“Do you know where he goes, Walsh?”
“Sure. There’s a place he goes. Belongs to a friend. He goes there, fishes, relaxes, reads history. Works on political strategy.”
“How do you know that?”
“He’s told me. Just doesn’t want anyone to have his phone number. He calls us. We don’t call him. He calls regularly. Doesn’t want the press to know. Can’t blame him.”
“Who’s this friend?”
“Someone he knew in school. In law school. One of his lawyer friends, I think.”
The phone rang. Walsh jumped to answer it. “Be right up,” he said into the phone. He hung up and said to Fletch: “Mother.”
Remaining seated, Fletch asked, “When do you get to sleep, Walsh?”
Walsh said, “Plenty of time for that in the White House.”
21
Fletch got off the elevator on the fifth floor to go to his own room.
Down the corridor a man was leaning against the wall. His back was to the elevators. His right hand was against the wall, his arm fairly straight. His left hand was raised to his head.
Fletch went to him. “Bill?”
Bill Dieckmann’s eyes were frosted over. They were not focusing at all. Clearly he did not recognize Fletch. Maybe he knew someone was there.
“Bill …”
Bill’s knees jerked forward. Fletch did not catch him. He was too surprised. He put his own hands around Bill’s head and went to the floor with him. Together they landed softly.
Fletch disentangled himself and sat up. Bill Dieckmann was unconscious. Some, but not all, of the pain was gone from his face.
The room key in Bill’s jacket read 916.
Dieckmann was heavy. Fletch raised him in the fireman’s lift.
With Dieckmann over his shoulders, Fletch waited for the elevator.
Andrew Esty was on the elevator when it arrived. He was wearing his overcoat, Daily Gospel button in the lapel. In one hand he had a suitcase; in the other a typewriter case.
“I thought you left the campaign, Mr. Esty.” Fletch pushed the button for the ninth floor.
“I was ordered back.”
Esty did not seem to notice that Fletch had a large man over his shoulders. He had barely made room for them in the elevator.
“Nice to have you back,” Fletch said from behind the folds of Bill’s suit jacket.
“It’s not nice to be back.”
“But,” said Fletch, “you have a job to do.”
“Do you really think,” Esty asked, “we should allow this anti-American, anti-Christian campaign to go unreported?”
“Are we on the ninth floor?”
There was a moment before Esty admitted they were on the ninth floor.
Fletch said, “Gotta call ’em as you see ’em.” He staggered with his load of Bill Dieckmann through the elevator door.
Fletch lowered Bill Dieckmann onto the bed in Room 916.
Then he picked up the telephone.
“What are you doing?” On the bed, Bill’s eyes were open, wary.
“Calling Dr. Thom,” Fletch said.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“You collapsed, Bill. On the fifth floor. You’ve been unconscious.”
“Put the phone down.”
The hotel’s operator had not yet answered. “Are you sure?” Fletch asked.
“Put it down.”
Fletch hung up.
“Now get out.”
“You might say thanks for the ride, Bill. I carried you up here.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
“Bill, I’m not your wife, boss, brother, friend … you know the rest of the speech?”
“No,” Bill said. “You’re not.”
“Something’s wrong with your head, man. Twice I’ve seen you trying to twist it off. Tomorrow you might succeed.”
“None of your damned business.” Bill sat up, put his feet on the floor, his head in his hands.
“You’ve said that before. It’s no secret you’re having trouble, Bill. Dr. Thom may be a strange man, but he’s not going to call your managing editor first thing with a complete medical report. Doctors still have to keep their mouths shut, even Dr. Thom.”
Dieckmann appeared to be listening.
“Anyway,” Fletch continued, “suppose you succeed at twisting your head off one of these times? Think of the disgusting sight. You walking around with your head in your hands, down around your pockets. Blood bubbling up from your neck and dribbling all over your suit. I know you’d still get the story, Bill. But think of the ladies. You want Fenella Baker to see a thing like that? Might make her face powder fall off. That would be really sickening.”
Head in hands, Bill said, “Get out of here, Fletch. Please. Go bother somebody else. Go bother Ira Lapin. He’s got bigger problems than I have.”
“What are his problems?”
“Housemother you’re not.”
“Agreed. But, Bill, you just collapsed. You weren’t even on the right floor. You had no idea what you were doing. Before you went unconscious, you didn’t even recognize me.”
“Okay, okay. What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Get medical attention. This primary campaign isn’t worth your life, Bill. You know what I mean? At least to you, it isn’t.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’re about as all right as a snowman on the Fourth of July.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Okay. If you say so.” At the door, Fletch said, “You sure there’s nothing I can do?”
“Yeah. There’s something you can do.”
“What?”
“Tell me if I’m on the right campaign. Who’s going to win this damned primary?”
“Gee, I dunno, Bill.”
“Then you’re no good to me.”
“But I can tell you that after this primary election, there’s another one. And then another. And another … Good night, Bill.”
22
“ ’Mornin’. Thank you,” Fletch said into the bedside phone. It had rung and he assumed it was the hotel operator calling to tell him it was six-thirty.
“You’re welcome,” said the strong voice of The Man Who.
Fletch looked at his watch. It was only six-twenty.
“ ’Morning,” Fletch said in a voice that wasn’t too strong. He sat up in the bed. His shoulders and chest and stomach were wet with sweat. Steam was clanging in the radiators. The room had been cold when he went to bed. He had put on an extra blanket from the closet. Now he threw the blankets off
“You’re up early,” said Governor Caxton Wheeler.
“Am I?”
“Apparently.”
“Oh, yes,” Fletch said intelligently. “I must be.”
“Are you awake now?”
“Sure. Ask me a riddle. Never mind, you know the answer.”
“Look, Fletch, I’ve just called Lansing Sayer. Asked him to join me in the car on the ride out to the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“I’m visiting the Farmingdale Hospital this morning.”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, oh, yes. Sir.”
“He can interview me in the car on the way out. I want you to come along. To keep me honest.”
“Okay. I mean, yes, sir.”
“We’ll leave about eight-thirty. Flash will drive us out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you out front at eight-thirty. Are you awake?”
“Like a snowman on …”
“What were you doing when I called?” There was laughter in the governor’s voice.
Fletch ran his thumb down his chest and stomach. “Sweating.”
“Great,” said The Man Who. “Nothing like exercise first thing in the morning. Do a push-up for me. I’ll feel the better for it.”
Fletch padded to the door, opened it, and saw the stack of newspapers a volunteer had left for him in the hotel corridor.
Newsbill was on top. The front page of the tabloid had nothing but the headline on it:
DEATH STALKS WHEELER CAMPAIGN
Fletch knelt on one knee and scanned the story, with many photographs, which began on page three:
Farmingdale—Presidential Candidate Caxton Wheeler and his staff have refused to answer questions about the murders of two young women which have happened on their campaign trail within the last week.
The second young woman, Alice Elizabeth Shields, 28, was found naked and beaten on the sidewalk just below Wheeler’s seventh floor hotel suite.
Campaign officials even refuse to state they have no knowledge of the women or of their murders….
The by-line read Michael J. Hanrahan.
“Well, well,” Fletch muttered into the empty hotel corridor. “The dam has broken. Somebody better get a mop.”