“She was supposed to marry Verbena’s nephew?” I had not heard this before.
“That was the plan, only at the last minute, after the wedding dress was made and the reception already planned, she left home with this man. Lee brought her back and annulled the marriage but that didn’t change her.” I was rather proud of Ellen’s character; she would not be controlled by anyone.
“How did Verbena’s nephew turn out?”
Camilla frowned. “He became an alcoholic and later died in an accident. Even so, he was the catch of the season and everyone thought he had a great future ahead of him. He was rich and in the Foreign Service, his father had been Ambassador to Italy and what with Verbena’s influence and so on he could have risen to great heights.”
“But he did take to drink.”
“Even so, no one knew it at the time. Ellen had no business walking out.”
“Perhaps she suspected what his future might be; it looks as though she had better sense than her father.”
Camilla shook her head stubbornly; then, with woman’s logic, “Besides, he might not have been an alcoholic if she had married him. Well, her parents never forgave her for that particular scandal and then after she began to have men friends of all sorts they sent her away to New York where that sort of thing isn’t so noticeable.” Talisman City suddenly showed its bleak intolerant head, besprinkled with hayseed and moral rectitude. I saw no reason to defend Ellen who is a bit of a madwoman about sex; on the other hand, Camilla’s high and mighty line did not accord with her own behavior. It was obvious she hated Ellen and would use any stick to beat her with and Ellen always proffered a formidable mace for this purpose to anyone hostilely minded.
“Tell me,” I said, a little maliciously, “why do you think Rufus killed your father?”
She was startled. “Why Rufus … but obviously because of that business deal, the one Johnson’s involved in, too. At least that’s what Winters said. Rufus was to cover up for the others; he was to take the blame.”
“But now it’s all in the newspapers and Rufus is not taking the blame.”
“Then why did he say he was going to in his confession?”
“Perhaps because someone else wrote it for him, after killing him.”
Her eyes grew round. “You’re not suggesting that Rufus was killed, too?”
“It’s possible.”
“But who would want to kill him?”
“The same man who murdered your father.”
“But that man was Rufus.”
“There was a time when you weren’t so sure.”
Even in the gloom, I could see her flush. “That’s not fair,” she said in a small voice.
“Why did you think your husband killed the Senator?” I closed in, aware of my advantage.
“I told you. I was upset, hysterical.…”
“Why did you think he did it?”
“For … for the same reason everyone else did, because of the contracts running out, because Lee wouldn’t help him.”
“Yet you knew that the contract had already been secured through someone else.”
“Verbena told you that, didn’t she?” Out it shot, before she could stop herself. She bit her lip.
I was slowly getting the picture, all the background was in a last: now for the foreground, to fill in the shadowy outline at the puzzle’s center, to construct the murderer. I was growing nervous with excitement.
I controlled my voice, though, sounded offhand. “Yes, as a matter of fact Verbena did mention to me that she had helped Pomeroy get his government contract before he came to Washington to see Lee.…”
“That wasn’t wise of her at all. These things are so delicate; it could affect our whole business. That was why Roger said nothing about it even after they arrested him.”
“If you knew that he had no real quarrel with the Senator, that he wasn’t ruined, why did you tell me that night that he was the murderer?”
“Because,” she had regained control of herself now, “because I didn’t know until the next day that his contract was set. He told me when it looked as if he might be arrested any minute. He knew that I adored my father more than anyone else in the world. He knew that I had lost my head when he was murdered and I think he knew, also, though he never mentioned it, that I suspected him of the murder, to get even with Lee, to get my inheritance … so he broke an old rule of his and told me about his business, about how he had gone to Verbena and she had helped him, despite the Senator. Then I knew how absurd the whole case against him really was.…”
“But you had come to me and told me you thought he was the murderer.”
“I thought he was, yes. I thought he’d gone mad. I thought he’d kill me next to get the inheritance. I thought he was desperate and so I went off my head for twenty-four hours. It was just too much, having everybody know I was Lee’s daughter; everything was so awful that I … I came to your room. I don’t know why but I did. For some reason I was afraid Roger might kill me that night. I … was terribly ashamed afterwards.”
There seemed nothing more to clear up here. Her story was accurate, as far as I could tell. It was also revelatory. Verbena Pruitt began to loom large in the background. What was her role in all this? I had never suspected that she would ever seem mysterious to me. I had underestimated her.
I was ready now to end the session with Camilla Pomeroy; unfortunately we had to go through a number of gyrations which propriety, at least in Talisman City, demands of those who have known one another’s bodies.
I told her that knowing her had been one of the most wonderful events of my life and that I hoped we should meet again, soon.
She told me that I had helped her more than she could say, at a desperate moment. She asked me to forgive her for what she had done. Not entirely sure for which of her treacheries she desired forgiveness, I delivered myself of a blanket absolution. Then, our love affair put on ice as it were, each with a beautiful memory, she pressed my hand and left me to pay the check.
When I got to the lobby she was gone. I was about to call a cab when I saw two familiar figures in serious talk, half-hidden by a potted tree. I went over and said hello to Elmer Bush and Johnson Ledbetter, the Senator-Designate and perhaps never-to-be.
They both looked as though I was the last person in the world they wanted to see at this moment. The falling statesman looked puffy-eyed and tired. The journalist looked eager, like an opportunistic tiger courting a lost sheep. They were cooking up some scheme.
“How are you today, ‘Senator’?” I said brightly; even the falling statesman got the quotes.
“Very well, Sargeant.” I was surprised he remembered my name.
“This is a grave crisis,” said Elmer Bush in his best doom-voice.
“A misunderstanding,” said Ledbetter in a strangled voice.
“We hope, however, to have the truth before the public tonight, on my program,” said Elmer tightly.
“I hope, sir, that you will be vindicated.”
“Thank you, my boy,” said Ledbetter in a husky voice. At that moment the famous newspaperman’s cry, “There he is!” was heard in the lobby, somewhat muffled out of deference to the Mayflower’s dignity; and a journalist and photographer came pounding toward us, their rimless spectacles gleaming, their faces red from cold and pleasure as they cornered the falling star.