Death Before Bedtime

CHAPTER FOUR

1

Before breakfast, I composed a communiqué for the readers of the New York Globe; then, just as the morning light began to stream lemon yellow across the room, I telephoned it to New York, consciencelessly allowing the Rhodes family to pay for it; I was aware that my conversation was being listened to by a plain-clothes man on an extension wire: I could hear his heavy breathing.

My story was hardly revelatory but it would, I knew, keep me in business a while longer, and it would also give the readers of the Globe the only inside account of how the bereaved family was taking their loss: “Mrs. Rhodes, pale but calm, was supported by her beautiful daughter Ellen Rhodes yesterday at the National Cathedral while thousands.…” It was the sort of thing which some people can turn out by the yard but which I find a little difficult to manage; a mastery of newspaper jargon is not easily come by: you have to have an instinct for the ready phrase, the familiar reference. But I managed to vibrate a little as I discussed, inaccurately, the behavior of the suspects at the funeral.

I smiled as I hung up the phone and put my notes in the night table drawer; I had thought of a fine sentence: “While your correspondent was attending the funeral services for the late U. S. Senator Leander Rhodes at the Washington Cathedral yesterday morning, a knee belonging to the attractive Camilla Pomeroy of Talisman City, wife of Roger Pomeroy, the munitions maker, was pressed against your correspondent’s knee …”

I lit a cigarette and thought idly of my session with Mrs. Pomeroy the night before. There had been a faint air of the preposterous about everything she’d said, if not done. The one thing she could do well was hardly preposterous: she was even better geared, as they say, than her half-sister … though Ellen would have been furious to know this. Ellen, like all ladies of love, thought there was something terribly special about her performances when, in fact, they were just about par. But I am not faintly interested in such things early in the morning and despite the vividness of Camilla’s production I was more concerned, at eight in the morning, with what she had said.

I have a theory that I think best shortly after I wake up in the morning. Since no very remarkable idea has ever come to me at any time, to prove or disprove my theory, I can happily believe that this is so and my usual plodding seems almost inspired to me in these hours between waking and the clutter and confusion of lunchtime.

I had a lot to think about. Lying on the bed in my bathrobe, arms crossed on my chest like a monument, I meditated. Camilla Pomeroy is the daughter of Leander Rhodes. She has inherited a million dollars from her father, despite the bar sinister. She married a man who disliked Rhodes. Rhodes disliked him … why? (The first new question that had occurred to me; jealous of his daughter? Not likely. Why then did Rhodes dislike his son-in-law to such an extent he would queer his chances of staying in business? Today’s problem.) And why did Pomeroy not like Rhodes? Political enemies … Senator uncoöperative about business matters … a deal, somewhere? a deal which fell through? Someone crossed up someone else? A profitable line of inquiry.

And Camilla Pomeroy? What was she trying to do? There was no doubt that she genuinely believed her husband killed her father, but why then had she come to me instead of to the police? Well, that was easily answered. She knew that I was in touch with Winters. That I was writing about the case for the Globe … anything she planted with me would get to the attention of the police, not to mention the public, very quickly. But she had asked me to help her. How? Help her do what? Now, there was a puzzle. The thought that she might not like her husband, might in fact like to see him come to grief for the murder of her father, occurred to me forcibly. If she did not care for Pomeroy and had cared for her father; if she believed Pomeroy killed the Senator, then the plot became crystal clear. She could not testify against her husband, either legally or morally (socially, that is), but she could take care of him in another way. She could spill the beans to someone who would then spill them to the police, saving her the humiliation and danger of going to the police herself. That was it, I decided.

Of course she could have killed her father to get the money and then, in an excess of Renaissance high spirits, implicated her husband. But that was too much like grand opera. I preferred not to become enmeshed in any new theory. I was perfectly willing to follow the party line that Pomeroy did it. After all, what I had learned from Camilla corroborated what everyone suspected. Yet why had absolutely no evidence turned up to cinch the case?

I was the first down to breakfast. Even before the ill-starred house party the family evidently breakfasted when they felt like it, not depressing one another with their early morning faces.

I whistled cheerily as I entered the dining room. Through the window I could just glimpse a plain-clothes man at the door. “An armed camp,” I murmured to myself, in Bold Roman. The butler, hearing my whistled version of “Cry” complete with a special cadenza guaranteed to make even the heartiest stomach uneasy, took my order for breakfast, placed a newspaper in front of me and stated the hope, somewhat formally, that the morning would be good for one and all.

The murder was on page two, moving slowly backwards until a Sudden Revelation or Murder Suspect Indicted brought it back to its proper place between the Korean war and the steel strike. There was a blurred photograph of the widow and daughter in their weeds at the cemetery … also a few hints that an arrest would presently be made. As yet there was no mention of the will … that would be the plum for the afternoon papers, and my own New York Globe would have the fullest story of them all (“pale but unshaken Camilla Pomeroy heard the extraordinary news in the dining room.…”). I was disagreeably struck, as I often am, with my elected role in life: official liar to our society. My lifework is making people who are one thing seem like something very different … manufacturers are jailed for adulterating products but press agents make fortunes doing the same thing to public characters. Then, to add to all this infamy, I was now using for my own advantage a number of people I knew more or less well … all for a story for the New York Globe, for money, for publicity. Mea Culpa!

Fortunately what promised to be an orgy of guilt and self-loathing was cut short by the arrival of ham, eggs, coffee and Ellen, dashing in black.

“Oh, how good it smells! I could eat the whole hog,” said that dainty girl, dropping into the chair opposite me. She looked as though she could, too, ruddy and well-rested.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked maliciously.

“Don’t be a pry,” said Ellen, giving her order to the butler and grabbing the newspaper from me at the same time. I noticed with amusement that she only glanced at the story of the murder, that she quickly turned to society gossip and began to read, drinking coffee slowly, her eyes myopically narrowed. She would never wear glasses. “Oh, there’s going to be a big party tonight at Chevy Chase … for … oh, for Heaven’s sake, for Alma Edderdale! I wonder what she’s doing in Washington.”

