Fletch and the Man Who (7 page)

“Who was with you in the bar at that point?”

“I had been talking with Fenella Baker and Betsy Ginsberg. I had been talking with Bill Dieckmann earlier, but I think he’d left some time before. The usual faces in a motel bar. A few morose businessmen drinking themselves to sleep. A few long-haul, tongue-tied drivers desperate to talk with anybody about anything.”

“That all?”

“All I can remember. After the event, of course, after the ambulance had come and gone, the press were in the bar in force. Some had just thrown on coats over their pajamas.”

“Tell me about going out to the girl. Examining her.”

“Due to the high incidence of malpractice suits these days, you know doctors do not rush in where even fools fear to tread. Of course, if I ever come across a lawyer lying on the sidewalk, I’ll tread on his face.”

“You don’t like lawyers either?”

“Even lawyers’ mothers don’t like lawyers. If you do a survey, I think you’ll find that lawyers’ mothers are the strongest advocates of legal abortions in the land.”

Fletch fought the mesmerizing quality of the doctor’s manner of
speech. “Going through the lobby, did you see Governor Wheeler coming in?”

“No. No, I did not. I didn’t see the governor at all last night until I went to his suite.”

“To put him to sleep.”

“To put him to sleep. A middle-aged couple, nicely dressed, was standing over the girl. The man was just taking off his overcoat to cover the body. I asked him not to do that. I wanted to examine her.”

“Was she still alive at that point?”

“No. I would say death was nearly instantaneous the moment she hit the pavement.”

“Not before?”

“I don’t think so. My guess is that she landed on the back of her head, breaking her neck, then crashed on her back.”

“What evidence did you see that the girl had been beaten before she fell or was pushed?”

“Her face was badly bruised. Banged eye—her left, I think—blood from her nose, blood from lips, two broken front teeth, two or three badly fractured ribs on her left side. Compound fractures, I mean.”

“The coroner announced this morning she had not been raped.”

“So what motive? Robbery? Who’d want to steal her clothes? Certainly a beaten, naked female suggests rape.”

“Would you say she was a good-looking woman?”

Again Dr. Thom studied the ceiling. “Not beautified, in any way. Not much makeup, if any. A slim build, well-proportioned body, good muscle tone. A plain woman, I’d say.”

“While you were examining the girl, a crowd collected?”

“A small crowd. Mostly the press.”

“Do you remember who was in the crowd?”

“I did glance through the crowd, to make sure no small children were there. That Arbuthnot woman was there. Now, there’s a handsome woman. Fenella Baker had followed me out from the bar. I will not comment on her beauty, or lack thereof. One or two others, I’m not sure who. A truck driver from the bar was the only one who really tried to be helpful.”

“I understand you had seen the Shields woman before.”

“Yes. I had noticed her the last few days—in the hotel elevators, lobbies.”

“Why did you notice her?”

“I noticed her because she was one place one day and the next place the next day. She didn’t appear to have anything to do with the campaign. Although I did see her breakfasting with Betsy Ginsberg one morning.”

“Did you ever see her with any men?”

“Not that I remember. I think she drove herself in a little two-door Volkswagen.”

“Why do you think a woman like that would traipse after a political campaign the way she did?”

“It’s a candidate’s job to be attractive, isn’t it? That’s why they wear those glue-on tans. Power attracts. They attract all sorts of creatures. Even you and me.”

The engine of the bus roared. Immediately the bus began to move.

“Hey!” Fletch stood up. “I’m supposed to be on the other bus.”

With his finger holding his reading place, Dr. Thom closed his book. “Guess I should let the patient use the bed.” He sat up on the bunk, swinging his legs over the side.

Fletch was rubbing the steam off the window.

Taking off his red-and-black checked hunting jacket, Governor Wheeler opened the stateroom door.

“How do,” he said to the two men using his stateroom.

“How many cups of coffee did you have, Caxton?” Dr. Thom asked.

“Just two. But they were black.” The candidate smiled as if he had gotten away with something.

“Don’t blame me if you jitter.”

“What am I supposed to do, ask for skim milk everywhere I go? Caffeine’s important to these guys.”

