the American Journalism Alliance lo these many years.…”

“She knows,” Fletch said.

“We were all staggered, Fletch darling.”

“I was a little surprised myself,” Fletch said. “Don’t let word get around, okay, Helena? Might ruin my reputation.”

“Fletch darling,” Helena said, with mock sincerity, hand on his forearm, “nothing could do that.”

Fletch said, “I’m sorry about Walter March, Helena.”

Helena Williams pushed the mental button for A Distraught Expression.

“The crime of the century,” she said. She had been married to Jake Williams, managing editor of a New York daily, for more years than anyone who knew Jake could believe. “The crime of the century, Fletch.”

“Hell of a story,” Freddie muttered.

“We had a vote this morning, those of us who were here, to decide if we would continue the convention. We decided to open it on time. Well, with all these people coming, what could we do? Everything’s arranged. Anyway, the police asked everybody who was here to stay. Having the convention running will help take everybody’s mind off this terrible tragedy. Walter March!” She threw her hands in the air. “Who’d believe it?”

“Is Lydia here, Helena?” Fletch asked.

“She found the body! She was in the bath, and she heard gurgling! She thought Walter had left the suite. At first, she said, she thought it was the tub drain. But the gurgling kept up, from the bedroom. She got out of the tub and threw a towel around herself. There was Walter, half-kneeling, fallen on one of the beds, arms thrown out, a scissors sticking up from his back! While she watched, he rolled sideways off the bed, and landed on his back! The scissors must have been driven further in. She said he arched up, and then relaxed. All life had gone out of him.”

Helena’s expression of shock and grief was no longer the result of mental button-pushing. She was a lady genuinely struggling to comprehend what had happened, and why, and to control herself until she could.

“Poor Lydia!” she said. “She had no idea what to do. She came running down the corridor in her towel and banged on my door. I was just up. This was just before eight o’clock this morning, mind you. There was Lydia at my door, in a towel, at the age of seventy, her mouth open, and her eyes closing! I sat her down on my unmade bed, and she fell over! She fainted! I went running to their suite to get Walter. I was in my dressing gown. There was Walter on the floor, spread-eagled, eyes staring straight up. Naturally, I’d thought he’d had a heart attack or something. I didn’t see any blood. Well, I thought I was going to faint. I heard someone shrieking. They tell me it was I who was shrieking.” Helena looked away. Her fingers touched her throat. “I’m not so sure.”

Fletch said, “Is there anything I can get you, Helena? Anything I can do for you?”

“No,” she said. “I had brandy before breakfast. Quite a sizable dose. And then no breakfast. And then the house doctor here, what’s-his-name, gave me one of those funny pills. My head feels like there’s a yellow balloon in it. I’ve had tea and toast.”

She smiled at them.

“Enough of this,” she said. “It won’t bring Walter back. Now you must tell me all about yourself, Fletch. Whom are you working for now?”

“The C.I.A.”

He looked openly at Freddie Arbuthnot.

“I’m here to bug everybody.”

“You’ve always had such a delightful sense of humor,” Helena said.

“He’s bugging me,” Freddie muttered.

“I’ve heard that joke,” Fletch snapped.

“Would you children like to share a room?” Helena asked. “We are sort of crowded—”

“Definitely not,” Fletch said “I suspect she snores.”

“I do not.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Well, you’re just so beautiful together,” Helena said. “What is one supposed to think? Oh, there’s Hy Litwack. I didn’t see him come in. I must go say hello. Remind him he’s giving the after-dinner speech tonight.”

Helena episcopally put her hands on Fletch’s and Freddie’s hands, as if she were confirming them, or ordaining them, or marrying them.

“We must have life,” she said, “in the presence of death.”

Helena Williams walked away to greet Hy Litwack.

“And death,” Fletch said, softly, “in the presence of life.”

Five

In his room, Fletch, still wet from his shower, sat on the edge of his bed and opened the suitcase he had taken from Locker 719 at Washington’s National Airport.

Through the wall he heard Fredericka Arbuthnot’s hair drier in the next room.

A porter had led them through a door at the side of the lobby,