Elmo Gaines

Elmo Gaines is 41 and knows every object in the house where he works. Born in the South, the son of a railroad cook, he learned early to wait tables, starch shirts and keep his mouth shut. For two years he has been the director's manservant and cook, and says he has served worse houses and less polite employers. In everything he does, he seems older than his age, as if he had been born in a jacket.

He reaches the bungalow every morning before seven, opens the blinds, wipes the desk and puts the newspaper beside the coffee, folded in half. In the afternoon he prepares dinner with a cast-iron skillet inherited from his mother and a worn wooden spoon, and at the end of the day leaves everything in order before going. On Sundays he sings in the church choir, with a deep voice that fills the aisle.

He is tall and thin, a little round-shouldered, with a long face, deep dark circles and a thin trimmed mustache. He combs his dark hair back with brilliantine and wears a white servant's jacket over a stiff-collared shirt, a black bow tie and shoes that have seen better days. He speaks slowly, formally, choosing each word, and looks the other person in the eye only when he is sure of what he is going to say.

He says he left the bungalow at 6:30 p.m., as always, after leaving dinner ready for two, because the actress was coming at seven, and that he went home and went to bed early. He was the one who noticed, at 7:30, that the visitor's armchair was turned toward the desk, with the upholstery smelling of violet perfume, and that the evening before, when he left, it was against the wall, with no scent at all. His employer, he says, wore no perfume.

Elmo knows whoever finds a body is always the first to be looked at. It could be the discretion of a servant trained not to be noticed. It could be someone who rehearsed the answer before hearing the question. The detective will have to decide which.