Fletch and the Man Who

“Fletcher…” The voice was horrible. Low. Slow. It almost didn’t sound human. “This is Bill Dieckmann.”

Fletch shook his head to clear it. “Yes, Bill?”

“Help me.”

“What’s the matter, Bill?”

“You said … you’d help me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Fletch, my head. My head. It’s happening again. Worse. I’m scared. I don’t know what …”

“Bill, where are you?”

“Public …”

“Where in the auditorium, Bill?”

“Phones. At the back. By the phones.”

“Bill, look around you. Do you see anyone you know? Bill, is there a cop there?”

“Can’t see. It’s awful. What …?”

“Bill, stay there. I’ll be right there.”

“I’m about to … I don’t know …”

“I’ll be right there, Bill. Don’t do anything. Just stand there. I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

34

Fletch revolved through the hotel’s front door, saw the street in front of the hotel was empty, and revolved back into the lobby. He hurried across to the desk clerk.

“How do I get a taxi around here?”

“Just have to wait for one, I guess,” was the solution of the young man behind the desk. “They come by.”

“I’m in a big hurry,” Fletch said.

The young man shrugged. “There’s no one to call. This is a regular big city. Have to take your chances.”

“Where’s Public Auditorium?”

“Up eight blocks.” The young man waved north. “Over three blocks.” He waved east. “You need a taxi.”

“Thanks.”

Fletch hit the revolving door so hard it spun him into the street. The area was as devoid of taxis as a cemetery at midnight. He looked at his watch. With the side of his hand he chopped himself in the stomach. His muscles were tight. “I’ll race you,” he said to himself.

He began running north on the sidewalk. Jacob, make the horse go faster and faster If it ever stops, we won’t be able to sell it. Within three blocks of this “regular big city,” accumulations of snow caused him to run in the street. The surface of the street was wet and there were icy patches. It was a raw night. He was sweating. He was glad he didn’t have an overcoat. Five murders, not three … There were no taxis anywhere in the streets. An old car clanking tire chains came down the street behind him. Waving as he ran backward, Fletch tried to get the car to stop, pick him up. The driver swung wide of Fletch.

At the end of the eighth block, Fletch turned east. Ahead of him he could see a block brightly lit. “There is the possibility someone is doing this to sabotage the campaign,” the governor had said. At the corner, Fletch jumped over a mound of snow. His left foot slipped landing on the ice. His ankle twinged with pain. “Someone’s a nut,” Lee Allen Parke had said.

The brightly lit Public Auditorium entrance was bedecked with bunting.

CAXTON WHEELER FOR PRESIDENT.

Many, many people were standing on the sidewalk and street outside the auditorium.

Those standing nearest the door wore fire department and police department uniforms.

Fletch squeezed through the crowds on the steps to the main door.

As Fletch was reaching for the door handle, a man in a fire department suit grabbed his elbow. “You can’t go in there.”

“Got to,” Fletch panted.

“Fire marshal’s orders. The hall is beyond capacity now.”

“Matter of life and death,” Fletch said.

“That’s right,” said the fireman.

Taking a deep breath, Fletch reached for his wallet. “Name’s Fletcher. I’m Governor Wheeler’s press secretary. I’ve got to get in.”

The fireman did not look at Fletch’s identification. “Right now we wouldn’t let Wheeler himself in there.”

“Someone’s sick in there,” Fletch said. “A reporter. Dangerously sick. Let me go get him out. That way you’d be ahead in numbers by one.”

“Let someone else bring him out.” The fireman began to restrain an old lady with yellow berries on her black hat. “That way we’ll be ahead in numbers by two.”

There wasn’t much light in the alley beside the auditorium. Mounds of dirty snow and ice ran along the base of both walls. Through the old brick walls and the auditorium leaked the sounds of a brass band. People were cheering and stomping.

The humidity made Fletch’s breath cloud the air in front of his face.

Halfway down the alley was a fire escape. The bottom ladder of the fire escape was balanced with weights to keep its bottom step four meters off the ground. Stepped on from above, the bottom of the ladder would lower to the ground.

Fletch knew he couldn’t jump that high, but he knew he could try.

He ran on the uneven, slippery pavement as well as he could. He jumped not very high at all. He slipped. He lowered his hands toward the pavement. He skidded. His head smashed into an orange crate filled with garbage.

An empty tomato sauce can fell from the crate onto the alley. Fletch kicked the can away. It bounced off the opposite wall and landed noiselessly in the snow.

He picked up the crate and turned it over. Grapefruit skins, eggshells, bones poured over his shoes. He placed the crate upside down under the fire escape. He climbed onto the crate, jumped straight up from it, reaching his hand for the bottom rung. Coming down, his feet crashed through the orange crate. He found himself standing on the pavement again, his left ankle twinging again. He was wearing wood around the calves of his legs.

“Ummm,” Fletch said. “Man can’t fly.”

The alley at the side of the auditorium was broad enough for a truck to go through. It was clear that rubbish trucks sometimes, but not frequently, did go through.

“Matters not,” Fletch said. “Man has brain.”

Running back and forth, Fletch collected enough barrels, crates, boxes to stack into a stairway to the fire escape.

He climbed his stairway rapidly, as each stair gave way as he stepped on it.

He finally knelt on the bottom rung of the fire escape. Creaking, it lowered him back into the mess he had made in the alley.

It swayed as he ran up it.

Halfway up the fire escape was a metal fire door. There was no handle on the outside, of course. Not even a keyhole. Metal strips along the edges of the door covered the jamb.

“Man has brain,” Fletch said.

The fire escape rose from this central landing. Fletch ran up it.

At the top was a smaller landing and one window. Thick, frosted glass, veined with the wires of an alarm system. Locked, of course.

He kicked in the window with his heel. Eggshell went onto the broken window; glass onto his shoe.

The alarm bell went off. It sounded like a school bell, more angry than loud. Inside the building the brass band was playing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The crowd was chanting “Wheel along with Wheeler! Wheel along with Wheeler! Wheel along with Wheeler!” Under the circumstances, Fletch expected the alarm bell to attract as much attention as the usual school bell.

He kicked a big hole in the little window and pushed the wires aside with the sleeve of his jacket. Pointing