Fletch's Fortune Part 15

Poynton glanced at him nervously.

"Legman for Walter Poynton. Wow!"

"Stuart," said Stuart Poynton.

Fletch looked at him, puzzled.

"'Course, I'd pick up your expenses here at the convention, too," Poynton said, " 'cause you'd be working for me." Poynton turned full-face to Fletch. "What do you say. Will you do it?"

"You bet."

"You will?"

"Sure."

"Shake on it." Poynton held out his hand, and they shook. "Now," he said, reclasping his hands, "what have you got so far?"

"Not much," Fletch said. "I haven't really been working."

"Come on," Poynton said. "Reporter's instincts...."

"Just arrived yesterday...."

"Must have heard a few things...."

"Well... of course."

"Like what?"

"Well, I heard something funny about the desk clerk."

"The desk clerk here at the hotel?"

"Yeah. Seems Walter March got very angry when he arrived. Desk clerk made some fresh crack at Mrs. March. March took his name and said he was going to report him to the manager in the morning.... Someone said the clerk's pretty heavily in debt. You know-the horses."

"That would tie in with the scissors," Poynton said.

"What scissors?"

"The scissors," Poynton said. "The scissors found in Walch March's back. They came from the reception desk in the lobby."

"Wow!" said Fletch.

"Also the timing of the murder."

"What do you mean?"

"The clerk would have to nail March before he left his room in the morning. Before the hotel manager arrived at work. Before March had a chance to report the clerk to the manager."

"Hey," Fletch said. "That's right!"

"Another thing," Poynton said. "There's been the question of how anyone got into the suite to murder March in the first place."

Fletch said, "I don't get you."

"The desk clerk!" Poynton said. "He'd have the key."

"Wow," Fletch said. "Right!"

Again the nervous glance from Poynton.

"Sounds worth investigating," he said. "See what you can dig up."

"Yes, sir."

Three youngsters were throwing something into the pool and then diving after it.

"I heard something else," Poynton said.

"Oh? What?"

"Ronny Wisham."

Fletch said, "You mean Rolly Wisham?"

"That's what I said."

"Must be the noise from the pool."

"Seems Walch March had started an editorial campaign to get this Wisham character fired from the network, and ordered March newspapers coast-to-coast to follow up."

"Really? Why would he do that?"

"Apparently this Wisham is one of these bleeding-heart reporters. An advocate journalist."

"Yeah."

Rolly Wisham did features for one of the networks, and they were usually on Society's downside-prisoners, mental patients, migrant workers, welfare mothers. He always ended his reports saying, "This is Rolly Wisham, with love."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," said Fletch.

"March thought he was unprofessional. As President of the A.J.A. he wanted Ronny Wisham drummed out of journalism."

"That would be a motive for murder, all right," Fletch said. "Walter March could have succeeded in a campaign like that-to get rid of someone."

"Jack Williams confirmed last night that these articles were going to run. Then there'd be an incessant campaign against this Ronny Wisham character."

"And these articles are not going to run now?"

"No. Jack Williams feels beatin' up on somebody like Ronny Wisham would result in a sort of bad image for Walch March."

"I see," said Fletch. "Very clear."

Freddie Arbuthnot appeared around the hedge.

She was wearing tennis whites and carrying a racket.

"Williams said he was sure the other managing editors in the chain would feel the same way."

"Sure," said Fletch.

Poynton saw Freddie approaching them, and stood up.

"See what you can dig up," he said.

"Thanks, Mister Poynton."

Fletch got out of the long chair and introduced Fredericka Arbuthnot and Stuart Poynton by saying, "Ms. Blake, I'd like you to meet Mister Gesner."

As they shook hands, Poynton gave Fletch a glance of grat.i.tude and Freddie gave him her usual You're weird You're weird look. look.

After Poynton ambled away, Freddie said, "You get along well with everybody."

"Sure," Fletch said. "I'm very amiable."

"That was Stuart Poynton," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Why did you introduce him as whatever?"

"Are you Ms. Blake?"

"I am not Ms. Blake."

"Are you Freddie Arbuthnot?"

"I am Freddie Arbuthnot."

"Are you sure?"

"I've looked it up."

"You have nice knees. Very clean. Hoo, boy!"

She blushed, slightly, beneath her tan.

"You've been listening through my bathroom wall."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"That was a little song I was taught. As a child." She was blus.h.i.+ng more. "The 'Wash Me Up' song."

"Oh!" Fletch said. "There is a difference between boys and girls! I was taught the wash-me-down song!"

She put her fist between his ribs and pushed.

"There's a difference between people and horses," she said. "People and weirdos."

"Playing tennis?" he asked.

"Thought I might."

"You have a partner, of course."

"Actually, I don't."

"Odd," said Fletch. "There seems to be a court reserved in my name. Eleven o'clock."

"And no partner?"

"None I know of."

"That is odd," she said. "One ought to have a partner, to play tennis."

"Indeed."

"Makes the game nicer."

"I suspect so."

"Would you please go get dressed?"

"Why are people always saying that to me?"

"I suspect people aren't always saying that to you."

"Oh, well," said Fletch.

"Ms. Blake is waiting for you," Freddie Arbuthnot said softly. "Patiently."

Fifteen.