Robert B. Sinclair

The Eleventh Hour

Chapter one

It was damp, it was cold; smog filled the air and rasped at the eyeballs even indoors; it was everything a day in April should not be. Arthur Conway, as he came downstairs to breakfast, ruefully acknowledged that Los Angeles could serve up as dismal weather as could be found anywhere in the world. He had planned to get out: to take a lunch, drive up in the hills, and hike until nightfall. Any day, now, there should be word about the two stories, so he could afford to loaf a bit — get out, get a little fresh air. It seemed absurd, but he had got less exercise out here than in New York; nobody walks in California, and walking was the only form of physical exertion he enjoyed.

But in weather like this, it was out of the question; even the alternative, a day in the house with Helen, was preferable. It meant, of course, that he would at least have to make a pretense of writing.

He saw them the instant he walked into the dining room: the two manila envelopes alongside his place at the table. There was no need to open them; he knew what they were. And from the way they were displayed, it was obvious that Helen knew too. She had finished her breakfast, and he could hear her in the kitchen; he realized he would have to face her, and he knew it would not be pleasant. He had had high hopes for these stories, and it was depressing to have them rejected, but his disappointment was secondary now to his concern at the prospect of the galling scene he knew was coming.

“Two more masterpieces come home to roost, I see.” He had not heard her come in from the kitchen, and now she was standing over the table, her contemptuous glance divided between him and the envelopes.

“These are the ones you were sure of, aren’t they?” she continued. “These would bring in enough so you’d have time to write some good stories. And even the pulps won’t buy your stuff.”

“I’m sorry. I tried.” That was the extent of his defense.

“You tried...” The vitriol dripped from her voice. “You haven’t written a line since you finished these. It took you three months to get this tripe on paper. Oh well, what’s the difference? Most of the time you don’t write at all, and when you do it’s no good.”

“I can’t write this junk any more.” His voice rose; he knew he shouldn’t let her get under his skin, but he seemed powerless to prevent it.

“Any more! When could you? You were going to do this stuff just long enough to get a stake — so you’d have time for that novel and that play and all the rest of the things you talked about — and I believed. Well, at least you’ve stopped talking about them.” Her voice dropped, and now her contempt became lethal. “You’ve stopped talking, and writing, and thinking — and living, as far as I’m concerned.”

She picked up some dishes and went into the kitchen. When she did not return, after a moment, Conway took advantage of his opportunity to escape. He caught up the newspapers and started for his room, but her voice followed him.

“What shall I do with these manuscripts? Put ’em where they belong — in the—” He closed the door to shut out the rest.

He was safe in his room. She wouldn’t follow him there; that was one of the few things — one of the very few — that remained from the first days of their marriage. They had met just after the war and married a month later. Any sort of apartment was almost impossible to find, but Helen had insisted they must have three rooms so that he might have a “study” where he could work without interruption. Somehow or other she had found one, and she lived up to the rule she made herself — never to enter, or even to knock, when the door was closed. She had continued to live up to it for some reason. And that was about all that remained of those gay, desperately hopeful days when they had faith in each other — and in themselves.

They had occasionally quarreled in those days, too, of course, and usually about the same thing: Conway’s failure to sell a story, or what she called his laziness. As she was apt to consider anything less than eight hours a day at the typewriter laziness, some violent disagreements ensued. But in the fervid reconciliation that always followed so quickly, she was full of remorse for her outburst; it was, she explained, because, having no ambitions for herself, she was so terribly ambitious for him.

Conway sat down to finish the papers, but his eyes fixed on the photograph which stood on his desk. She had had it taken, at his request, shortly before they were married, and it was on the desk because it had always been there; now it took up space and was in the way and it disturbed him to have to look at it — but to move it would have been an overt act. She had been blonde then, with a handsome figure and large, intense eyes. She hadn’t changed much, Conway reflected — or, rather, she’d changed in degree but not in kind. She was not only still blonde, she was considerably more so. Her figure remained good, but it was verging on heaviness, although that, perhaps, was a matter of taste, and some might call it voluptuous. Her eyes were even more intense; to Conway, at times, they were frighteningly so.

And now, although it had never been said in words, they were through. It surprised Conway that she had not already left him, although he thought he knew the reason. But he would have to wait for her to make the break; she was not a woman to allow any man to discard her.

He got a cigarette from the dresser and stopped to gaze into the mirror. He saw a man of thirty-two, who looked older, with a well set up body, hair that was thinning slightly at the temples, and a skin which would have seemed pale even in New York. His pallor was typical of the frustrations he had met with since they had come here, and he wondered how much California had had to do with what had happened to Helen and himself. Not much, he decided; they had begun to get on each other’s nerves in New York. That had been one of the reasons Helen had wanted to come out here two years ago; she had said that if he could be out of doors more, he might feel better and work better. But, as it turned out, when he proposed taking a day off, she complained bitterly, so that he neither felt nor worked better, and their relationship had steadily become worse. And as it did, Conway’s writing became more laborious and less frequent — and less salable. It was a vicious circle, and — Conway realized that he was about to wallow in self-pity; he made himself acknowledge that the reason he hadn’t been writing, and wouldn’t write today, was because he hadn’t an idea in his head. He picked up the papers again and began to read, with a forlorn hope that he might come on an idea out of which he could, somehow, make a story.

There’s one thing to be said for the Los Angeles papers, he thought as he looked through them, they never let you down. No matter how low you may be, in body or spirit, a brief contemplation of the gallery of unfortunates presented daily in the press must make your own lot seem sheer bliss.

It appeared to be about an average day. “Couple Robbed in Parked Car,” with hints of darker deeds. “Nude Woman Dancing in Park Eludes Police” — that, he thought, was a new low even for the Los Angeles gendarmerie. “Waitress Slain by Sex Fiend” — a regular weekly occurrence; they must keep a standing headline for that one. Conway wondered if the police would ever capture one of these maniacs, who seemed to make up a sizable portion of the population of Southern California. To the best of his knowledge they never had. “Main St. Bars Raided; Two B-Girls Arrested.” A blind man on Main Street at any given moment after 10 P.M. could find twenty B-Girls with their hands in someone’s pockets, but the police found two, so things must be looking up. “Wife Who Vanished from Parking Lot Found in Motel with 16-Year-Old Boy; Husband to Seek Divorce.” Conway never ceased to be amazed at what precocious juveniles they breed in California.

He blew smoke at the ceiling and again scanned the headlines. The trouble with most of the crime news in Los Angeles, he had long since concluded, was that it was too bizarre for fiction. Or else, by repetition, it had become commonplace. There were no new angles; crime was in a rut.

And then, suddenly, out of the blue, it came to him. He riffled through the paper, found the story, and reread it. What had happened was so simple it was almost ludicrous.

Mr. and Mrs. George J. Yates had gone shopping the preceding Friday night at the neighborhood Supermarket. Mr. Yates had gone in to do the marketing for the week-end — Mrs. Yates not, apparently, being the domestic type — leaving her in the car in the parking lot. When he returned, some twenty minutes later, the car was not there, nor was Mrs. Yates. He had trudged home, only to find that his wife was not there either, and the following morning he had reported her disappearance to the police. As three days passed with no news of her, Mr. Yates’ concern turned to worry, to terror, to dread of the horrible fate which had probably overtaken Mrs. Yates. But he was not prepared to be so humiliated by the preposterous truth.

Mrs. Yates, it now appeared, had been sitting in the car waiting when Alvin Canmer, aged 16 and a junior at West Side High School, happened to pass the car. Alvin was on his way home from his part-time job in the hardware store, where he had waited on Mrs. Yates once or twice. He said “Good evening” to her, and a conversation ensued, the details of which, unfortunately, were not recorded. But Mrs. Yates was beginning to be bored with waiting for Mr. Yates, and also, it seems, she had been bored with Mr. Yates himself for some time. At any rate, the dialogue had apparently got down to the facts of life in near-record time, with the result that Alvin got into the car and drove to the nearest motel. There they paid a night’s rent in advance, parked the car outside their bungalow, and retired — for three days. Alvin had occasionally sallied forth for food.

But when, after three days, they had attempted to slip out without paying the balance of the bill, they had been apprehended by the motel proprietor. Finding both of them insolvent, he had called the police, who, on checking the registration of the car, learned somewhat to their surprise that they had recovered the missing Mrs. Yates, who was duly returned, temporarily, to her outraged and reluctant husband.

Along with a million other readers that morning, Conway chuckled inwardly at the story. But it was not the story itself which interested him: it was the timing of the disappearance — the suddenness, the rapidity, the unpredictability of the whole thing.

He turned to the account of the murder of the waitress.

He could sympathize with the bafflement of the police on this one. Gladys Ford, 89, divorced, had left the restaurant where she was employed at ten o’clock Saturday night. She had not, so far as could be ascertained, been seen alive again. Her parents, with whom she lived, had reported her disappearance. As in the case of Mrs. Yates, nothing had come of that, either.

Monday afternoon the patrolmen in a radio car cruising on a quiet residential street had noticed a parked car with a license number which seemed vaguely familiar. Checking, they discovered it to be on their stolen car list. Checking further, they found on the floor, covered by a blanket, the body of Gladys Ford. A resident of the neighborhood was sure the car was there before eleven o’clock Saturday night — which was no more than an hour after the unfortunate victim had left the restaurant. She had been strangled with her own belt.

The headline, “Slain by Sex Fiend,” Conway decided, might have been due to the fact that the pattern of the case somewhat resembled other sex murders of the past few months. Or it might have been that editors know that the addition of the word “Sex” lends a piquancy which is lacking in a murder performed by a run-of-the-mill maniac.

