Death Before Bedtime Read online

  DEATH BEFORE BEDTIME

  Gore Vidal

  as

  EDGAR BOX

  Gore Vidal is the author of twenty-four novels, six plays, two memoirs, numerous screenplays and short stories, and well over two hundred essays. His United States: Essays, 1952–1992 received the National Book Award.

  Books by Gore Vidal

  NOVELS

  Williwaw

  In a Yellow Wood

  The City and the Pillar

  The Season of Comfort

  A Search for the King

  Dark Green, Bright Red

  The Judgment of Paris

  Messiah

  Julian

  Washington, D.C.

  Myra Breckinridge

  Two Sisters

  Burr

  Myron

  1876

  Kalki

  Creation

  Duluth

  Lincoln

  Empire

  Hollywood

  Live from Golgotha

  The Smithsonian Institution

  The Golden Age

  AS EDGAR BOX

  Death in the Fifth Position

  Death Before Bedtime

  Death Likes It Hot

  NONFICTION

  Inventing a Nation

  SHORT STORIES

  A Thirsty Evil

  Clouds and Eclipses

  PLAYS

  An Evening with Richard Nixon

  Weekend

  Romulus

  On the March to the Sea

  The Best Man

  Visit to a Small Planet

  ESSAYS

  Rocking the Boat

  Reflections Upon a Sinking Ship

  Homage to Daniel Shays

  Matters of Fact and of Fiction

  The Second American Revolution

  At Home

  Screening History

  United States

  The Last Empire

  Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace

  Imperial America

  MEMOIRS

  Palimpsest

  Point to Point Navigation

  FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, MARCH 2011

  Copyright © 1953, 2011 by Gore Vidal

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., New York, in 1953.

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Box, Edgar, 1925–

  Death before bedtime / by Gore Vidal as Edgar Box.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-74272-8

  I. Title.

  PS3543.I26D36 2011

  813′.54—dc22

  2010042350

  www.blacklizardcrime.com

  Cover design: Evan Gaffney Design

  v3.1

  To V. W.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Introduction to DEATH BEFORE BEDTIME

  In the early 1950s, Victor Weybright, then an editor at E. P. Dutton, suggested that Gore Vidal try writing a mystery novel under a pseudonym. Inspired by writers like Agatha Christie, whose work he knew well, Vidal took the suggestion and began writing mysteries under the name “Edgar Box.” (Edgar suggests Poe, of course, but also Edgar Wallace; Box reminds one of a coffin, although Vidal had recently met an actual family by the name of Box.) In all, he wrote three books as Box, each of them featuring the dashing public relations man and amateur sleuth, Peter Sargeant II. Death Before Bedtime was the second book starring Sargeant, who needs to use his considerable charm to hold his own against some of Washington’s toughest politicians.

  Victor Weybright, now sadly departed, was delighted with my reincarnation as a writer of mystery stories, and after the commercial success of Death in the Fifth Position he insisted that I write another one as soon as possible. I asked: What about? Even a mystery writer does, after all, require a subject.

  He had a wheezing chuckle, the product of too much good living, and as he wheezed, red faced, he said in the voice of a schoolteacher, “Write what you know.” So what did I know? I was the grandson of Senator Thomas P. Gore of Oklahoma, and I grew up in the world of politics. At one point my divorced mother remarried Hugh D. Auchincloss, a wealthy man, and we lived grandly for a time on the Potomac in a fine house called Merrywood. After a few years, my mother divorced Auchincloss, who in turn married the mother of Jacqueline Bouvier. What I knew well was the world of Washington, the world of the ruling class. This world becomes the subject, or at least the setting, for Death Before Bedtime.

  It’s the story of Senator Leander Rhodes, who chairs the committee on Spoils and Patronage—a committee I invented for my own purposes. As you will see, Rhodes suffers an untimely death in his stately home. And so I call again on Peter Sargeant II, my public relations man from New York, who will set out to solve the mystery at hand.

  When I think back to this novel, published in 1953, I’m reminded of a dinner party at the White House, some years later. Jack Kennedy was a serious student of mystery novels—which at times interfered with his reading of the latest James Bond epics—and I remember his telling me the plot of an Edgar Wallace novel. In the story, a British prime minister has been warned that after twenty-four hours on a certain day he would be assassinated. I know it sounds macabre, but Jack was fascinated by assassination stories; he was also very relaxed about it and his line was: there is no way you can avoid assassination if your would-be killer doesn’t mind being killed himself. This turned out to be prophetic.

  I can still hear Victor wheezing in my ear, repeating advice backward schoolteachers give to young writers: Write what you know. So I wrote what I knew, delivering a story set in Washington, D.C., in the house of a senator (not JFK, who came later in my life). The senator in question is preparing to run for president if one of many enemies does not terminate him before that joyous event. For me, it was amusing to mix politics and murder, which of course have always gone together in this country, often with terrible results—as we discovered on November 22, 1963.

