her son was dead or alive.
Thirty-six
“Good afternoon. The Boston
“Jack Saunders, please.”
Fletch had gone directly to Room 102—Crystal Faoni’s room—and banged on the door.
Tired and teary, she opened the door.
Fletch guessed that, badly upset by her experience of trying to breathe life into a dead man—into a dead Walter March, Junior—Crystal had been napping fully clad on her bed in the dark room.
“Wake up,” Fletch said. “Cheer up.”
“Really, Fletch, at this moment I’m not sure I can stand your relentless cheer.”
He entered her room while she still held onto the doorknob.
He pulled the drapes open.
“Close the door,” he said.
She sighed. And closed the door.
“What’s the best way to get a job in the newspaper business?” he asked.
She thought a moment. “I suppose have a story no one else has. A real scoop. Is this another game?”
“I’ve got a story for you,” he said. “A real scoop. And, maybe, if we work it right, a job in Boston with Jack Saunders.”
“A job for me?”
“Yes. Sit down while I explain.”
“Fletch, I don’t need a story from you. I can get my own story. Amusing lad though you are, I sort of resent the idea I need to get a story from you or from anyone else.”
“You’re talking like a woman.”
“You noticed.”
“Why are you talking like a woman?”
“Because you’re talking like a man? You come bounding in here, offering to give me a story, arrange a job for me, as if I were someone who has to be taken care of, as if you, The Big He, are the source of The Power and The Glory Forever and Ever. Ah, men!”
“Golly, you speak well,” Fletch said. “You just make that up?”
“Just occasionally, Fletch, you have problems with male chauvinism. I’ve mentioned it to you.”
“Yes, you have.”
“I know you try hard to correct yourself and better yourself but, Fletcher, darling, remember there can be no end to the self-improvement bit.”
“Thank you. Now may we get on to the matter at hand?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I’m not accepting a story from you. I’m not accepting a job from you. I wouldn’t even accept dinner from you.”
“What?”
“Well. Maybe I’d accept dinner.”
After his ride into the hills to find Joseph Molinaro and his long walk back, Fletch was feeling distinctly chilled by Crystal’s air conditioner.
“Crystal, do you think this is the way Bob McConnell would respond to such an offer from me?”
“No.”
“Stuart Poynton?”
“Of course not.”
“Tim Shields?”
“They’re not women.”
“They’re also not friends.”
He popped his eyes at her.
She looked away.
Neither of them had sat down.
He said, “Do you mind if I turn down your air-conditioning?”
“Go ahead.”
“Can a man and woman be friends?” he asked.
He found the air conditioner controls. They had been set to HIGH. He turned them to LOW.
“Are friends people who consider each other?” he asked.
She said, “I can get my own story.”
“Do you know Lydia March killed herself?” he asked.
“No.”
“Do you know she killed her husband?”
“No.”
“Do you know that the shooting this afternoon was not an unsuccessful attempt on the life of the Vice- President, but a successful attempt on the life of Walter March, Junior?”
“No.”
“Do you know who killed Walter March, Junior?”
“No. But I can find out. Why are you telling me all this?”
“You can’t find out in time to scoop everyone else and get a job with Jack Saunders on the Boston
“If you know all this, why don’t you use it? You haven’t got a job either.”
“I’m working on a book, Crystal. In Italy. On Edgar Arthur Tharp, Junior.”
“Oh, yeah.? She fiddled around the room, continuing to look unwell. “You don’t have to give me anything.”
“Crystal, I have to get on a plane in a couple of hours. I can’t afford to miss it. I can’t do the follow-ups on this story. Now will you sit down?”
“Is all this true?” she asked. “What you just said? Did Lydia March kill herself?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die in a cellarful of Walter March’s private detectives. Will you listen, please?”
She sat in a light chair.
At first, clearly, part of her mind was still on the terrace, kneeling over Walter March’s son, trying to breathe life into him; clearly, another part of her mind was still wondering why Fletch was insisting on giving her the biggest story of the year, of her career.…
“You’re not listening,” Fletch said. “Please. You’ve got to be able to phone this story in pretty soon.”
Gradually, as her attention focused on what he was saying, her eyes widened, color came back to her cheeks, her back straightened.
Then she began saying, “Fletch, you can’t know this.”
“I’m giving you much more background than you need, just so you’ll believe me.”
“But there is no way you could know all this. It’s not humanly possible.”
“Not all my methods are human,” he said.
And she would say, “Fletch, are you sure?”
And she would repeat, “Fletch, how do you know all this?”
“I have a marvelous machine.”