I said that I didn’t know, adding, however, that whenever there was a great party Alma, Lady Edderdale—the meat-king’s daughter and a one-time Marchioness—was sure to be on hand. I had been to several of her parties in New York the preceding season, and very grand they were, too.

“Let’s go,” said Ellen suddenly.

“Go where?”

“To Chevy Chase, tonight.”

“If I remember my English literature Chevy Chase was the title of a celebrated poem by …”

“The Chevy Chase Club,” said Ellen, picking up the paper again and studying the Edderdale item. “Everyone goes there … ah, Mrs. Goldmountain is giving the party. We must go.”

“But we can’t.”

“And why not?” She arranged the newspaper on a silver rack to the right of her plate. “You know perfectly well why not.” I was irritated, not by her lack of feeling but by her want of good sense. “It would be a real scandal … murdered Senator’s daughter attends party.”

“Oh, I doubt that. Besides, people don’t go into mourning like they used to. Anyway I’m going.” And that was that. I agreed finally to escort her, if she wore black and didn’t make herself conspicuous. She promised.

Just as I was having my second cup of coffee, Walter Langdon appeared in the dining room, wearing a blazer and uncreased flannels, giving one the impression that he was very gently born … some time during the last century. His freckled face and red hair slicked down with water, provided an American country-boy look, however.

“Hi,” said the journalist of the Left Wing, taking his place beside Ellen. She smiled at him seraphically … how well I knew that expression: you are the one. Despite all the others, experienced and cynical as I am, my pilgrim soul has been touched at last … lover come back to me … this is it. That look which had appeared over more breakfast tables after more premières than I or any decent man could calculate. It, as Ellen euphemistically would say, had happened.

“Anything in the press?” said the Left Wing, glancing shyly at his seductress.

“A wonderful party, dear … we’re going … you and I and Peter. Mrs. Goldmountain is giving it for darling Alma Edderdale … you know the meatpacker bag who married old Edderdale.”

“But.…” Walter Langdon, like the well-brought-up youth he was, went through the same maze of demurs as had I, with the same result. He too would join us at the Chevy Chase Club that night … and Ellen would wear black, she vowed. She surrendered the paper to Langdon who read about the murder eagerly.

Ellen reminisced somewhat bawdily on the career of Alma Edderdale while I pretended to listen, my thoughts elsewhere, in the coffin there with Caesar … and I recalled again Walter Langdon’s quotation about the serpent’s egg. Could Walter Langdon have killed the Senator? Unlikely, yet stranger things had happened. He was very earnest, one might even say dedicated. He had had the opportunity … but then everyone had had an opportunity. This was not going to be a case of how but of why, and except for Pomeroy there weren’t too many strong whys around. I decided that during the day I would concentrate on motives.

The Pomeroys arrived for breakfast and I avoided Mr. Pomeroy’s gaze somewhat guiltily, expecting to see the cuckold’s horns, like the noble antlers of some aboriginal moose, sprouting from his brow. But if he had any suspicions he did not show them, while she was a model for the adulterous wife: calm, casual, competent for any crisis … the four Cs. I decided that it was time someone wrote a handbook for adulterers, a nicely printed brochure containing the names of roadhouses and hotels catering to illegal vice, as well as the names of those elusive figures who specialize in operations of a crucial and private nature … operations known as appendectomies in Hollywood and café society. I remembered the time one of the great ladies of the Silver Screen was rushed to the hospital with what an inept member of my profession, her press agent, called a ruptured appendix, unaware that his predecessor of six months before had also announced the removal of her appendix … there were repercussions all the way from Chasen’s to “21”: and of course the lady was in even greater demand afterwards, such being the love of romance in our seedy world.

While I pondered these serious topics, there was a good deal of desultory talk at the table on sleep: who had slept how well the preceding night, and why. It seemed that Mr. Pomeroy always slept like a top, in his own words, because of a special brew of warm milk, malt and phenobarbital.

“I’m so lucky,” said Camilla, “I don’t need a thing to make me sleep.” Nothing but a good hot … water bottle, I murmured to myself, behind my coffee cup.

Verbena Pruitt swung into the room like a sailboat coming about in a regatta. She boomed heartily at us. “Clear morning, clear as a bell,” she tolled, taking her place at the head of the table where the Senator had always sat. Cross-conversations began and before I knew it I found myself staring into the dark dreamy eyes of Camilla Pomeroy. We talked quietly to one another, unnoticed by all the others … except Ellen who noticed everything and smirked broadly at me.

“I … I’m so sorry,” said Camilla, looking down at her plate shyly … as though expecting to find two-fifty there.

“Sorry?” I made a number of barking noises, very manly and gallant.

“About last night. I don’t know what came over me.” She glanced sharply across the table to see if her husband was listening; he was engrossed in an argument with Verbena Pruitt about the coming Nominating Conventions. “I’ve never done anything like that before,” she said softly, spacing the words with care so that I would get the full impact. I thought for some reason of a marvelous army expression: it was like undressing in a warm room. I was in a ribald mood, considering the earliness of the hour.

“I guess,” I whispered, “that it was just one of those things.”

“You see I’m not like that really.”

I barked encouragingly.

“It’s this tension,” she said, and the dark eyes grew wide. “This horrible tension. First, Lee’s death … then the will, that dreadful will.” She shut her eyes a moment as though trying to forget a million dollars … since this is not easily done, she opened them again. “There … there’s nothing in the papers about it, is there?”

“Not yet. This afternoon.”

