a coffee table), the topic of Walter March’s murder arose, and, after listening awhile to Graham’s reporting what he had read in the morning newspapers, complete with two Old Testament references to the transitory nature of life, Crystal raised her large, beautiful head from the trough and said, “You know, I heard Walter March announce his retirement.”

“I didn’t know he had,” said Graham.

“He did.”

“So what?” Freddie asked. “He was over seventy.”

“It was more than five years ago.”

“Men look forward to their retirements with mixed feelings,” said Graham. “On the one hand, they desire retirement in their weariness. On the other, they shirk from the loss of power, the vacuum, the … uh… retirement which is attendant upon uh…,” he said, “… retirement.”

Crystal, Freddie, and Fletch stared at Lewis Graham again.

“Was it a public announcement?” Fletch asked.

“Oh, yes,” Crystal answered. “A deliberate, official, public announcement. It was at the opening of the new newspaper plant in San Francisco. I was covering. There was a reception, you see, big names and gowns and things, so of course the darling editors sent a woman to write it all up. There were scads of those little hors d’oeuvres, you know, chicken livers wrapped in bacon, duck and goose pates, landing fields of herring in sour cream.…”

“Crystal,” Fletch said.

“What?”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks. I’m having lunch.”

“Get on with the story, please.”

“Anyway, Walter March was to make one of those wowee, whizbang, look at our new plant, look at us, what an accomplishment speeches, and he did. But he also took the occasion to announce his retirement. He said he was sixty-five and he had instituted and enforced the retirement age of sixty-five throughout the company and although he understood better how people felt reaching sixty-five, being forced to retire, when he felt in the prime of his life, years of experience behind him, years of energy ahead of him, wasted, blah, blah, he was no exception to his own rules, he was retiring himself.”

“I guess, ultimately, he considered himself an exception to his own rules,” Freddie said.

“He always did,” said Lewis Graham.

“He even said he was having his boat brought around to San Diego and was looking forward to sailing the South Pacific with wife of umpty-ump years, Lydia. He painted quite a picture. Sailing off into the sunset, hand in hand with his childhood sweetheart, sitting on his poop or whatever it is yachts have.”

“He owned a big catamaran, didn’t he?” Freddie asked.

“A trimaran,” said Lewis Graham. “Three hulls. I chartered it once.”

“You did?” Fletch said.

“A few years ago. The Lydia. I used to consider Walter March sort of a friend.”

“What happened?” Fletch said. “Boat spring a leak?”

Lewis Graham shrugged.

“I don’t see anything unusual in this,” Freddie Arbuthnot said. “Lots of people get cold feet when it comes time to retire.”

Fletch said, “Did he say when he was going to retire, Crystal? I mean, did he give any definite time?”

“In six months. The new plant was opened in December, and I clearly remember his saying he and Lydia were westward-hoing in June.”

“He was definite?”

“Definite. I reported it. We all did. It’s in the files. ‘WALTER MARCH ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT’. And he said the greatest joy of his life was that he was leaving March Newspapers in good hands.”

“Whose?” Freddie asked.

Crystal said, “Guess.”

“The little bastard,” Lewis Graham said. “Junior.”

“I saw him this morning,” Crystal said. “In the elevator. Boy, does he look awful. Dead eyes staring out of a white face. You’d think he’d died, instead of his father.”

“Understandable,” said Fletch.

“Junior looked like he was going somewhere to lie down quietly in a coffin,” Crystal said. “Everyone in the elevator was silent.”

“So,” Fletch said, “why didn’t Walter March retire when he said he was going to? Is that the question?”

“Because,” Lewis Graham said, “the bastard wanted to be President of the American Journalism Alliance. That’s the simple reason. He wanted it badly. I can tell you how badly he wanted it.”

Graham saw the three of them staring at him again, realized how forcefully he had spoken, and relaxed in his chair.

He said, “I’m just saying he wanted to cap his career with the presidency of the A.J.A. He spoke to me about it years ago. He was canvassing for support, eight, ten years ago.”

“Did you offer him your support?” Fletch asked.

“Of course I did. Then. He had a few years to go before retirement, and I had a whole decade. Then.”

The waiter was pouring the coffee.

“Two or three times,” Lewis Graham continued, “he got his name placed