Fletch's Fortune Part 10

"At least, openly," Bob said.

"At least, initially," Fletch said.

"Oh, come on," said the lady who had said she was from Newsworld Newsworld magazine, but didn't appear to know very much. "Newspaper chains aren't very powerful, these days." magazine, but didn't appear to know very much. "Newspaper chains aren't very powerful, these days."

The three newspaper reporters looked at each other.

"March Newspapers?" Crystal Faoni said.

"Pretty powerful," Robert McConnell said.

"Yeah," Fletch said. "They even publish other months of the year."

There was the tinkle of spoon against gla.s.s from the head table.

"Here it comes," Bob McConnell said. "The after-dinner regurgitation. Duck."

Fletch turned his chair, to face the dais.

"Anybody got a cigar?" Bob asked. "I've always wanted to blow smoke up Hy Litwack's nose."

Helena Williams was standing at the dais.

"Does this thing work?" she asked the microphone.

Her amplified voice bounced off the walls.

"No!" said the audience.

"Of course not!" said the audience.

"Ask it again, Helena!" said the audience.

"Good evening," said Helena, in her best modulated voice.

The audience stopped sc.r.a.ping its chairs and began restraining its smoke-coughs.

"Despite the tragic circ.u.mstances of the death of the president of the American Journalism Alliance's president, Walter March"-she stopped, fl.u.s.tered, took a deep breath, and, in the best game-old-girl tradition, continued-"it is a pleasure to see you all, and to welcome you to the Forty-Ninth Annual Meeting of the American Journalism Alliance's Convention.

"Walter March was to make a welcoming speech at this point, but...."

"But," Robert McConnell said, softly, "old Walter's being sent home in a box."

"... Well," Helena said, "of course there is no one who can stand in his place.

"Instead, let us recognize all that Walter has done, both for the Alliance, and, for each of us, individually as newspeople, over the years...."

"Yeah," said Robert McConnell.

"Yeah," said Crystal Faoni.

"... and join in a moment of silence."

"Hey, Fletch," Bob said in a stage whisper, "got a deck of cards?"

There was a moment of quiet muttering.

Across the room, Tim s.h.i.+elds was waving at a waiter to bring him a drink.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with the tragic circ.u.mstances," Helena said, "but the after-dinner speech scheduled for Wednesday evening by the President of the United States has been canceled...."

"Oh, shucks." Bob looked at Fletch. "And here I brought two pairs of scissors."

"... However, the Vice-President has arranged to come."

"The Administration has decided not to ignore us completely," Crystal Faoni said, "just because we've taken to stabbing each other in the back more openly than usual."

"Just one other announcement," Helena said, "before I introduce Hy Litwack. Well, why don't I just introduce Virginia State Police Captain Andrew Neale, who has been placed in charge of poor Walter's...."

Helena stepped away from the microphone.

A man with salt and pepper short hair, a proper military bearing in a tweed jacket, stood up from a table near the main door and walked to the dais. Clearly, he had not expected to be called upon.

Bob McConnell said, "I betcha he says, 'Last, but not least.'"

With poise, but blus.h.i.+ng slightly, Captain Neale addressed the microphone.

"Good evening," he said, in a soft, deep drawl. "Accept my sympathy for the loss of the president of your a.s.sociation."

"Accepted," Bob muttered. "Easily accepted."

"First," Captain Neale said, "I've asked that your convention not be canceled. I'm sure that the death of Walter March casts a tragic pall over your meetings...."

"An appalling pall," said Bob.

"... but I trust you all will be able to go about your business with as little interference as possible from me and the people working with me.

"Second, of course we will have to take statements from those of you who were actually here at Hendricks Plantation this morning at the time of the tragic occurrence. Your cooperation in being available to us, and open with us, will be greatly appreciated.

"Third, I realize that I am surrounded here by some of the world's greatest reporters. Frankly, I feel like Daniel in the den of lions. I understand that each of you feels the necessity of reporting the story of Walter March's murder to your newspapers or networks, and I will try to be as fair with you as I can. But please understand that I, too, have to do my job. Many of you have already come to me with questions. If I do nothing but answer your questions, I won't be doing my job, which is to investigate this tragedy, and, there won't be any answers. As solid facts are developed, I will see that you get them. It would help if there were no rumor or speculation."

"Here it comes," Bob said.

Captain Neale said, "Last, but not least, if any of you have genuine information which might help in this investigation, of course we will appreciate your reporting that information to me or one of the people working with me.

"Someone at Hendricks Plantation murdered Walter March this morning, with premeditation. No one has been allowed to leave the plantation since this morning. Someone here-most likely in this room-is guilty of first degree murder.

"I will appreciate your cooperation in every way."

Captain Neale started from the microphone, bent back to it, and said, "Thank you."

"Good old boy," said Bob. "Good cop."

"Bright and decent," said Crystal.

Freddie Arbuthnot said, "Ineffectual."

Helena said Hy Litwack needed no introduction, and so she gave him none.

Bob McConnell said, "I bet he says, 'Don't shoot the messenger.'"

Crystal and Fletch shrugged at each other.

Hy Litwack, anchorman for evening network news, was highly respected by everyone except other journalists, most of whom were purely envious of him.