In the door behind the governor, Walsh said, “Vic Robbins drove himself off a bridge this morning in Pennsylvania. Dead.”

“Yeah?” The governor was putting his hunting jacket on a hanger, and the hanger back in the closet. “He was a real weasel. Have I made a statement?”

“Yup.”

“Sent a wreath?”

“Will as soon as we know where to send it. You’d better hit something
big and hard in Winslow, or you’ll get zilch on the nightly news. The accident will make good, easy television film.”

“Yeah. Like what?”

“Phil and Paul are trying to come up with something.”

“What have they got so far?”

“Pentagon spending.”

“Hell, anything anybody says about that has smelled of hypocrisy since Eisenhower. And he saved his complaints for his farewell address. Get something with a little pizzazz.”

Dr. Thom said, “You want anything, Caxton?”

“Yeah. A brain transplant. Go away. Don’t come back until you can do one.”

Fletch tried to follow Dr. Thom through the stateroom door.

“Hang on, Fletch,” The Man Who said. “I think it’s time you and I got to know each other a little better.”

“Sounds like gangland, doesn’t it?” chuckled Governor Wheeler after the door was closed. “A member of the opposition gets knocked off and we’ve got a wreath ordered before we know where to send it.” He sat in the chair Fletch had just vacated and indicated Fletch should sit on the bed. “American politics is a bit of everything: sports, showmanship, camp meeting, and business negotiation.” He bent over and began taking off his boots. “Ask me some questions.”

“Ask anything?”

“Anything your heart desires. You know a man more from his questions than from his answers. Who said that?”

“You just did.”

“Let’s not make a note of it.”

“I’ve got a simple question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why do you want to be President of the United States?”

“I don’t, particularly.” The Man Who was changing his socks. “Mrs. Wheeler wants to be Mrs. President of the United States.” Smiling, he looked up at Fletch. “Why do you look so surprised? Most men try to do what their wives want them to, don’t they? I mean, after
ten, fifteen years in the same business, most men would quit and go fishin’ if it weren’t for their wives driving them to the top. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Never married?”

“Once or twice.”

“I see.” The governor, socks changed, shoes on, laces tied, sat back in the swivel chair. “Well, Mrs. Wheeler worked hard during the two congressional campaigns, and the three campaigns for the statehouse, and she worked hard in Washington and in the state capital. It’s her career, you see, as much as mine. For my part, I began to see, five or six years ago, that I might have a crack at the presidency, so I deliberately started sidling toward it, positioning myself for it. I’m a politician, and the top job in my career is the presidency. Why not go for it?”

“You mean, you have no deep convictions …”

The governor was smiling. “The American people don’t want anyone with deep convictions as President of the United States. People with deep convictions are dangerous. They’re incapable of the art of governing a democracy because they’re incapable of compromise. People with deep convictions put everyone who disagrees with them in prison. Then they blow the world up. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Maybe I don’t mean convictions that deep.”

“How deep?”

“Ideas …”

“Listen, Fletch, at best government is a well-run bureaucracy. The presidency is just a doorknob. The bureaucracy is the door. The doorknob is used to open or close the door, to position the door this way or that. But the door is still a door.”

“All this stuff about ‘highest office in the land’ …”

“Hell, the highest office in the land is behind a schoolteacher’s desk. Schoolteachers are the only people who get to make any real difference.”

“So why aren’t you a schoolteacher?”

“Didactic but not dogmatic is the rule for a good politician. Who said that?”

“No one yet. I’m still thinking about it.”

“The President of the United States should be a good administrator.
I’m a good administrator. So are the other gentlemen running for the office, I expect.”

“And you don’t care who wins?”

“Not really. Mrs. Wheeler cares.” The Man Who laughed. “Your eyes keep popping when I say that.”

“I’m a little surprised.”

“You really wouldn’t want an ambitious person to be President, would you?”

“Depends on what one is ambitious for.”

“Naw. I’m just one of the boys. Got a job people expect me to do, and I’m doin’ it.”

“I think you’re pulling my leg.”

Again The Man Who laughed. “Maybe. Now is it my turn?”

