Death Before Bedtime (5 page)

“Oh, who cares,” she said, without much interest. “How long do you think they’ll take to figure all this out?”

“Who? The police? I haven’t any idea.”

“Well, I hope they’re quick about it. It shouldn’t take long, God knows.”

“You sound as though you know who killed him?”

The blue eyes flickered almost humorously in the wavering candlelight. “Of course I know, darling … but, for one
reason and another, I’m not opening my mouth … wouldn’t interfere for the world.”

I felt very cold then … as though a blast of December air from that ruined study had penetrated the drawing room and chilled me to the bone.

I was interviewed at four-twenty-seven in the morning by the Police Lieutenant who seemed nearly as weary as the rest of us.

“Full name,” he mumbled mechanically. A plain-clothes man took down my testimony. The three of us sat at one end of the dining-room table by the light of two candelabras: the candles were half-burned away.

“Peter Cutler Sargeant II.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Occupation?”

“Public relations.”

“By whom employed.”

“Myself.”

“Residence?”

“120 Christopher Street, New York City.”

“How long have you known Senator Rhodes?”

“About one day.”

“How did you happen to know him?”

“I was hired to handle his publicity. I only got here today … yesterday morning.”

“What time did you come to the house?”

“About four-thirty in the afternoon.”

“Did you go to the study at any time?”

“Not until after dinner, when the Senator asked me to join him there.”

The Lieutenant opened his eyes and looked interested. His voice lost its official mechanical tone. “What time did you leave?”

“Around one-thirty, I guess … just before he was killed.”

“Where were you when he was killed?”

“I went back downstairs … for a drink. I ran into Miss Pruitt and we talked for a bit … she had left her cigarettes or something in the living room … then I went upstairs. I was on the first landing when it happened; I was talking to Mr. Hollister.”

“About what?”

“About what? oh … well, I don’t remember. I think I’d just met him when it happened. We were both knocked down, and the lights went out.”

“How did the Senator seem when you were with him?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know him well enough to say … I mean I don’t know what he was like ordinarily. I got the impression that he was worried about something. I presumed it had to do with his announcement on Friday.”

“At the Margarine Council?”

I nodded. The Lieutenant lit a cigarette. What a wonderful break it was for him, I thought. This was going to be one of the most publicized cases in years. As a matter of fact, I was already trying to figure out some angle on how I might be able to cash in on it since my big job had been, to employ an apt phrase, blown to bits at the same time as my client. I was aware that I could get quite a price from my old newspaper the
New York Globe
if I could do a series of pieces on the murder, the inside story. I should have to cultivate the police, though.

“The Senator had many enemies,” I volunteered.

“How do you know?” The Lieutenant was properly skeptical. “I thought you only met him yesterday.”

“That’s true but from what he told me just before he was murdered, I should say that almost any one of a million people might have killed him.”

“Why?”

“He was going to run for President.”

“So?”

“He was being backed by some very shady characters.”

“Names and addresses,” the Lieutenant was obviously missing the point.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” I said coolly. “I don’t want to tangle with them and I don’t expect you do either. Besides, I’m sure they didn’t have anything to do with this murder … directly at least. The point is that
their
enemies might have wanted to do away with the Senator for the good of the country.”

“I don’t follow you. If we don’t know who they are then how are we going to know who
their
enemies are, the ones who might want to kill Senator Rhodes?” The Lieutenant was not taking me very seriously, I decided, and I took this as a tribute to the stability of our country … the whole idea of a political murder, an assassination on ideological grounds, seemed like complete nonsense to him. The Presidents who had been killed in the past were all victims of crackpots, not of political plots. I decided to hold back my theories on political murder until I had a contract from the
Globe
safely in my pocket. In the meantime I had to be plausible.

“Let’s put it this way,” I said, speaking earnestly, as glibly as possible. “A lot of people didn’t like the idea of a man like Rhodes becoming President. One of them, a crackpot maybe, might have got an idea that the best way to handle the situation would be to kill the Senator before the convention. For instance, right now, in this house, I should say there are four out-and-out political enemies of the Senator.”