But the important thing was that tragedy, as well as romance, could strike with such complete unpredictability. And merely because of its fantastic suddenness — and senselessness — leave no trace. In that was the idea for a story, and Conway believed that he could write it.

He worked straight through until almost six o’clock, and when he stopped, weary and hungry, he felt better than he had in months. He wanted to get out of the house; he was sure Helen had no intention of getting dinner, and he hoped that he might avoid a meeting with her. He listened at the door and could hear nothing; he assumed she had followed her usual practice after one of these quarrels of going out to a movie, having dinner somewhere, and going to another movie in the evening.

He went downstairs cautiously, but all was clear, and the car was still in the garage. He was grateful that Helen was too uneasy about her driving to want to cope with Los Angeles traffic if she could avoid it.

He had a quick dinner in a neighborhood restaurant and decided to find out how practical was the scheme he had worked out for his story. What he had in mind was a “perfect murder” plot, with the police themselves providing the killer’s alibi. That, in turn, was dependent on the unexpectedness of the crime, and on exact timing.

For two hours he drove about, checking times and distances, even selecting streets and routes, to prove to himself that his scheme was valid. It was more than that, it seemed perfect; he could find no flaws in it at all. He drove home in a cheerful frame of mind.

For the next two days Conway worked steadily and contentedly. He saw Helen only at lunch, and open hostilities were avoided by the fact that neither spoke a word. He became more and more optimistic over the possibilities of the story; it might even make a picture, and a movie sale would solve all his problems. By midnight of the second day he estimated he was about halfway through.

Helen came downstairs while he was having breakfast the next morning. “You’ve been giving that typewriter quite a beating,” she said.

“It’s coming along pretty well.” He realized, suddenly, that these were the first words he had spoken to anyone in three days. The added realization came that he had not missed the sound of his own voice nor of anyone else’s — especially Helen’s.

“Just let me know if you need any paper, carbons, pencils, or erasers. The noise of that typewriter is music to me, and I’d hate to have it interrupted — it might be a long time before the inspiration returned.”

The knowledge that he was working had always mollified her; apparently it still did.

“I’d better tell you that you won’t be hearing any music this morning — or maybe even this afternoon.”

“I might have expected that.”

“I have to figure out the finish before I do any more writing. I got hot about this idea and wanted to get what I had down on paper. Now I have to stop and think out the rest.” He saw the sardonic look come into her eyes, but she said nothing. He finished his breakfast as quickly as he could and went to his room.

He read over what he had written, made a few changes, and then settled down to plot out the rest of the story. He had created a murderer who had done that so-called impossible thing: committed the “perfect crime.” His problem now was to create another character who was just a little brighter than the killer: who could smell out the murder and prove that the “perfect crime” was impossible. He rejected the easy solutions which came to him; he refused to settle for the chance coincidence, the lucky guess or the unlucky slip which might — and usually does — expose the criminal. Conway had written a murderer who knew himself and his limitations, who had planned a crime he could get away with, and cast himself in a part he could play. He had to be caught, not because he did the wrong things, but because he did the right things.

For two solid days and nights Conway wrestled with the challenge he had set himself, and was no nearer a solution than when he started. By evening of the third day he had become convinced that he had conceived a perfect murder and that there was no solution.

By means of careful timing and a good deal of listening at the door, he had managed to avoid Helen for two days. Now, with the old, familiar defeat staring at him, he dared not face her. But he had to get out, out of this room, out of the house; he needed a change of scenery, of diet, of air. He listened from behind his door for over an hour; then, having heard no sound, he ventured down.

Helen was sitting in the living room like a cat outside a mousehole.

“Don’t look so surprised — I live here, you know. And don’t forget it. How long did you think you could go on ducking me the way you’ve been these last two days?”

“I haven’t been ducking you, I’ve been working.” Even as he said it he realized the feebleness of the defense, and the opening it provided her.

“Working! At what? Giving yourself a manicure? You certainly haven’t been working at that typewriter.”

He reminded himself that he must keep calm, that he must not let her lash him into a fury. “It’s the finish,” he said. “I’ve had to think it through. It’s been a tough nut to crack.”

“And you haven’t cracked it.”

“Not entirely, but—”

“And you never will.”

It was time for her to start to rage, he thought; for her voice to rise to that screaming frenzy he had come to know so well. But it didn’t. The rage was there, but it was blanketed by an icy hardness as she went on.

“Another masterpiece you couldn’t write. If all the unfinished manuscripts of Arthur Conway were laid end to end, they’d make a good paper chase. And that’s all they are good for.”

“Okay.” With a faint hope that he might be able to make it, he started for the door.

“Wait a minute. I didn’t sit around here all afternoon just to get a glimpse of your lily-white face.”

Conway breathed more easily. This was not to be a tantrum: she had something to say. “Thank you, Mrs. Conway. Somehow I didn’t think you had.”

“And don’t call me by that name — it reminds me of you. I loathe you, I detest you, I despise you, and if you were worth it, I’d hate you.”

“Very nicely put. Sounds like something out of one of those unfinished manuscripts.”

“And you can save those bum jokes.”

“I’m only filling in until you decide to come to the point.”

She hesitated only a moment. “I want a divorce. And unless you’re even stupider than I think you are, you do too. So — what do we do?”

For the first time it had been mentioned. It was out in the open, and it cleared the air to such an extent that he almost liked her.

“After considered thought, my suggestion would be that we get a divorce.”

“Very bright,” she said. “Now see what you can do with this one. What about money?”

Conway thought he knew where this was leading, but there seemed no point in hurrying her. “You know what we’ve got in the bank,” he said. “It ought to be enough for the lawyers and the court costs.”

“Yeah. And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“You think you’re going to divorce me and throw me out without a cent to my name?”

“In the first place, I’m not going to divorce you — you’re going to divorce me. In the second place, you can have every penny I’ve got. That’s my best offer.”

“That’s fine. That’d be just dandy. You give me every penny you’ve got after paying for the divorce, and I wouldn’t have bus fare. That’s a nice out for you. But what am I supposed to do?”

“You might go back to Topeka. You could make up with your sister, and live in that house your mother left her.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in Topeka, I wouldn’t speak to Betty if she was the last person on earth, and the cold little fish is my half-sister, not my sister.”

“Okay. Well, what did you do before we were married?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“As I recall, you had a job for which you were paid $37.50 a week. You lived on that, if not sumptuously, at least adequately. Since we’ve been married you’ve dwelt somewhat more comfortably, been nourished at least as well, and dressed considerably better than when you provided for yourself. To my great regret I can’t guarantee to continue this — this ‘standard of living to which you’ve become accustomed,’ I believe the phrase is. But I see no reason why you shouldn’t go to work. I’ll agree to pay you a percentage of what I earn until you remarry, as alimony, and you’ll wind up much better off than you’ve ever been. Just don’t marry another writer.”

“I can see myself ever getting a plugged nickel from you once we were divorced.”

“You’d have the devoted assistance of every police force and court of law in the United States to aid you in getting it; one of their chief functions is to guarantee the unearned increment of divorcees.”

“Let’s stop kidding. If you didn’t have it, I couldn’t get it out of you, even with the police, the army, navy and air force on my side. And you’ll never have it.”

Conway wondered how much of this constant tearing down, this repeated belittling, a man could take.

“Not that I wouldn’t get a lot of pleasure out of seeing you in jail, but it wouldn’t pay my rent. No — I want cash. Not very much, but I want it now.”

“What’s your idea of not very much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Her calmness had puzzled him from the beginning, and now he was bewildered. She had something in mind, he knew, but what it was he could not imagine.

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather have than five thousand dollars to give you. Have you any ideas as to how I might obtain that paltry sum?”

She looked at him judicially. “One of the most repulsive things about you is that cheap sarcasm you’ve become addicted to. I suppose it makes you think you’re a wit.”

Conway had no illusions about being a wit, but he did wish that occasionally he might be able to produce a comeback to some of her more devastating remarks. But his retorts had been getting more and more feeble, less and less frequent.

“Naturally I know how you can get five thousand. I wouldn’t expect you to.” Conway looked at her blankly. “I’ve made up a list of a few friends of yours back East,” she said as she took a slip of paper from her bag. “They’re all doing very nicely. And they’re all very fond of you — respect you because you’re a writer, and they’re only businessmen. They all thought you were going to write that great American novel, too. And they haven’t seen you for a couple of years, so they haven’t found out what a phoney and a flop you are. It’ll be a cinch to get five thousand out of them.”

“You’re out of your mind!”

“Oh no I’m not. This is the best idea I’ve had since I said ‘No’ the first time you proposed to me. I make you a present of the idea and you have a chance to do a little creative writing — and you’ll get paid for it for a change. Tell ’em that you’re sick, I’m sick, you’re writing that novel, I’m going to have a baby — anything you like. There are five names here,” and she handed him the list. “Allen and Tyler should be good for two thousand, maybe twenty-five hundred. Strike them for twenty-five hundred anyway. Try the others for a thousand; a couple of them might only come across with five hundred, but even so — And if you get more than the five thousand, you can keep the profit — or some of it, anyway.”

Conway’s mind must have been running in terms of fiction: he had half-expected her to name a bank to be robbed, or suggest a dope-smuggling scheme. Her plan was safer. It was also simpler, surer, and more repugnant to him.

He glanced at the list, knowing the names he would find there. His closest friends. His only friends. The men he had gone through the war with. B Company of the 165th Field Artillery had plodded across Africa, climbed through Sicily, slogged the length of the Italian boot, and these six had been together, miraculously, through it all. And they had learned the dependence of each one on all the others.

