Fletch and the Man Who (18 page)

“Any kids?”

“Grown. They were devastated. Who was their mother to get stabbed? A nice little person.”

“Did they ever catch the guy who did it?”

“A man was seen running away carrying a purse. Maybe she had fifty dollars in the purse. I doubt that much. He didn’t steal the new tablecloth she had just bought. The whole thing was unnecessary. We already had a tablecloth.”

“I dunno,” Fletch said. “I’m real sorry for you, man.”

“It’s not that.” Ira waved his hand in front of his face. “It’s just that every time I hear of one of these murders—women getting killed—just stirs the whole thing up again.”

“Sure.”

“Jeez. You can’t come down to breakfast without hearing about some woman getting killed down the corridor.”

“What do you mean?” Fletch asked.

“You didn’t hear? Some reporter you must have been. A chambermaid got killed last night. Strangled.”

“In this hotel?”

“Yeah. The kitchen help found her when they came in this morning. At four o’clock. In a service elevator. Two nights ago was it?—a woman gets pushed off the roof of the motel we were in. I don’t know. We go through this whole election process as if we were civilized human beings. What good does it do? It’s just a big pretense that we’re civilized.”

Fletch wanted to say,
Wait a minute
….

“What’s the matter with you?” Ira asked. “Now
you
look sick. What happened to your tan? Didn’t know it was the kind you could rub off. Better take some of my coffee.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Take it. You look like your heart just sat down and took off its shoes.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. Have some coffee. No good for me anyway. My doctor says it makes me nervous.”

“You all right, Fletch?” Betsy Ginsberg asked. She was standing in the hotel lobby outside the coffee shop.

“Sure.”

“You look white.”

“Just saw Paul Szep’s editorial cartoon.” In fact, he had. Roy Filby had showed it to him at the coffee shop’s cash register. “So how do you like Walsh,” Fletch tried to ask easily, “now that you know him?”

Michael J. Hanrahan went by into the coffee shop. He grinned/grimaced at Fletch and held up three fingers.

Fletch ignored him.

Betsy returned the question. “What do you really think of Walsh?”

“He’s a cool guy,” Fletch answered. “Forgiving, reassuring, absolutely competent. Totally in control.”

“I don’t know,” Betsy said.

“So he didn’t fall all over you,” Fletch said. “Think of the position he’s in.”

The Man Who was getting off the elevator. The eyes of everyone in the lobby were attracted to him. He was smiling.

People intercepted him as he crossed the lobby. Several had children
by the hands. A few snapped pictures of The Man Who, as if the world were not being nearly saturated with pictures of him. The Man Who was shaking hands, listening briefly, speaking briefly, as he came across the lobby. He patted some of the children on their heads. He did not take coins from their ears.

Fletch walked close beside him. Quietly he said, “We’ve got to talk. Privately. Soon.”

“Sure,” the governor said. “What’s up?”

Into the governor’s ear, Fletch said, “Ira Lapin tells me another young woman has been murdered.”

The governor reached through the mob, went out of his way to shake a bellman’s hand.

With his public grin on his face, the governor spoke almost through his teeth. “Two people in the United States are murdered every hour, Fletch. Didn’t you know that?”

“Talk,” Fletch said.

“Sure, sure.”

“I’m glad you asked me that question.” Sitting behind Flash in the rented black sedan, Governor Wheeler’s eyes twinkled at Fletch sitting in the front passenger seat. Sitting behind Fletch, Lansing Sayer had just asked some general question about the “New Reality” speech The Man Who had delivered in Winslow the day before. Sayer had a tape recorder going and also was working a pen and notebook. “I guess I made a rather sweeping statement.”

It was a raw, bone-chilling day with a heavy sky. Flash had the car heater on high.

“Senator Upton says you’re proposing a technocracy,” Lansing said.

“I’m not proposing anything,” the governor said. “I’m simply making an observation.”

Fletch remembered James’s advice that when he thought the candidate was about to say something profound and statesmanlike he ought to stick a glove in his mouth.

