Fletch's Fortune (26 page)

“I was hoping you’d call,” he said.

“How do, Jack. Remember telling me you’d give a job to anyone who scooped the Walter March story?”

“Did I say that?”

“You did.”

“Fletch, I said.…”

“Remember Crystal Faoni? She used to work with us in Chicago.”

“I remember she’s even fatter than my wife. Hell of a lot brighter, though.”

“Jack, she has the story.”

“What story?”

“The Walter March story. The whole thing. Tied in a neat, big bundle.”

“Last time we talked, you listed her as a suspect in the Walter March murder.”

“I just wanted to bring up her name. Jog your memory. Let you know she’s here, at the convention.”

“Crystal has the Walter March story?”

“Crystal has the job?”

There was only the slightest hesitation.

“Crystal has the job.”

Fletch said, “Crystal has the Walter March story.”

“Let me talk to her a minute,” Jack Saunders said, “before I ask her to dictate into the recorder.”

“Sure, Jack, sure.”

Crystal came to the phone.

“Hello, Jack? How’s Daphne?”

Crystal listened a moment while doubtlessly Jack Saunders said something imaginative and rotten about his wife and she laughed and shook her head at Fletch.

“Say, Jack? You’d better slip me on the payroll pretty quick. My savings are about gone. This has been an expensive convention. Too much to eat around here.”

Fletch put the air conditioner dial back on MEDIUM.

Crystal would be on the phone a long time, and it would be hot work.

“Sure, Jack,” Crystal said. “I’m ready to dictate. Switch me over to the recorder. I’ll see you in Boston Monday.”

Fletch opened the door.

“Oh, boy!” Crystal, waiting for the
Star
to straighten out its electronics, cupped her hand over the telephone receiver. “Scoopin? Freddie.”

Absently, Fletch said, “What?”

“Scoopin’ this story will put me right up there in the big league with Freddie Arbuthnot.”

“Who?”

“Freddie Arbuthnot,” Crystal said conversationally. “Don’t you read her stuff? She’s terrific.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you read her on the Pecuchet trial? In Arizona? Real award-winning stuff. She’s the greatest Oh, yeah. You were in Italy.”

“You mean, Freddie.…”

Crystal, round-eyed, looked at him from the telephone.

Fletch said, “You mean, Freddie is.…”

“What’s the matter, Fletch?”

“You mean, Freddie Arbuthnot is.…”

“What?”

“You mean, Freddie Arbuthnot is… Freddie Arbuthnot?”

“Who did you think she is,” Crystal asked, “Paul McCartney?”

“Oh, my God.” Verily, Fletch did smite his forehead. “I never looked her up!”

As he began to stagger through the door, Crystal said, “Hey, Fletch.”

He looked at her dumbly.

Crystal said, “Thanks. Friend.”

“Nice of you to drop by.”

Having spent a moment banging on Freddie Arbuthnot’s door, Fletch scarcely noticed the door to his own room was open.

Freddie must have left for the airport.

Robert Englehardt and Don Gibbs were in Fletch’s room.

Gibbs was looking into Fletch’s closet.

Englehardt had opened the marvelous machine on the luggage rack and was examining it.

“I don’t have much time to visit,” Fletch said. “Got to pack and get to the airport.”

“Pretty classy machine,” Englehardt said. “Did you use it well?”

“All depends on what you mean by ‘well.’”

“Where are the tapes?”

“Oh, They’re gone.”

Englehardt turned to him.

“Gone?”

“Don, as long as you’re in the closet, will you drag my suitcases out?”

“Gone?” Englehardt said.

“Yeah. Gonezo.”

Fletch took the two suitcases from Gibbs and opened them on the bed.

“Hand me that suit from the closet, will you, Don?”

Englehardt said, “Mister Fletcher, you’re suffering from a misapprehension.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing aspirin and a good night’s sleep can’t fix. What about those slacks, Don. Thanks.”

“Those men. In Italy. Fabens and Eggers.…”

“Eggers, Gordon and Fabens, Richard,” helped Fletch.

“They aren’t ours.”

“No?”

“No.”

Through his horn-rimmed glasses, Englehardt’s eyes were as solemn as a hoot owl’s.

Fletch said, “Gee. Not ours.”

“They are not members of the Central Intelligence Agency. They don’t work for any American agency. They are not citizens of the United States.”

“Anything in that laundry bag, Don?”

“Mister Fletcher, you’re not listening.”

“Eggers, Gordon and Fabens, Richard are baddies,” said Fletch. “I’ll bet They’re from the other side of the Steel Shade.”

Englehardt said, “Which is why Mister Gibbs and I came down here to Hendricks. Foreign agents had set you up to provide them with information to blackmail the American press.”

Fletch said, “Gee.”

Englehardt said, “I don’t see how you could think the Central Intelligence Agency could ever be involved in such an operation.”

“I checked,” said Fletch. “I asked you.”

“We never said we were involved,” Englehardt said. “I said you had better go along with the operation. And then Gibbs and I came down here to figure it out.”

“And did you figure it out?” Fletch asked.

“We’ve been working very hard,” Englehardt said.

Fletch said, “Yeah.”

He took off his shirt and stuffed it into the laundry bag.

After riding and walking around the countryside he needed a shower, but he didn’t have time.

Englehardt was saying, “I don’t see how anyone could think the C.I.A. would be involved in such an operation.…”

In the bathroom, Fletch sprayed himself with underarm deodorant.

Don Gibbs said, “Fletch, did you know those guys weren’t from the C.I. A.?”

“I had an inkling.”

“You did?”

“I inkled.”

“How?”