This had some effect. The Lieutenant stifled a yawn and sat up very straight. “Who are they?”

“Langdon, the newspaperman … he’s a young fellow, very liberal, he was sent here to write an attack on Rhodes for the
Advanceguard Magazine.
He couldn’t have been more anti-Rhodes; and if he’d found out half as much as I did this evening he might have, for patriotic reasons, eased the Senator across the shining river.”

“Across where?”

“Killed him. Then Miss Pruitt, though she’s an old friend, was opposed to his running for President. Pomeroy, I gather, was a political enemy of Rhodes back in Talisman City and, finally, after my little talk with Rhodes this morning I was tempted to do him in myself.”

“That’s all very interesting,” said the Lieutenant mildly. “But since you refuse to tell us who the Senator’s supporters were, I’m afraid you aren’t much help to this investigation. Please don’t leave the house until further notice.” And I was dismissed.

In the drawing room I found Walter Langdon and the servants. All the others had been interviewed and had gone to bed. He looked haggard and pale and I felt a little guilty as I said good night, recalling the dark hints I had made to the Lieutenant … but they had been necessary. I was sure of that. This was not an ordinary murder … presuming that any murder could be called ordinary. I was both excited and frightened by the possibilities. Just as I got to the first landing, the lights came on again and, thinking of Rufus Hollister, I went to my room.

I was called for lunch at noon by the butler who volunteered the information that no one had got up for breakfast except Mrs. Rhodes who was now making arrangements for the Senator’s burial at Arlington. I was also informed that the police were still in the house and that the street was crowded with newspapermen and sightseers.

Ellen greeted me cheerily in the drawing room. Wan winter sunlight shone in the room. All the ladies except Miss Pruitt, brave in rose, wore black. Everyone looked grim.

“Come join the wake,” said Ellen in a low voice, pulling me over to one of the French windows.

“Has anything happened?” I asked, looking about the room for Mrs. Rhodes. She had not returned.

“Among other things, this,” and Ellen gestured at the crowd of newspapermen in the street below. Several police stood guard.

“Where is your mother?” I asked, as we stepped back out of the window; I had caught a glimpse of a camera being trained on us.

“She’s still with the undertaker, I think. She should be here for lunch. There’s to be a service tomorrow morning at the Cathedral; then to Arlington.” She was excited I could see … I looked for some trace of sorrow in her face but there was none: only excitement, and perhaps unease … a lot of skeletons were going to be rattled in several closets before this case was done. I picked up a newspaper and read, on the front page, how “Statesman Meets Violent End,” complete with a photograph of the late politico and an inset of the house with a gaping hole in it where the library had
been. “I had no idea it made such a hole,” I said, handing Ellen the paper. She put it back on the table: everyone had read it, I gathered.

“Nobody’s been allowed to go in the study yet … not even Mother or me. Rufus is raising hell because he says there are important papers there.”

Exactly on cue, Rufus appeared in the doorway, his owl face peevish and his tweed suit looking as though he’d slept in it. He went straight to Ellen. “Have you any idea when your mother will be back?”

“I thought she’d be here by lunchtime. She said she would be finished in a few hours with the people at the Cathedral.”

“We must do something about the files,” said Rufus, looking at me nervously, as though unwilling to be more explicit.

“Files?” said the statesman’s daughter; in political matters she was even more at sea than usual. Only one or two things really interested her … affairs of state left her cool and confused.

“Yes, yes,” said Rufus impatiently. “All your father’s supporters are listed in the secret files … along with their contributions: not that there is anything illegal going on,” he chuckled weakly, “but if those names fell into the hands of our political enemies.…” He moaned softly; then the doors to the dining room were thrown open and we went in to lunch.