  —Gore Vidal, 2010

  CHAPTER ONE

  1

  “You know, I’ve never gone to bed with a man on a train before,” she said, taking off her blouse.

  “Neither have I,” I said, and I made sure that the door to the compartment was securely locked.

  “What innocents we are,” she sighed, then: “I wish I had a drink.”

  “I think you’re an alcoholic.” I was very severe because Ellen Rhodes is an alcoholic, or at least well on her way to becoming one: but of course her habits are no concern of mine; we are just playmates of the most casual sort.

  “I wish you’d call the porter … he could get us something from the club car.”

  “And have him see us like this? a young man and a young woman enjoying an intimacy without the sanction of either church or state. You’re out of your mind.”

  Ellen sighed as she unsnapp
ed her brassière. “There are times, Peter, when I suspect you of becoming a solemn bore.”

  I enjoyed, with my usual misgivings, the sight of her slim nude body. She was a lovely girl, not yet twenty-five, with only one marriage (annulled at seventeen) to her credit. Her hair was a dirty blond, worn long, and her eyebrows and eyelashes were black, naturally black, and the brows arched. Her skin was like ivory, to worry a cliché … and her breasts were small and jiggled pleasantly from the vibration of the train as she arranged her clothes in the closet of our compartment. I watched her back with some pleasure. I like backs … only aesthetically: I mean I don’t make a thing of it, being old-fashioned; yet I must say there is nothing that gives me quite such a charge as a female back, especially the double dimple at the base of the spine, the center of balance a dancer friend of mine once assured me; although in her case the center was a trifle off since she was usually horizontal when not dancing.

  “Darling, will you get my bag out from under the bed? the small one. I seem to recall having hidden the better part of a fifth in there just before we left Boston.”

  “Very provident,” I said, disapprovingly, but I got the bottle for her and we both had a drink, sitting side by side on the bunk, my bare leg touching hers.

  “I feel better,” she said, after gulping a shot. And indeed she even looked better … her eyes shining now, and her face wonderfully rosy. “I love blondes,” she said, looking at me with embarrassing intensity. “I wish I were a real one like you … a strawberry blond exactly.…” But then we rolled back onto the bunk. From far away a conductor shouted: “New Haven!”

  “Ellen.”

  She moaned softly, her face entirely covered by hair.

  “We’re almost there. The train’s just leaving Baltimore.”

  “Oh.” She sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes and blinked sleepily at me.

  “I hate men,” she said simply.

  “Why?”

  “I just do.” She frowned. “I feel awful. I hate the morning.”

  “ ‘Morning in the bowl of night has flung the stone which put the stars to flight.…’ ” I quoted sonorously as we dressed.

  “Is that poetry?”

  “Indeed it is,” I said, pushing up the shade and letting in the cold white light of a December morning. “Picturesque Baltimore,” I remarked, as the train passed slowly through that city of small shabby houses with white doorsteps.

  “Coffee,” said Ellen, sitting down with a thump; she is a miraculously fast dresser for a woman … a quality I find both rare and admirable in the opposite sex.

  If the waiter thought anything amiss when he served us breakfast in the compartment, he did not betray it; not that I minded particularly, nor for that manner did Ellen … rather, I had a job at stake and I didn’t want to be caught in a compromising position with the daughter of my new client, the incomparable, the reactionary Senator Leander Rhodes, the only adult American male to be called Rhodes without the inevitable nickname Dusty.

  “Now I feel better,” said Ellen, after she’d finished two cups of black coffee, the alcoholic fumes of the night before dispelled.

  In the year that I had known her she was either just coming out from under a hangover or else going into one, with a moment or two, I suppose, of utter delight when she was in between, when she was high. In spite of the drinking, however, I liked her. For several years she had been living in New York, traveling with a very fast set of post-debutantes and pre-alcoholics, a group I occasionally saw at night clubs or the theater but nowhere else.

  I am a hard-working public relations man with very little time for that kind of living. I would never have met Ellen if she hadn’t been engaged for eight weeks last year to a classmate of mine from Harvard. When the eight blissful weeks of engagement to this youth were up, she was engaged to me for nearly a month; I was succeeded then, variously, by a sleek creature from the Argentine, by a middle-aged novelist, and by a platoon of college boys to each of whom she was affianced at one time or another and, occasionally, in several instances, at the same time. Not that she is a nymph. Far from it. She just likes a good time and numerous engagements seem to her the surest way of having one.

  “Won’t Father be surprised to see us together!” she said at last.