They would come through, all right. Conway knew them. Although they were scattered now and he had not seen any of them for two years, they kept in frequent touch by mail, and, if anything, the bond between them seemed stronger than ever. They’d come across. Even though all were married and most had children, and they were just beginning to get on their feet, with mortgaged houses, payments on cars, hospital and obstetricians’ and pediatricians’ bills, they wouldn’t let him down. He knew them. And they were scattered around the country; they wouldn’t check with each other, at least until afterward.

Oh, the letters would get results. They’d deprive their wives and children to help a pal out of a jam. All I have to do, Conway reflected, is to steal the money from those women and kids, hand it over to Helen, and be free... free to shoot myself.

Some of his shocked incredulity showed in his face, and Helen was amused.

“Don’t like the idea, h’m? Well, unless you’ve got a better one, that’s what you’re going to do. Or else.”

Her confidence, her good humor, bothered him more than anything else. She was so awfully sure of herself.

“Or else what?”

There was no humor now, but the confidence was even more blatant.

“Or else this. If you haven’t written those letters by noon tomorrow, I’m going to go to work on you. And I mean really go to work. I’m going to drive you out of this house or drive you crazy, or both. There’ll be such rows that the neighbors will be calling the police — or I will. But I won’t let them arrest you. I’ll be your ever-loving wife and ask them to put you in the psychiatric ward. And I’ll tell them why.”

Bull’s-eye. A direct hit.

“And then, when I’ve really given you a working over, whether you’re in a padded cell or have decided to run for it, I’ll write your pals, and what a sob story they’ll get from me. I might be able to get even more out of ’em than you could. And don’t try to write them and beat me to the punch, because anything you say now will only make it more convincing when I write — if I have to.”

Conway sat down. He had no breath and the blood was pounding in his head. She was crucifying him, he realized, in the one way she could. And she knew she could.

“All this I’m telling you is just the persuader,” she went on. “I don’t want to have to do it that way. It’ll take time and be a lot of trouble, and I might not get as much out of them as you can. But don’t think I won’t do it if I have to.”

The pounding in his head was lessening. He could think, after a fashion, and he hoped he could speak. But he dared not get up from the chair.

“Don’t try to bluff me, and don’t try to scare me.” His voice sounded steadier than he had expected. “I’ve been all right for over four years. I’ve been perfectly well.” He realized that his voice was rising, and went on more calmly. “You know it as well as I do, so don’t think you’re going to scare me with that line of talk. I don’t scare that easily.”

“No?” She leaned toward him, and he could hardly focus on the finger she pointed. “Look at yourself. You’re sweating like a horse. Your voice is croaking. And you’re so weak in the knees you can’t even stand up.”

She moved away and he no longer had to concentrate on that finger that so frightened and fascinated him, reminding him of some dread, forgotten thing in the past.

She lit a cigarette and looked at him through the lazily curling smoke. “Why do you think I’ve started all these rows the last couple of months?” she said. “Because I wanted to see how sure you were of yourself. And I found out. No matter what I said or did, you kept calm and controlled. All you wanted to do was to get away, to avoid a row — because you were scared. You’ve taken things from me no man in the world would take — no man, that is, who was in his right mind — and sure of it.”

Somehow he got to his feet and moved toward the door.

“Let me out of here,” he said, and realized that only a whisper came out. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She moved to the door and opened it.

“Just one thing more.” She stopped him with her hand. “You said a little while ago that I knew how much we had in the bank. Well, I do, but I don’t think you do, so I’ll tell you. There’s exactly one dollar; I drew out the rest this afternoon. So don’t get any ideas about taking a powder and not coming back. You wouldn’t get very far.” She dropped her hand and he started out woodenly. “Remember, noon tomorrow.”

Chapter two

Conway was not even sure that he would be able to drive, but somehow he started the car, got it out of the garage, and headed down the street. He stopped at the first bar he saw, went in, and sat in the far corner of the last booth.

By the time he finished his second drink he had stopped shaking and was able to think with some degree of clarity. And the more clearly he saw things, the worse they became. Not that he doubted his sanity — now. But he was afraid of what might happen.

Conway had gone through the war until two days before it ended. Then something gave way. The men called it shell shock, and the doctors called it combat fatigue, but in any language it was a crack-up. It got him back to a hospital in the States in a hurry, and before he was discharged, six months later, the doctor had given him the final word.

“You’re okay,” he had said. “You’re okay now, and you’ll continue to be. Just don’t worry. Don’t worry, don’t let things get you down. Don’t let yourself get too excited, or fly off the handle, or get in a rage. That’s good advice for anybody — reduces the danger of ulcers, among other things. But it’s especially good for you, after what you’ve been through.”

His outfit had been kept in Germany, and he was released from the hospital just two days before they were processed out through Fort Dix. They knew what had happened to him, but it was not mentioned in the course of the three-day reunion and celebration they staged in New York. They had been through too much together for anyone to be blamed for cracking; they had all been on the verge of it at one time or another.

But — they knew.

He had told Helen about it before they were married, and she had dismissed it as of no importance; it had never been brought up since. He had almost forgotten it himself until recently — until, he realized, a couple of months ago, when he had begun to fear the increasingly frequent battles with Helen. The psychiatrist’s words had come back to him, and he had made a conscious effort to restrain himself, as he became aware of his growing tension and insecurity. But he had not known that Helen knew that, nor that she was doing it for just that reason.

He tried to look at the thing from every angle. He would not write those letters: that he couldn’t do, no matter what happened. But if he didn’t, he dared not stay on with her: he knew she would carry out her threat, and he was honestly afraid to face it. He could think of no work he could get; he had no references, had had no job since the army. And he felt sure that Helen would find him in a very short time. He was afraid of what the feeling of being a fugitive might do to him: the chance of being hauled up on charges of desertion, non-support; the threat of being committed to a psychiatric ward. He had a car, but it was registered in both their names; he couldn’t sell it, and if he went off in it, she’d have a warrant out before morning.

And no matter what he did, she’d write for the money — and get it. If he tried to warn them, tell them not to send her anything, it would be only added support for the pitiful story she’d give them. She’d figured that out, too: he could see that letter she would write. “Arthur hasn’t been well... won’t admit it... can’t even make myself write down what it is...” — the soul of delicacy, the devoted wife — “... but you know... result of that horrible war... hasn’t been able to work... need money... private sanitarium... psychiatrists...” It would be too easy.

He reached in his pocket and withdrew his total assets — seven dollars and thirty cents. Minus, he remembered, the cost of the three drinks. This was no time to be squandering money on liquor. He paid the check and left.

There was no one in California he could turn to. The only real friends they had had, the Gordons, had gone back East three months ago. They had come to know only a few other people; they were all friends of Helen’s, and he neither knew nor liked any of them very well. He started to drive aimlessly.

An hour ago, before this cataclysm had struck, he had emerged from his room with the idea of driving to the locale of his story in the hope of getting a notion which would give him a finish. Now his interest in the story was nil, but he needed something to put his mind to; later, perhaps, he could come back to the problem of Helen with some degree of reason.

So he tried to concentrate on the actions of his murderer, looking for the flaw in his plan that would trip him up. But the more he examined it, the more perfect the murder appeared. He could find no loophole anywhere. There wasn’t one.

He drove over to Santa Monica Boulevard and out toward the theatre which he had used as the prototype for the one in his story. As he passed it, he noticed the title on the marquee: “Song of Manhattan.” Irrelevantly, he remembered that Helen had mentioned that she had tried to see it at one of the big Hollywood theatres, but there had been a line, and she hadn’t wanted to wait.

And then, suddenly, it hit him. Hit him so hard that he almost lost control of the car. Trembling, he pulled over to the curb and stopped.

If this fictional murder was so perfect, he had his solution. Not of the story — but for Helen and himself.

It was so obvious, now, that the wife in the story was Helen — and the murderer himself. He wondered how long it had been in his subconscious. More important, he wondered if he dared, if he had the courage, to do it. But he had to make the attempt: there was no other way out. It wasn’t even murder, really — it was self-defense.

He dismissed the moral aspects quickly: killing Helen was as necessary and justifiable as killing Germans had been. They had represented an evil thing — Helen was evil in herself. His real concern was whether he could get away with it.

He had gone over the story so often in the past three days that he knew it by heart. But now he reviewed the facts he had actually checked — distances, timing, and locations — acutely aware of the difference between an action stated on a printed page and that same action actually accomplished. To be safe, he would have to verify the timing of the entire plan.

But first he got a newspaper and turned to the amusement section. “Song of Manhattan” was playing in a half-dozen of the second-run theatres; he selected one in Culver City, where it was extremely unlikely that he would be seen by anyone who knew him, telephoned, and learned that the picture would go on in an hour and a half.

He rehearsed, then, the plan he had devised for his fictional murderer; the plan he now proposed to make a reality. The timing had to be exact, and he referred frequently to his wrist watch with its luminous hands and dial. It had been Helen’s gift to him on their first anniversary; he was faintly pleased at the irony of the fact that it was now invaluable in planning her murder.

He completed his practice runs, satisfied that he was prepared for every contingency. Then, on his way to Culver City, he found a quiet residential street, set his speedometer, and drove exactly five-tenths of a mile. He looked at his watch and then walked as rapidly as he thought he could without attracting attention, back to his starting point.

He smiled as he realized that he had endowed his murderer with his own solitary athletic accomplishment: the speed with which he could walk. His normal pace was considerably faster than average, and he could, when he tried, keep up with another man at a jog trot. But he had done little walking of late; it was essential to clock himself so that he might schedule the timing of the entire operation. When he got back to the car he was not quite satisfied with his performance; he would have to do a little better, but he was confident that he could.

