“I assumed some other place since only Verbena, Grace and I were in the house.”
“Did you notice anything unusual on your way downstairs?”
He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I was too angry to pay much attention. It is not a pleasant thing, young man, for a political figure to have his honor impugned and his integrity questioned. I may add that it looks as if I shall soon be vindicated. The Senate committee has already informed me, unofficially, that according to the documentation sent you by the unknown party, I was, along with Lee, the innocent dupe of Rufus Hollister.”
“Isn’t the committee at all interested in discovering who sent me those papers?”
“I don’t think the question arose.” I trembled for the safety of our country: these were the elders who framed our laws!
“Have you ever wondered who might have sent me those very convenient documents?”
“I’m afraid I’ve been much too busy to give the matter much thought.”
“Well, it was obviously someone who had your interest at heart, as well as a considerable stake in the business of the murders.”
“I always assumed that it was sent by a well-wisher who wanted to see justice done.”
“A well-wisher who had access to Senator Rhodes’ library, who knew where the papers were hidden, who implicated Rufus Hollister, who murdered Rufus Hollister, who mailed the papers to me in a very whimsical fashion, a well-wisher who …”
Ledbetter frowned menacingly, “Leave her out of this, hear me? If you drag her into this I’ll …” But there was no reason to continue our talk and so I excused myself and joined Winters at the door.
“What in the name of God did you tell him? He looked like he was going to kill you.”
“Everyone wants to kill me today,” I said, not inaccurately.
“You can say that again,” muttered Winters as we walked out into the bright winter noon.
I had one more errand to do, one which particularly mystified Winters; then we drove back to the house.
No one was in sight when we got there and I was suddenly afraid that the whole lot had fled; the presence of four detectives in gray business suits reassured me; the situation was under control.
Winters and I sat in the drawing room drinking Martinis; at least I drank several and he tasted one. I found I was still groggy from the sleeping pills and needed the stimulant or depressant of alcohol, whichever it is. I also needed a bit of courage for the evening ahead. I was like an actor preparing for a crucial first night. I couldn’t afford to muff a line.
We chatted about one thing and the other, both growing more excited by the minute … he against his will, too, since he disapproved of what I was doing and would have, if it had been possible, stopped me right then and there and concluded the case on his own more pedestrian lines.
At five o’clock Miss Flynn called with the information I had requested. I thanked her profusely; she had, in that inexorable way of hers, found out more than I should have thought possible. “Nevertheless, Mr. Sargeant, bearing in mind these Revelations, I would conduct myself with Extreme Caution.” I assured her that I would.
“All the evidence is now at hand, buddy,” I said, patting Winters on the back, feeling very content and a little drunk.
“It had better be,” said the policeman solemnly, eating the onion which I had put in his Martini.
3
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that evening that something extraordinary was going to happen.
Everyone was studiedly casual at table. Ledbetter told a few old-time political stories and there was a great deal of merry laughter. I sat next to Walter Langdon and we discussed politics and journalism.
“The theme of the demagogue,” I said, weightily, “seems particularly fascinating to American writers. I suppose because we have so few of them in this country.”
“You mean so few effective ones.” Of them all Langdon was perhaps the most relaxed, in appearance.
“Well, yes. The great modern example was Huey Long. I suspect a hundred novels and plays will be written about him before the century’s over.”
“Penn Warren did a pretty thorough job,” said Langdon.
“I always liked the book Dos Passos wrote better. You remember? It was called Number One.”
Langdon nodded. “I read it. I think I’ve read everything about Long ever written.”
“I’ve been told he had a good chance of becoming President.”
“A lot of people thought it might happen, God help us. Fortunately God did and he was assassinated.”
“ ‘Killed in the shell,’ as it were.”
Langdon looked startled; he smiled. “Yes, that’s one way of putting it.”
“Your way, or rather Shakespeare’s.”
“The theme of my piece for the Advanceguard, too.”
“I thought you were going to show it to me.”
“You can see it any time you like. I’m taking it back with me tomorrow. I got it all done, first draft, that is … thanks to your typewriter paper.”
“Think nothing of it. Is it thus always with tyrants?”
“Not always … if only it were.”
“We should have a much better world, I suspect.”
Langdon nodded, his eyes suddenly bright. “If only people would act in time they could save the world so much pain. But they’re weak, afraid to take the life of one man for fear of losing their own.”
“But you would risk yours, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” said Langdon quietly, “I would.”
When dinner was over we went into the drawing room, as was the custom of the house, for coffee. Winters kept trying to catch my eye for some sign but I gave him none. I was in no hurry. Timing was important at this stage.
I was standing off at one end of the room observing the dinner guests and witnesses-to-be when Roger Pomeroy came over and said, “I’m afraid I was very indiscreet the other night … must’ve been tight … didn’t realize I’d told you all I had.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” I said.
“Do wish you would keep what I said in strictest confidence, no matter what happens. Verbena was furious with me for telling you about that contract she arranged. She’s afraid you’re going to write it up in the papers.”
“Not a chance,” I said amiably. “I don’t even think it’ll come out at the trial.”
“Trial?”
“Tell her I’m not really a newspaperman, that I’m not down here to try and ferret out scandals for the delight of the people. All I’m interested in is the murders.”
“Oh.” Pomeroy looked at me blankly. “Well, don’t get me in Dutch with her, will you? That contract could be misunderstood, you know. Perfectly legal and all that but you know what a stink those people like Pearson make when they find out that a friend has done another friend a good turn, all perfectly on the up and up.”
I allowed that I knew just how it was. I could see he was uneasy but I gave him no more assurances. Then I strolled over to Mrs. Rhodes. She was sitting by the silver coffeepot, pouring, as she had done the night before and every night, doubtless, for many years. I sat down beside her.
“It is very hard,” I said.
She looked away, her face set. “Will you have more coffee?” she asked mechanically.
“No thank you.” The thought of coffee made me ill. I had tasted it all day: the result of that stomach pump.
“You are going to go through with this?” She did not look at me as she spoke; her hand toyed with the silver sugar tongs.
“I must.”
Before she could speak, Camilla Pomeroy was upon us. “I couldn’t’ve been more horrified!” she said, her eyes wide. “I just found out from Mr. Winters what really happened … and with my sleeping pills, too, or rather Roger’s only we keep them in my vanity case. Someone came in yesterday and took the whole bottle. They must’ve emptied it all in your cup last night. Though how, I don’t know, since Mrs. Rhodes was the one who poured.” Then, as though alarmed at the implications of what she had said, she began to talk very fast. “Thank heavens, though, you’re all right today. A third tragedy would have been more than flesh could bear.”