had gone back to working the switchboard.

“The sheet for us to take the surveys.”

“Helen, do you know anything about a survey sheet?”

The other operator said, “Hendricks Plantation. Good evening.”

“You know,” Fletch said. “From Information. The sheet that says who’s in which room. Names and room numbers. For us to take the surveys.”

“Oh,” the girl said.

She looked worriedly at the sheet clipped onto the board in front of her.

“Yeah,” Fletch squinted at it. “That’s the one.”

“But that’s mine,” she said.

“But you’re supposed to have one for me,” he said.

She said, “Helen, do we have another one of these sheets?”

Helen said, “I’m sorry, sir. That room does not answer.”

Fletch said, “She has another one.”

“But I need mine,” the girl said.

“You can Xerox hers.”

“We can’t leave the switchboard. It’s much too busy.”

She connected with a flashing light. “Hendricks Plantation. Good evening.”

“Give me yours,” Fletch said. Helpfully, he slipped it out of its clip. “I’ll Xerox it.”

“I think the office is locked,” she whispered. “I’ll ring, sir.”

“All you have to do is move Helen’s.” He reached over and put Helen’s information sheet between them. “And you can both see it.”

The operator said, “I’m sorry, sir, but a cocktail reception is going on here, and I don’t think many people are in their rooms.”

Helen scowled angrily at him, as she said, “The dining room is open for breakfast at seven o’clock, sir.”

“Tell me.” Fletch was looking at the sheet in his hands. “Lydia March and Walter March, Junior, aren’t still in the suite Walter March died in this morning, are they?”

“No,” the operator said. “They’ve been moved to Suite 12.”

“Thanks.” Fletch waved the telephone information sheet at them. “ ’Preciate it.”

Nine

8:00 P.M. Dinner

Main Dining Room

Fletch had saw-toothed seven edges of two credit cards letting himself into over twenty rooms and suites at Hendricks Plantation before he got caught.

He had just placed bug Number 22 to the back of the bedside lamp in Room 42 and was recrossing the room when he heard a key scratching on the outside of the lock.

He turned immediately for the bathroom, but then heard the lock click.

An apparent burglar, he stood in the middle of Room 42, pretending to be deeply concerned with the telephone information sheet, wondering how he could use it to give some official explanation for his presence in someone else’s room.

Next to each room number and occupant’s name was the number of the bug he had planted in the room.

The door handle was tinning.

“Ahem,” he said to himself. No official frame of mind was occurring to him.

“Ahem.”

The door was being pushed open unnaturally slowly.

In the door, swaying, breathing shallowly, thin red hair splaying up from her head, an aquamarine evening gown lopsided on her, was the great White House wire service reporter, Leona Hatch.

Watery, glazed eyes took a moment to focus on him.

Her right shoulder lurched against the door jamb.

“Oh,” she said to the apparent burglar. “Thank God you’re here.”

And she began to fall.

Fletch grabbed her before she hit the floor.

Dead-weight. She was totally unconscious. She reeked of booze.

Gently, he put her head on the floor.

“Zowie.”

He turned down her bed before carrying her to it and putting her neatly on it.

He put on the bedside lamp.

She was wearing a tight necklace—a choker he thought might choke her—so he lifted her head and felt around in the seventy-odd-years-old woman’s thin hair until he found the clasp. He left the necklace on her bedside table.

He took off her shoes.

Looking at her, he wondered what else he could do to loosen her clothes, and realized she was wearing a corset. His fingers confirmed it.

“Oh, hell.”

He rolled her onto her side to get at the zipper in the back of her gown.

“Errrrrrr,” Leona Hatch said. “Errrrrrrrr.”

“Don’t throw up,” he answered, with great sincerity.

Pulling her gown off her from the bottom, he had to keep returning to the head of the bed and pulling her up toward the pillows by the shoulders. Or, before the gown was off her, she would have been on the floor.

He tossed the gown over a side chair, and realized he had to repeat the process with a slip.

The corset took great study.

In his travels, Fletch had never come across a corset.

In fact, he had never come across so many clothes on one person before.

“Oh, well,” he said. “I suppose you’d do it for me.”

“Errrrrrrrr,” she protested every time he revolved her to get her corset off. “Errrrrrrrr!”

“How do I know? Maybe you already have.”

Finally he left her in what he supposed was the last level