see
anything
?” he asked.
“A glimpse, that was all. I couldn’t say for sure who it was but I have a good idea.”
“Who … who do you think it was?” He sat on the edge of his chair, his breath coming in quick gasps.
“I can’t tell you,” I said, waiting for some sign … but there was none, other than this excitement.
“Be careful,” he said at last. “Be careful what you say to the police. The repercussions might be serious.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said quietly, never more confused.
“I hope so. By the way, did the Senator talk to you at all about family matters?”
“No, not much … a little about Ellen since he thought I was going to marry her, but I straightened all that out.”
“And the campaign … did he talk about that? About those close to him in it?”
“Not a word … just general talk.”
“That was a pity,” he said cryptically; then he rose to go. I stopped him momentarily with a direct question.
“Who killed him?” I asked.
“Pomeroy,” said Rufus Hollister; then he said good night and left me.
4
I undressed slowly, thinking of what had been said. Hollister made me uneasy … I couldn’t tell just why but I hadmore than a faint suspicion that he might have been the murderer after all. It was evident that he had visited me to try and find out whether or not I had recognized whoever it was who’d shoved me down the stairs and it was possible that he was the one who had done the shoving … the murder, too? It was perplexing. I locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. I was nervous.
Then, dressed in pajamas, I sat down at the desk again and began to type idly. Pomeroy, Langdon, Hollister, Miss Pruitt, Mrs. Rhodes, Ellen, Mrs. Pomeroy. There was a knock on the door. I flipped on the overhead light (if I was to be shot I preferred a great deal of light); then I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. To my surprise Camilla Pomeroy, wearing a pale blue silk negligee, stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?” she asked in a low voice.
Startled, I said, “Yes.” I locked the door behind her. She stood in the center of the room as though unsure of herself, not certain what to do next. “Sit down,” I said, trying to be as casual as I could under the circumstances. Uncertainly, she went over to the armchair recently vacated by Rufus Hollister. She sat down; I sat opposite her. She was nearly as embarrassed as I.
“I … couldn’t sleep,” she said at last with a nervous laugh.
“Neither could I.” We looked at one another stupidly. I noticed with surprise how lovely she was … noticed also that she had not yet been to bed: her make-up was perfect and her hair was carefully arranged.
“You must think it awful of me coming in here like this in the middle of the night.” This came out in a rush.
“Why no … not at all.”
“I had to talk to someone.” She
did
sound desperate, I thought. I wondered whether or not I should suggest that her husband might be the man to talk to at this time of night. She guessed what I was thinking, though. “
He’s
asleep. He takes sleeping pills … very strong ones, since … it happened.” She almost sobbed. I wondered if I should get her a Kleenex. But she got a hold of herself. “Do turn that light out,” she motioned to the bright one overhead. “A woman doesn’t like too direct a light when she’s been crying.” Her attempt at frivolity was pretty ghastly but I turned out the light. She looked even better in the warm glow of a single lamp … and of course her looking better hardly helped the cause.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She pulled the negligee tight about her throat, emphasizing the full curve of her breasts. I wondered if she intended this.
“I had to talk to someone,” she repeated. I looked at her brightly, like one of those doctors in an advertisement: ready to make some comment about halitosis or life insurance.
“About … everything,” she
anything
?” he asked.
“A glimpse, that was all. I couldn’t say for sure who it was but I have a good idea.”
“Who … who do you think it was?” He sat on the edge of his chair, his breath coming in quick gasps.
“I can’t tell you,” I said, waiting for some sign … but there was none, other than this excitement.
“Be careful,” he said at last. “Be careful what you say to the police. The repercussions might be serious.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said quietly, never more confused.
“I hope so. By the way, did the Senator talk to you at all about family matters?”
“No, not much … a little about Ellen since he thought I was going to marry her, but I straightened all that out.”
“And the campaign … did he talk about that? About those close to him in it?”
“Not a word … just general talk.”
“That was a pity,” he said cryptically; then he rose to go. I stopped him momentarily with a direct question.
“Who killed him?” I asked.
“Pomeroy,” said Rufus Hollister; then he said good night and left me.
4
I undressed slowly, thinking of what had been said. Hollister made me uneasy … I couldn’t tell just why but I hadmore than a faint suspicion that he might have been the murderer after all. It was evident that he had visited me to try and find out whether or not I had recognized whoever it was who’d shoved me down the stairs and it was possible that he was the one who had done the shoving … the murder, too? It was perplexing. I locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. I was nervous.
Then, dressed in pajamas, I sat down at the desk again and began to type idly. Pomeroy, Langdon, Hollister, Miss Pruitt, Mrs. Rhodes, Ellen, Mrs. Pomeroy. There was a knock on the door. I flipped on the overhead light (if I was to be shot I preferred a great deal of light); then I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. To my surprise Camilla Pomeroy, wearing a pale blue silk negligee, stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?” she asked in a low voice.
Startled, I said, “Yes.” I locked the door behind her. She stood in the center of the room as though unsure of herself, not certain what to do next. “Sit down,” I said, trying to be as casual as I could under the circumstances. Uncertainly, she went over to the armchair recently vacated by Rufus Hollister. She sat down; I sat opposite her. She was nearly as embarrassed as I.
“I … couldn’t sleep,” she said at last with a nervous laugh.
“Neither could I.” We looked at one another stupidly. I noticed with surprise how lovely she was … noticed also that she had not yet been to bed: her make-up was perfect and her hair was carefully arranged.
“You must think it awful of me coming in here like this in the middle of the night.” This came out in a rush.
“Why no … not at all.”
“I had to talk to someone.” She
did
sound desperate, I thought. I wondered whether or not I should suggest that her husband might be the man to talk to at this time of night. She guessed what I was thinking, though. “
He’s
asleep. He takes sleeping pills … very strong ones, since … it happened.” She almost sobbed. I wondered if I should get her a Kleenex. But she got a hold of herself. “Do turn that light out,” she motioned to the bright one overhead. “A woman doesn’t like too direct a light when she’s been crying.” Her attempt at frivolity was pretty ghastly but I turned out the light. She looked even better in the warm glow of a single lamp … and of course her looking better hardly helped the cause.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She pulled the negligee tight about her throat, emphasizing the full curve of her breasts. I wondered if she intended this.
“I had to talk to someone,” she repeated. I looked at her brightly, like one of those doctors in an advertisement: ready to make some comment about halitosis or life insurance.
“About … everything,” she
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