“Has Mrs. Rhodes tried to do anything to keep the news out of the papers?”
“You know as well as I do there isn’t any way of keeping something like that secret.”
“I know. I just wondered if she had tried to keep it quiet.”
Rufus shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since the will was read.” There was a long pause. I wondered when he would come to the point; he obviously had some reason for wanting to see me. But he said nothing. He stared blankly at the floor; he seemed a little drunk.
Growing nervous, I said, “Is there anything in particular you think I should do for the family … in the way of public relations?”
“What? Oh … oh, no. It’s out of our hands now, I’m afraid.” He put his glasses on again and looked at me; with an effort he pulled himself together. “You’re doing a story about all this, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “For the Globe.”
“I wish you’d check with me before you send them anything.”
“Certainly … if I can ever find out anything to write for them.”
“You will,” he said ominously. “Soon, very soon.”
I waited for more, but he had drifted off again. “Tell me,” I asked, “did the Pomeroys come here much in the old days?”
He shook his head. “Pomeroy himself seldom came to the house. Mrs. Pomeroy did … fairly often.”
This was unexpected. “I seem to remember her telling me … or somebody telling me that they never came here, either of them.”
“She was here often.”
“And she knew the Senator’s habits well?”
He nodded; he knew what I was getting at but he refused to volunteer anything. He changed the subject. “You and Ellen are old friends aren’t you?”
I said that we were.
“She made her father unhappy, very unhappy,” said Mr. Hollister rubbing his palms together. It was my turn to wonder what he was getting at. “Her life has not been exemplary.”
“You’re not kidding!”
“At one time he even threatened to cut her off without a cent.”
“You mean when she married?”
“Later … last year when she was making a scandal of herself in New York.”
“I can’t exactly blame him.”
“Poor man … he had so many terrible things to bear during his life.”
“Why didn’t he cut her off?”
“Ah! You know her. She came down from New York last month and they had a terrible scene. I suppose she threatened to disgrace him once and for all if he didn’t give her the money she needed …”
“That sounds like Ellen.”
“What could he do? She was his own flesh and blood …”
“And he was about to run for President …”
“Exactly. She got her way … we always supposed that she had left for good until she came back with you this week. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did she come back?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. It seemed like a good idea, I suppose. We had both been drinking.”
“That explains it then?”
“She drinks a lot,” I added, but this wasn’t necessary … and still Mr. Hollister hadn’t come to the point.
“By the way,” he asked suddenly, “did you have any idea who pushed you last night?”
I shook my head; then I had an idea … a daring one. “I didn’t see who it was,” I said; then I added, slowly, looking straight at him, “But I have a very good idea who it was.”
I wasn’t able to interpret his reaction; he turned pale but I couldn’t tell if it was from guilt or astonishment. “Did you see anything?” he asked.
“A glimpse, that was all. I couldn’t say for sure who it was but I have a good idea.”
“Who … who do you think it was?” He sat on the edge of his chair, his breath coming in quick gasps.
“I can’t tell you,” I said, waiting for some sign … but there was none, other than this excitement.
“Be careful,” he said at last. “Be careful what you say to the police. The repercussions might be serious.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said quietly, never more confused.
“I hope so. By the way, did the Senator talk to you at all about family matters?”
“No, not much … a little about Ellen since he thought I was going to marry her, but I straightened all that out.”
“And the campaign … did he talk about that? About those close to him in it?”
“Not a word … just general talk.”
“That was a pity,” he said cryptically; then he rose to go. I stopped him momentarily with a direct question.
“Who killed him?” I asked.
“Pomeroy,” said Rufus Hollister; then he said good night and left me.
4
I undressed slowly, thinking of what had been said. Hollister made me uneasy … I couldn’t tell just why but I had more than a faint suspicion that he might have been the murderer after all. It was evident that he had visited me to try and find out whether or not I had recognized whoever it was who’d shoved me down the stairs and it was possible that he was the one who had done the shoving … the murder, too? It was perplexing. I locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. I was nervous.
Then, dressed in pajamas, I sat down at the desk again and began to type idly. Pomeroy, Langdon, Hollister, Miss Pruitt, Mrs. Rhodes, Ellen, Mrs. Pomeroy. There was a knock on the door. I flipped on the overhead light (if I was to be shot I preferred a great deal of light); then I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. To my surprise Camilla Pomeroy, wearing a pale blue silk negligee, stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?” she asked in a low voice.
Startled, I said, “Yes.” I locked the door behind her. She stood in the center of the room as though unsure of herself, not certain what to do next. “Sit down,” I said, trying to be as casual as I could under the circumstances. Uncertainly, she went over to the armchair recently vacated by Rufus Hollister. She sat down; I sat opposite her. She was nearly as embarrassed as I.
“I … couldn’t sleep,” she said at last with a nervous laugh.
“Neither could I.” We looked at one another stupidly. I noticed with surprise how lovely she was … noticed also that she had not yet been to bed: her make-up was perfect and her hair was carefully arranged.
“You must think it awful of me coming in here like this in the middle of the night.” This came out in a rush.
“Why no … not at all.”
“I had to talk to someone.” She did sound desperate, I thought. I wondered whether or not I should suggest that her husband might be the man to talk to at this time of night. She guessed what I was thinking, though. “He’s asleep. He takes sleeping pills … very strong ones, since … it happened.” She almost sobbed. I wondered if I should get her a Kleenex. But she got a hold of herself. “Do turn that light out,” she motioned to the bright one overhead. “A woman doesn’t like too direct a light when she’s been crying.” Her attempt at frivolity was pretty ghastly but I turned out the light. She looked even better in the warm glow of a single lamp … and of course her looking better hardly helped the cause.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She pulled the negligee tight about her throat, emphasizing the full curve of her breasts. I wondered if she intended this.
“I had to talk to someone,” she repeated. I looked at her brightly, like one of those doctors in an advertisement: ready to make some comment about halitosis or life insurance.
“About … everything,” she said.
“About the will?”
“Yes.” She looked at me gratefully; glad that I was coming around. “Tomorrow all the world will know,” she said with a certain insincere overstatement which made me think that for a million dollars she didn’t give a damn what the world knew.