He wondered if he could contain himself to sit through the picture. But it had to be done, and when it was over, he left the theatre elated. The ending was practically perfect for his purpose. Tommy Miller and Mary Hart were the stars, and Helen adored Miller and couldn’t stand Mary Hart. The last six minutes — he had timed it to the second — consisted of a big musical number which was all Mary Hart, with Miller coming on only for a quick clinch before the fade-out. He was certain that Helen could be persuaded to walk out on that.

The house was dark when he got home, and he went directly to his room and locked the door. If he was to go through with his plan, there was one completely damning piece of evidence which must be destroyed. He took the unfinished manuscript from his desk and looked at it regretfully. But the regret was only for the hopes he had had for the story, not for what he was about to do. He was troubled by no indecision; he realized that he had made up his mind to kill Helen at the instant the thought first struck him and ever since had only been reassuring himself of the details of the plan. The details were in order, the murder was practical, the risk of detection slight. Two problems remained: in the morning the letters had to be written, but he had an idea of how that might be handled. The one important question was whether he could persuade her to go to the movie with him.

He tore up the manuscript page by page, burned the pieces, a few at a time, in a large metal ashtray, and took the charred ashes which remained and put them in the incinerator in the back yard. He went to bed then, expecting to sleep little, if at all. But the excitement of the early evening had been replaced by a kind of confident serenity, for the future promised peace. He was asleep before he really had time to savor the prospect.

Helen came down to breakfast as he got up from the table. Their eyes met, and she uttered one word.

“Noon.”

“You win,” he said.

Back in his room, he sat down at the typewriter. There was no time to waste. He wrote to Allen first. It was in the same tone as all the other letters he had written him, full of trivia, anecdotes, passing on gossip, imparting news of himself and Helen. This last was difficult, for it was almost entirely fictional: any hint of trouble between them was carefully omitted. And there was no mention at all of any need for money.

He wrote similar letters to the others, varying them as much as was possible without taking too much time; he was doubtful that Helen would continue to respect the privacy of his room. When he had finished the fifth, he addressed the envelopes, inserted the letters, and put them, unsealed, in the inside pocket of his jacket, together with five airmail stamps. There would be nothing strange in the fact that he had written all five of them the same day; it was what he usually did, after putting off answering their letters for somewhat more than a decent interval.

He started, then, on the letters Helen wanted him to write. He knew she would insist on reading them, so he wrote them as she had directed. And even though he knew they would never be seen by any other eyes, he was appalled to read what he was putting on paper.

He was on the final letter when Helen walked in without knocking. “It’s taken you long enough,” she said as she picked up the four which were completed.

“They’re not easy to write. I made a couple of false starts.”

“As usual,” she said without lifting her eyes from the letters.

By the time she had got through the four, he had finished the last one, and she read that, too. He looked at her as she stood by the window and felt no compunction at all for what he planned to do: the fact that, having read the letters, she could still insist on sending them, was added justification. He was thankful he had found a way to take care of her as she deserved.

“I guess they’re all right. That ought to get ’em,” she said. “Where are the envelopes?”

“I’ll type them now and mail them after lunch.”

“Will you really?” He hadn’t actually expected to get away with it that easily. “You just type the envelopes and I’ll take care of the rest.”

He typed the envelopes carefully, exactly duplicating the format of the others he had put in his pocket. And it was time, he thought, to start placating her if he hoped to get her to accompany him to the theatre.

“Look, Helen—” He inserted an envelope in the machine. “I’m not going to double-cross you. I don’t like doing this thing, but I have no choice. Now that I’ve written the letters, I’m as anxious to get it over with as you are. But it’ll be at least a week before we hear from them all, so we’re stuck here in this house together for at least that long. How about a truce?”

She looked at him with an amused smile.

“Really scared, aren’t you?”

He hung on to himself with an effort and hoped the hatred didn’t show in his eyes.

“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just that we can both give each other a very unpleasant week. But what do we gain by it — either of us?”

“All right, Artie,” — she knew how the nickname annoyed him — “if that’s the way you want it. As you say, I’ve got nothing to gain.” She started for the door. “Finish up those envelopes. I’m going to get my bag.”

“Anything in the house for lunch?” He had reconnoitered the kitchen before breakfast and knew there was not.

“A truce doesn’t mean I’m going to start cooking for you.”

“I didn’t expect it. But as long as I have to go out to eat, I’ll drop you wherever you want to go.”

“Well, that’s mighty white of you.” The sarcasm in her voice did not entirely disguise her surprise. But she was herself very quickly. “Finish those envelopes.”

He started on the second one, as her voice came from her room. “And don’t seal them up. I’ll take care of that.”

Obviously her suspicions were not entirely allayed. This might be more difficult than he had expected. But these letters could not be mailed. If they were, it would be impossible to go ahead with his plan.

He had finished addressing the envelopes when she came back into the room, and while he put on a necktie and got into his jacket, she glanced at each letter, inserted it in its envelope, sealed it, and affixed the airmail stamps she had brought with her. When she had done all five, she put them in her bag and went downstairs.

He took the other set of letters from his pocket, quickly sealed and stamped them, and followed her. She was standing before the mirror in the hall, giving her lips a final going-over, which would take at least a couple of minutes; her bag stood on the table beside her. Conway wandered into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the bottle that was kept in the refrigerator, and slammed the glass to the floor. It broke into a hundred pieces, the water splashed all over, and the crash brought her to the door of the kitchen.

“Now what?”

“The glass slipped out of my hand. I’ll clean it up.”

He started toward the small coat closet off the front entry hall which, because cupboard space in the kitchen was at a premium, served as a broom closet. Helen resumed work on her mouth.

“I’m afraid it’s one of the good glasses,” he said.

“Oh, no!” she wailed, and went into the kitchen, knelt, and examined the pieces. What she hoped to accomplish by this closer inspection, Conway neither knew nor cared; he had gambled that it would be an instinctive reaction, and won. He paused at her handbag for a split second on his way to the closet, replaced the letters in it with the ones he took from his pocket almost without breaking stride, and was on his way back to the kitchen with broom and dustpan as she returned to the hall.

“Ox,” she muttered as she passed him. He almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been so easy, so smooth; maybe it was an omen.

Chapter three

Helen posted the letters at the first mailbox they passed, and when she got back in the car there was a noticeable change in her attitude. She was almost relaxed. Conway wondered if she had been less confident than she had pretended.

“If we’re going to have that truce,” she said, “how about getting some lunch?”

“Okay with me.” He was pleased that she had proposed it: he had wanted to, but feared she might be suspicious of too many overtures.

They had lunch at a drive-in near Beverly Hills with no overt unpleasantness and started toward home.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I need a pair of white gloves, and there’s a store on Beverly Drive—”

His eyes involuntarily flicked down to the gloves she was wearing. She caught the glance, and her voice snapped a little as she continued.

“This is the only pair of white gloves I’ve got to my name, and I can’t wash ’em every time I take ’em off. Of course if you don’t want to stop—”

Conway had an idea things might get very unpleasant indeed if he didn’t want to stop. He had to park half a block up from the shop, in front of a five-and-ten. As she got out of the car, he did the same.

“I’ll walk up to the corner and get a paper,” he said.

He walked a few feet and looked back. She was crossing the street in the middle of the block. He slipped into the five-and-ten.

It was another break, he thought; he wouldn’t have to find an excuse to leave the house after they got home. He coursed the store, not wanting to inquire of salespeople, and finally found the object of his search: a disguise kit put up for children — he had seen a youngster with one a few weeks ago. Fastened on a piece of cardboard were a pair of spectacles, a false nose, a mustache, and eyebrows. They were intended to be comic, and they were, but they were acceptable for his purpose. He paid for his purchase, and as he left the store, folded up the card and put it in his pocket.

He was reading the amusement page of the paper when Helen returned to the car, and as they started off she picked it up.

“There hasn’t been a decent picture in months,” she pronounced.

He had bought the paper and left it open at that page in order to lead in to going to the movie. Now he feared that he might be rushing it too much. Would it be better to wait until they got home, until Helen herself, perhaps, got restless and wanted to go out? Or should he give this new relationship another day, when she might be less suspicious of this unwonted friendliness? He would have only one chance; if he bungled it now...

“How was the Tommy Miller picture?” he asked. “What was it, ‘Song of Manhattan’?”

“I didn’t get to see it. I told you that.”

“I remember you mentioned it. I thought you’d seen it.”

“Shows how much attention you pay to what I say.” But her voice was not as edgy as he had come to expect. He dared to try one more tentative lead.

“I just happened to see it advertised. It’s playing at — what’s the name of that theatre on Santa Monica, not far from us?”

“Where?” She looked eagerly down the list. “Oh, the Monterey.”

“I thought I’d like to see it myself. Might go tonight.”

“Why don’t you?”

He had to take the plunge. “Want to come along?” he asked.

He could feel her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “I might,” she said, and then added, “if I can’t find anything better to do.”

He could push it no further now. He had to trust to luck and be prepared.

Helen went to her room when they got home; he went to his and locked the door. First he went to work on the mustache, which had some sort of gum on the back for instant attachment. It was long, black, curling, and fierce, and by daylight would have deceived no one at a distance of fifty feet. But it was not going to be seen in daylight, and he trimmed it with a pair of manicure scissors so that it became a square, rather full, military type. Under a street lamp, fleetingly, it would get by. And it would be noticed.

He dug into a suitcase in which he kept some old clothes he had hoped to wear if he ever went fishing. There was a battered hat, bought before the war, and the only one he owned, for he had not worn a hat since he had come to California. It took some getting used to, but he decided it would do.

