Fletch’s Fortune

Eight

AMERICAN JOURNALISM ALLIANCE

Walter March, President

SCHEDULE OF EVENTS

Hendricks Plantation

Hendricks, Virginia

Monday

6:30 P.M. Welcoming Cocktail Party

Amanda Hendricks Room

“Hi,” Fletch said cheerfully. He had stuck his head around the corner of the hotel’s switchboard.

Behind him, across the lobby, people were gathering in the Amanda Hendricks Room.

The telephone operator nearer him said, “You’re not supposed to be in here, sir.”

Both operators looked as startled as rabbits caught in a flashlight beam.

“I’m just here to pick up the sheet,” he said.

“What sheet?”

He popped his eyes.

“The survey sheet. You’re supposed to have it for me.”

The further operator had gone back to working the switchboard.

“The sheet for us to take the surveys.”

“Helen, do you know anything about a survey sheet?”

The other operator said, “Hendricks Plantation. Good evening.”

“You know,” Fletch said. “From Information. The sheet that says who’s in which room. Names and room numbers. For us to take the surveys.”

“Oh,” the girl said.

She looked worriedly at the sheet clipped onto the board in front of her.

“Yeah,” Fletch squinted at it. “That’s the one.”

“But that’s mine,” she said.

“But you’re supposed to have one for me,” he said.

She said, “Helen, do we have another one of these sheets?”

Helen said, “I’m sorry, sir. That room does not answer.”

Fletch said, “She has another one.”

“But I need mine,” the girl said.

“You can Xerox hers.”

“We can’t leave the switchboard. It’s much too busy.”

She connected with a flashing light. “Hendricks Plantation. Good evening.”

“Give me yours,” Fletch said. Helpfully, he slipped it out of its clip. “I’ll Xerox it.”

“I think the office is locked,” she whispered. “I’ll ring, sir.”

“All you have to do is move Helen’s.” He reached over and put Helen’s information sheet between them. “And you can both see it.”

The operator said, “I’m sorry, sir, but a cocktail reception is going on here, and I don’t think many people are in their rooms.”

Helen scowled angrily at him, as she said, “The dining room is open for breakfast at seven o’clock, sir.”

“Tell me.” Fletch was looking at the sheet in his hands. “Lydia March and Walter March, Junior, aren’t still in the suite Walter March died in this morning, are they?”

“No,” the operator said. “They’ve been moved to Suite 12.”

“Thanks.” Fletch waved the telephone information sheet at them. “ ’Preciate it.”