Fletch's Fortune (25 page)

He appeared to recognize Fletch.

Having already been unconscious once that morning, Molinaro’s head settled back on the camper’s floor, and he went deeply unconscious.

Fletch took the rifle from under his arm and slid it along the floor of the camper, toward the front.

Picking up Molinaro’s legs, Fletch slid his back along the linoleum floor until Molinaro was entirely aboard the camper and the door could be closed.

Fletch climbed the steps to the camper and stepped over Molinaro.

He tore two strips from the bed sheet and tied Molinaro’s ankles together.

Then he tied his wrists together, in front of him.

He slammed the back door of the camper, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the key in the ignition.

The battery was dead.

Incredulous, Fletch senselessly tried the key three or four times.

He groaned.

Molinaro couldn’t do anything right.

He had come to Virginia to meet his father.

Never did meet him.

That morning he had gotten up, flicked a cigarette into a stranger’s face, and instantly was knocked unconscious.

Then he had let two people know who he was and why he was there.

If the suit hanging from the curtain rod was any indication, Joseph Molinaro actually had gone to Walter March’s Memorial Service.

Next, using that rifle on the floor with telescopic sights, he had murdered his half brother.

He had ambled back to his camper, not even having thrown the murder weapon away, never thinking someone who had figured out what he had done might be waiting for him.

And the battery of his getaway vehicle was dead.

Looking at the man, with the tight, curly gray hair, dressed in the blue jeans jacket, unconscious and bound on the floor of the camper, Fletch shook his head.

Then he climbed the hillside and got his horse.

“I see you figured it out just a little faster than I did.”

Before leaving the timber road, Fletch met Frank Gillis heading for the camper.

Gillis’ horse looked exhausted.

Gillis nodded at Molinaro slung over the saddle of Fletch’s horse.

“Is he dead, or just unconscious?”

“Unconscious.”

Gillis said, “He seems to spend a lot of time in that condition.”

“Poor son of a bitch.”

Walking the horse, Fletch held the reins in his right hand, the rifle in his left.

He asked, “Junior dead?”

“Yeah.”

Fletch left the road and started through the woods, down the hillside.

Gillis said, “You sure that’s the murder weapon?”

“As sure as I can be, without a ballistics test. It’s
the weapon he was carrying when he returned to the camper.”

Remaining on his horse, Gillis followed Fletch through the woods to the pasture and then rode along beside him.

Fletch said, “I wonder if you’d mind putting Molinaro on your horse?”

“Why?”

“I feel silly. I feel like I’m walking into Dodge City.”

“So why should I feel silly?”

Frank Gillis chuckled.

“One of us has to feel silly, and you’re the one who caught him,” Gillis said.

“Thanks.”

“Why didn’t you use the camper?”

“Dead battery.”

Gillis shook his head, just as Fletch had.

“I don’t know,” Gillis said. “This guy… did he murder old man March, or did he think Junior murdered him? Or was he just plain jealous of Junior, now that Molinaro’s dream of being recognized by his father was over?”

Fletch walked along quietly a moment, before saying, “You’ll have to ask Captain Neale, I guess.”

“You know,” Gillis said, “everyone thought an attempt was being made on the Vice-President’s life.”

“Yeah.”

“I did, too, at first, until I realized this was another March who was dead. Who’d ever want to kill the Vice-President of the United States? One could have a greater effect upon national policy by killing the White House cook.”

“Who was in the helicopter?” Fletch asked.

“Oh, that.” Gillis’ chins were quivering with mirth. “Some Marine Corps General. He was here for some
ceremony or other, a presentation of some kind, pin a medal on someone. And while the General was making this big entrance, landing in a helicopter on the back lawn, the Vice-President of the United States was arriving at the front of the hotel in an economy-size car—completely ignored.”

They were both laughing, and Molinaro was still unconscious.

“As soon as everyone realized what had happened, that Junior had been shot, the Secret Service hustled the Vice-President back into his car, and back to Washington, and the General climbed aboard his helicopter and took off. The only thing the Vice-President was heard to say, during his stay at Hendricks Plantation, was, ‘My! The military live well!’ ”

They came onto the back lawns of Hendricks Plantation.

Indeed, the helicopter was gone.

People were playing golf on the rolling greens the other side of the plantation house.

“You want to carry the rifle?” Fletch asked.

“No, no. I wouldn’t take from your moment of glory.”

Fletch said, “This isn’t glory.”

Captain Neale saw them from the terrace, and came down to the lawn to meet them.

A couple of uniformed State Policemen followed him.

Neale indicated the man across the saddle of Fletch’s horse.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Fletch said, “Joseph Molinaro.”

“Can’t be,” Neale said. “Molinaro’s only about thirty. Younger.”

Still on his horse, Gillis said, “Look at his face.”

Neale lifted Molinaro’s head by the hair.

“My, my,” Neale said.

Fletch handed his reins to one of the uniformed policemen.

Neale asked Fletch, “Did Molinaro kill young March?”

Fletch handed Neale the rifle. “Easy to prove. This is the weapon he was carrying.”

Over Neale’s shoulder, Fletch saw Eleanor Earles appear on the terrace.

“Did you speak to Lydia March?” Fletch asked Neale.

“No.”

“No?”

Neale said, “She’s dead. Overdose. Seconal.”

Eleanor Earles was approaching them.

Even at a distance, Fletch could see the set of her face. It seemed frozen.

“She left a note,” Neale said. “To Junior. Saying she wouldn’t say why, but she had murdered her husband. The key thing is, she said the night they arrived she went back downstairs to the reception desk to order flowers for the suite, and stole the scissors she had seen on the desk when they’d checked in. Now that he’s reminded of it, the desk clerk says he was puzzled at the time why she hadn’t telephoned the order down. He had also been slightly insulted, because flowers had been put in all the suites, and Mrs. March had said the flowers in Suite 3 were simply inadequate.”

Eleanor Earles was standing near them, staring at the man slung over the saddle.

Neale noticed her.

“Hey,” he said to the uniformed policemen, “let’s get this guy off the horse.”

Gillis got off his horse, to help.

Eleanor Earles watched them take Molinaro off the horse and put him on the ground.

In a moment, her face still frozen, she turned and walked back toward the hotel.

From what Fletch had seen, there was no way Eleanor Earles could have known, from that distance, whether her son was dead or alive.

“Good afternoon. The Boston
Star
.”

“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
Star.”

“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.”

Finally, as the pieces fitted together, she became convinced.

“Hell of a story!” she said.

Despite her initial resistance and inattention, Fletch
saw there was no reason to repeat any part of the story to Crystal.

She said, “Wow!”

Fletch picked up the telephone and put the call through.

“Who’s calling?” a grumpy male voice finally asked.

“I. M. Fletcher.”

“Who?”

“Just tell Jack Saunders a guy named Fletcher wants to talk to him.”

Immediately, Jack Saunders’ voice came on the line.