“Why,” said Winters with a mock-show of patience, “do you think Hollister was murdered?”
“Because when I was in his office yesterday morning he got a telephone call from an unknown party who made a date to see him last night at midnight, at twelve o’clock, at the hour of his death. From what he said over the phone I could tell it was someone he was very anxious to please … someone he had every intention of meeting.”
“Perhaps he saw them and then killed himself.”
“Not likely. Not in the house. He was home all evening, I gather. He had made no plan to go out. Therefore his guest was coming to see him here. But no one entered or left the house, as far as we know … no stranger that is. Whoever he was supposed to meet was already in the house, one of the suspects … the murderer, in fact.”
While I had been talking Winters sat straighter and straighter in his chair. When I paused for breath, he said, “I don’t want you to say anything about this to anyone. Understand?”
“I do.”
“Not only because you may be right and the murderer would be warned but because if you are right and the murderer does think you’re on his trail we will have a third victim.”
I said that I had no desire to make the front pages as a corpse.
“There’s a chance you’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “I wish to hell you’d used your head and got that anonymous letter to me earlier. We could have tested it for prints, checked the handwriting and the paper … now it’ll take us several days to get a report on it. In the meantime, keep your mouth shut. Pretend the case is finished, which is what we’re going to do. We’ll keep the house party together for a few days longer, as long as we can. We’ll have to act quickly.”
“I know,” I said, feeling a little chilly and strange. “By the way whose pistol was it that did the murder?”
“Mrs. Rhodes’.”
2
I was most reluctant to meet the light the next morning, as the Roman poets would say, or rather the afternoon of the same day. I probably would have slept until evening if the telephone beside my bed hadn’t rung. I picked up the receiver, eyes still closed, positive that I could continue sleeping while conducting a lively conversation on the phone.
For several moments I mumbled confidently into the receiver, aware of a faraway buzz. Then I opened one eye and saw that I was talking into the wrong end. Correcting this, completely awake, I listened to Miss Flynn’s gentle reproaches.
“A Number of things have Come-up,” she said. “Which require your personal Supervision.”
I explained to her that a Number of things had Come-up here, too, that I couldn’t get away for several days.
“We were of the opinion that the case had been concluded in Washington and that the recent Suicidalist was, ipso facto, the Murderer of the Statesman.”
“Are the papers out?” I had not realized it was so late, that the afternoon papers are already on the street.
“Indeed they are. With a Prominent Display in the Globe bearing your Signature.”
I had pulled out all the stops in that article, just before going to bed. I had used more colors than the rainbow contains in my description of finding the body, of the case’s conclusion, for that was how Winters and I wanted it to sound. The editor had been most pleased and it took considerable strength on my part not to tell him there would be yet another story.
I stalled Miss Flynn as, unhappily, she outlined the various troubles which had befallen my clients. Most of the complications were easily handled over the phone. The dog food concern offered a serious crisis, however; fortunately, I was visited with one of my early morning revelations. I told Miss Flynn to tell those shyster purveyors of horsemeat that in twenty-four hours I would have a remarkable scheme for them. She was not enthusiastic but then enthusiasm would ill become her natural pomp.
After our conversation, I telephoned Mrs. Goldmountain and, rather to my surprise, got her. We made an appointment to meet later that afternoon.
Then I bathed, dressed and, prepared for almost anything, went downstairs. I was a little surprised to find life proceeding so calmly. Lunch was just over and the guests were sitting about in the drawing room. The law was nowhere in sight.
If anyone had noticed my absence during the day, it was not mentioned when I joined them.
I told the butler I wanted only coffee, which I would have in the drawing room. Then I joined Ellen and Langdon by the window. The shades were drawn, indicating either a bad day or the presence of police and newspaper people outside.
“Ah!” said Ellen, at my approach. She looked, of them all, the freshest. Langdon was rather gray and puffy.
“Ah, yourself.” I sat down across from them. Coffee was brought me. I took a long swallow and the world at last fell into a proper perspective.
“The case,” I said in Holmesian accents, “is closed.”
“Not quite,” said Ellen, looking at me with eyes as clear as quartz, despite the debauchery and tension of the night before. “It seems there is another day or two of questioning ahead of us, lucky creatures that we are. I’ve done everything except offer Winters my person to be allowed to go back to New York.”
I didn’t say the obvious; instead I asked her why she wanted to go back. “Tonight is Bess Pringle’s party, that’s why. It’s going to be the party of the season and I want to go.”
“Why does he want us to stay here?” I pretended innocence.
“God only knows. Red tape of some kind.”
“I’ve thought of one approach to the murder,” said Langdon suddenly, emerging from a gray study.
“And that?” I tried to look interested.
“The red tape aspects. You know, the complications which a murder sets in motion, all the automatic and pointless things which must be done, the …” His voice began to trail off as our lack of interest became apparent. I did see how the Advanceguard was able to keep its circulation down to the distinguished and essential few.
Before Ellen could begin her laments about Bess Pringle or Langdon could discuss the case with me, I asked about the party, explaining my early return to the house with some ready lie.
“We didn’t get back until two,” said Langdon gloomily.
“And I wouldn’t have come back at all if I had known what had happened,” said Ellen sharply.
“Did I miss anything?”
“A member of the Cabinet played a harmonica,” said Langdon coldly.
“He played a medley from Stephen Foster,” said Ellen.
“I thought you were with that Marine when the concert was given,” Langdon was catching on to our Ellen with considerable speed, considering his youth and idealism.
“Ah,” said Ellen and closed her eyes.
I left them and went over to the table by the fireplace where the mail was kept. There was only one letter for me, a thick one addressed in red pencil, the handwriting slanting backwards. My hands shook as I opened it.
Out fell a sheaf of legal documents. I looked through them rapidly, trying to find some explanation; there was none, no covering letter: nothing but a pile of legal documents which, without examining them, I knew concerned the business affairs of Hollister and the Senator, the papers for want of which he had apparently killed himself.
Before I could examine them further, Camilla Pomeroy came over to me, smiling gently. “How wonderful to be out of all this!” she exclaimed, looking deep into my eyes.
“You’ll be going back to Talisman City soon, won’t you?”
“As soon as possible,” she said.
“You must be relieved,” I said, trying to tell from her expression what she was actually thinking; but I could not: her face was as controlled as a bad actress’.