Twice he heard the sound of the telephone being dialed, and he opened the door and listened cautiously. But there was no conversation, and he concluded that her friends, whoever they were, were not at home. He still had a chance.

When he heard her return to her room and close the door, he hurried downstairs, stopping to pick up an old, frayed bath towel on the way. In the garage he examined the towel; there were laundry marks in one corner. He tore off that end, placed the hat and the towel in the glove compartment of the car, and locked it.

The incinerator was behind the garage and not visible from the house. There was the possibility, of course, that Helen might happen to come out and find him, but he had to risk it. One at a time he burned the letters he had written at Helen’s direction, the strip he had torn off the towel, and the remainder of the disguise kit. If there should be a slip, if suspicion should be directed at him and the police were to search the house, any of these could be incriminating. He made certain that nothing but ashes remained.

There was nothing else to be done now. Except— It occurred to Conway that when they started asking questions and he said he was a writer, it might be advisable to have some evidence to that effect. He went to his room and started to write a rehash of a Western story he had done once before.

At six o’clock he went downstairs, making sure that Helen, in her room, could hear him. When he paused to listen at the foot of the stairs, he heard her door open quietly. He looked up the number of the theatre and then dialed.

“Monterey Theatre?” In the tiny house he knew Helen could hear him. “What time does ‘Song of Manhattan’ go on?”

“It’s on now. Next complete show starts at seven-thirty, and ‘Song of Manhattan’ at seven-fifty-six.”

Helen came in as he hung up.

“Show starts at seven-twenty,” he said.

“You going?”

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

He hoped he could mask his anxiety. “Want to come along?”

He knew that she wanted no part of an evening with him, even in a movie theatre. But she had nothing else to do. He could see her indecision in the way she fingered her cigarette.

“I do want to see that picture.” He breathed a prayer of gratitude for Tommy Miller. “And I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. What time did you say?”

“Seven-twenty. I’d like to see the newsreel.”

“I’ll get ready.”

He had advanced the time for two reasons. The parking lot was apt to fill up quickly, and it was important that he get a space toward the back. In addition, if they got to the theatre early, they would see the finish of the picture, and there would be no question, then, of Helen being willing to leave before the end. She was always meticulous about seeing a picture from the beginning, and hated to come in in the middle, but, he thought, if they were there, what could she do about it? He didn’t think she’d stand in the lobby.

He changed into an inconspicuous gray suit, wrapped the mustache in paper, and put it in his pocket. When he heard Helen leave her room, he put the car keys on his dresser, threw a sheet of paper over them, and went downstairs. Helen, wearing a pink linen suit with a vivid red scarf around her neck, was carefully putting on her new gloves. He disliked the suit; he thought it exaggerated the already too full lines of her body, and he wondered, idly, what had ever attracted him to her physically. He detested the garishness of the scarf, too, but Helen wore scarves whenever possible, and this was her current favorite. He had expected she would wear it and was glad that she had; it was perfect for his purpose.

“Better take a coat,” he said. “It’s apt to be cold later.”

“I haven’t got a coat I can wear with this.”

“Leave it in the car. At least you’ll have it for the drive home.” He got her polo coat from the closet and she reluctantly took it.

When they got to the car he discovered that he had forgotten the keys and had to go back to get them. He headed straight for Helen’s room and the drawer in which she kept her handkerchiefs. All exactly according to plan.

He riffled quickly through the pile of handkerchiefs, looking for one of her best ones. He selected one, and then hesitated as his eye caught, at the front of the drawer, the old pair of gloves. An idea struck him: the gloves would be better than the handkerchief, and he wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He considered hastily for a moment: the gloves had been worn, but did not seem soiled, and they were folded neatly together; they would change none of his plan, except to make it more plausible. He replaced the handkerchief, put the gloves in his pocket, got the keys from his room, and rejoined Helen. Her comment on his stupidity in forgetting the keys was about what he had expected.

The theatre was on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard, and there was a moderately large, fairly well-lit parking lot directly alongside it. But there was a charge of a quarter, and the Conways, some time previously, had discovered a lot across, and a little way down, the street. It was between a market and a bank, and was unattended at night. It was easy to get in and out because it ran through from the street to the alley behind it: one could enter or leave either way. And it was not lighted. There was room for no more than about twenty cars, and Conway had noticed in his reconnoitering that a good many people seemed to be economy-minded. By the time the seven-thirty showing started it would undoubtedly be full, so he hurried Helen through her dinner and then disregarded speed limits and her temper impartially after they left the restaurant.

Helen took it as a matter of course when he drove in there instead of going to the regular parking lot next to the theatre. His timing had been good: there were only a few cars. He drove all the way back and parked in the space next but one to the alley.

“Why didn’t you leave the car at the restaurant? It wouldn’t have been much further to walk,” she said as she got out. Conway stopped to lock the doors of the car.

“What’s the matter with all these?” she demanded as they walked past the unoccupied spaces nearer the street. “Are they reserved for people who earn a living?”

She’ll never let up, he thought. She’ll never let up as long as she lives. But she’ll let up pretty soon now.

Aloud he said, “This whole place’ll be filled up in about two minutes, and when the picture’s over the whole mob will be banging fenders trying to be the first ones out, while we’re just breezing away.”

“Yeah, you can’t afford to stall around here,” she said. “You’ve got so many important things to do.”

Conway looked at her, startled, but on her face was only the pleased expression that indicated her satisfaction with a gratifyingly nasty dig. But he was worried; he dared not antagonize her. Something could still go wrong.

As he bought the tickets, she looked suspiciously at the empty lobby. Conway was about to hand them to the doorman when she spoke.

“What time does the show start?”

“Seven-thirty, ma’am.”

She looked at her watch. It was, as Conway knew only too well, seven-nineteen.

“What’s on now?”

“The feature. It’ll be over in about nine minutes.”

“You idiot!” She looked at Conway a long moment before she turned and started toward the sidewalk. He snatched the tickets from the doorman and followed her.

“Don’t blame me for this,” he said as he caught up to her. “The girl told me over the phone — seven-twenty. Half the time they switch the program around — or else they just naturally don’t know what they’re talking about. Why blame me? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it?”

He knew it had, and that slowed her for a moment.

“Come on across the street. You can have that cup of coffee you missed at dinner.”

She hesitated for a moment. “All right. But don’t try to rush me back to see the newsreel. You see the newsreel if you want to.”

They sat, without talking, in a booth in the drugstore across the street while she had a piece of pie and both had coffee. When he was sure she was down to the last swallow, he picked up the check and fished in his pockets. He was able to come up with seventeen cents.

She saw the money in his hand and laughed.

“I ought to let you stay and wash dishes to pay for it.” She dug into her bag and produced a bulging wallet, removed a dollar, and threw it alongside the check.

Conway stared at the wad of money. He had completely forgotten about the withdrawal from the bank, for that had not been a part of the fictional murder he had devised. His mind raced, trying to think what effect it would have on his plan. It might, if it were found out, lead to questioning. He could invent a story to cover it, he was sure; he couldn’t abandon his only hope of deliverance because he hadn’t planned on one detail. But he was unreasoningly angry because she had taken the money, and was carrying it around with her.

“You must be out of your mind, having that much money on you,” he said heatedly. “You’re just begging to be hit over the head.”

“What would you like me to do, leave it home? Ha! That would be bright, wouldn’t it?” She replaced the wallet in her bag. “I’ll take my chances on being hit over the head.”

“Who’s gonna get hit over the head?” There was a throaty chuckle. “I wouldn’t wanna miss that.” The waitress had approached from behind Conway, who was too startled to do more than look at her.

Helen smiled at her pleasantly. “My husband thinks I might — but he’s wrong, as usual,” she said.

The waitress, a hard-faced woman with a patently false air of joviality, picked up the bill and started to make change. “They always worry, don’t they?” she said, obviously referring to some low form of animal life.

“Especially over trifling little things.” Helen gave him a too sweet smile, and Conway was dismayed at the prospect of what she might reveal, merely in order to embarrass him in front of the waitress. He had to divert the course of the dialogue in some way.

“I just mentioned that that scarf makes her look like a target,” he said, seizing on the most prominent object in his range of vision.

“Makes you see red, eh?” The waitress laughed out of all proportion at her joke and turned to Helen. “Men have funny ideas about clothes.”

“Most men — but not all.” Helen rose, terminating the conversation. The waitress moved on to the next booth, but before she was out of earshot, Helen spoke to Conway. “Don’t forget the change, financier — you can keep it.” He left a tip for the waitress, pocketed the rest, and followed her out of the store.

They crossed the street to the theatre in silence. Now there was a good deal of activity in the lobby; a steady stream of people were passing into the theatre, and Conway had an anxious moment. But the darkened auditorium was less full than the lobby indicated, and they found two seats almost exactly where he had hoped to, three rows from the back, on the right of the right center aisle. This was the loge section which, in the Monterey Theatre, meant that the seats were large, overstuffed leather armchairs, with backs high enough to give the occupant a feeling almost of privacy. But what was important was the location: not many people would see them when they left; certainly none would remember the exact moment of their departure.

The picture started, and he was able to examine the unexpected problem he had to face. He had thought that if he could placate Helen enough to go to the theatre at all, they would be on moderately amicable terms. He had not reckoned with her anger at being early, or a quarrel about the money. There was no truce now: far from concurring with any wish of his, whatever she did now she would do only if she thought it would hurt, humiliate, or discommode him. It was essential to his plan that they leave before the end of the picture. Knowing Helen’s distaste for Mary Hart, he had anticipated that, when the star started her final number, he could say, “You’re right, she’s terrible. I don’t want to see any more of this. Come on, let’s go.” But the events of the past twenty minutes had rendered that simple plan worthless. His only possible hope of success seemed to lie in taking the opposite tack.

