Death Before Bedtime (17 page)

I was shown to an upstairs sitting room, hung in yellow silk, all very Directoire. After a moment’s wait, Mrs. Goldmountain appeared, neat in black and hung with diamonds. “Mr. Sargeant, isn’t this nice? I was so happy you could come to the party last night with darling Ellen … poor shattered lamb!” I could see now why I had been admitted so quickly, without hesitation: I was straight from the Senator’s house and would know, presumably, all about the murders. I had every intention of indulging La Goldmountain.

“She’s taking it very well,” I said, which was putting it as nicely as possible.

“She was devoted to Lee Rhodes. Of course they never saw much of each other but everyone knew of their devotion. They were so alike.”

I failed to see any resemblance but that was beside the point. I mumbled something about “like father like daughter.”

“Of course some people were shocked by her going out so soon after his death but I said after all she is young and high-spirited and there is nothing, simply nothing she can do about his being dead. I love tradition, you know, but I see no reason for being a slave to it, do you? Of course not. They must all be relieved that that horrible man who killed himself confessed.”

“Yes, we were pretty happy about that: I mean, justice being done and all that.”

“Of course. Is it true that poor Roger Pomeroy was nearly arrested?”

I said that it was true.

“How frightful if the wrong man had been convicted! I have always liked Roger Pomeroy, not that our paths have crossed very often, just official places, that’s all, especially during the war when he was here on one of those committees. I never took to
her
I’m afraid; I always thought her rather common, never having the
slightest
notion that she was really Lee’s daughter, like
that!
What a cross it must have been for her to bear: it could explain everything. My analyst, who studied with Dr. Freud in Vienna, always said that whatever happens to you in the first nine months before you’re born determines everything. Well, I mean if the poor little thing
knew
before she was born that she was illegitimate (and they’ve practically proven that we
do
know such things … we later forget them during the trauma of birth, like amnesia) it would certainly have given her a complex and explained why I always thought her just a little bit common.”

I stopped the flow gradually. I diffidently explained my proposition to her.

“For some time now my clients, the Heigh-Ho Dogfood Company, have wanted an outstanding public relations campaign. I’ve tried any number of ideas on them but none was exactly right. The campaign we had in mind must have dignity as well as public appeal and, you will admit, those two things aren’t easy to find together. The long and the short of it, Mrs. Goldmountain, is that I think we could make a dandy campaign out of Hermione.”

“Oh, but I could never consent …” She began, but I knew my Goldmountain.

“We would arrange … Heigh-Ho would arrange … for her to give a recital at Town Hall. As a result of all that publicity she would appear on television, on radio and perhaps even a movie contract might be forthcoming. You, as her owner, would of course lend considerable dignity to all of this and though the publicity might be distasteful …”

That did it. Any mention of publicity made Mrs. Goldmountain vibrate with lust.

“If I were to accept such a proposal, I would insist on supervising Hermione’s activities myself.”

“I think that is a fair request … I’m sure Heigh-Ho would consult you on everything.”

“I would also insist on having final say about her program at Town Hall. I know what her capacities are and I know the things she can do. I would never permit her to sing any of these modern songs, only the classics and of course the National Anthem.”

“You will be allowed to choose the repertoire of course. Also the voice coach.”

“You feel she
needs
a coach?” I had made a blunder.

“All the stars at the Metropolitan have voice coaches,” I said quickly. “To keep their voices limbered up.”

“In that case, I would be advised by you,” said Mrs. Goldmountain graciously, her eyes narrowing as she saw the spread in
Life
as well as the image of Hermione and herself flickering grayly on the little screen in millions of homes.

“What songs does she do best?” I asked, closing in.

“German
Lieder
, and Italian opera. If you like we can hear her now.”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly, “not now, some other time. I know her genius already. All Washington does and, soon, the whole world will know.”

“You may tell Heigh-Ho, that I shall seriously entertain any offer they wish to make.” And so our treaty was fashioned. I asked permission to telephone the Vice-President of Heigh-Ho in New York. It was granted. The official was delighted with my plan and made an appointment to meet Mrs. Goldmountain the next afternoon, in Washington.