He was handsome, dignified, with a grand voice, solid manner, and had been earning a fabulous annual income for many years. He was staffed like no journalist in history had ever been staffed.

An additional point of envy was that he was also an incredibly good journalist.

Unlike many another television newsman, he kept his showmans.h.i.+p to a minimum.

And, unlike many other journalists of roughly comparable power and prestige, there was minimal evidence of bias in his reporting-even in the questions he asked in live interview situations. He never led his audience, or anyone he was interviewing.

Also enviable was his on-camera stamina, through conventions, elections, and other continuous-coverage stories.

Hy Litwack had been at the top of the heap for years.

Next to him at the head table sat his wife, Carol.

"Good evening." The famous voice cleared his throat. "When I have an opportunity to speak, I try to speak on the topics I find people most frequently ask me about, whether I wish to speak about them or not.

"Recently, people have been asking me most about acts of terrorism, more specifically about television news coverage of acts of terrorism, most specifically whether by covering terrorism, television news is encouraging, or even causing, other terrorists to implement their dreadful, frequently insane fantasies.

"I hate witnessing terrorism. I hate reading about it. I hate reporting it-as I'm sure we all do.

"But television did not create terrorism.

"Terrorism, like many another crime or insanity, is infectious. It perpetuates itself. It causes itself to happen. One incident of terrorism causes two more incidents, which cause more and more and more incidents.

"Never was this social phenomenon, of acts of terrorism stimulating other acts of terrorism, on and on, more apparent than at the beginning of the twentieth century.

"And television, or television news, at that point had not yet even been dreamed of.

"An act of terrorism is an event. It is news.

"And it is our job to bring the news to the people, whether we personally like that news, or not."

Bob McConnell whispered, "Here it comes."

"Blaming television," Hy Litwack continued, "for causing acts of terrorism simply by reporting them is as bad as shooting the messenger simply because the news he brings is bad...."

Eleven.

In the privacy of their bedroom, Carol Litwack was saying to her husband, "... Live to be a hundred, I'll never get over it."

"Over what?"

"You. I don't know."

At a distance there was the sound of gargling.

Before leaving for dinner, Fletch had tuned the receiver to Leona Hatch's room, Room 42, so he could check on her later, make sure she was as comfortable as possible. All he had expected to hear on the tape was snoring and "Errrrrrrr's."

But that wasn't the way the marvelous machine worked.

Like all things governmental, it had its own system of priorities.

It took him a while to figure it out.

First he heard Leona Hatch snoring in Room 42, on Station 22, then Station 21 lit and he heard Sheldon Levi's toilet flus.h.i.+ng in Room 48, then Station 4 lit and he heard Eleanor Earles saying in Suite 9, "... Dressed to hear Hy Litwack's stupid speech. Ugh! But if I don't, I suppose there'll be three pages in TV Guide TV Guide about my snubbing the pan-fried son of a b.i.t.c.h at the American Journalism ..." and then Station 2 lit and he heard Carol and Hy Litwack talking in Suite 5. about my snubbing the pan-fried son of a b.i.t.c.h at the American Journalism ..." and then Station 2 lit and he heard Carol and Hy Litwack talking in Suite 5.

Any noise in any room in which he had placed a lower-numbered bug had precedence over any noise in any room in which he had placed a higher-numbered bug.

Fletch studied his telephone information sheet, and the notes he had made on on it regarding which bugs he had put where, and discovered he had placed bugs instinctively more or less in accordance with the machine's priorities. it regarding which bugs he had put where, and discovered he had placed bugs instinctively more or less in accordance with the machine's priorities.

To keep himself straight at what he was doing, and, in fear of eventually being caught as he let himself into other people's rooms, he had planted the lower-numbered bugs in the rooms of the more important people: Station 1 was Suite 12, Lydia March and Walter March, Junior; Station 2, the Litwacks, in Suite 5; Station 3, Helena and Jake Williams, in Suite 7; Station 4, Eleanor Earles, in Suite 9. In Suite 3, now empty-it being where Walter March had been murdered-he had placed bug Number 5. And, in Room 77, Fredericka Arbuthnot's, he had placed bug Number 23.

"My, my," Fletch said of his marvelous machine, "it walks, it talks, cries 'Mama!' and piddles genuine orange juice!"

Hy Litwack spent a long time gargling his famous throat-every bubble and blurp of which Fletch faithfully recorded.

Carol Litwack was saying, "Here you are, the most successful, respected journalist in the country, in the whole world, a multimillionaire on top of that, and you still feel you can't say what you want to say, what you think is the truth."

"Like what?" Hy Litwack's voice sounded tired and bored.

"Well, what you just said about terrorism and television downstairs is not what you've said to me about terrorism and television."

Clearly, Hy Litwack was having a bedtime conversation with his wife which did not interest him much. "I mentioned the possibility that the more publicity we give terrorists and murderers the more other kooks are apt to commit acts of terror and murder for the publicity alone. Too many people want to be on television, even with a gun in hand, or in handcuffs, or lying face down in the street with their backs riddled with police bullets... how much more of my speech would you like me to repeat to you? I admitted all that. I said I worry about it. But I don't know what to do about it. No one does. News is news, and it's seldom good."

There was a feminine sigh. "That's not what you've said to me at all."

"What have I said different?"