  “Yes.” I was a little worried. I had never met Senator Rhodes. I had been hired by his secretary who had, I was quite sure, known nothing about my acquaintance with Ellen. My contract with the Senator was to run three months with an option in March and then another after that … by which time, if I were still on the job, the National Convention would be meeting and the Midwest’s favorite son Lee Rhodes would go before the convention as the people’s choice for President of the United States, or so I figured it, or rather so I figured Senator Rhodes figured it. Well, it was a wonderful break for the public relations firm of Peter Cutler Sargeant II, which is me.

  Ellen had been more cynical about it when I told her the news in Cambridge where we had been attending a Harvard function. In spite of her cynicism, however, we had both decided, late at night, that it would be a wonderful idea if we went straight to Washington from Boston, together, and surprised the Senator. It had all seemed like a marvelous idea after eight Martinis but now, in the cold light of a Maryland morning, I was doubtful. For all I knew the Senator loathed his daughter, paid her liberally to keep out of Washington … nervously, I recalled some of Ellen’s exploits: the time last spring when she undressed beneath a full moon and went swimming in the fountain in front of the Plaza Hotel in New York, shouting, “I’m coming, Scottie … Zelda’s coming!” in imitation of that season’s revival Scott Fitzgerald … imposing on the decorous 1950’s the studied madness of the 1920’s. Fortunately, two sober youths got her out of there before the police or the reporters discovered her.

  “What do you think your father’s up to?” I asked, resigned to my fate: it was too late now to worry about the Senator’s reaction to this combination.

  “Darling, you know I hate politics,” she said, straightening one eyebrow in the window as frame houses and evergreens flashed by.

  “Well, he must be planning something. I mean, why hire a press agent like me?”

  “I suppose he’s going to run for the Senate again.”

  “He was re-elected last year.”

  “I suppose he was. Do let’s send George and Alice a wire, something funny … they’ll die laughing when they hear we’re on a train together.”

  “You know I think it’s quite wonderful your father’s done as well as he has considering the handicap a daughter like you must be to him.”

  Ellen chuckled. “Now that’s unkind. As a matter of fact he simply adores me. I even campaigned for him when I was fifteen years old. Made speeches to the Girl Scouts from one end of the state to the other.… I even spoke to the Boy Scouts, lovely young creatures. There was one in Talisman City, an Eagle Scout with more …”

  “I don’t want to hear any of your obscene reminiscences.”

  She laughed. “You are evil, Peter. I was just going to say that he had more Merit Badges than any other scout in the Midwest.”

  “I wonder if he’s running for President.”

  “I don’t think he’s old enough. You have to be thirty-five, don’t you? That was ten years ago and he was seventeen then which would make him … how old now? I could never add.”

  “I was referring to your father, not that Eagle Scout of infamous memory.”

  “Oh, Daddy. Well, I don’t know.” Ellen was vague. “I hope not.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s such a bore. Look at the time poor Margaret Truman had, trailed by detectives and guards everywhere.”

  “If you were a nice girl like Miss Truman you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh … !” And Ellen Rhodes said a bad word.

  “There would be all sorts of compensations, though,” I said, trying to look on the bright side. “I think it would be very pleasant having a father who was President
.”

  “Well, I don’t. Besides, I don’t think Mother will let him run. She’s always wanted to go back to Talisman City where we came from originally.”

  “That would be nice for you.”

  Ellen snorted. “I’m a free spirit,” she said, and, all things considered, she was, too.

  2

  We parted at the Union Station. Ellen went home in a cab and I walked across the square to the Senate Office Building, a white cake of a building in the shadow of the Capitol.

  Senator Rhodes’ office was in a corner on the first floor, attesting to his seniority and power since he was, among other things, Chairman of the Spoils and Patronage Committee.

  I opened the door of his office and walked into a high-ceilinged waiting room with a desk and receptionist at one end. Several petitioners were seated on the black leather couches by the door. I told the woman at the desk who I was and she immediately told me to go into the Senator’s office, a room on the left.

  The room was empty. It was a fascinating place, and while I waited I examined everything: the vast mahogany desk covered with party symbols, the hundreds of photographs in black frames on the wall: every important political figure since 1912, the year Leander Rhodes came to the Senate, was represented. Leather chairs were placed around a fireplace on whose mantel were arranged trophies and plaques, recording political victories … while above the mantel was a large political cartoon of the Senator, handsomely framed. It showed him, his shock of gray unruly hair streaming in the wind of Public Opinion, mounted upon a spavined horse called Political Principle.

  “That was done in 1925,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned around quickly, expecting to find the Senator. Instead, however, a small fat man in gray tweed, wearing owl-like spectacles, stood with hand outstretched, beaming at me. “I’m Rufus Hollister,” he said as we shook hands. “Senator Rhodes’ secretary.”

  “We’ve had some correspondence,” I said.

  “Yes sir, I should say so. The Senator’s over in the Capitol right now … important vote coming up this morning. But sit down for a minute before we join him and let’s get acquainted.”