Death Before Bedtime

  “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.