“Just observe,” the governor said slowly, thoughtfully, “what technology is getting the major share of the governments’ attention. Advanced weaponry. Machines of death and destruction. Do you realize
what a single tank costs these days? A fighter aircraft? An aircraft carrier? I don’t just mean our government. I mean all governments. Some governments are exporting weaponry at a high rate; others are importing at a high rate; some do both. The technology upon which almost all governments concentrate is the technology of weaponry. Advanced bows and arrows.”

It was true: Flash drove slowly. He hugged the right lane of the city’s main street and proceeded at only slightly better than a pedestrian’s pace. Fletch had been in funeral processions that went faster.

“At the same time,” the governor continued, at about the same pace as the car, “over the earth has been spreading a communications system that does or can reach into every hovel, capable of collecting and dispersing information instantaneously. An amazing technology, for the most part developed by free enterprise, private business— particularly the entertainment business.

“Through this technology, the people of this earth are beginning to recognize each other, know each other, and realize their commonality of interest.

“This technology is far more powerful, and far more positive I might add, than the thermonuclear bomb.”

It was hardly noticeable when the car came to a full stop, but, indeed, they were stopped at a red light. The people crossing the street in front of the car had no idea they were so close to a leading presidential candidate. They were all hurrying someplace, to work, to shop. None looked in the car. And none knew what was being discussed in that black sedan.

“Governments lie now, and all the people know it. A government runs a phony election, and all the people of the world witness it. Governments put on brushfire wars now for some diplomatic or ideologic reason, and all the world see themselves being maimed and killed.”

Lansing Sayer dropped his hands, his pen and notebook in his lap, and said, “I don’t know what all this is about.”

Flash had taken off his gloves and dropped them on the seat beside Fletch.

The car oozed forward again.

“I’m talking about the gathering and dissemination of information,” the governor said, “instead of weapons.”

Lansing said, “Graves stated that in your speech yesterday, you seemed to be disparaging—among other ideologies—Christianity, Judaism, and democracy.”

“I don’t disparage ideas at all,” the governor said. “I’m having one, am I not?”

“You said technology is tying this world together, integrating the people of this world, in a way no ideology ever has or ever could.”

“Isn’t that true? We’re all brothers in the Bible. We’re all comrades under Marxism. But it is through our increased factual awareness of each other that we’re discovering our common humanity as a reality.”

Lansing Sayer wasn’t getting much into his notebook.

“Am I wrong to think that most of the bad things that happen on this earth happen because people don’t have the right facts at the right time? It’s all very well to believe something. You can go cheering to war over what you believe. You can starve to death happily over what you believe. But would wars ever happen if everybody had the same facts? There is no factual basis for starvation on this earth,” Governor Caxton Wheeler said softly. “Not yet, there isn’t.”

“It’s the interpretation of facts that counts,” Lansing Sayer said.

“Facts are facts,” said The Man Who. “I’m not talking about faith, belief, opinions. I’m talking about facts. How come most children in this world know Pele’s every move playing soccer, know every line of Muhammad Ali’s face, and yet this same technology has not been used to teach them the history of their own people, or how to read and write their own language? How come a bank in London can know, up to the minute, how much money a bank in New York has, to the penny, but a kid in Liverpool who just had his teeth bashed out doesn’t know three thousand years ago a Greek analyzed gang warfare accurately? How come the governments of this world know where every thermonuclear missile is, on land, under land, on sea, under sea, and yet this technology has never been used for the proper allocation of food? Is that a dumb question?”

“You’re saying, regarding technology, governments are looking in the wrong direction.”

“I’m saying governments are out of date in their thinking. They’ve been developing negative technology, rather than positive technology. You have to believe something, only if you don’t know. We now have the capability to know everything.”

Lansing Sayer looked at the governor. “What has this to do with the presidential campaign? Are these ideas of yours going to be implemented in some kind of a political program?”