“I don’t know how I shall live through it. I didn’t tell you last night but the reporters have been after me … I don’t know how they find out about such things, but they knew immediately. This morning one of them actually got through to me on the phone and asked for an interview, on how it felt to be … in a position like this.” She was obviously excited by all the attention; at the same time, under the mechanical expressions of woe, I sensed a real disturbance: if ever a woman was near hysteria it was Camilla Pomeroy, but why?

I told her that the next few days would have to be lived through, the sort of reassurance which irritates me but seems to do other people good, especially those who do not listen to what you say … and she never listened to anyone.

“I also wish,” she said slowly, “that you would forget everything I said last night.”

Before I could comment on this unusual turn of affairs, Mrs. Rhodes, a sad figure in black, entered the room and we all rose respectfully until she was seated. Conversation became general and very formal.

When breakfast was over, I went into the drawing room to see if I had any mail. The mail was always placed on a silver tray near the fireplace … a good place for it: you could toss the bills directly on the fire without opening them. Needless to say, there was a pile of letters: the guests were all busy people involved in busy affairs. I glanced at all the letters, from force of habit: condolences seemed the order of the day for Mrs. Rhodes. There were no letters for Ellen, or Miss Pruitt whose office was at Party Headquarters.

There were a half-dozen letters for me, three of which went into the fireplace unopened. Of the others, one was from Miss Flynn, suggesting that my presence in New York at my office would be advisable considering the fact that the dog I had produced for my dog-food concern had been sick on television while being interviewed and it looked as if I would lose the account. This was serious but at the moment there was nothing I could do about it.

The other letter was a chatty one from the editor at the Globe, commenting on the two pieces I had done for them and suggesting that I jazz my pieces up a little, that unless I produced some leads, the public would cease to read the Globe for news of this particular murder, in which case, I might not get the handsome sum we had decided upon earlier for my services. This was not good news at all. Somehow or other we would have to keep the case on fire, and there was no fire: a lot of smoke and a real blaze hidden somewhere, but where? Three days had passed. Pomeroy was thought to be the murderer yet the police were unable to arrest him. There was no evidence. Despite the hints by several columnists, the public was in the dark about everything and, not wanting to risk a libel suit, I could hardly take the plunge and inform the constituents of the Globe that Pomeroy was the likeliest candidate for the electric chair.

Worried, exasperated, I opened the third letter.

“Boom! Rufus Hollister. Another boom? Maybe not. Maybe so. Repeat, Rufus Hollister. Paper chase leads to him. Who’s got the papers?” The note was unsigned. It was printed in red pencil on a sheet of typewriter paper. The letters slanted oddly from left to right, as though someone had deliberately tried to disguise his handwriting. I sat down by the fire, stunned.

“What’s the matter, Peter?” asked Ellen, coming into view, “Camilla hurt your feelings?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” I said, folding the letter: I had decided, in a flash, to tell no one about it, not even Winters. If someone wanted to give me a lead I wasn’t the man to share it, “if it be a sin to covet honor” and all that.

“Well, I’m off, with Walter. We’re going to see the Senate in session … God knows why. We’ll pick you up after dinner tonight. I’ve told Mother a number of white lies to explain our absence.”

“What about Winters? Did you get his permission?”

“Didn’t you hear? He’s not going to be around at all today. Somebody called up from the police department and said he was busy. But he’ll be with us again tomorrow. Walter, get my coat, will you, like a dear? It’s in the hall closet.” And talking of this and that, she left, the obedient Walter knotted loosely around her neck.

I was about to go upstairs and get my own overcoat, when Mrs. Rhodes suddenly appeared from the dining room. It was her first visit to the drawing room since the reading of the will; she had kept hidden, since then, except for meals. I felt very sorry for her.

“Ah, Mr. Sargeant,” she smiled wanly. “Don’t get up.” She sat down opposite me. The fire burned merrily. The butler moved silently about the room; except for him, we were alone: our fellow suspects had all gone on about their business.

“I suspect this is more than you bargained for,” she said, almost apologetically. The old diamonds gleamed against her mourning.

“It’s been a shock,” I said … it was the phrase we all used to discuss what had happened.

“We must all bear it as best we can. I …” she paused as though uncertain whether or not she could go on; she was a most reserved lady, lacking in that camaraderie so many politicians’ wives assume. “I was not prepared for the will. I don’t understand how Lee could … have made it.” This was odd; she was not concerned at his having had an illegitimate child, only that he had allowed the world to know it.

“I don’t suppose he expected to … die so soon,” I said.

“Even so there was Ellen to think of, and his good name, his posterity … and me. Though I never expected to outlive him.” She played with her rings; then she looked up at me sharply, “Will you write about the will?”

I hadn’t expected a question so blunt; until now my dual role as suspect and journalist had not been referred to by anyone but Camilla even though all of them knew by now that I was covering the case for the Globe. “I suppose I’ll have to,” I said unhappily. I decided not to mention that I had already written about it in some detail, that my somewhat lurid version would be on the streets of New York in a few hours.

She nodded. “I realize you have a job too,” she said, charitably. I felt like a villain, living in her house and exposing her private life to the world, but it couldn’t be helped. If I didn’t do the dirty work someone else would. As a matter of fact others were doing it, their inaccurate reports delighting tabloid readers all over the country. She understood all this perfectly: she hadn’t spent a life in the limelight for nothing.

“And since you must write about these things, I think I should tell you that Camilla, though born out of wedlock, was, in a sense, legitimate. Her mother was my husband’s common-law wife … a well-kept secret, considering the publicness of our lives. When he went into politics he married me, leaving Camilla’s mother—leaving her pregnant as he learned later—only it was too late of course to do anything about that after we were married. Happily, the unfortunate woman, taking a sensible view of the whole business, got herself a husband as quickly as possible, an undertaker named Wentworth. She died a few years later and the story, we thought, was finished.”

“But didn’t Camilla know who her father was?”