So after Mary Hart’s second song, which ended in a large, luscious close-up, he leaned slightly toward Helen and whispered, “She’s the greatest thing in pictures.” Helen glared at him in answer.

He was careful not to overplay it. During one number he sat forward in the chair, watching raptly. He remembered the scene which cued in the next to the last number. He took out a package of gum and offered a piece to Helen, which she refused. It was timed so that he was just taking a piece himself when the music brought Mary Hart on to the screen, and he was, apparently, so overcome at the sight of her that he dropped the gum to the floor. Helen muttered something unintelligible, and he leaned down to recover the stick of gum. As he did, he took from his pocket one of the gloves he had taken from Helen’s drawer. Concealed in his palm, he brushed it along the floor for a moment, dirtying it, and then pushed it under the seat in front of him.

Then he rose and tried to devote his attention to the screen, because the zero hour, or moment, was approaching. And he did not know how to handle Helen. He had a sudden feeling of panic; a frightening realization that he must have been mad to think he could get away with this kind of scheme.

The final musical number he had clocked at five minutes, followed by a minute of dialogue leading into the embrace and fade-out. He had determined that they must leave the theatre no later than one minute after the start of the number, for Helen walked slowly; it would take them two minutes to get to the parking lot, and he needed three undisturbed minutes after they reached the car. The picture would just be over then. It was unlikely that anyone would walk out during the musical number, but highly probable that quite a few would leave in the course of that final minute. That was the danger: that some youthful member of the audience might leave at the end of the number, walk to the parking lot in a minute, and be there a moment too soon. It could be desperately close.

But he had to try. If he failed, he might be able to get her to stay for some of the cartoon or newsreel. That would be less safe, but at least it was a chance. The danger was that she would stay for two, three, four minutes of the number, and then want to go. Two minutes — perhaps he could take that gamble. Three minutes — could he? — dared he? Four minutes — that he couldn’t. But what then? Because it was certain that this was his last chance. He could imagine her reaction if he asked her to go to a movie again.

He had been staring at the picture, seeing nothing, for what seemed an interminable time. And then there was a chord of music; before his eyes could focus on the screen, he knew that this was the final number. He had to act — and quickly. He leaned toward Helen.

“I read about this number — this is really what I wanted to see. She made this song, you know — they say it’s the greatest thing she’s ever done.”

No reaction.

Mary Hart sang a verse of the song. He glanced at Helen out of the corner of his eye; she was leaning back in her seat, apparently quite content with what she was seeing and hearing, although it was obvious that this was Mary Hart’s number and there was no way for Tommy Miller to come into it.

The verse and one chorus ran a minute and ten seconds, he knew; at the end of the chorus he looked at Helen as if to see whether she found it as entrancing as he did. She had slumped down in the chair, apparently ready to see it through. He realized that he had lost; he sat back in the seat, trying to think of some way to get her to stay for part of the newsreel.

Mary Hart danced the next chorus. One minute forty-five seconds, he thought. His mind was ticking like a taximeter. Then the number began to get really spectacular, as a host of girls appeared from nowhere and took up the song. After no more than eight bars, Helen leaned toward him.

“I’m leaving,” she said. She stood up. Conway looked at her, momentarily speechless.

“I’m leaving, and you’d better come, too.” She didn’t whisper, but her voice was low. He didn’t think anyone could hear. He left his seat and went up the aisle ahead of her. It was two minutes and five seconds after the start of the number; with luck he would have four minutes and fifty-five seconds without interruption.

He looked around the lobby at a scene of complete inactivity — no one either leaving or coming in. There was an added break he hadn’t counted on: the doorman was over talking to the girl behind the candy and popcorn counter, so they left without having come face to face with anyone.

He let Helen get a couple of steps ahead, thinking she might walk a little more rapidly than if she thought he was trying to hurry her. As she started to cross the street, she turned and spoke over her shoulder.

“What you can see in that—” She didn’t finish, for Conway had leaped forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her back to the curb. A jalopy, filled with five or six adolescents, whizzed past, missing her by inches.

“Thanks,” she said, and she was breathing rapidly. “You surprise me.”

His own pulse was pounding. He didn’t know why he had done it: it had been an instinctive reaction. Maybe they’d have missed her, perhaps only injured her. But they had been going at least forty-five, and in the quick glance he’d had of them, the driver seemed to have his arm around the girl at his side; he probably could not have avoided hitting Helen. It might all have been taken care of for him, Conway thought bitterly. Fate had tried to give him an assist, and he had been too stupid to take advantage of it.

They crossed the street. His stomach was queasy, and his pulse seemed to be pounding like a riveting machine. For the past two hours there had been but one thought in his mind: how to get her out of the theatre at the proper time. His only fear had been that he might fail in that vitally important preliminary. He hadn’t failed, but now the new fear that consumed him was almost paralyzing. He felt no pity, no qualms of conscience over this thing which had to be done; only a horrible doubt of himself, of whether he could, physically, go through with it. There, only a few steps ahead, was the car. Only seconds in the future, lay murder.

He unlocked the door and, when she was in, closed it carefully, so that it did not catch on the second notch. Then he walked around, got behind the wheel, and started the motor. The door rattled slightly.

“I didn’t close the door all the way. Will you slam it?”

She twisted in the seat to reach the door handle. “For once in your life you were right about the weather,” she said. “Can you reach my coat?”

It was a good excuse to get one knee on the seat, as if to reach over into the back, and he knelt behind her. She opened the door and slammed it.

It went exactly according to plan. His hands dropped over her shoulders, crossed, and seized the scarf by its opposite ends. His arms jerked back, the scarf crossed and made a double loop around her throat. He pulled it taut, and then twisted it.

It was done expertly, as he had planned, and so quickly that she didn’t struggle until the strong, silken noose began to tighten about her neck. Then her arms flailed the air, trying to reach him; he pushed her off the seat, onto the floor, so that she could not reach his face. She clawed at his wrists, but her gloves effectively sheathed her nails, and he prevented her from getting a firm grip on his hands. She half-twisted around for a moment, and in the dim light he caught a glimpse of her face; there was no trace of fear on it, or even realization of what was happening: only rage and hatred. She doesn’t know yet that she’s dying, he thought. He twisted the scarf tighter.

Chapter four

He could not look at his watch, and he peered anxiously at the entrance to the parking lot; there was no one in sight. Then he realized that her struggling had become feebler. He had been holding her by the arm to try to keep her from thrashing about; now the arm relaxed, her body seemed to crumple. He was not certain that she was dead, but he could not take time to make sure. He tied a knot in the scarf, backed the car out of the space, turned right, and drove down the alley.

It was dark and he dared not turn on his headlights. He guided the car slowly, carefully, for about two hundred feet, stopped, and backed the car into an open space behind a plumber’s shop.

He had observed this place casually some time ago; he had remembered it when he was writing the story, for it seemed to offer a perfect spot for concealment for a short time, and he had checked on it last night. There was an area the width of the building, and about twenty-five feet deep, where the little panel trucks which went out on jobs in the daytime were loaded; at night the three trucks were parked there, backed up against the loading platform, headed toward the alley. There was ample room for another car, and now Conway backed the small sedan alongside one of the trucks, between it and the brick wall of the building next door. Seen from the alley, there appeared to be four trucks lined up in company front. He did not anticipate any closer inspection in the short while the car would remain there.

He cut the motor, looked at his watch, and took a deep breath. Six minutes had elapsed since the start of that final number; the picture must be just over. There was not much time.

He leaned down and removed the gloves from Helen’s still warm hands and put them in his inside pocket. He put the mate to the glove he had dropped in the theatre, on her right hand. He felt for her pulse, but could detect no throbbing sign of life. Then he grasped her under the arms and pulled her to a sitting position on the seat. The body he had once known so well was heavy; heavier than he’d thought. It took all his strength to lift her over the back of the seat and put her on the floor. The body slipped from his grasp before he had lowered it all the way, and landed with a thud. He felt almost apologetic for this final, unnecessary hurt.

Her handbag was still on the front seat beside him, and he hesitated for a moment. The money was an element not covered by the plan. But he couldn’t leave it there. For one tiling, it would leave him penniless. For another, it would open up a line of questioning — what was she doing with three hundred and fifty dollars in her purse? He could invent a story to cover her withdrawal of the money from the bank, if it should come to the attention of the police. Quickly he found the wallet, put it in his pocket, and dropped the handbag on the floor beside her. Then he took the coat from the back seat and draped it over her, so that she was completely covered.

He took the keys from the ignition without locking it, rubbed his handkerchief over part of the steering wheel, and got out of the car, closing the door quietly. The space between the car and the wall was narrow; he had to move carefully to avoid getting dirt on his coat.

He considered walking back down the alley to the parking lot, so that he might, perhaps, be seen and remembered as he walked back to the theatre. But it was too late to take a chance. At any moment a car might emerge from the lot into the alley; he would be certain to be seen and remembered. Two doors from the plumbing shop there was a passage between the buildings. He hurried into it just as the headlights of a car turned into the alley.

There was no one within fifty feet when he emerged from the other end of the passage, and he walked, rather slowly, back toward the parking lot. He stopped for a moment before a store window in which he could see his reflection. He smoothed his hair with his hands and wiped the perspiration from his face. Otherwise he seemed to look all right.