And the governor looked through the car window. “Well… we’re having international meetings on arms control. We have had for decades now, while arms have proliferated through this world like the plague. Translating this observation into policy …” In the front seat Fletch again was amazed at how simply issues were raised and answered on a political campaign, how naturally problems were stated and policy formulated. “… I think it’s time we started working toward international understandings regarding the use and control of this technology,” The Man Who said. “Obviously no one—no political, religious, financial group—should have control of too large a section of this technology. Consider this.” The governor smiled at Lansing Sayer. “Electronically, a complete polling of a nation’s people, a complete plebiscite, can take place within seconds. Where is the time needed for the people to reflect? Maybe there should be an international understanding, agreement, that such a plebiscite is to be used only as an advisory to a government, but does not give a government authority to act.”

The car was going up the hill to the hospital.

“Great,” the governor said. “Easily accessible hospital. Good roads leading to it. That’s good.”

Lansing Sayer took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead.

“Flash will take you back to the hotel,” the governor said to Lansing Sayer, “then come back and pick us up. I have to make a television tape after this.”

Lansing Sayer asked, “Is this what your campaign is about, Governor? Shifting governmental interest from bombs to communication?”

“Bombs are a damned bad way to communicate,” The Man Who said. “Deafen people.”

The car stopped. The governor was leaving the car through the back door.

Lansing Sayer leaned over. “Governor! May I report this is what your campaign is about? Coming to international understandings regarding the new technology?”

Governor Caxton Wheeler looked back inside the car at Lansing
Sayer. He grinned. He said: “Presidential campaigns ought to be about
something
.”

Walking from the car to the hospital entrance, where administrators were waiting to greet him, Governor Caxton Wheeler chuckled and said to Fletch, “You know, sir, I’m beginning to
want
to be President of the United States!”

“Ah!” The concerned, consoling expression fell off the governor’s face when he saw the only one present in the private hospital room was I. M. Fletcher. The door behind the governor swung shut. “And what are you in hospital for?”

“Anxiety,” Fletch answered. “Acute.”

“I’m sure they’ll have you fixed up and home in no time.”

While the governor had toured the happier wards of the hospital— maternity, general surgery, pediatrics (he was kept away from intensive care and the terminal section)—Fletch had arranged with a hospital administrator to have the governor shown into an unoccupied private room. His excuse had been the governor’s need to use the phone.

More seriously, the governor asked, “What are you so anxious about? What’s up?”

“Hanrahan wrote his usual muscular piece for this morning’s
Newsbill
. ” Fletch took the tabloid’s front page and two of its inside pages from his jacket pocket and handed them to the governor. “I want you to see what all this looks like in print.”

Standing near the window, the governor glanced through the pages.
“So? Who cares about
Newsbill?
They once reported I had been married before. As a law student.”

“I’m afraid Hanrahan has a point. In the third paragraph.”

The governor read aloud: “Campaign officials even refuse to state they have no knowledge of the women or of their murders….”

He handed the pages from
Newsbill
back to Fletch. “How are we supposed to comment on something we don’t know about?”

“Plus there was a woman murdered at the hotel last night. A chambermaid. Strangled. So Ira Lapin tells me. By the way, did you know Lapin’s own wife was murdered?”

“So he’s off murdering other women?”

“Maybe. Somebody is.”

The governor paced off as far as the hospital room would permit, and then back to the window. “Do you think someone’s out to get me?”

“I never thought of that.”

“Think about it. It is, or could be, the net effect of these murders. To bring this campaign to its knees.”

“It certainly increases the pressures …”

“Getting rid of me, casting a pall, a question mark over my campaign, is the only motive I can think of.” The governor shrugged. “Or maybe paranoia is an occupational hazard for a political campaigner. You think the murderer is someone traveling with the campaign?”

“Good grief, don’t you think so? It’s why Fredericka Arbuthnot, crime writer for
Newsworld
, is traveling with us. She’s not as careless and sensational as Hanrahan, but now that Hanrahan has blown the story, she’ll have to write something.”