“Fabens’ cigar. It really stank. Had to be Rumanian, Albanian, Bulgarian. Phew! It stank. I mentioned it to him. American clothes. American accent. People get really stuck with their smoking habits.” Fletch lifted clean shirts from the bureau drawer to his suitcase. “Then, when the Internal Revenue Service wallah paid me a visit, I figured there were either crossed wires, or no wires at all. There was no good reason for putting that kind of pressure on me at that moment.”

He was putting on a clean shirt.

Sternly, Englehardt said, “If you knew—or suspected—Eggers and Fabens weren’t from the C.I.A., then why did you give them the tapes?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Fletch said.

“You said They’re gone.”

“The tapes? They are gone.”

“You didn’t give them to Eggers and Fabens?” Gibbs asked.

“You think I’m crazy?”

“Fletcher,” Englehardt said, “we want Eggers and Fabens, and we want those tapes.”

“Eggers and Fabens you can have.” Fletch took their telegram from the drawer of his bedside table and handed it to Englehardt. “Says here you can pick ’em up tonight at the BOAC counter in Washington, any time between seven-thirty and nine. Very convenient for you.”

Fletch grabbed a necktie he had already put in one suitcase. “Also indicates, if you read carefully, that I have not given them the tapes.”

Englehardt was holding the telegram, but looking at Fletch.

“Fletcher, where are the tapes?”

“I mailed them. Yesterday.”

“To yourself?”

“No.”

“To whom did you mail them?”

Fletch checked his suitcases. He had already thrown in his shaving gear.

“I guess that’s everything,” he said.

“Fletcher,” Englehardt said, “you’re going to give us those tapes.”

“I thought you said the C.I.A. wouldn’t be involved in a thing like this.”

“As long as the tapes exist.…,” Gibbs said.

“The tapes are evidence of information gathered by a foreign power,” Englehardt announced.

“Bushwa,” said Fletch.

He closed his suitcases.

“Fletcher, do I have to remind you how you were forced to do this job in the first place? Exporting money illegally from the United States? Not being able to state the source of that money? Not filing federal tax returns?”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“It will be my duty,” Englehardt said, “to turn this information over to the proper domestic authorities.”

“You know,” Gibbs giggled, “we didn’t know any of that about you—until you told us.”

“You’re blackmailing me,” Fletch said.

Gibbs was standing behind him and Englehardt was standing near the door.

“There’s a tape on the machine,” Fletch said. “Actually, it’s a copy of a tape. The original was mailed out with the others.”

Englehardt looked at the tape on the machine.

“Press the PLAY button,” Fletch said.

Englehardt hesitated a moment, apparently wondering what pressing the PLAY button might do to him, then bravely stepped to the machine and pressed the button.

The volume was loud.

They heard Gibbs’ voice?

“Snow, beautiful snow! Who’d ever expect snow in Virginia this time of year?… Who’d ever think my dear old department headie, Bobby Englehardt, would travel through the South with snow in his attaché case? Good thing it didn’t melt!

“… Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, too, dear old department headie. ‘What’s that?’ you ask with one voice. Well! I’ve got a surprise for you! ’Member those two sweet little things in Billy-Bobby’s boo-boo-bar lounge? ‘Sweet little things,’ you say together. Well, sir, I had the piss-pa-cacity to invite them up! To our glorious journalists’ suite. This very night! This very hour! This very minute! In fact, for twenty minutes ago.”

(Englehardt’s voice)
: “You did?”

(Gibbs’ voice)
: “I did. Where the hell are they? Got to live like journalists, right? Wild, wild, wicked women. Live it up!”

(Englehardt’s voice)
: “I invited someone, too.”

(Gibbs’ voice)
: “You did? We gonna have four

broads’ Four naked, writhing girls? All in the same room?”

(Englehardt’s voice)
: “The lifeguard.”

Englehardt turned off the marvelous machine.

“The tape continues,” Fletch said. “All through what I’m sure your superiors will provincially refer to as your drunken sex orgy. Lots more references to cocaine. Et cetera. ‘Switch!’” he quoted Gibbs, but with a drawl. “‘Switch!’”

Englehardt’s shoulders had lowered, like those of a bull about to charge.

His fists were clenched.

The skin around his eyes was a dark red.

“‘Live like journalists,?’ ” Fletch quoted. “‘Disgusting.’ ”

Gibbs was assimilating more slowly. Or he was in a complete state of shock.

His face had gone perfectly white, his jaw slack. Standing, he was staring at the floor about two meters in front of him.

“Of course, this isn’t the original tape,” Fletch said. “But the original isn’t much better. Same cast of characters, same dialogue.…”

Gibbs said, “You bugged our room! Goddamn it, Fletcher, you bugged our room!”

“Of course. You think I’m stupid?”

Englehardt’s shoulders had slumped somewhat, his fists loosened.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Blackmail you,” Fletch answered. “Of course.”

He picked up his two suitcases.

“Six weeks from today, I want to receive official, formal notification that all charges against me have been dropped,” Fletch said. “Into the Potomac. If not, the careers of Robert Englehardt and Donald Gibbs will be over.”

“We can’t do that,” said Englehardt

“That’s Abuse of Agency!” said Gibbs.

Fletch said, “You’ll find a way.”

The airport limousine had gone, so Fletch had had to send for a taxi.

He was waiting in front of the hotel with his suitcases.

Don Gibbs came through the glass door of the hotel, toward him, still looking extremely white.

“Fletcher.” His voice was low.

“Yeah?”

The taxi was arriving.

“If you had any suspicion at all Eggers and Fabens weren’t from the C.I.A., why did you go through with this job?”

“Three reasons.”

Fletch handed his suitcases to the driver.

“First, I’m nosy.”

Fletch opened the door to the backseat.

“Second, I thought there might be a story in it.”

He got into the car.

“Third,” Fletch said, just before closing the door, “I didn’t want to go to jail.”