“Sure. For what?”

“For asking a question.”

“Do I have any answers?”

“We established last night you’ve taken this job on the campaign to feed some ideas into it. Last night, going to sleep, I was wondering what ideas you have.”

“Really sticking it to me, aren’t you?”

“Sometimes you know a man by his answers.”

“Governor, I don’t think you want to hear Political Theory According to Irwin Maurice Fletcher, scribbler and poltroon.”

“I sure do. I want to hear everybody’s political theory. Sooner or later we might come across one that works.”

“Okay. Here goes.” Fletch took a deep breath.

Then said nothing.

The governor laughed. “Called your bluff, did I?”

“No, sir.”

“Talk to me. Don’t be so impressed. I’m just the one who happens to be running for office.”

“Okay.” Fletch hesitated.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” Then Fletch said in a rush, “Ideology will never equalize the world. Technology is doing so.”

“Jeez.”

Fletch said nothing.

In the small stateroom in the back of the presidential campaign bus,
The Man Who looked at Fletch as if from far away. “Technology is equalizing the world?”

Still Fletch said nothing.

“You believe in technology?” the governor asked.

“I believe in what is.”

“Well, well.” The governor gazed at the steamy window. “Always nice to hear from the younger generation.”

“It’s not a political theory,” Fletch said. “Just an observation.”

Gazing at the window, the governor said, “There are many parts to that observation.”

“It’s a report,” Fletch said. “I’m a reporter.”

Only dim light came through the steamed-over, dirt-streaked bus window. No scenery was visible through it. After a moment, the governor brushed his knuckles against the window. Still no scenery was visible.

“Run for the presidency,” The Man Who mused, “and see America.”

The stateroom door opened. Flash Grasselli stuck his head around the door. “Anything you want, Governor?”

“Yeah. Coffee. Black.”

“No more coffee today,” Flash said. “Fresh out.”

He withdrew his head and closed the door.

The Man Who and Fletch smiled at each other.

“Someday …” the candidate said.

“Why is he called Flash?”

“Because he’s so slow. He walks slow. He talks slow. He drives slow. Best of all, he’s very slow to jump on people.” The governor frowned. “He’s very loyal.” He then swiveled his chair to face Fletch more fully. “How are things on the press bus?”

“Could be better. You’ve got a couple of double threats there, that I know of.”

“Oh?”

“Fredericka Arbuthnot and Michael J. Hanrahan. Freddie’s a crime writer for
Newsworld
and Hanrahan for
Newsbill
. ”

“Crime writers?”

“Freddie is very sharp, very professional, probably the best in the business. Hanrahan is utterly sleazy. I would deny him credentials, if I thought I could get away with it.”

“Try it.”

“
Newsbill
has a bigger readership than the
New York Times
and the
Los Angeles Times
put together.”

“Yeah, but
Newsbill’s
readers are too ashamed to identify themselves to each other.”

“So has the
Daily Gospel
a huge readership, for that matter.”

“How did we attract a couple of crime writers? Did somebody pinch Fenella Baker’s uppers?”

“The murder last night, of Alice Elizabeth Shields, was the second murder in a week that happened on the fringes of this campaign.”

“‘On the fringes,’” the governor repeated.

“They may not be connected. Apparently, Chicago police don’t think so. There’s a strong possibility they are connected. Strong enough, at least, to attract the attention of Freddie Arbuthnot and Michael J.”

“‘Connected.’ To the campaign?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who was murdered in Chicago?”

“A young woman, unidentified, strangled and found in a closet next to the press reception area at the Hotel Harris.”

“And the woman at the motel last night was murdered?”

“Clearly.”

“You’re saying I should get myself ready to answer some questions about all this.”

“At least.”

“So get me ready.”

“All right. Tell me about your arriving back at the hotel last night.”

The governor swiveled his chair forward again. “Okay. Willy drove me back to the hotel after the Chamber of Commerce speech.”

“Willy Finn, your advance man?”

“Yeah. He flew in as soon as he heard James was out on his ear. We had a chance to talk in the car. After he left me last night, he flew on to California.”

“Any idea what time you got to the hotel?”