Death Before Bedtime by Gore Vidal Page B

world,” Mr. Pomeroy said quietly, shocking the rest of us a little since we all believed, deep down, that he
was
the murderer. If he was aware of our suspcions, he didn’t show it. He went right on talking about the murder, in a tired voice. “It’s one of those odd cases where no one is really involved, as far as we know … on the surface. I gather from the papers that some people think that because of the weapon used and because of my own troubles with Lee that I killed him … but, aside from the fact I
didn’t
kill him, doesn’t it seem illogical that I would use my own 5-X, immediately after a quarrel, to blow him up? It’s possible, certainly, but too obvious, and I will tell you one thing: considering the people involved in this affair nothing, I repeat
nothing
, is going to be simple or obvious.” There was an embarrassed silence after this.
    “You
know
none of us think you did it,” said Verbena Pruitt with a good imitation of sincerity. “Personally, I think one of those servants did it … that butler. I never have approved of this habit of leaving money to servants, to people who work for you every day … it’s too great a temptation for them.”
    I tried to recall who the butler was; I couldn’t, only a vague blur, a thin man with a New England accent.
    “I don’t see why they think one of
us
had to do it,” saidLangdon petulantly. “Anybody could have got in this house that day and planted the stuff in the fireplace. According to the butler, two plumbers were on the second floor all that afternoon and nobody paid any attention to them.”
    This was something new. I wondered if Winters knew this. “Perhaps the plumbers didn’t have any motive?” I suggested.
    “Perhaps they weren’t plumbers,” said Pomeroy, even more interested than I in this bit of information.
    “Hired assassins?” This was too much I thought … still it happened quite often in the underworld … and the political world of Lee Rhodes had, in more than one place, crossed the world of crime.
    “Why not?” said Pomeroy.
    “But the reason the police think someone on the inside did it was because only a person who knew the Senator’s habits well could have figured out how to kill him that way, with the stuff in the fireplace.” I was sure of this: for once the official view seemed to me to be right.
    Langdon dissented, to my surprise. “You’re going under the assumption that the only people in the world who knew the Senator’s habits were in this house as guests that night. You forget that a good many other people knew him even better than most of us did … people who would have been just as capable of blowing him up …”
    “Perhaps,” I said, noncommittally. I made a mental note to call Miss Flynn in New York and have her check up on the past of Walter Langdon. I didn’t quite dig him, as the jazz people say.
    Suddenly there was an unexpected sound from the dining room … a little like a shriek, only not so loud or so uncontrolled: an exclamation … a woman’s voice. Then the double doors were flung open and Mrs. Rhodes, white-faced,rushed through the room to the hall, not stopping to acknowledge our presence. She was followed by Ellen, also pale and oddlooking, and by Mrs. Pomeroy who was in tears. Outside, the Governor and Rufus Hollister were deep in an argument while, behind them, several servants, minor beneficiaries, trooped back to the kitchen.
    Mrs. Pomeroy, without speaking even to her husband, left the room close on the heels of Mrs. Rhodes. Pomeroy, startled, followed her.
    It was Ellen who told me what had happened, told me that Camilla Pomeroy, born Wentworth, was the illegitimate daughter of Leander Rhodes and a principal heir to his estate.
3
    “Who would have thought it,” was Ellen’s attitude when we got away from the others after dinner; we pretended to play backgammon at the far end of the drawing room. Everyone had been shocked by the revelation. Winters was