“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.”
2
The idea was outrageous, but who else? A paper chase. She was trying to give me a signal of some kind, a desperate attempt at communication because … because she was terrified … of the murderer? I wondered, though, why, if she had written me the note, she had not admitted it outright instead of referring so obliquely to it. A paper chase: that was exactly it. I was suddenly very tired. If only one person would stop playing his game long enough to tell the truth, I might be able to unravel the whole business to the delight of the Globe and the police. That she had written to me, I was sure. But for some reason she didn’t wish to be more explicit. Well, I would have to continue in the dark awhile longer. In any case, I was better off than I had been. I knew a good deal more about the Senator’s youthful indiscretions than anyone else and I had been warned about Rufus Hollister.
After my talk with Mrs. Rhodes, I put on my overcoat and left the house. The day was bright and cold and a sharp wet wind blew down Massachusetts Avenue, making my ears ache.
The plain-clothes man at the door looked at me gloomily as I went out, his nose nearly as red from the cold as his earmuffs. I saluted him airily and headed down the avenue as though I knew in which direction I was going.
Just as I was about to hail a taxi, a young man stepped from behind a tree and said, with a big smile, “I’m from the Global News-service and I wonder.…”