by Gore Vidal
“Do you think Rufus killed himself?”
“You should know,” she said, slowly, looking at me speculatively.
“I should know?”
“Did you take sleeping pills?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then it would seem Rufus was killed, and the confession was a fake.”
“That’s how I see it.”
“Why would the murderer want to kill you, though?”
“Because I knew everything. I’ve been poking around, you know, out of curiosity; while nosing about I figured out who did it.”
Verbena Pruitt’s face was a mask: a vast roseate larger-than-life-size mask. “I can see then why you were poisoned. Now I will give you some advice: leave Washington. I can promise you that the police will forget the whole thing. There will be no more trouble for any of us. The dead are dead and can’t be recalled. The rest of us are well out of it. You get out of it, too.”
“No.”
She was suddenly angry. “What then do you want? What’s your price? This was ugly indeed.
“I’m not for sale,” I said, becoming indignant although my sense of reality didn’t entirely desert me even in this heroic moment. “At least not now, to you. I’ll tell you one thing, though. I was ready to drop the whole thing last night. I decided it was, as you say, none of my business. I didn’t want to upset everyone again. I saw no reason to interfere in an affair which did not, really, concern me at all. But then the murderer tried to kill me and that, for reasons which will become more apparent, was more than I could take. I now intend to turn the killer over to the police.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
There was nothing more to say; we were through with one another. I had learned what I needed to know already, earlier in the conversation, and so, very politely, I excused myself and left her office. She did not speak.
“Well?” said Winters, joining me in the corridor.
“Well, yourself, my fine minion of the law.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“It’s my nature,” I said, feeling blithe.
In the entrance hall we ran into Johnson Ledbetter. He looked more than ever like an harassed buffalo at the end of the trail. He greeted me with hollow vigor. I detached myself from Winters and moved off into a corner with him. Politicos wandering in and out of headquarters quickly averted their gaze when they saw him: he was a fallen star and no one wanted to catch the infection of failure which, as all professionals know, is remarkably contagious.
“We’ll be seeing you tonight, won’t we, Senator?”
“Yes, of course I’ll be there. What’s going to happen?”
“We’re going to unveil the murderer of Rufus Hollister and Leander Rhodes.”
Ledbetter’s gray face looked set. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do. There’s one thing I would like to know, if I may: what did happen when you talked to Rufus, before he was shot?”
“That’s private.”
“You will be forced to tell it to the court, Senator.” I was reckless.
“I don’t see that it has any bearing on the murders,” he said weakly.
“I’m sure Winters can keep you off the witness stand if we know just what happened.” I was quite willing to commit Winters to anything at this point.
“We discussed the business of the two companies, all of which you have no doubt read about in the papers.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He said we were in danger of being exposed, that a Federal Commission was ready to publish its findings and begin legal proceedings. I said that I, of course, had no connection with any of this, even though my name appeared as a director and there was some stock issued in my name.”
“Did Hollister say anything about being exposed?”
“That’s all he talked about.”
“I mean being exposed by some malicious party, by the murderer?”
Ledbetter paused for one long moment; then he shook his head, “No, he didn’t mention anything like that.”
“Why did you quarrel?”
“Because he wanted me to accept equal blame with him; since I was not guilty I saw no reason to associate myself with him.” This canard was uttered with pious sincerity. “He thought I could get the Party to hush the whole thing up, or at least blame it on Lee. Unfortunately, I couldn’t.” Ledbetter betrayed himself in a most un-lawyerlike fashion; I wondered how on earth a man of his limited intelligence had managed to become the Governor of a state.
“What time did you go upstairs to talk to him?”
“About eleven-thirty.”
“How long were you there?”
“Twenty minutes, I should say.”
“Did he act as though he had another appointment?”
Ledbetter’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know? Yes, as a matter of fact he did say he was to meet someone at twelve.”
“In his room or somewhere else?”
“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 possib
le. “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.”
“Well, I have a strong stomach.”
“You must have. Of course I’ve always hated the idea of having sleeping pills around, especially those strong ones Roger takes. They could knock out an elephant in no time at all. I think they’re an absolute menace.”