“Not for many years. Wentworth suspected the truth, however; he approached my husband … now, what I am telling you is in absolute confidence: some of it you can use. I’ll tell you later what I want told to the public … Wentworth tried to blackmail my husband, in a cautious way. First, this favor; then, that favor. We sent his nephews to West Point. We got his brother-in-law a post office … the usual favors. Then his demands became unreasonable and my husband refused to fulfill them. Wentworth came to me and told me the story of Camilla which is how I learned the truth. He threatened to tell everyone, but by then Lee would not be budged; he was like a rock when his mind was made up. Wentworth told Camilla the truth and she left him, left his house and went to work; she supported herself until she married Roger.”

“Did Wentworth spread the word after that?”

“He did, but it was useless. Those things have a habit of backfiring, you know. Most of the newspapers back home were for Lee and they wouldn’t print Wentworth’s rumors, and since there was no proof of any sort, it was his word against Lee’s. In one of the campaigns the story of Camilla was used to smear us but the other party got nowhere with it. When one of our papers came to us and asked what they should do about these rumors, Lee said: ‘Print the truth.’ I think his stand won him the election.” She was very proud of that frightful husband of hers. In a way, I couldn’t blame her. He had been like a rock, very strong and proud.

“I want you,” she said, firmly, “to print the truth: that Camilla was his daughter by a common-law wife and that, considering the circumstances, he was in every way a good father, even to remembering her equally in his will with our daughter and with me.”

“I’ll do that,” I said humbly, hardly able to contain my excitement at this coup. So far no journalist had bothered to check the Senator’s early years.

“I will appreciate it,” she said gravely.

“Tell me,” I said, suddenly brave, “who killed the Senator?”

“If only I knew.” She looked bleakly into the fire. “I have no idea. I don’t dare think … it’s all so like a paper chase.”

2

The idea was outrageous, but who else? A paper chase. She was trying to give me a signal of some kind, a desperate attempt at communication because … because she was terrified … of the murderer? I wondered, though, why, if she had written me the note, she had not admitted it outright instead of referring so obliquely to it. A paper chase: that was exactly it. I was suddenly very tired. If only one person would stop playing his game long enough to tell the truth, I might be able to unravel the whole business to the delight of the Globe and the police. That she had written to me, I was sure. But for some reason she didn’t wish to be more explicit. Well, I would have to continue in the dark awhile longer. In any case, I was better off than I had been. I knew a good deal more about the Senator’s youthful indiscretions than anyone else and I had been warned about Rufus Hollister.

After my talk with Mrs. Rhodes, I put on my overcoat and left the house. The day was bright and cold and a sharp wet wind blew down Massachusetts Avenue, making my ears ache.

The plain-clothes man at the door looked at me gloomily as I went out, his nose nearly as red from the cold as his earmuffs. I saluted him airily and headed down the avenue as though I knew in which direction I was going.

Just as I was about to hail a taxi, a young man stepped from behind a tree and said, with a big smile, “I’m from the Global News-service and I wonder.…”

“I’m from the New York Globe,” I said solemnly. This brought him to a full stop. He was about to walk off. Then he changed his mind.

“How come you were inside there if you’re on the Globe? They haven’t let any reporters in since the old bastard was blown up.”

I explained to him.

“Oh, I know about you,” he said. “You’re one of the suspects. The Senator’s public relations man.”

I said that I had been the latter, that I doubted if I was the former.

“Well, anyway, the big arrest is going to take place soon.” He sounded very confident.

“Is that so?”

“So we were tipped off … sometime in the next twenty-four hours Winters is going to arrest the murderer. That’s why I’m hanging around … deathwatch.”

“Did they tell you who he was going to arrest?” (I would rather say “whom” but my countrymen dislike such fine points of grammar.)

“Damned if I know. Pomeroy, I suppose. Say, I wonder if you could do me a favor. You see.…” I took care of him and his favor in a few well-chosen words. Then I caught a taxicab and rode down to the Senate Office Building.

This was my second visit to the Senator’s office; it was very unlike the first. Large wooden crates filled with excelsior were placed everywhere on the floor. Two gray little women were busy packing them with the contents of the filing cabinets. I asked for Mr. Hollister and was shown into the Senator’s old office. He was seated at the desk studying some documents. When I entered he looked up so suddenly that his glasses fell off.

“Ah,” he sounded relieved. He retrieved his glasses and waved me to a chair beside his own. “A sad business,” he said, patting the papers on the desk. “The effects,” he added. There was a long pause. “You wanted to see me?” he said at last.

I nodded. I was playing the game with great care. “I thought I’d drop by and see you while I was downtown … to say good-by, in a way.”

“Good-by?” The owl-eyes grew round.

“Yes, I expect I’ll be going back to New York tomorrow … and since there’ll probably be quite a bit of commotion tonight we might not have a chance to talk before then.”

“I’m afraid.…”

“They are going to make the arrest tonight.” I looked at him directly. His face did not change expression but his hands suddenly stopped their patting of the papers; he made two fists; the knuckles whitened. I watched everything.

“I assume you know whom they will arrest?”

“Don’t you?”

“I do not.”

“Pomeroy.” I wondered whether or not I had ruined the game; it was hard to tell.

He smiled suddenly, his cheeks rosy and dimpled. “Do they have all the evidence they need?”

“It would seem so.”

“I hope they do because they will be terribly embarrassed if they’re not able to make it stick. I’m a lawyer, you know, and a very thorough one, if I say so myself. I would never go into court without ultimate proof, no sirree, I wouldn’t. I hope that Lieutenant is not being rash.”

“You don’t think Pomeroy did it, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.” He spoke too quickly; then, more slowly, “I mean, it would be unfortunate if they were unprepared; the murderer might get away entirely, if that was the case.”

“And you wouldn’t like to see that?”

