“What about the gun?”
“Well, what about it? It belonged to Mrs. Rhodes, didn’t it?”
“That’s right … no prints on it except Hollister’s. Mrs. Rhodes kept the gun in the table beside her bed. She hadn’t looked at it in over a month. Anyone could have gone in there and taken it.”
“But how many people in the house would have known there was a gun in that night-table?”
“I haven’t any idea. Hollister knew, though.” He smiled contentedly. “He knew where everything was.”
“Except the papers which the Senator had hidden in the study, which someone else found first.”
“But who?”
“The murderer.”
“I see no evidence.”
“The evidence is in front of you or rather in the other room being gone over by your lawyer. How does this Mr. X know so much about the case? How did he know where to find the papers? Why did he send them to me at all since Hollister’s death was intended to finish the case?”
“It may be,” said Lieutenant Winters in the voice of innumerable Mary Roberts Rinehart heroines, “that we shall never know.”
“Go to hell,” I said.
He frowned. “Why don’t you stop fussing around, Sargeant? This is none of your business, we all have a perfect out. Let’s take it. I am as dedicated to duty as anyone and I don’t intend to drop the case, really; but I’m not going to beat my brains out over it and I am going to pretend it’s all finished. I suggest you do the same.” This was a threat, nicely phrased.
“I will,” I said. “But I’m not going to let it go unsolved if I can help it.” We sat staring hostilely at one another … conscious of the righteousness of my tone, I was almost ready to recite the Wet Nurses’ Creed in a voice choked with emotion. But I let it ride.
“Well, I better be going,” I said, standing up.
“Thanks for letting me have the papers.”
“Think nothing of it.” Full of wrath, I departed.
3
Mrs. Goldmountain lived in a large house of yellow stone, mellowed with age, in Georgetown, the ancient part of the city where, in remade slums of Federal vintage, the more fashionable Washingtonians dwell. Her house, however, was larger than all the others, the former residence of some historic personage.
I was shown to an upstairs sitting room, hung in yellow silk, all very Directoire. After a moment’s wait, Mrs. Goldmountain appeared, neat in black and hung with diamonds. “Mr. Sargeant, isn’t this nice? I was so happy you could come to the party last night with darling Ellen … poor shattered lamb!” I could see now why I had been admitted so quickly, without hesitation: I was straight from the Senator’s house and would know, presumably, all about the murders. I had every intention of indulging La Goldmountain.
“She’s taking it very well,” I said, which was putting it as nicely as possible.
“She was devoted to Lee Rhodes. Of course they never saw much of each other but everyone knew of their devotion. They were so alike.”
I failed to see any resemblance but that was beside the point. I mumbled something about “like father like daughter.”
“Of course some people were shocked by her going out so soon after his death but I said after all she is young and high-spirited and there is nothing, simply nothing she can do about his being dead. I love tradition, you know, but I see no reason for being a slave to it, do you? Of course not. They must all be relieved that that horrible man who killed himself confessed.”
“Yes, we were pretty happy about that: I mean, justice being done and all that.”
“Of course. Is it true that poor Roger Pomeroy was nearly arrested?”
I said that it was true.
“How frightful if the wrong man had been convicted! I have always liked Roger Pomeroy, not that our paths have crossed very often, just official places, that’s all, especially during the war when he was here on one of those committees. I never took to her I’m afraid; I always thought her rather common, never having the slightest notion that she was really Lee’s daughter, like that! What a cross it must have been for her to bear: it could explain everything. My analyst, who studied with Dr. Freud in Vienna, always said that whatever happens to you in the first nine months before you’re born determines everything. Well, I mean if the poor little thing knew before she was born that she was illegitimate (and they’ve practically proven that we do know such things … we later forget them during the trauma of birth, like amnesia) it would certainly have given her a complex and explained why I always thought her just a little bit common.”
I stopped the flow gradually. I diffidently explained my proposition to her.
“For some time now my clients, the Heigh-Ho Dogfood Company, have wanted an outstanding public relations campaign. I’ve tried any number of ideas on them but none was exactly right. The campaign we had in mind must have dignity as well as public appeal and, you will admit, those two things aren’t easy to find together. The long and the short of it, Mrs. Goldmountain, is that I think we could make a dandy campaign out of Hermione.”
“Oh, but I could never consent …” She began, but I knew my Goldmountain.
“We would arrange … Heigh-Ho would arrange … for her to give a recital at Town Hall. As a result of all that publicity she would appear on television, on radio and perhaps even a movie contract might be forthcoming. You, as her owner, would of course lend considerable dignity to all of this and though the publicity might be distasteful …”
That did it. Any mention of publicity made Mrs. Goldmountain vibrate with lust.
“If I were to accept such a proposal, I would insist on supervising Hermione’s activities myself.”
“I think that is a fair request … I’m sure Heigh-Ho would consult you on everything.”
“I would also insist on having final say about her program at Town Hall. I know what her capacities are and I know the things she can do. I would never permit her to sing any of these modern songs, only the classics and of course the National Anthem.”
“You will be allowed to choose the repertoire of course. Also the voice coach.”
“You feel she needs a coach?” I had made a blunder.
“All the stars at the Metropolitan have voice coaches,” I said quickly. “To keep their voices limbered up.”
“In that case, I would be advised by you,” said Mrs. Goldmountain graciously, her eyes narrowing as she saw the spread in Life as well as the image of Hermione and herself flickering grayly on the little screen in millions of homes.
“What songs does she do best?” I asked, closing in.
“German Lieder, and Italian opera. If you like we can hear her now.”
“Oh, no,” I said quickly, “not now, some other time. I know her genius already. All Washington does and, soon, the whole world will know.”
“You may tell Heigh-Ho, that I shall seriously entertain any offer they wish to make.” And so our treaty was fashioned. I asked permission to telephone the Vice-President of Heigh-Ho in New York. It was granted. The official was delighted with my plan and made an appointment to meet Mrs. Goldmountain the next afternoon, in Washington.
Everyone was happy and my firm was again on solid footing. Mrs. Goldmountain invited me to take tea with her and a few guests who were at this moment arriving. One of them turned out to be the new Senator, former Governor Johnson Ledbetter.