and sold it—and himself—to this syndicate.… Very unfair. Walter was terribly hurt. Even last year, when Walter was nominated for the presidency of the Alliance, Oscar was saying bad things about him. Or, so we heard.”
“What sort of bad things?”
“Oh, foolish things. Like he tried to pass a bylaw saying only journalists could vote in the Alliance election, no private detectives.”
“‘Private detectives’? What was that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, who knows? Oscar Perlman’s a fool.”
“Mister March, do you know what ‘no private detectives’ means?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Walter March said. “Oscar Perlman has a coterie of followers—mostly Washington reporters—poker players all—and he keeps them entertained with these sophomoric gags. I don’t know. March Newspapers is pretty well-known for its investigative reporting. Maybe he was trying to make some gag on that. I really don’t know what it means. No one did.”
“Utter hateful foolishness,” Lydia March said.
“Mrs. March, your husband was a powerful man. He had been all his life.…”
“I know what you’re about to ask, Captain Neale. I’ve been lying awake, thinking about it myself. Walter was a powerful man. Sometimes powerful men make enemies. Not Walter. He was loved and respected. Why, look, he was elected President of the American Journalism Alliance. That’s quite a tribute to a man—from his colleagues, people he had worked with all his life—now that Walter was, well, about to retire.”
“Speaking of that, I’m a little uncertain. Who takes over, who runs March Newspapers, now that your husband.…”
“Why, Junior, of course. Junior’s president of the company. Walter was chairman.”
“I see.”
“And Walter was retiring as soon as he had served out his term, here at the Alliance.”
“I see.”
“No one in this world, Captain, had reason to murder my husband. Why, you can see for yourself. In this morning’s newspapers. Even on the television. Hy Litwack’s nice eulogy last night. The reporters are terribly upset by this. Every one of them, Captain Neale, loved my husband.”
Fourteen
11:00 A.M.
GOD IS IN MY TYPEWRITER, I KNOW IT
Address by Wharton Kruse
Conservatory
BULLDOGGING THE MAJOR MEDIA—OR BIRDDOGGING?
Weekly Newspapers Group Discussion
Bobby-Joe Hendricks Cocktail Lounge
“Mister Fletcher?”
Fletch squinted up from the poolside long chair at the young man in tennis whites, HENDRICKS PLANTATION written on his shirt.
“Yeah?”
“You phoned for a court at eleven o’clock?”
“I did?”
“I. M. Fletcher?”
“One of us is.”
“We have you down for a tennis court at eleven o’clock.”
“Thanks.”
“Will you be needing equipment, sir?”
“I guess so. Also a partner. Playing tennis alone takes too much running back and forth.”
“You mean, you want the pro?”
“I guess not. Someone means to provide me with exercise.”
“Stop at the pro shop a little before eleven. We’ll fix you up with a racket and balls—whatever you need. Have whites?”
“Send them to my room, will you? Room Seventy-nine.”
“Sure. Thirty waist?”
“Guess so. Just ask the bellman to leave them inside the room. I have sneakers.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks,” Fletch said.
A chair scraped next to him.
Fletch turned his head and squinted again.
“You’re Fisher, aren’t you?”
Stuart Poynton was sitting beside him, in expensive leisure clothes, green shirt, maroon slacks, yellow loafers—as pleasant to look at as lettuce, tomato soup, and a lemon.
“Fletcher,” Fletch said.
“That’s right. Fletcher. Someone told me about you.”
“Someone tells you about everyone.”
To be polite, one could refer to Stuart Poynton as a syndicated political columnist.
No one was ever polite about Stuart Poynton.
His columns demonstrated very little interest in politics—just politicians, and other power people.
His typical column had four to six hot, tawdry, indicative items (years ago, Senator So-and-so and his family had vacationed at a hunting lodge owned by a corporation his subcommittee is now regulating; Judge So-and-so was seen leaving a party in Georgetown at three in the morning; Congressman So-and-so fudged his fact-finding junket to Iran so he could visit his son in Zurich)—some of which were accurate enough to attract suits.
Always going for the jugular, in his desire to reform others, over the years he had accomplished little—except to harden everyone’s jugular.
“You know who I am?” he asked. “Poynton. Stuart Poynton.”
“Oh,” Fletch responded to this forced humility. “Nice to meetcha.”
“Well, I was thinking this.” Stuart Poynton was staring at his hands clasped between his knees, in thinking this. “Little hard for me to operate around here. Too much meeting and greeting going on. Well, point is, everyone here knows who I am, and everyone is sort of, you know, watching me.” He looked sideways at Fletch. “Got me?”
“Gotcha.”
“Makes it hard for me to operate, you know, carry on my own investigation. Find out anything. And this Walch March thing is a hell of a story.”
“You mean Walter March?”
“I said Walter March.