“Would you?” He was very bland. “You forget, Mr. Sargeant, that it is not pleasant for any of us to be suspected of murder. Even you are suspected, in theory at least. I am, certainly, and all the family is, too. None of us like it. We would all like to see the case done with, but if it isn’t taken care of properly then we are worse off than before. Frankly, something like this can do us all great harm, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I’m sure of that.” I sat back in my chair and looked at the bare patch on the wall over the mantelpiece where the cartoon had been. Then I fired my last salvo: “Where are those papers you took from the study the other night? The night you shoved me downstairs?”

Hollister gasped faintly; he adjusted his glasses as though steadying them after an earthquake. “Papers?”

“Yes, the ones you were looking for. I assume you found them.”

“I think your attempt at humor is not very successful, Mr. Sargeant.” His composure was beginning to return and my shock-treatment had, to all intents and purposes, failed. I looked at him coolly, however, and waited. “I did not take the papers,” he said, smiling. “I admit that I should have liked to but someone else got them.”

“You are sure of that?”

Hollister chuckled but his eyes were round and hard despite his smiling mouth. “Perfectly sure.” At that moment the telephone rang; he picked it up and talked to some newspaperman, very sharply, I thought, for someone in public life; but then his public life was over, at least as far as the Senate was concerned. “Wolves!” he groaned, hanging up.

“Closing in for the kill.”

“Closing in for what?”

“The arrest … tonight, I am told.”

Hollister shook his head gloomily. “Poor man. I can’t think why he did it; but then he has a most vindictive nature, and a terrible temper. He depended a great deal on the Senator’s backing in Washington. It was probably too much for him to bear, being turned down like that.”

“I have a hunch that there will be a good deal of singing, though, as the gangsters say.” I was beginning to talk out of the side of my mouth, the way private eyes are meant to talk. I caught myself in time: this was, as far as I could recall, the first time in my life I had used the word “singing” in its underworld sense.

Mr. Hollister looked properly bewildered. “I mean,” I said, “that in the course of the trial a lot of very dirty linen is going to be displayed. I mean, Mr. Hollister, that all your political dealings with the Senator will become known.” This was wild; I forged ahead in the dark. “The papers you wanted and which you say someone else got will be very embarrassing for all concerned.” I was proud of my emphatic vagueness; also of the effect I was making.

“What are you trying to tell me, Sargeant?” The soft-soap political manner was succeeded by an unsuspected brusqueness. He was near the end of the line.

“That Pomeroy is going to tear you to pieces.”

Hollister half-rose in his chair; before he could speak, the telephone rang again. He picked it up impatiently; then his manner changed. He was suddenly mild. “Yes, yes. I certainly will. Anything you say. Yes. Midnight? Fine. Yes.…” His voice trailed off into a series of “yeses” accompanied by little smiles, lost on his caller. When he hung up, he changed moods again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sargeant, but I have a great deal of work to do, packing up the Senator’s papers and all. I don’t know if you’ve heard the news but Governor Ledbetter has just appointed himself to succeed to the Senator’s unfilled term and we’re expecting him tomorrow. Good afternoon.”

3

The Chevy Chase Club is a large old-fashioned building outside Washington, in Maryland. There is a swimming pool, a fine golf course, lawns, big trees, a lovely vista complete with fireflies in the early evening, in season; but we were not in season and my information as to the fireflies and so on was provided by Ellen as we taxied from Washington to the Club. She waxed nostalgic, relating episodes from her youth: in the pool, on the courts, on the course, even on the grass among the trees, though the presence of the innocent Langdon spared us a number of unsavory details.

We had had no trouble getting away that evening, to my surprise. Mrs. Rhodes was properly hoodwinked and the Lieutenant, when we called him to ask permission to go off for the evening, gave it easily. The arrest was going to be made after all, I decided. I wondered if I should leave the dance early so that I could be on hand for the big event. Langdon and Ellen would doubtless be so absorbed in one another that my early departure would not be noticed.

Ellen looked almost regal in her black evening gown. I had never seen her in a black evening dress before, and she was a most striking figure. Her tawny hair pulled straight back from her face like a Roman matron’s and her pale shoulders bare beneath a sable stole. Langdon wore a blue suit and I wore a tuxedo; I had arrived in Washington all prepared for a real social whirl.

The Club was a handsome building with high ceilings and great expanses of polished floor. It had a summery atmosphere even though snow was on the ground outside and the night was bitter cold.

The gathering looked very distinguished … half a thousand guests at least, in full evening dress. Poor Langdon blushed and mumbled about his blue serge suit but Ellen swept us into the heart of the party without a moment’s hesitation.

Mrs. Goldmountain was a small woman of automatic vivacity, very dark, ageless, with exquisite skin carefully painted and preserved. I recognized her from afar: her picture was always in the magazines smiling up into the President’s face or the Vice-President’s face or into her dog’s face, a celebrated white poodle which was served its meals at its own table beside hers on all state occasions: “Because Hermione loves interesting people,” so the newspapers had quoted her as saying. Whether Hermione Poodle liked famous people or not, we shall never know; that Mrs. Goldmountain did, however, is one of the essential facts about Washington, and famous people certainly liked her because she made a fuss over them, gave rich parties where they met other celebrities. One of the laws of nature is that celebrities adore one another … are, in fact, more impressed by the idea of celebrity than the average indifferent citizen who never sees a movie star and seldom bothers to see his Congressman, presuming he knows what a Congressman is. I looked about me for the poodle but she was nowhere in sight: the dream no doubt of a press agent. Mrs. Goldmountain retained several.

“Ellen Rhodes! Ah, poor darling!” Mrs. Goldmountain embraced her greedily, her little black eyes glistening with interest: this was a coup for her. We were presented and each received a blinding smile, the dentures nearly as bright as the famous Goldmountain emeralds which gleamed at her throat like a chain of “Go” lights. Mr. Goldmountain had been very rich; he had, also, been gathered up some years ago … or ridden on ahead, as my Miss Flynn would also say … leaving his fortune to his bride.