As he approached the parking lot, two cars drove out, and he crossed the street to avoid being picked up by the headlights of any other cars which might emerge. He had not, he was sure, been seen by anyone who could possibly identify him, between the plumbing shop and the parking lot. The first, and most difficult, phase of Operation Murder was over. Unless the car was found in the next few minutes, he had a chance. Even if it were discovered within the next twenty minutes, he had a very good chance. But he was confident that both these possibilities were extremely unlikely. He now had to stick to the plan, be careful of details, meticulous about the timing. That was the important thing: the timing. Once arrived at the theatre, he had to use up time. He looked at his watch.

He went first to the ticketseller, and explained that his wife thought she’d lost a glove — could he go in and look for it? She sent him on to the doorman, to whom he repeated his request. The doorman was agreeable, and passed him through. He spent a minute or two searching about in the general vicinity of where they had sat, and then returned to the lobby, and headed for the manager’s office.

He wanted to get his story on record, so he went into more detail than he had with the ticketseller or the doorman.

“My wife and I just saw the picture,” he began, “and when we got back to the car she discovered she’d lost a glove. The doorman let me in to look for it, but I couldn’t find it, and I wondered if it had been turned in to you.”

“Nope. No gloves tonight,” said the heavy-set man behind the desk.

“Oh. Well, I wondered — do you have a flashlight here that I could borrow? It was pretty dark in there and I may have missed it. It’s only been a couple of minutes — I doubt if anyone’s picked it up. And — well, you know how women are.”

The manager found a flashlight in a drawer and got up. “Nothing more annoying than losing one glove,” he said. “And nothing more useless than finding one. Why don’t women ever lose two gloves? That wouldn’t make ’em near as mad.”

Conway felt a little glow of pride in his psychology. Originally he had intended to lose a handkerchief, but when he had seen the extra pair of gloves in the drawer, he had remembered Helen’s irritation in the past when she had lost a glove. It was far more plausible that he be sent back to recover a glove than a handkerchief. The soundness of his reasoning had already been confirmed.

The manager carried the flashlight, and Conway led him to a seat three rows in front of the one he had occupied. “We were sitting right about here, I think,” he whispered. “On the aisle.”

The manager directed the light on the floor; Conway knelt and looked long and carefully. Then he moved to the row behind, and finally to the row where he had placed the glove. He rose, holding it triumphantly. The manager seemed almost as pleased as Conway.

In the lobby, Conway was voluble in his thanks. The manager was distressed at the amount of dirt which had managed to attach itself to the glove.

“We probably stepped on it, or kicked it, when we were coming out,” Conway said. “But it’ll wash out.” He folded the glove, put it in his pocket, and was about to leave when he caught sight of the popcorn stand.

“Think I’ll take some popcorn to my wife,” he said. “She loves it — and it might make her forget how long I’ve been gone.”

“Good idea,” said the manager. “Best popcorn in town.”

Conway bought a large bag of popcorn, stopped to thank the manager again, and walked from the theatre. It had been nine minutes since he had arrived back at the theatre; he wished that it had been a little longer, but there seemed no plausible way to prolong the time.

He walked back to the parking lot at a normal pace. Fewer than half the spaces were occupied now; there was no one in sight, but just in case there might be an unseen audience, he went through with his act. He walked to where the car had been parked, and was surprised to find it gone; he looked up and down the alley for a moment, then walked back through the lot to the street. He went back to the theatre, walking somewhat faster now.

Again he stopped at the ticketseller’s booth first.

“Has a young lady been here looking for me?” He must be careful not to be too agitated this early. He smiled at the cashier. “I mean — you remember I came back a few minutes ago looking for a glove my wife lost. I found the glove, but now I can’t find my wife. She’s wearing a pink suit and a bright red scarf. Have you seen her?”

“She hasn’t come to the window,” the girl answered. “You might ask the doorman.”

The doorman was certain that no one in a pink suit and red scarf had been in the lobby, and Conway turned away and stood for a few moments, puzzled. Then he headed across the street to the drugstore.

In the drugstore, he looked around intently; he questioned the clerk behind the cigar counter, and then, catching sight of the waitress who had served them coffee, he repeated the question to her. He stood in the door for a moment, in deep thought, then went out and hurried back to the parking lot. Again there seemed to be no one about, but he examined every car there. He went then to the parking lot across the street, next to the theatre, and questioned the attendant. He went on to the theatre, and this time directly to the doorman.

“You haven’t seen—?” he began.

The doorman was seated, reading a magazine. He looked up, shook his head, and returned to his reading.

Again Conway stood, thinking. Then slowly, thoughtfully, he crossed to the drugstore.

He dialed the number of his home, and waited while the phone rang several times. Then he came out of the booth, looked in the telephone directory on the nearby rack, went back and dialed the police.

“Police Department.”

“Will you send a squad car right away to Santa Monica Boulevard and Nichols Street?” His voice had taken on a tone of nervous, suppressed excitement.

“What’s the name and address?”

“Arthur Conway. I’m at the drugstore on the corner. I—”

“What’s the nature of the complaint?”

“It’s an emergency. Please hurry. I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.” He hung up.

It might sound like a robbery or as if violence threatened. It might be someone reporting a neighbor’s mayhem, or the recognition of a criminal. It might also, of course, be a man reporting a missing car and wife, though Conway doubted that that would occur to the voice on the other end of the line. But it wasn’t important. What was important was that his report was on record, and that they would have to send a cruising patrol car. They wouldn’t dare not send it.

He went outside and stood on the sidewalk, pacing a little, and scanning the passing cars. A streetcar went past. He noted the time: exactly on schedule. In less than three minutes the squad car appeared. He was at its side before the patrolman had time to open the door.

“I’m Arthur Conway — the one who called for you,” he said. “I left my wife in the car in the parking lot down there, went back to the theatre to get a glove she lost — I was only gone a few minutes — and when I came back she wasn’t there. The car’s gone, and she isn’t anywhere around.”

“Come again, buddy, a little slower. Just what happened?”

Conway was conscious that he made a somewhat ridiculous figure, standing there with a bag of popcorn in his hand, reporting a wife who had walked out on him — or, rather, driven off on him. It was necessary that they look on him as a rather pathetic figure of fun — now. The popcorn had been planned, and bought, with that effect in mind. Later they would remember his concern, which now seemed so exaggerated.

He told what had occurred, then, in sequence, being careful not to be too precise or detailed; something had to be saved for later. He told of his search of the neighborhood, he mentioned that he had left the keys in the car but explained that his wife didn’t like to drive; it was unthinkable that she would drive off and leave him to walk home.

As he went on with his account, he could see the quizzical look come into the face of the patrolman on the right. When the officer turned his head away to look at the driver, Conway knew it was to hide a smile, or perhaps to wink at his partner.

“Well, what do you want us to do, buddy?” he asked when he turned back to Conway.

“Why, find her — look for her.”

“Why don’t you try telephoning home? She’s probably there by now.”

“I called just a few minutes ago. She wouldn’t go off alone, I tell you.”

“Well, maybe she didn’t.” The patrolman was unable to hide the smile this time, and Conway was gratifyingly conscious of what he was thinking. “Maybe—” A sharp nudge in the ribs stopped him, and the driver continued the sentence.

“Maybe she got tired of waiting and a friend came along and drove her home.”

“You don’t understand,” said Conway, wondering if he looked like the kind of man whose wife would go off to a motel on five minutes’ notice. “She wouldn’t—”

“Look, buddy—” The joke and the patrolman’s patience were beginning to wear thin. “You want to report a stolen car and a missing woman?”

“Oh, no,” said Conway. “I thought we could drive around here and try to find her or the car, or something.”

“We’re not running any passenger service tonight,” the driver said. “If you want to report the car or your wife now, we’ll take it. If you want to do it later, go to the nearest police station. My advice is, don’t do it.”

“Thanks. But — you will be on the look-out, won’t you?”

“Sure. What kind of a car?”

Conway described the car and gave the license number. They did not trouble to write it down; he concluded they did not intend to phone it in to headquarters.

“I’ll look around here a little more and then call home again,” he said. “If I do decide to report it, where should I go?”

“Hollywood Station. Wilcox Avenue, north of Santa Monica.” The patrolman picked up the radio telephone as the car started off. Reporting completion of the call; that meant there would be a record of the time. It was unlikely they would report the license number of the car, but it was a possibility, and not a pleasant one to contemplate.

Waiting to see the direction the police car would take, Conway glanced at the bench next to the trolley stop sign; three rather poorly dressed people were there, which meant that the next car would stop. That was good; not vital, but good. And the car was due in thirteen minutes.

#The squad car paused for a moment at the corner, and then turned south. That could mean they intended to drive through the alley. Conway turned and walked briskly to the parking lot. He was halfway between street and alley when he saw the glare of headlights in the alley; he stepped into the shadow of a car, and saw the squad car drive slowly past. He hurried, then, to the rear of the lot, his heart in his throat, and looked after the retreating car. It proceeded without a pause past the plumbing shop, past his car and Helen, and on to the next street, where the officers, apparently feeling they had done their duty, turned north.

Now that it had come off safely, Conway was glad that the police had inspected — in their fashion — the alley: it would be evidence that the car had been driven off, out of the vicinity. He took a quick look around the parking lot; there were no signs of anyone preparing to drive out. He tossed away the popcorn and set off down the alley, still ostensibly searching for his car and his wife. When he got to the plumber’s shop, he slipped into the open space, crouched beside his car, and waited. But there was no sound, and no headlights appeared to brighten the alley. He crept into the car, smarted the motor, and stole into the alley without lights. He could turn left, in the direction opposite the one the police car had taken, but he risked coming head-on into it if they had circled the block. Instead, he turned right, in the direction they had driven, gambling that they had not stopped just around the corner. When he reached the cross street, he turned south and drove half a block before switching on his lights; there had been no sign of the police car, and if anyone else had seen his car emerge from the alley, they had not been close enough to identify it by make or license number.

