in, got up slowly, closed his briefcase, took it in one hand, and said, ‘All right?’
“He drove us into a hotel in Rome, made sure we were checked in, saw us to a suite, and then left us.
“An hour later, we were overcome by our own network people.
“He must have called them, and told them where we were.
“I didn’t see Walter March again for years. I sent him many full messages of gratitude, I can tell you, but I was never sure if any got through to him. I never had a response.
“When I finally did meet him, at a reception in Berlin, you know what he said? He said, ‘What? Someone was impersonating me in Rome? That happens.’”
Freddie said, “Nice story.”
Crystal said, “It brings a tear to my eye.”
“Saintly old Walter March,” Fletch said. “I’ve got to go, if you’ll all excuse me.”
During dinner he had received a note, delivered by a bellman, written on hotel stationery, with Mr. I. Fletcher on the envelope, which read: “Dear Fletch—Didn’t realize you were here until I saw your name in McConnell’s piece in today’s Washington paper. Please come see me as soon after dinner as you can—Suite 12. Lydia March.”
He had shown the note to no one. (Crystal had expressed curiosity by saying, “For someone unemployed, you sure get interrupted at meals a lot. No wonder you’re slim. When you’re working, you must never get to eat.”)
Eleanor Earles said, “I take it you’ve worked for Walter March?”
“I have,” said Crystal.
“I have,” said Fletch.
Freddie smiled, and said, “No.”
“And he was tough on you?” Eleanor asked.
“No,” said Crystal. “He was rotten to me.”
Fletch said nothing.
Eleanor said, to both of them, “I suspect you deserved it.”
Twenty-five
9:00 P.M.
THERE’S A TIME AND A PLACE FOR HUMOR:
WASHINGTON, NOW
Address by Oscar Perlman
The door to Suite 12 was opened to Fletch by Jake Williams, notebook and pen in hand, looking drawn and harassed.
“Fletcher!”
They shook hands warmly.
Lydia, in a pearl-gray house gown, was standing across the living room, several long pieces of yellow Teletype paper in one hand, reading glasses in the other.
Her pale blue eyes summed up Fletch very quickly and not unkindly.
“Nice to see you again, Fletch,” she said.
Fletch was entirely sure they had never met before.
“We’ll be through in one minute,” she said. “Just some things Jake has to get off tonight.” Leaving Fletch standing there, she put her glasses on her nose and began working through the Teletype sheets, talking to Jake. “I don’t see any reason why we have to run this San Francisco story from A.P. Can’t our own people in San Francisco work up a story for ourselves?”
“It’s a matter of time,” Jake said, making a note.
“Poo,” said Lydia. “The story isn’t going to die in six hours.”
“Six hours?”
“If our people can’t come up with our own story on this within six hours, then we need some new staff in San Francisco, Jake.”
“Mrs. March?” Fletch said.
She looked at him over the frame of her glasses.
“May I use your John?”
“Of course.” She pointed with her glasses. “You have to go through the bedroom.”
“Thank you.”
When he came back to the living room she was sitting on the divan, demitasse service on the coffee table in front of her, not a piece of paper, not even her glasses, in sight.
She said, “Sit down, Fletch.”
He sat in a chair across the coffee table from her.
“Has Jake left?”
“Yes. He has a lot to do. Would you care for some coffee?”
“I don’t use it.”
He was wondering if his marvelous machine was picking up their conversation. He supposed it was.
He wondered what Mrs. March would say if he began singing Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” as he had promised the machine he would.
“Fletch, I understand you’re not working.”
She was pouring herself coffee.
“On a book.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The journalist’s pride. Whenever a journalist hasn’t got a job, he says he’s working on a book. How many times have I heard it? Sometimes, of course, he is. What’s keeping the wolf from the door?”
“My ugly disposition.”
She smiled, slightly. “I’ve heard so much about you, from one source or another. You were one of my husband’s favorite people. He loved to tell stories about you.”
“I understand people like to tell outrageous stories about me. I’ve heard one only lately. Highly imaginative.”
“I think you and my husband were very much alike.”
“Mrs. March, I met with your husband for five minutes one day, in his office. It was not a successful meeting, for either of us.”
“Of course not. You were too