“I am so touched, poor angel,” said Mrs. G., holding both of Ellen’s hands tight in hers and looking intently into her face. “I know how much you cared for your poor father.”

“I wanted to see you,” said Ellen simply, the lie springing naturally to her coral lips.

“Your mother? Shattered?”

“Utterly … we all are.”

“Oh, it’s too horrible.”

“Too.”

“And the Chief Justice told me only yesterday that he might well have got the nomination.”

“Ah!”

“What a President he would have been.… How we shall miss him! all of us. I wanted terribly to get to the funeral but the Marchioness of Edderdale and the Elector of Saxe-Weimar were both visiting me and we could hardly get away. I sent flowers.”

“Mother was so grateful.”

“Darling, I couldn’t be more upset and you are an angel to come.…” Then she began to speak very rapidly, looking over our shoulders at an Ambassador who was arriving with his retinue, their ribbons and orders gleaming discreetly. Before we knew it we were cut adrift as the high enthusiastic voice of our hostess fired a volley of compliments and greetings at the Ambassador and his outriders.

“That is over,” said Ellen, in a cool competent voice and she led us to the bar; the guests parted before our determined way. Those who recognized her looked surprised and murmured condolences and greetings; then, mild complaints at her lack of rectitude when we had passed on. I caught only a few words, here and there: mostly disparaging.

The bar was a paneled room, a little less crowded than the main hall. From the ballroom could be heard the sound of a very smooth orchestra playing something with a lot of strings.

“Now isn’t this better than being cooped up in that awful house?” said Ellen blithely, clutching a Scotch in her strong predatory fingers.

“Of course it is,” I said. “But …” And mechanically I reminded her that she was making an unfavorable impression.

“Who cares? Besides, I always do and everyone adores it: gives them something to talk about.” She smoothed her hair back, though not a strand was out of place. She was easily the best-looking woman in the room and there were, for some reason, more women in the bar then men, Washington women being, perhaps, a trifle more addicted to the grape than their menfolk: the result of the tedium of their lives, no doubt, the dreary round of protocol-ridden days.

Walter Langdon then wanted to know who was who and while Ellen explained to him, I wandered off to the ballroom.

Beneath tall paintings of old gentleman in hunting costume, the politicos danced. I recognized the Marchioness of Edderdale, a Chicago meat-man’s girl who had bought a number of husbands, one of whom was the ill-starred Marquis of Edderdale who had got caught in the rigging of his schooner during a regatta some years ago and was hanged, in the presence of royalty, too. The Marchioness whose present name no one bothered with, the title being so much more interesting, stood vaguely smiling at the guests who were presented to her and to the Vice-President of the United States who was drinking champagne beside her and telling, no doubt, one of his celebrated stories. I made my way over to her and presented my compliments.

“Ah, Mr.…” She gestured handsomely.

“Sargeant,” I said, and quickly I reminded her of my last visit to her house. She recalled it, too.

“I hope you will come see me soon,” she said. “Mr. Sargeant, this is …” And she paused; she had forgotten the Vice-President’s name. I quickly shook his hand murmuring how honored I was, saving the dignity of the nation. It occurred to me that she might not have known who he was either: her world after all was New York and the south of France, Capri, and London in the month of June not Washington and the unimportant world of politics.

The Vice-President began a story and, by the time he had got to the end of it, a large group of politicians and climbers had surrounded us and I was able to creep away, my brush with history ended. Just as I reached the outskirts of the party, a familiar figure crossed my line of vision, heading toward the great man. The familiar figure stopped when he saw me and a wide smile broke his florid hearty face. It was Elmer Bush, renowned commentator and columnist (“This is Elmer Bush, bringing you news while it’s news.”). We had been on the Globe together; or at least he had been a star columnist when I was the assistant drama critic. In the ballet murder case I had managed completely to undo his foul machinations. He had been of the opinion that my young woman of the time, a dancer, was the killer and he had presented her to the public as such. I scooped him, in every sense, and as a result we had not seen each other, by design, since.

Bygones were now allowed to be bygones, however.

“Peter Sargeant, well, isn’t this a surprise?” My hand was gripped firmly, the sunlamp-tanned face broke into a number of genial triangles; the bloodshot blue eyes gleamed with whisky and insincere good-fellowship. I loathe Elmer Bush.

“How are you, Elmer,” I said quietly, undoing my hand from his.

“Top of the world. Looks like us country boys are traveling in real society, doesn’t it?” Which meant of course: what the hell are you doing here, you little squirt?

“Always go first class,” I mumbled, wondering what he had in mind, why he was in Washington.

“You talking to the Vice-President?”

I nodded casually. “He was telling a story. It seems there was a farmer who …”

Elmer laughed loudly. “Know it well,” he said, before I could get started. I had intended to bore the life out of him with it. “Marvelous old devil, marvelous. Say, I saw your by-line the other day.”

I nodded gravely.

“Didn’t know you were still in the game. Thought you were mostly involved in publicity.”

“I am,” I said. “This was just one of those things.”

“Rhodes hired you, didn’t he?”

“Couple days before he died.”

“I may drop by and see you … living in the house, aren’t you?” I nodded. “Terrible tragedy,” he said thoughtfully, the Vice-President still in focus in the background, me slightly out of focus in the foreground since the eyes can’t look two places at once. “I thought I might do a program about the case. You might like to be on it. I’m on television now, coast to coast.”

I said that I knew all about this, that I probably wouldn’t be able to go on television and that he probably would not be allowed to visit the house since all newspaper people were rigidly excluded. I was on to him: he was ready to move in, positive that for a half hour’s display of my pretty face to the television audience of America, I would give him the beat on the murder. Not a chance in the world, Brother Bush, I vowed.

