wall?”
“It sounded like you were practicing a speech.”
“Practicing a speech?”
“I couldn’t hear any other voice.”
“I was talking to Crystal,” Fletch said. “On the phone.”
“No,” Freddie shook her head. “It sounded recorded. At one point, when I first heard you, you blurted out something. As if the playback volume was too high.”
“Oh, yeah. I was using a tape recorder. Few notes to myself.”
“A few notes on what?” Bob sat up straight so the waiter could set the drink in front of him.
“Ah, ha!” Crystal said. “The great investigative reporter, Irwin Maurice Fletcher, has discovered who killed Walter March!”
“Actually,” Fletch said. “I have.”
“Who?” Freddie said.
Fletch said, “Robert McConnell.”
Across the table, Bob’s eyes narrowed.
Freddie looked at Bob. “Motive?”
“For having his newspapers endorse the opposition,” Fletch said, “a few years back. It snatched the candy apple right out of Bob’s mouth. Didn’t it, Bob?” Robert McConnell’s face had gone slightly pale. “If March’s newspapers hadn’t endorsed the opposition, Bob’s man probably would have won. Bob would have gone to the White House. Instead, he ended up back at the same old metal desk in the City Room, facing a blank wall, with thousands of dollars of personal bank loans outstanding.”
Fletch and Bob were staring at each other across the table, Fletch with a small smile.
Freddie was looking from one to the other.
“A few notes on what?” Bob asked.
Fletch shrugged. “A travel piece. I’ve been in Italy. By the way, has anyone seen Junior?”
Walter March, Junior, was the sort, at fifty, people continued to call “Junior.”
“I hear he’s drinking,” Crystal said.
“Jake Williams took him and Lydia for a car ride.” Bob sat back in his chair, relaxed his shoulders. “He wanted to get them out of here. Get Junior some air.”
Freddie said, “You mean the police are making Mrs. March and son stay at this damned convention, where Walter March was murdered? How cruel.”
“I suspect they could do something about it,” Bob said, “if they want to.”
Crystal said, “When you have the power of March Newspapers behind you, you are apt to be very, very conciliatory to petty authority.”
“At least, openly,” Bob said.
“At least, initially,” Fletch said.
“Oh, come on,” said the lady who had said she was from
Newsworld
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 glass 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 audiencé.
“Good evening,” said Helena, in her best modulated voice.
The audience stopped scraping its chairs and began restraining its smoke-coughs.
“Despite the tragic circumstances of the death of the president of the American Journalism Alliance’s president,Walter March”—she stopped, flustered, 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
“It sounded like you were practicing a speech.”
“Practicing a speech?”
“I couldn’t hear any other voice.”
“I was talking to Crystal,” Fletch said. “On the phone.”
“No,” Freddie shook her head. “It sounded recorded. At one point, when I first heard you, you blurted out something. As if the playback volume was too high.”
“Oh, yeah. I was using a tape recorder. Few notes to myself.”
“A few notes on what?” Bob sat up straight so the waiter could set the drink in front of him.
“Ah, ha!” Crystal said. “The great investigative reporter, Irwin Maurice Fletcher, has discovered who killed Walter March!”
“Actually,” Fletch said. “I have.”
“Who?” Freddie said.
Fletch said, “Robert McConnell.”
Across the table, Bob’s eyes narrowed.
Freddie looked at Bob. “Motive?”
“For having his newspapers endorse the opposition,” Fletch said, “a few years back. It snatched the candy apple right out of Bob’s mouth. Didn’t it, Bob?” Robert McConnell’s face had gone slightly pale. “If March’s newspapers hadn’t endorsed the opposition, Bob’s man probably would have won. Bob would have gone to the White House. Instead, he ended up back at the same old metal desk in the City Room, facing a blank wall, with thousands of dollars of personal bank loans outstanding.”
Fletch and Bob were staring at each other across the table, Fletch with a small smile.
Freddie was looking from one to the other.
“A few notes on what?” Bob asked.
Fletch shrugged. “A travel piece. I’ve been in Italy. By the way, has anyone seen Junior?”
Walter March, Junior, was the sort, at fifty, people continued to call “Junior.”
“I hear he’s drinking,” Crystal said.
“Jake Williams took him and Lydia for a car ride.” Bob sat back in his chair, relaxed his shoulders. “He wanted to get them out of here. Get Junior some air.”
Freddie said, “You mean the police are making Mrs. March and son stay at this damned convention, where Walter March was murdered? How cruel.”
“I suspect they could do something about it,” Bob said, “if they want to.”
Crystal said, “When you have the power of March Newspapers behind you, you are apt to be very, very conciliatory to petty authority.”
“At least, openly,” Bob said.
“At least, initially,” Fletch said.
“Oh, come on,” said the lady who had said she was from
Newsworld
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 glass 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 audiencé.
“Good evening,” said Helena, in her best modulated voice.
The audience stopped scraping its chairs and began restraining its smoke-coughs.
“Despite the tragic circumstances of the death of the president of the American Journalism Alliance’s president,Walter March”—she stopped, flustered, 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
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