“A menace,” repeated Mrs. Rhodes absently.
Across the room Ellen signaled to me. I excused myself and joined her at the backgammon table.
“Are you really going to be a sleuth?” she asked, setting up the board.
“I suppose so.”
“What fun! You take the greens; I’ll take the whites.”
“For chastity?”
“Don’t be rude.” We set up our boards. I watched Mrs. Rhodes across the room; she seemed distracted. Her hands nervously touched objects: silver, china, the jewels at her throat, as though she were trying to satisfy herself that the world was real, that this was not all a dream.
Langdon sat talking quietly to Ledbetter, discussing politics, no doubt. Every now and then Langdon looked over at us, at me; if he was anxious he did not betray it. Verbena Pruitt sat like a colossus between the Pomeroys who chattered loudly across her, talking of Talisman City. She ignored them, as though they were chattering birds come to rest upon her monumental self. Her eyes had a vacant, faraway look. Soon. Soon. Soon.
Ellen was off to a good start with double sixes.
We played in silence for several minutes. I watched the room, aware that Winters had a man at each door and another out on the street by the windows. Winters himself pretended to read a magazine.
“Well, it’ll soon be over,” said Ellen, shaking her dice.
“Will you be glad?”
“Lord yes! Though I’ve missed Bess Pringle’s party because of your silly sleeping pills.”
“Bess Pringle gives a lot of parties.”
“I know but I wanted particularly to go to this one.”
I picked up one of her men. She swore softly. She rolled but couldn’t come in. “Peter dear, who did it? Tell me. I’m dying to know.”
“You did, my love.”
She rolled her dice and came in on a four and picked up my man. Her face had not changed expression. “What a horrid thing to say, even as a joke.”
“What a horrid thing to do, even as a joke. It’s all right with me if you want to kill your father and Rufus but I think it ever so unfriendly to try and knock off your fiancé. It shows a lack of sensitivity.”
Ellen smiled, her old dazzling smile. “You’re going to have a hard time proving it, my lamb,” she said, her voice pitched so that only I could hear.
“It’s already proven. I spent the day getting evidence.”
“And?”
All my men were in homeplace; I began to take them off. “When you were a small and wi
cked girl you were engaged to be married to Verbena’s nephew. At the last minute that passion of yours for forbidden vice made you run off with a gymnast. Your father caught you and brought you back home. He had the marriage annulled and you hated him for it. When you were old enough, you left home for good.”
“Ancient history,” said Ellen, unperturbed.
“Ancient, yes, but we must construct a motive carefully. There is a great deal of proof that you hated your father for other reasons; this particular interference is good enough for a start. About a year ago he tried to get you to go into a sanitarium for observation. When you refused, he reduced your allowance; he also threatened to have you committed. You came down here a month ago to talk to him about it. While you were here you learned, probably by accident, about his business dealings with Hollister. The first thought which went through your head was to blackmail your father into giving you more money. It is possible that you did get something out of him … we’ll find that out by checking your bank. In any case, you were aware of the papers that he had drawn up, implicating Rufus in the company scandal and clearing himself …”
“There’s an awful lot of guesswork in this,” said Ellen.
“There has to be when it comes to a complicated motive. Fortunately, there is no guesswork in what happened afterwards. On the spur of the moment you came to Washington, full of a desperate plan. I’m sure that you didn’t arrive with any intention of killing your father: talk, however, of the new Pomeroy explosive did the trick. It looked like a perfect setup: your father is killed and his enemy Pomeroy is suspected, all very convenient.
“The first part worked beautifully but then the complications began, proving no doubt that murders should not be committed on such short notice. Verbena Pruitt told you and your mother that Pomeroy had a perfect alibi, that he could be proven motiveless at a moment’s notice. So you had to act quickly. Rufus Hollister seemed like the next best possibility. You had access to the papers which implicated him in the business tangle; all you had to do was, strategically and while the heat was still on Pomeroy, direct suspicion toward Rufus … and it was here that your troubles really began. In the last few hours I have tried to figure how you might have done it differently; you will be pleased to know that your method was about the best I could think of, though of course it wasn’t good enough.”