I was surprised, as we took our seats, to find that Lieutenant Winters was also at the table. Needless to say, his presence threw something of a pall over what was, to begin with, a very gloomy group. The Lieutenant seemed calm, however, and I wondered whether or not it was usual for a police officer to dine with suspects. The fact that he was sitting next to Ellen I had duly noted and registered: he was no fool. She was susceptible and she was indiscreet. If he
managed everything properly, he would know all he needed to know about the house of Rhodes in a few hours, pleasant hours.

“I can hardly believe this terrible thing has happened,” said a rather nasal voice in my ear. I turned and saw for the first time that Mrs. Pomeroy was seated on my left. Her eyes were red and puffy and, from the sound of her voice, she had either been weeping or else she was catching a bad cold. As it turned out she had a touch of the grippe.

“Our room was next to the Senator’s study,” she said, sniffing dolefully, her red eyes turned on me for sympathy. “Well, after this
terrible
thing went off the whole second floor was
freezing
cold, especially our room. I had had a slight cold when we left Talisman City … well, after last night’s
terrible
event I
now
have the grippe. My temperature just before lunch was a hundred point three.”

I suggested that she drink lemon juice in a glass of hot water and go to bed until the fever was over, but she wasn’t much interested in my homely remedies. “It has been,” she said in a low voice, “a
shattering
experience.”

Especially for the Senator, I wanted to add but decided not to. Across the table Ellen was deep in conversation with Lieutenant Winters. Walter Langdon, her next fiancé (or so I had thought), seemed forgotten; he was talking to Verbena Pruitt.

“You must have been very fond of Senator Rhodes,” I said.

Mrs. Pomeroy nodded. “Oh, there were some
little
frictions between him and my husband … you know how men are, so
touchy
, concerned with trifles … but my own friendship with the Senator was, well, very real … and for many,
many
years.” Something in her voice made me not only believe everything she was saying but, more important, suggested
a sudden, unexpected possibility. I looked at her curiously.

“How long had you known the Senator?” I asked gently.

“All my life,” she said. “I was born in Talisman City, you know; Roger of course only moved there from Michigan about fifteen years ago.”

“And you were married fifteen years ago?”

She giggled; then she sniffled and sneezed. I looked away until she had pulled herself together. “Not
quite
fifteen years ago,” she said archly.

“You should do something about that cold.”

“I’m taking pills … except for occasional political differences our families have been very
very
close all these years.”

“What were those differences?”

“Oh, one thing and another.…” She gestured vaguely. “Political. My husband was for Roosevelt … that makes
quite
a difference, you know, out where we come from, that is.
I
was always for Dewey … so distinguished-looking, and so young. I think we need a young President, don’t you?” I said that I hadn’t given the question much thought. I was growing more and more suspicious, however; yet there seemed no way to find out what I wanted to know … unless Ellen knew, which was not likely. If Mrs. Pomeroy had been the Senator’s mistress years ago, the fact would probably not have been well known by the Senator’s family. I would have to find out, though. Mrs. Pomeroy despite her red eyes and silly manner was a very good-looking woman. If a man like Pomeroy should have a jealous nature.… An elaborate plot began to unwind in my head.

“Did you and Mr. Pomeroy visit here often?” I asked, the roast beef on my plate getting cold as I conducted my investigation.

She shook her head. “As a matter of fact we usually stay at the Mayflower and the Senator joins us for lunch over there.”

“This is the first time you’ve stayed here in the house then?”

She nodded; for a moment her serene features seemed agitated, as though she suspected that I was questioning her for other than polite reasons. Quickly I began to gabble about sure-fire cures for head colds and the crisis passed.

We were given a little speech over the fingerbowls by Lieutenant Winters. He was as unlike a policeman as any man I’ve ever known and he was obviously delighted with the whole business … no matter what happened he was going to get a good deal of publicity; he was also going to meet a number of very important people who might do him some good one day. The murder of the Senator involved, in a sense, everyone in Washington political life, from the White House down to the most confused officeholder. He addressed us quietly, as though he were a fellow guest, anxious to make a good impression.