Fletch’s Fortune

Twenty-three

6:00 P.M. Cocktails

Amanda Hendricks Room

“Did you have a nice shower?” Freddie asked.

“Thanks for rescuing us. Quite an impasse.”

“Oh, any time. Really, Fletch, you ought to wear a whistle around your neck, for situations of that sort.”

In the Amanda Hendricks Room, Fletch stood with a Chivas Regal and soda in hand, Freddie with a vodka gimlet.

Since he had entered the room, Leona Hatch had been eyeing him curiously.

“And,” asked Freddie, “do you always sing at play?”

“Was I singing?”

“Something of doubtful appropriateness. I believe it was ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee.’ ”

“No, no. For Crystal, I was singing, ‘Nearer, my God! to thee.’”

“Such a happy child.”

Leona Hatch swayed over to Fletch and said, “Don’t I know you?”

She would make it to dinner tonight, but just barely.

“My name’s Fletcher.” He put out his hand. “I. M. Fletcher.”

Leona took his hand uncertainly. “I don’t recognize the name,” she said. “But I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”

“I’ve never worked in Washington.”

“Maybe on one of the presidential campaigns?”

“I’ve never covered one.”

“Funny,” she said. “I have the feeling I know you very well.”

“You probably do,” muttered Freddie. “You probably do.”

Don Gibbs and another man appeared behind Leona Hatch.

Gibbs’ face was highly flushed.

“Fletcher, old man!”

Almost knocking Leona Hatch over—in fact, knocking her hat askew—Don Gibbs, drink in hand, made a clumsy effort to embrace Fletch’s shoulders.

“Ha, ha!” Fletch said. “Ha, ha!”

They remained standing in a circle while Fletch looked into his glass and remained quiet.

Don Gibbs, his face highly decorated with smiles, finally said, “Well, Fletch, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Still looking into his glass, Fletch shrugged. “Oh, I’m sure you all know each other.”

He looked up in time to see an odd flicker in Fredericka Arbuthnot’s left eye.

Leona was resettling her hat on her head at a completely wrong angle.

“Well, I don’t know who they are. Who the hell are they?”

“Oh, Ms. Hatch, I’m sorry,” Fletch said. “This is Donald Gibbs. And this is Robert Englehardt. They work for the Central Intelligence Agency. Ms. Leona Hatch.”

Gibbs’ smile sank down his face, his neck, and disappeared somewhere beneath his shirt collar.

Englehardt, a large man in a loose brown suit, turned white all over his bald head.

Freddie said, “You have the C.I.A. on the brain.”

Fletch shrugged again. “And frankly, Ms. Hatch, I have no idea who this young lady is.”

Englehardt stepped forward and grabbed Leona’s free hand in his paw.

“Delighted to meet you, Ms. Hatch. Mister Gibbs and I are observers at your convention. We’re from the Canadian press. We’re planning a convention of our own, next year, in Ontario.…”

“You don’t sound Canadian,” she said.

“Pip,” said Gibbs. “Pip, pip, pip.”

“Pop,” said Fletch. “Pup.”

“See what I mean?” asked Leona. “Since when have Canadians said ‘pip’?”

Englehardt, the top of his bald head dampish, gave Fletch a killing look.

“And you pronounced the word ‘observers’ wrong, too.” Leona Hatch shook her arm. “Mister, you’re hurting my hand.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Englehardt not only released her hand, but, in doing so, took a step backward, thus tipping Leona Hatch a little forward.

This time, she caught herself.

She said, “A Canadian would have said, ‘I am sorry,’ with the stress on the ‘am.’ A Canadian never would have contracted ‘I’ and ‘am’ in that sentence under those circumstances.”

Don Gibbs had taken several steps backward. He continued to look as if tons of lava were flowing toward him.

Freddie said, “Ms. Hatch, I’m Fredericka Arbuthnot. I work for Newsworld magazine.”

“Nonsense,” sniffed Leona. “No one works for Newsworld magazine.”

“Ah, here’s the beautiful young couple!” Arms extended to embrace the whole world, Helena Williams entered the group. “Hello, Leona. Everything all right?”

Helena looked at Gibbs and Englehardt curiously.

They took several more steps backward.

“Fletch and uh.…” She was looking at Freddie. “I forget your name.”

“So does she,” said Fletch.

“Fredericka Arbuthnot,” she said. “For short, you may call me Ms. Blake.”

“You know, Leona, I offered these young people the Bridal Suite. But they insist They’re not married! What’s the world coming to?”

“Great improvement,” said Leona Hatch. “Great improvement.”

Fletch said, “Helena, I haven’t seen Jake around much.”

“Well, you know. He’s trying to spend as much time with Junior as he can. And with Walter gone.… Well, someone has to make the decisions. Junior isn’t quite up to it yet.” She gave the back of her hair a push. “I’m afraid Jake isn’t enjoying this convention, much. None of us is, I suppose.”

“In case I don’t see Jake, be sure and say hello to him for me,” Fletch said.

Helena put her arms out again, to flap to another group. “I surely will, Fletch.”

There was a hoarse whisper in Fletch’s right ear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Fletch turned, to face Don Gibbs and Robert Englehardt.

He said, “Have you ever tried to lie to someone like Leona Hatch?”

“She’s crocked,” Gibbs said.

“Have you ever tried to lie to someone like Leona Hatch—even when she’s crocked?”

Englehardt was looking exceedingly grim.

“She’d pin your wings to a board in one minute flat,” Fletch said. “In fact, if you noticed, that’s exactly what she did do.”

Crystal Faoni came through a crowd to them, casting quite a bow wave.

“Ms. Crystal Faoni,” Fletch intoned, “allow me to introduce you to Mister Robert Englehardt and Mister Donald Gibbs, both of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Englehardt’s eyes closed and opened slowly.

Gibbs’ sweaty upper lip was quivering.

Crystal said, “Hi.” She turned to Fletch. “I stayed in my room to watch Lewis Graham on the evening news show. You know what he did?”

“You tell me.”

“He did a ninety-second editorial on the theme that people should retire when they say They’re going to, regardless of how much they have to give up, using Walter March as an example.”

“We wrote that for him at lunch,” Fletch said.

“I think we can say we contributed to it.”

“Did he use the same biblical quotes?”

“Identical.”

“Well,” said Fletch, “at least one always knows Lewis Graham’s sources. May I escort you to the dining room, Ms. Faoni?”

“Oh, goody! Will we be the first ones there? I so like having a perfect record, at the things I do.”

“Ms. Faoni,” Fletch said, crossing through the cocktail party, her arm in his. “I’ve just figured something out.”

“Who murdered Walter March?”

“Something much more important than that.”

“What could be more important than that?”

“The reverse. Death in the presence of life; life in the presence of death.”

Crystal said, “Funny the way riddles have always made me hungry.”

“Crystal, darling, this afternoon you were trying to get pregnant.”

Immediately, she said, “Think we succeeded?”

“Oh, Lord.”

“If you remember, I always was very good at math.”

They were in the dining room.

“Crystal, sit down.”

“Oh, nice. He’s taking care of me already.” She sat in the chair he held out for her. “Not to worry, Fletcher.”

“I promise.”

“There’s just no way I can be unemployed nine months from now. Good heavens! I’d starve!”

He was sitting next to her, at the empty, round table. “Crystal, you lost a job before, this way. It’s an unfair world. You said yourself nothing has changed.”

“Oh, yes, it has,” she said. “Walter March is dead.”