoni and, of course, Fredericka Arbuthnot. No Robert McConnell. No Lewis Graham. No Eleanor Earles.
“Has anyone noticed,” Fletch asked, “that anyone who shares a meal with the three of us never returns?”
“It’s because you get along so well with everybody,” Freddie said.
“Whom shall we have for lunch today?” Crystal asked. “Poor Captain Neale. Our next victim.”
Sitting straight in his light, neat jacket, Captain Neale smiled distantly at what was clearly an in-joke.
“You’re not thinking of keeping us all here beyond tomorrow morning, are you?” Crystal asked.
“Tonight, you mean,” said Freddie. “I have to leave on the six-forty-five flight.”
“You’re not keeping us beyond the end of the convention.” Crystal was only passably interested in her fruit salad.
“I don’t see how I can,” Captain Neale said. “Almost everyone here has made a point of telling me how important he or she is. Such a lot of important people. The seas would rumble and nations would crumble if I kept any of you out of circulation for many more minutes than I had to.”
Crystal said to Fletch, “I told you I’d like this guy.”
“Have people been beastly to you?” Freddie, grinning, asked Neale.
“I thought reporters were people who report the news,” Neale said. “The last couple of days, I’ve gotten the impression they are the news.”
“Right,” Crystal said solemnly to her fruit salad. “News does not happen unless a reporter is there to report it.”
“For example,” said Fletch, “if no one had known World War Two was happening.…”
“Actually,” Crystal said, “Hitler without the use of the radio wouldn’t have been Hitler at all.”
“And the Civil War,” said Freddie. “If it hadn’t been for the telegraph.…”
“The geographic center of the American Revolution,” Fletch said, “was identical to the center of the new American printing industry.”
“And then there was Caesar,” Crystal said. “Was he a military genius with pen in hand, or a literary genius with sword in hand? Did Rome conquer the world in reality, or just its communications systems?”
“Weighty matters we discuss at these conventions,” Freddie said.
“Listen,” Crystal said. “You know I take such comments personally. If I had two breakfasts, blame Fletch. Did you try those blueberry muffins this morning?”
“I tried only one of them,” Freddie said.
Crystal said, “The rest of them were good, too.”
Captain Neale was chuckling at their foolishness.
Fletch said to him, “People here have given you a pretty rough time, uh?”
Captain Neale stared at his plate a moment before answering.
“It’s been like trying to sing ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ while your head’s stuck in a beehive.”
“Literary fella,” Crystal told her salad.
“Musical, too,” said Freddie.
“Questioning them, they question me.”
“Reporters ain’t got no humility,” Crystal said.
“When they do answer a question,” Neale continued, “they know exactly how to answer it—for their own sakes. They know exactly how to present facts absolutely to their own benefit—what to reveal, and what to conceal.”
“I suppose so,” said Freddie. “Never thought of it that way.”
“I’d rather be questioning the full bench of the Supreme Court.”
“There are only nine of them,” said Freddie.
Crystal said, “I’d say from reading the press you’ve given away very little. There have been no news-breaks —except for Poynton’s—since the beginning.”
“Poynton’s?” Neale asked.
“Stuart Poynton. You didn’t read him this morning?”
“No,” Neale said. “I didn’t.”
“He said you want to question a man named Joseph Molinaro regarding the murder of Walter March.”
“That was in the newspaper?” asked Neale.
“Who is Joseph Molinaro?” Crystal asked.
Neale smiled. “I suppose you’d like to know.”
“Oh, no,” Crystal said airily. “I’ve just been through a list of those attending the convention, a list of all hotel employees, the voting list in the town of Hendricks, the membership list of the American Journalism Alliance,
“You must be curious,” commented Neale.
