“It has all been,” intoned Johnson Ledbetter, “a fantastic mistake.”
2
Fantastic mistake or not, it was the main conversation in Washington these days and, to read the newspapers, everywhere else, too. Corruption when it stains senatorial togas, always ceases to become squalid and becomes tragical, as Mr. Ledbetter would say.
After leaving the Mayflower, I went to the house of Mrs. Goldmountain, knowing that she was to be at home this afternoon. She was, I had discovered, a good source of information, having spent the better part of her fifty years climbing upwards socially; along the way she had investigated nearly every eminent closet in Washington society, she was also proving to be a source of revenue to me as far as the Heigh-Ho Dogfood Company went.
I was led to the yellow room where I found her in deep conversation with that Vice-President of Heigh-Ho to whom I had spoken the day before.
As I entered, she was saying, “Hermione has a range of four octaves, of which three are usable.”
“But that’s marvelous,” said the official, a doggish-looking man, constructed on the order of a chow.
“Mr. Sargeant, I’m so happy you came by, and just at this moment, too. I’m sure your ears must’ve been burning.”
“Pete, here, knows what we think of him at Heigh-Ho,” said the chow, beaming, handing me his damp squashy paw to shake; I shook it quickly and let it drop. I bowed a moment over Mrs. G’s hand, the way diplomats are supposed to do.
“In many ways,” said the chow, “this will be the most novel public relations stunt of the age. You realize that?”
“That’s what I’m paid for,” I said modestly, making a mental note to arrange to take a percentage of the gross on Hermione’s various activities; I was wondering whether an agent’s fee, as well, would be too exorbitant, when Mrs. Goldmountain recalled me from my greed.
“Although I am, in principle, opposed to Self-Exploitation, I couldn’t, in all conscience, allow my girl not to take advantage of this wonderful opportunity, nor could I be so cruel as to keep her talent under a bushel.”
I refrained from commenting that that was probably just where it belonged, under the biggest heaviest bushel there was.
“You’ve taken the right line,” said the official gravely, impressed by Mrs. Goldmountain’s wealth and hard-earned social position, and excellent press relations; all that glitters is not a gold-mountain, I felt like telling him, but then it was to my interest to keep the farce going.
“Have you made arrangements about engaging Town Hall?”
He nodded. “It’s all being prepared now. I’m lining up the press. We’ll have a full coverage.”
“I can do all that,” I said quickly. “That’s my job, after all.”
“There’ll be a lot for you to do; don’t worry. Heigh-Ho, however, is getting behind this campaign with everything it’s got. We may even take radio time.” The noise of money coming my way, lulled me for a moment, like the sirens singing; but then, before I knew it, Hermione and not the sirens was singing.
She had been brought into the large drawing room next to the yellow room and her accompanist had begun to play.
A long yowl chilled my blood, more chilling was the fact that, despite the unmistakable canine quality of the voice, Hermione had perfect pitch. She was not, however, a trained musician.
Mrs. Goldmountain looked dreamily toward the open door through which floated, or rather raced, the poodle’s voice. “She practices every day … not too long, though. I don’t want her to strain her voice.”
“Maybe we ought to insure it,” said the dog-food purveyor anxiously, “wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. Lloyd’s would be only too glad to oblige us.”
“If you like … though I’m sure nothing will happen; she is always under the closest supervision.”
Hermione screamed her way through the “Bell Song” from Lakmé and, my nerves in tatters, my ears vibrating like beaten drums, I applauded loudly, along with the official from Heigh-Ho. Mrs. Goldmountain only smiled.
Then, after several points of business had been cleared up, Mrs. Goldmountain and I were left alone: the official gone back to New York to make an announcement to the news services, Hermione gone back to her quarters and the tin of fois gras to which she was often treated after singing.
It took me some time to get the subject off Hermione and back to the Rhodes family or rather to Ledbetter who now occupied my hostess’s thoughts.
“Johnson called me on the phone this morning (we’re very close, you know); he sounded simply awful.”
“I know, I saw him at the Mayflower this afternoon. He was with Elmer Bush.”
“At least Elmer will stand by him through thick and thin. Johnson will need friends.” I allowed that this was probably the case.
“This morning I telephoned the Vice-President to tell him that I was confident Johnson had done nothing wrong.”
“What did the Vice-President say?”
“Oh, he was on the floor. I didn’t get him but his secretary said she would give him my message.”
“Well, according to all accounts he seems guilty of fraud, along with the other two.”
“I doubt it but then I must confess I never read the newspapers … at least the political sections; those people are always writing lies about personal friends of mine, and then they never know what’s going on until it’s already happened.” She smiled sphinx-like, implying she did know; and perhaps she did.
“In any case, he probably won’t be allowed to take his seat.”
“I’m sure they’ll be able to arrange it,” she said confidently. “They need him, you know.”
I didn’t pursue this point.
“I blame that dreadful little man, the secretary, the one who killed himself, for everything. I’m sure he did it deliberately … made up all sorts of documents just to implicate Johnson. He was a nasty creature, I always thought, killing Lee like that and then purposely framing poor Johnson.” This was a novel twist.
“Did you know him at all?”
“Who? The secretary? Hardly, but I never liked his looks those few times I saw him. Johnson is building his case on the little man’s dishonesty, however. He swears to me that it’s a deliberate plot and I believe him. He quarreled with him the night he died.”
“Who quarreled with whom?”
“Johnson and that little man, you know, Hollister.”
“How do you know?”
“Johnson told me. He tells me everything, not that it’s any particular secret; soon everyone will know it.”
“But where did this take place?” Veils were trembling before my eyes; the figure at the puzzle’s center grew more distinct.
“Johnson spent the evening at the Rhodes’, with Mrs. Rhodes, the evening Hollister killed himself. Didn’t you see him? But of course not, you were at my party and Johnson should have been there, too, except he rightly decided that his first evening in Washington as a Senator should be spent with his predecessor’s widow, a very, very nice thing to do, but then Johnson is a nice man.”
“You mean he was in the house when Hollister died?”
“But of course and he had, he tells me, a private conversation with Hollister of the most unpleasant kind.”
“Without witnesses?”
“There would hardly be witnesses if the conversation was private.”
“I wonder why the papers didn’t mention that he was in the house when the murder took place.”
“Perhaps no one thought to tell them … they never know anything.”