Everyone was happy and my firm was again on solid footing. Mrs. Goldmountain invited me to take tea with her and a few guests who were at this moment arriving. One of them turned out to be the new Senator, former Governor Johnson Ledbetter.

“Remember you well!” he boomed, pumping my hand. “A much less unhappy occasion I am glad to say.” He beamed vaguely and accepted a drink from the butler. I took tea, as did our hostess and the two other guests; one a political commentator of great seriousness, the other Elmer Bush who had arrived while I was greeting the Senator. Elmer was every bit as cordial as the old political ham, both slices off the same haunch, as it were.

“Well, it looks like you’re all innocent,” said Elmer
toothily as we stepped back out of the main line of chatter which circulated around the new Senator and Mrs. Goldmountain.

“It certainly does, Elmer.”

“I suppose you’ll be going back to New York?”

“Very soon.”

“Winters, I gather, is very pleased about the way the case shaped up, very pleased.”

“I should think so.”

“Quite a trick of his, pretending to arrest Pomeroy while really making a trap for Hollister.”

“Trap?”

“Isn’t that what happened? Wasn’t Hollister driven to commit suicide by the police? Naturally, they wouldn’t admit anything like that but it
seems
clear: they pretended to have evidence which they didn’t have, forced him to confess and then to kill himself, an ingenious, a masterful display of policemanship.”

Elmer Bush never joked so I assumed that he was serious and left him rigorously alone.

“I’ve already discussed it on my show. You probably saw it night before last, got a good response too. The public seems unusually interested in this affair, something out of the ordinary, Senator being murdered and all that, very different. I thought I might drop by and take a few shots of the house on film to be used in my next program …” And he tantalized me with promises of glory if I would help him get in to see the house and Mrs. Rhodes. I told him I would do what I could.

Across the room the Senator-designate was booming.

“Dear lady, I will be saddened indeed if you don’t attend the swearing in tomorrow at the Capitol. The Vice-President
is going to do it, in his office, just a few friends will be there, very cozy, and the press. Say the word, and I shall have my secretary send you a ticket.”

“It will be a moment to be cherished,” said our hostess, looking up into his full-blown face, like a gardener examining a favorite rose for beetles.

“I am only saddened that my appearance in the halls of Congress should have been like this … in the place of an old and treasured friend. How tragical!”

A murmur of sympathy eddied about him. “Lee was a man to be remembered,” said the statesman.

His oration was shorter than I had suspected; when it was over he and Elmer Bush fell into conversation about the coming convention while I chatted with Mrs. Goldmountain.

“You’re going to be in Washington a little while longer?”

“Two days at least … so the police say.”

“Why on earth do they want you now that it’s all over?”

“Red tape. You know how they are.”

“Well, give my love to darling Ellen and tell her to come see me before she goes back.”

“I certainly will.”

“And also to Mrs. Rhodes.” She paused and sipped some tea, her black eyes dreamy. “She must be relieved.”

“That the case is finally over?”

“In
every
sense,” said Mrs. Goldmountain significantly.

“What do you mean?”

“Only what everyone in Washington knows and has always known, that she hated Lee Rhodes, that she tried, on at least two occasions, to divorce him and that he somehow managed to talk her out of it. I’m quite sure it was a relief to her when he was killed, by someone else. That awful Hollister really
did
do it, didn’t he?”

I returned to the house shortly after five, and went straight to my room. As I bathed and dressed for dinner, I had a vague feeling that a pattern was beginning to evolve but precisely what I could not tell. It was definite that there were a number of charades being performed by a number of people for a number of reasons … figure out the meanings of the charades and the identity of the murderer would become clear.

I combed my hair and began to construct a plan of attack. First, the Pomeroys. It was necessary that I discover what her game was, why she had come to me with that story about her husband. I should also find out why he had been, all in all, so calm about his arrest: had he been so sure of vindication? And, if he had, why?

