“What do you mean?” asked the Governor.
Pomeroy spoke first, quickly, before his wife could elaborate. “Lee didn’t push the 5-X as vigorously as I thought he should, that’s all … that was one of the reasons I came to Washington on this trip … poor Lee.”
“Poor Lee,” repeated Mrs. Pomeroy, with real sincerity.
“A great statesman has fallen,” said the Governor, obviously rehearsing his funeral oration. “Like some great oak he leaves an empty place against the sky in our hearts.”
Overwhelmed by the majesty of this image, I missed Pomeroy’s eulogy; the next remark I heard woke me up, though. “Have you seen the will yet?” asked Mrs. Pomeroy, blowing her nose emotionally.
The Governor nodded gravely. “Indeed I have, Camilla. I drew it up for Lee.”
“I wonder …” she began, but then she was interrupted by the appearance of Lieutenant Winters who joined us at the fireplace, bowed to the Governor and then, politely but firmly, led Mr. Pomeroy into the dining room. Interviews, I gathered, had been going on for some time. The Governor detached himself from Camilla Pomeroy and joined Miss Pruitt on the couch and, considering the “tragical” nature of the occasion, both were quite boisterous, talking politics eagerly.
My own interview with the Lieutenant took place right after he had finished with Pomeroy. I sat down beside him in the dining room; the table was brilliantly set for dinner, massive Georgian silver gleaming in the dim light. Through the pantry door I could hear the servants bustling about. The usual plain-clothes man was on hand, taking notes. He sat behind Winters.
It took me several minutes to work my way past the Lieutenant’s official manner; when I finally did, I found him troubled. “It won’t come out right,” he said plaintively. “There just isn’t any evidence of any kind.”
“Outside of the explosive.”
“Which doesn’t mean a thing since anybody in this house, except possibly you, could have got to it.”
“Then you don’t think Pomeroy was responsible?”
Winters played with a fork thoughtfully. “Yes, I think he probably was but there’s no evidence. He had no motive … or rather he had no more motive than several others.”
“Like who?”
A direct question was a mistake I could see; he shook his head, “Can’t tell you.”
“I’m beginning to find out anyway,” I said. I made a guess: “Rufus Hollister,” and I paused significantly.
“What do you know about him?” Winters was inscrutable; yet I had a feeling that I was on the right track.
“It seems awfully suspicious his wanting to get into the Senator’s office. I have a feeling there’s something in there he doesn’t want you to find.”
Winters stared at me a moment, a little absent-mindedly. “Obviously,” he said at last. “I wish I knew, though, what it was.” This was frank. “We’re still reading documents and letters. It’ll take us a week to get through everything.”
“I have a hunch you’ll find your evidence among those papers.”
“I hope so.”
“None of the press has been let in on this yet, have they?”
Winters shook his head. “Nothing beyond the original facts. But there’s a lot of pressure being brought to bear on us, from all over.” I was suddenly sorry for him: there were a good many disadvantages to being mixed up in a political murder in a city like Washington. “That Pruitt woman, for instance … she was in touch with the White House today, trying to get out of being investigated.”
“Did it work?”
“Hell no! There are times when the law is sacred. This is one of them.”
“What about the will?” I changed that subject.
“I haven’t seen a copy of it yet. The Governor won’t let us look at it until tomorrow … says he ‘can’t break faith with the dead.’ ”
“You may find out something from that, from the will.”
“I doubt it.” The Lieutenant was gloomy. “Well, that’s all for now,” he said at last. “The minute you turn up anything let me know … try and find out as much as you can about the family from Miss Rhodes: it’d be a great help to us and might speed things up.”
“I will,” I said. “I’ve already got a couple of ideas about Hollister … but I’ll tell you about them later.”
“Good.” We both stood up. “Be careful, by the way.”
“Careful?”
He nodded grimly. “If the murderer should discover that you were on his tail we might have a double killing to investigate.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Think nothing of it.” On a rather airy note, I went back to the company in the drawing room. My mind was crowded with theories and suspicions … at that moment they all looked like potential murderers to me. Suddenly, just before I joined Ellen and Walter Langdon, I thought of that quotation I had found in his room, the one he had snatched away from me. I also remembered where it came from: my unconscious had been worrying it for several hours and now, out of the dim past, out of my prep school days, came the answer: William Shakespeare … the play: Julius Caesar … the speaker: Brutus … the serpent in the egg: Caesar. There was no doubt about it. Brutus murdered the tyrant Caesar. It was like a problem in algebra: Senator Rhodes equals Julius Caesar; X equals Brutus. X is the murderer. Was Walter Langdon X?
CHAPTER THREE
1
I went to bed early that night. At dinner I drank too much wine and, as always, I felt bloated and sleepy. Everyone was in rather a grim mood so I excused myself at ten o’clock and went off to bed. I would have no visitors, I decided: Ellen was at work again on young Langdon and I was quite sure that they would be together, finishing what I had interrupted that afternoon.
I awakened with a start. For a moment I thought there was someone in the room and by the dim light of a street lamp I was positive that a figure was standing near the window. My heart racing, a chill sweat starting out on my spine, I made a quick lunge for the lamp beside my bed; it fell to the floor. Positive that I was alone in the room with a murderer, I jumped out of bed and ran to the door and flicked on the overhead light.
The room was empty and the figure by the window turned out to be my clothes arranged over an armchair.
Feeling rather shaky, even a little bit unwell, I went into the bathroom and took some aspirin. I wondered if I had caught Camilla Pomeroy’s grippe; I decided that the wine had made me sick and I thought longingly of soda water, my usual remedy for a hangover. It was too late to ring for the butler. According to my watch it was a little after one o’clock, getting near the hour of the Senator’s death, I thought as I put on my dressing gown, ready now to go downstairs in search of soda.
I remember thinking how dark the stairway seemed. There was one dim light burning on the third-floor landing and, from the bottom of the stair well, there was a faint light. The second landing was completely dark, however. Barely able to see, I moved slowly down the stairs, my hand on the banister. I was creeping slowly across the second landing, fumbling in my pockets for matches which were not there, when I suddenly found myself flying through space.
I landed with a crash on the carpeted stairs, stumbled forward, unable to stop my momentum; and, finally, bumped all the way downstairs like a comedian doing pratfalls, landing at the feet of Lieutenant Winters.
“What in Christ’s name happened?” he asked, picking me up and helping me into the drawing room where the lights were still on.
It took me several minutes to get myself straightened out. I had twisted my left leg badly and one shoulder felt as though it had been dislocated. He brought me a shot of brandy which I gulped; it made a difference … I was able to bring him and the room into focus, my aches and pains a little less overpowering.