“Mrs. Rhodes is an old friend of mine,” said Elmer with a hurt expression. “The Senator and I were very close, very. Well, I suspect young Winters will be able to fix it for me, unless he’s too busy with the arrest.”

This was unexpected, but then Elmer Bush was no fool; he was still a first-rate newspaperman despite his sickening homespun television manner. He had already closed in on Winters who was doubtless giving him all the information he needed. All he needed me for was to get to know the family, and to get me sidetracked along the way.

“Arrest?” I looked surprised.

“Pomeroy … tonight … that’s the word. Matter of fact I plan to get down to the police station about one o’clock to see him booked.” Then Elmer was gone to join the group around the Vice-President.

This gave me pause. Thoughtfully I made my way to the men’s room, a large locker room, as it turned out. I was meditating on what to do next when I noticed that Walter Langdon was standing beside me.

“Nice party?” I asked.

He beamed foolishly. “Just fine,” he said. He sounded a little drunk.

“Ellen having a good time?”

“Doesn’t she always? She’s dancing with some Ambassador or other now.”

“Jilted you already?”

“Oh no.” He missed the humor of my remark. “She’s just having a good time.”

“I suppose you’ll be publishing the banns soon.”

“How did you know?” He turned very red and I felt like kicking him for being such a baby. Instead I arranged my garments and departed, leaving him to his dreams among the tile and enamel.

I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-forty. At twelve I would go back to the house, alone. Langdon could manage Ellen by himself; if he couldn’t, well, it was his business now.

I danced a few times with various ladies, all belonging to the embassies of South American powers, dark vital girls devoted to dancing.

I saw Ellen only once, whirling by in the arms of a sturdy Marine officer. She gave me her devil-leer, over his bulging arm. That might very well be the end of little Walter, I thought, extricating myself from the last Latin girl under pretext of having to join my wife.

Shortly before midnight, Hermione, a large precious-looking white poodle, made her appearance. After being introduced to the more interesting people, she sang, rather badly while the orchestra played what accompaniment it could. There was a great deal of applause when she finished and Hermione was given a sherry flip. Thinking of the decline of Rome, I left the club, bowing first to Mrs. Goldmountain who, under the impression that I was a new Congressman, said she would see me at the House Office one day soon when she paid the Speaker a call.

Since neither Ellen nor Langdon was in sight, I left without telling them of my plans. Actually, I preferred to be alone at this stage of the game. We were approaching a climacteric, as Mr. Churchill would say, and I was becoming tense. I took one of the fleet of taxis in front of the club, and set out for Washington.

For some reason I expected to find the house blazing with light and crowded with television cameras while Pomeroy, shrieking vengeance, handcuffed to Lieutenant Winters, awaited the Black Maria.

Instead everything was as usual. The plain-clothes man still stood guard and no more lights were on than usual.

In the drawing room, I found Mrs. Rhodes and Verbena Pruitt. Both looked quite shaken.

“Has it happened?”

Miss Pruitt nodded, her chin vanishing into its larger fellows. “They took Roger away half an hour ago.”

I sat down heavily opposite them. “Roger!” said Mrs. Rhodes, but I could not tell whether or not she spoke with sorrow or anger or fright. I fixed myself a drink.

“Where is Mrs. Pomeroy?” I asked.

“She’s gone to the police station with him. Brave girl. But then it’s a woman’s place to be beside her mate when dark days come,” announced Miss Pruitt in a voice not unlike her usual political manner. She talked for several minutes about the ideal relationship between man and wife, not in the least embarrassed by her own maidenhood.

“Then it’s all over?” I asked.

Mrs. Rhodes closed her eyes. “I hope so,” she murmured.

Miss Pruitt shook her head vigorously; hairpins flew dangerously across the room. “They have to prove it,” she said. “Until then we all have to be on hand. God knows how long it will take.”

“We won’t have to stay here during the trial?” I was becoming alarmed.

“No, just the preliminaries … Grand Jury … indictment. Then we can go. Even so it means the rest of the week is shot.”

“I always liked Roger,” said Mrs. Rhodes thoughtfully, looking into the fire.

“The whole thing is a bad dream,” said Miss Pruitt with finality.

“I’m sure he would never have done such a thing.”

“Then who would’ve done it? Not I, nor you, nor this boy, nor Ellen … and I doubt if that newspaper boy or Rufus or Camilla would have done it. Of course I will admit that I suspect the servants, especially that butler. Oh, I know how fond you are of him and how devoted he is supposed to be to you but let me tell you that on more than one occasion domestics of unimpeachable character have been found to be murderers, and why? because of this habit of leaving them money. Think how many old ladies are undoubtedly murdered by their beloved companions for money, for a small inheritance. An everyday occurrence, believe you me.” Verbena Pruitt rattled on; Mrs. Rhodes stared at the fire. Neither asked me what I was doing in evening clothes. Ellen had not been missed either, or if she had neither mentioned it.

Soon they left the drawing room and went to bed. The moment I was alone, I telephoned Winters. To my surprise I was put through to him. He sounded very lively.

“I suppose it’s all over?” For some reason my voice had a most lugubrious ring.

“That’s right. We’ve arrested Pomeroy.”

“Has he confessed?”

“No, and doesn’t seem to have any intention of confessing. Won’t make any difference, though.”

“Then I can say that Lieutenant Winters has sufficient evidence on hand to justify his dramatic arrest of the chief suspect?”

“That’s right.” Winters sounded very happy about the whole thing. I contributed to his happiness by indicating that as a reward for giving me the news first, I would see that he was liberally rewarded with space and applause in the Globe. He assured me that no other journalist had been informed as yet: a number of newspaper people had collected at the police station but so far he had made no statement; I was getting the news first, for which I thanked him although the Globe is an afternoon paper and would, if the morning papers were sufficiently alert, be scooped. Still, I had the whole story.

