Death Before Bedtime (12 page)

“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.
”