Second, I should like to investigate Mrs. Rhodes’ whole mysterious performance, her reference to the paper chase, her possible authorship of the anonymous letters, the fact of her revolver’s use as a murder weapon. What had her relationship been, truly, to Senator Rhodes? I found Mrs. Goldmountain’s assertion difficult to believe. Yet she had, Heaven knew, no reason to be dishonest and if Mrs. Rhodes
had
detested her husband.… I thought of that firm old mouth, the controlled voice and gestures: I could imagine her quite easily killing her husband. But how could I find out? Ellen was much too casual about her family to know. Verbena Pruitt seemed the likeliest source, the old family friend … except it would not be easy to get anything out of her; she was too used to the world of politics, of secrecy and deals to be caught in an indiscretion. Still I decided to give her a try that evening.

The third charade concerned my erstwhile ally Lieutenant Winters; as a matter of curiosity I wanted to know just what game
he
was playing, what was the reason for his apparent desertion of the case.

And, finally, there was always Langdon; the idea that he might have committed a political murder appealed to me enormously: it was all very romantic and Graustarkian … unfortunately he hardly seemed the type to do in poor Hollister, but then murder knoweth no type as the detectives’ Hand Manual would say, if there was such a thing.

Verbena Pruitt could undoubtedly have done the murders, but there was no motive as far as I could tell. Ellen was quite capable of murdering her father, me, Langdon and the President of the United States, but she had been at the Chevy Chase Club when Hollister was murdered, as had Langdon, ruling them both out.

This left Verbena Pruitt and Mrs. Rhodes as the only two who were in the house at the time of Hollister’s death (the Pomeroys had been at the police station). The murderer then, barring the intervention of an outsider, was either Verbena or Mrs. Rhodes and, of the two, only Mrs. Rhodes had had the motive.

The result of all this deductive reasoning left me a little cold. I sat down heavily on the bed, hairbrush in hand and wondered why I hadn’t worked all this out before. My next thought concerned Winters. He had obviously worked it out for himself. He must’ve known for some hours what the situation was; he had studied all the statements, had known where each of us was. He must know then that Mrs. Rhodes was, very likely, the murderer and yet he had seemed ready to give up the case. Why? Had he been bought off? This was altogether too possible, knowing the ways of the police,
in my own city of New York anyway. Or had he, out of a sense of chivalry, not chosen to arrest her, preferring to rest on the laurels provided him by Hollister’s apparent suicide?

I began to think that it might be a good idea if I forgot about the whole thing. I had no desire to see justice done, either in the abstract or in this particular case. Let the tyrants go to their graves unavenged, such was my poetical thought.

The telephone by my bed rang. I answered it. Ellen was on the line. “Come to my room like a good boy,” she commanded. “We can have a drink before dinner.”

She was already dressed for dinner when I opened the door; she was buffing her nails at her dressing table. “There’s a drink over there on the table, by the bed.” And sure enough there was a Martini waiting for me. I saluted her and drank; then I sat in a chintzy chair, looking at her. I have always enjoyed watching women make themselves up, the one occupation to which they bring utter sincerity and complete dedication. Ellen was no exception.

“When are you going back?” she asked, examining her nails in the light, a critical, distracted expression on her face.

“I hope tomorrow,” I said. “It depends on Winters.”

“I’m going to go tomorrow, too,” she said flatly. “I’m tired of all this. I’m sick of the reporters and the police, even though that Winters is something of a dear … and on top of all that I have, ever since I can remember, loathed Washington. I wonder if we could get out of here tonight?” She put down her piece of chamois or whatever it was she was polishing her nails with and looked at me.

“I doubt it,” I said. “For one thing Winters will be here.”

“Oh damn!”

“And for another thing I don’t think those detectives would let us go without permission from him.”

“We could duck them; there’s a side door off the small drawing room nobody ever uses. We could get out there; there’s no guard on that side of the house.…” As she spoke she sounded, for the first time since I’d known her, nervous and upset.