Ellen looked almost regal in her black evening gown. I had never seen her in a black evening dress before, and she was a most striking figure. Her tawny hair pulled straight back from her face like a Roman matron’s and her pale shoulders bare beneath a sable stole. Langdon wore a blue suit and I wore a tuxedo; I had arrived in Washington all prepared for a real social whirl.
The Club was a handsome building with high ceilings and great expanses of polished floor. It had a summery atmosphere even though snow was on the ground outside and the night was bitter cold.
The gathering looked very distinguished … half a thousand guests at least, in full evening dress. Poor Langdon blushed and mumbled about his blue serge suit but Ellen swept us into the heart of the party without a moment’s hesitation.
Mrs. Goldmountain was a small woman of automatic vivacity, very dark, ageless, with exquisite skin carefully painted and preserved. I recognized her from afar: her picture was always in the magazines smiling up into the President’s face or the Vice-President’s face or into her dog’s face, a celebrated white poodle which was served its meals at its own table beside hers on all state occasions: “Because Hermione loves interesting people,” so the newspapers had quoted her as saying. Whether Hermione Poodle liked famous people or not, we shall never know; that Mrs. Goldmountain did, however, is one of the essential facts about Washington, and famous people certainly liked her because she made a fuss over them, gave rich parties where they met other celebrities. One of the laws of nature is that celebrities adore one another … are, in fact, more impressed by the idea of celebrity than the average indifferent citizen who never sees a movie star and seldom bothers to see his Congressman, presuming he knows what a Congressman is. I looked about me for the poodle but she was nowhere in sight: the dream no doubt of a press agent. Mrs. Goldmountain retained several.
“Ellen Rhodes! Ah, poor darling!” Mrs. Goldmountain embraced her greedily, her little black eyes glistening with interest: this was a coup for her. We were presented and each received a blinding smile, the dentures nearly as bright as the famous Goldmountain emeralds which gleamed at her throat like a chain of “Go” lights. Mr. Goldmountain had been very rich; he had, also, been gathered up some years ago … or ridden on ahead, as my Miss Flynn would also say … leaving his fortune to his bride.
“I am so touched, poor angel,” said Mrs. G., holding both of Ellen’s hands tight in hers and looking intently into her face. “I know how much you cared for your poor father.”
“I wanted to see you,” said Ellen simply, the lie springing naturally to her coral lips.
“Your mother? Shattered?”
“Utterly … we all are.”
“Oh, it’s too horrible.”
“Too.”
“And the Chief Justice told me only yesterday that he might well have got the nomination.”
“Ah!”
“What a President he would have been.… How we shall miss him! all of us. I wanted terribly to get to the funeral but the Marchioness of Edderdale and the Elector of Saxe-Weimar were both visiting me and we could hardly get away. I sent flowers.”
“Mother was so grateful.”
“Darling, I couldn’t be more upset and you are an angel to come.…” Then she began to speak very rapidly, looking over our shoulders at an Ambassador who was arriving with his retinue, their ribbons and orders gleaming discreetly. Before we knew it we were cut adrift as the high enthusiastic voice of our hostess fired a volley of compliments and greetings at the Ambassador and his outriders.
“That is over,” said Ellen, in a cool competent voice and she led us to the bar; the guests parted before our determined way. Those who recognized her looked surprised and murmured condolences and greetings; then, mild complaints at her lack of rectitude when we had passed on. I caught only a few words, here and there: mostly disparaging.
The bar was a paneled room, a little less crowded than the main hall. From the ballroom could be heard the sound of a very smooth orchestra playing something with a lot of strings.
“Now isn’t this better than being cooped up in that awful house?” said Ellen blithely, clutching a Scotch in her strong predatory fingers.
“Of course it is,” I said. “But …” And mechanically I reminded her that she was making an unfavorable impression.
“Who cares? Besides, I always do and everyone adores it: gives them something to talk about.” She smoothed her hair back, though not a strand was out of place. She was easily the best-looking woman in the room and there were, for some reason, more women in the bar then men, Washington women being, perhaps, a trifle more addicted to the grape than their menfolk: the result of the tedium of their lives, no doubt, the dreary round of protocol-ridden days.
Walter Langdon then wanted to know who was who and while Ellen explained to him, I wandered off to the ballroom.
Beneath tall paintings of old gentleman in hunting costume, the politicos danced. I recognized the Marchioness of Edderdale, a Chicago meat-man’s girl who had bought a number of husbands, one of whom was the ill-starred Marquis of Edderdale who had got caught in the rigging of his schooner during a regatta some years ago and was hanged, in the presence of royalty, too. The Marchioness whose present name no one bothered with, the title being so much more interesting, stood vaguely smiling at the guests who were presented to her and to the Vice-President of the United States who was drinking champagne beside her and telling, no doubt, one of his celebrated stories. I made my way over to her and presented my compliments.
“Ah, Mr.…” She gestured handsomely.
“Sargeant,” I said, and quickly I reminded her of my last visit to her house. She recalled it, too.
“I hope you will come see me soon,” she said. “Mr. Sargeant, this is …” And she paused; she had forgotten the Vice-President’s name. I quickly shook his hand murmuring how honored I was, saving the dignity of the nation. It occurred to me that she might not have known who he was either: her world after all was New York and the south of France, Capri, and London in the month of June not Washington and the unimportant world of politics.
The Vice-President began a story and, by the time he had got to the end of it, a large group of politicians and climbers had surrounded us and I was able to creep away, my brush with history ended. Just as I reached the outskirts of the party, a familiar figure crossed my line of vision, heading toward the great man. The familiar figure stopped when he saw me and a wide smile broke his florid hearty face. It was Elmer Bush, renowned commentator and columnist (“This is Elmer Bush, bringing you news while it’s news.”). We had been on the Globe together; or at least he had been a star columnist when I was the assistant drama critic. In the ballet murder case I had managed completely to undo his foul machinations. He had been of the opinion that my young woman of the time, a dancer, was the killer and he had presented her to the public as such. I scooped him, in every sense, and as a result we had not seen each other, by design, since.
Bygones were now allowed to be bygones, however.
“Peter Sargeant, well, isn’t this a surprise?” My hand was gripped firmly, the sunlamp-tanned face broke into a number of genial triangles; the bloodshot blue eyes gleamed with whisky and insincere good-fellowship. I loathe Elmer Bush.