“By the way, what are you building your case on?” This seemed like a fair question; one which would doubtless be evaded.

It was. “I can’t say yet. There’s enough circumstantial evidence, though, to make the story. Just say the police have the affair in hand.”

“Is Mrs. Pomeroy at the station?”

“Yes. She’s talking to her husband; they’re waiting for their lawyer to arrive.”

“Is she pale but dry-eyed?”

“I haven’t looked.”

“Who, by the way, is the lawyer?”

“The new Senator … the Governor. He just got in from Talisman City.”

“Is he going to handle the case?” I was surprised. Senators did not, as far as I knew, handle criminal cases.

“No, he’s going to direct the legal operations, though. We’re not worried.” And on a note of confidence, our interview closed.

Now all that was left was to write the story. I picked up a pad of paper with the legend “U.S. Senate” across the top and then, with a pencil, I began to sketch out my story for the Globe. I had a lot to record. The story Mrs. Rhodes had told me about the childhood of Camilla Pomeroy; a description of the relations between the Senator and the accused; a perfervid account of the arrest and Pomeroy, pale but dry-eyed, being led away by the police, protesting his innocence.

As I took notes, however, I was aware that the case was not solved. I am not sure now, when I look back on these events, why I should have doubted that the most likely man to do the murder had done the murder. I am not one of those devious-minded souls who feel that the most obvious culprit is never the one who did the dirty work. My respect for human ingenuity is not that great. In most cases involving violence, the guilty party is also the most obvious one … the professional writers of mystery novels to the contrary. But Pomeroy just did not strike me as the murdering type.

Halfway through my notetaking, I stopped and looked about the room, brilliantly lit and empty. The fire burned cozily; from far away I could hear the wind. The phrase “a paper chase” kept going through my head. Someone in the house knew who the murderer was, or suspected. Someone had tried to give me a lead about some papers, about Rufus Hollister. The someone, I was fairly certain, was Mrs. Rhodes, a woman far less simple and direct than she appeared to be … a frightened woman, too. Yet the note didn’t imply that Rufus was the murderer, only that he held the key to the murder, perhaps without knowing it. Papers. I frowned, but even this solemn expression did not help me much. Every time I tried to unravel the puzzle, my mind would become completely unfocused and frivolous, all sorts of irrelevancies floating about in it. There was really nothing to go on, no real facts, no clues other than the letter, only my intuition which is, according to my friends, somewhat below-average and my knowledge of the characters involved which was slight, to say the least.

Yet Rufus had been up to some skulduggery with the Senator. He had, I was almost certain, made a raid on the study in the hopes of finding papers there, documents so hidden that not even the police would have been able to find them. Since it was generally known that Winters had removed all the files from the study only someone intimately connected with the Senator’s affairs would have known where to find papers hidden so well the police had not seen them. Who knew his affairs the best? Hollister and Mrs. Rhodes and, of the suspects at least, that was all. Hollister wanted something; Hollister knew where to find it; Hollister had taken a big chance and, probably, got what he wanted and cleared himself.

Cleared himself of what?

I decided to embark upon the chase. I stuffed my notes into my pocket. I wouldn’t have to telephone my story in to the Globe until dawn. By which time I might have some real news.

I went upstairs to Rufus Hollister’s room. The blanket still hung at the end of the corridor although the door behind it had been repaired and bolted shut, no longer requiring the presence of a plain-clothes man.

I knocked on Hollister’s door, very softly. There was no answer. Not wanting to disturb the other sleepers, I turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Hollister was seated at his desk, apparently hard at work.

I shut the door softly behind me; then, since he had made no move, I walked over to his desk and said, “I wonder if …” But the sight of blood stopped me.

Great quantities of blood covered his face, his shirt, the desk in front of him; only the typewriter was relatively clear of it.

He was dead, of course, shot through the right temple. The gun, a tiny pearl-handled affair, lay on the floor beside his right hand; it gleamed dully in the lamplight.

My first impulse was to run as far as I could from this room. My second impulse was to shout for the plain-clothes man out front. My third impulse, and the one which I followed, was to make a search of the room.

I was surprised at my own calm as I touched his hand to see if rigor mortis had set in: it had not. He was only recently dead. I looked at my watch to check on the time: one-nineteen. I looked at his watch, recalling how watches were supposed to stop magically when the wearer died … this watch was ticking merrily: about five minutes fast, too.

I don’t know why it took me so long to notice the confession which was still in the typewriter.

“I killed Senator Rhodes on Wednesday the 13th by placing a package of explosive in his fireplace shortly after we returned from the Senate Office Building Tuesday afternoon. Rather than see an innocent man be condemned for my crime, I herewith make this confession. As to my reason for killing the Senator, I prefer not to say, since a complete confession would implicate others. I will say though that we were involved in an illegal business operation which failed. Because of the coming election, the Senator saw fit to make me the victim of that failure … which would have involved a jail sentence for me and the ruin of my reputation. Rather than suffer this, I took the occasion of Pomeroy’s visit to Washington to kill the Senator, throwing guilt on Pomeroy. Unfortunately I was not able to discover the documents pertaining to our business venture. They are either in the hands of the police or shortly will be. I have no choice but to take this way out, since I prefer dying to a jail sentence and the ruin of my career. I feel no remorse, however. I killed in self-defense. Rufus Hollister.” The name was typewritten but not signed; as though immediately after typing this confession he had shot himself, without even pulling the paper out of the typewriter.

Well, this was more than I had bargained for. The paper chase had led me to a corpse, and to the answer.

Methodically, I searched the room. As far as I could tell there was nothing else to add or subtract from what had happened. The case, it would seem, was closed. With a handkerchief I carefully wiped any prints I might have made on the watch and wrist of the corpse (I had touched nothing else); then I went downstairs and telephoned Lieutenant Winters. It was now one-thirty-six, the anniversary of the Senator’s death.