It had been three and a half minutes since the police car had driven off; the next streetcar was due to pass the drugstore in ten minutes, which meant that he could go to Fulton Street. He had picked three possible locations, his choice to depend on the amount of time left to him. Of the three, he preferred Fulton Street.

He cut over to Fairfield Avenue, which was a main thoroughfare and carried a considerable amount of traffic, and again turned south. He had not expected the squad car to report his license number, and he was not certain that they had; nevertheless it was a dangerous possibility. But on a moderately crowded street he was sure there was less risk of being spotted, even should he happen to pass a patrol car, than on a less traveled one.

He crossed Beverly Boulevard, which was the southern boundary of the Hollywood precinct; now he would at least be safe from the officers who had interviewed him. He turned east, then, heading in the direction of Hollywood, on to a quiet, residential street with little traffic. He was conscious of the added danger, but what he next had to do could not be attempted on a main thoroughfare.

He was acutely aware, suddenly, of the vast difference between inventing a perfect murder and accomplishing it. The chances of his being detected in this phase of the operation were slight; he had planned it that way. But now that he had embarked on the venture, those chances loomed terrifyingly large: an accident, a traffic violation, anything which might unluckily arouse the suspicion of a cruising police car, could mean disaster. In his story he had refused to take advantage of good luck, but he had arbitrarily ruled out bad. He was sweating as he realized that no mortal could do that with impunity. Then it occurred to him that his apprehension was getting in the way of the things he had to do. He unlocked the glove compartment, took out the towel, and put on the hat and gloves.

As he drove, he folded the towel so that he had a rectangle about an inch thick, and then slipped one arm out of his jacket. When he was stopped by a traffic light, he leaned down, draped the towel over his shoulders, and then, careful not to disturb the smoothness of the towel, put on his coat, pulling the collar high so that none of the towel showed over the edge. He buttoned the jacket; the towel underneath made it too tight, and it pulled in a strange way. He twisted to look at himself in the rear-view mirror in profile: he had the appearance of a man round-shouldered to an extreme. Not quite a hunchback, but verging on a deformity. It would fit in with what he expected would be the police theory.

At the next stop light he took the mustache from his pocket, stuck it on his upper lip, and examined it in the dimness of the mirror. It’ll get by, he thought. He glanced at the time: he was on schedule. A few moments later he turned south, circled the block, and turned north into Fulton Street. He drove slowly, peering intently at the houses.

Conway had settled on this particular block the first evening he had started on the story, and had described it in detail. The houses were small, one-family dwellings, most of them with front porches. His further inspection last night had confirmed his first impression: there were a good many young people in the block, and most of the porches had been in use. That was the important thing, because he had to have witnesses.

But now, whether because of the hour or the sudden drop in temperature, the street appeared deserted. For a moment terror struck him: he was not prepared to change his plan, nor could he improvise, and it was too late to go to the alternative locations he had picked. The timing had been planned, the schedule worked out, with this block in mind, and his alibi depended on it. Then his panic subsided as, almost at the end of the block, silhouetted against an open window, he saw a couple seated in a porch swing.

He pulled up and parked in front of the house without having to back up, and noticed that the curb was unusually high. So he backed once, to get very close, and there was a grinding screech as the fender scraped against the concrete. They’ve got to notice that, he reasoned.

He cut the lights and switched off the ignition, leaving the keys in the lock. He rolled up the windows and locked the door from the inside. He leaned over into the back and pulled the coat to cover a bit of shoe which was exposed. He bent down in the front seat so that, unobserved, he might press the mustache more firmly to his lip. Then he got out of the car and started off.

He went no more than three or four steps when he stopped, returned to the car, and locked the door. He could hear the radio through the open window of the house. He turned and walked off as rapidly as he could without belying his hunched shoulders. He saw no one, either in the houses or on the street, but there were at least two witnesses who would certainly establish the approximate time the car was parked. That was all he really needed. He turned the corner, consulted his watch, straightened a little, and walked more rapidly.

Had he taken the trolley from the drugstore to the police station, he would have had a thirteen-minute wait, followed by an eleven-minute ride to the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Wilcox. Ten and a half minutes had elapsed since the police car had left him; there remained thirteen and a half minutes to walk the one and four-tenths miles to the corner where he would have gotten off the trolley to go to the police station. It meant walking at the rate of a mile in less than ten minutes, a feat which almost any man would find impossible. Conway was counting on the fact that the police would believe it impossible for him: that was part of the plan.

He turned another corner and quickened his pace. The mustache bothered him and it had served its purpose; he ripped it off and folded it in his pocket. He had wanted to be noticed when he got out of the car; now his aim was to be as inconspicuous as he could: as little like the figure who had parked the car as possible. The gloves were unusual on a spring evening; he slipped them off and into his pocket.

He turned another corner and, when he approached the middle of the block and was sure no one was near, reached up under his coat and removed the towel. He tore it into four parts and at the next corner dropped a piece into the gutter on each side of the street. He got rid of the other two pieces at the next corner. The hat followed. Ripped into three fragments, it was unrecognizable as anything but three dirty bits of felt, and it was disposed of at the next two intersections.

He was now walking as rapidly as he could; he was beginning to perspire, and the muscles in his calves were aching. But he was falling behind schedule: he was doing better than he had last night when he had timed himself, but it was not good enough, not what he had thought he could do, not what he had to do. He dared not run: nothing would be more suspicious than a man running down a quiet street late in the evening.

He still had to rid himself of the mustache, and he tore it into small pieces, dropping a tiny bit every fifty feet or so. His face streamed perspiration and his clothing clung to him, but he tried to force himself even more; he knew that it was useless and feared that even the pace he was going would attract attention, but he dared not slacken.

He had intended to zigzag, turning at every corner, so that he would come on to Santa Monica Boulevard one block west of Wilcox, but now he was forced to abandon that part of the plan. He headed straight for Santa Monica; he had, at least, to see the streetcar. He strained every nerve in the last block; he made it just as the car went past him.

But he saw what he needed to. The car was comfortably filled; enough so that one passenger, more or less, would not be noticed. He could slow his pace somewhat, now, so that he would not be conspicuous, and he could see that the car had a green light and did not stop at Wilcox. A block farther on, at Cahuenga, it did stop; he was able to see people standing at the exit door. Conway relaxed; he could take it easy now. The timing would be right: he would reach the police station exactly when he would have had he been on the trolley.

He mopped the perspiration from his face and hands. He’d have to cool off a bit in these three blocks. It would be natural to be perspiring somewhat, to be a little out of breath, when he arrived, but his present condition could hardly be excused by a three-block walk. He went over the details of what he would say. Everything had gone as scheduled, so far, exactly according to plan.

His legs still ached and his clothing was moist, but he had regained his breath and the perspiration did not show when he arrived at the station. The sergeant at the desk looked up over his paper with some annoyance as Conway came up to him. The after-dinner rush of stolen car reports was over, and it would be a little while before the drunks started being hauled in; this was his rest period, and he disliked having it broken in on.

“Sergeant, my wife’s disappeared, and so has my car.” Conway found that he did not have to simulate his breathlessness.

“Yeah? What happened?”

Conway related the story, much as he had before. “And after the police car drove off, I looked around some more,” he concluded. “Then a streetcar came along, and I decided I wanted to report it, so I jumped on the car and came down here.”

“Why don’t you call up and see if she’s home now?” the sergeant suggested.

“I did once, but — what time is it?” They both looked at the clock above the desk. “Ten twenty-four. I’ll try it again.”

“There’s a phone booth in the hall,” the sergeant said, and returned to his newspaper.

Conway dialed the number and, because the time had now been established and there was no longer need for haste, let it ring half a dozen times before he returned to the desk. “No answer,” he said.

The sergeant reluctantly put aside his paper and reached for a form. “Sure you want to do this now?” he asked. “Why don’t you wait till morning? She probably just drove off with somebody to have a drink.”

“She wouldn’t do that.” Conway wondered if he was playing the part of the fatuous, doting husband too convincingly. He had done everything he could to seem a ludicrous figure to the squad-car men. He did not want this pile of suet behind the desk to take him too seriously, either; on the other hand neither did he want to have to insist too much, in order to get the report on the police blotter. And it had to be there, in writing that even an assistant district attorney could read.

“She’d never do anything like that,” he repeated. “She didn’t like to drive, and she wouldn’t go off in my car with anyone else — she wouldn’t be that inconsiderate.” Careful now, don’t overdo it, he cautioned himself. “Besides we know hardly anyone out here. Who would she meet to go anywhere with?”

The sergeant rubbed his face with his hand, and Conway saw the smile he was trying to conceal — the same smile which had been on the faces of the radio-car men. The memory of the disappearance of Mrs. Yates was still green. But this grin was too obvious to be concealed — or to be ignored.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Conway said. “You’re remembering that woman who left her husband in the market and went off to a motel with that boy.” Indignation came into his voice. “Well, my wife’s not like that, and don’t go thinking she is.”

The grin disappeared. “No, no — I wasn’t thinking of that at all. Nothing like it.” He was having difficulty keeping the smile off his face; he picked up a pen and bent over the desk. “Now, where’d you say this happened?”

Conway went over the details again; there were two forms to fill out and he had to sign both of them. He started to leave as two policemen came in.

“Just be sure to let us know if she turns up,” the sergeant called after him. Conway turned and nodded his assent. The sergeant’s grin was coming back; he could hardly wait to tell his story to an audience.

Conway did not delay. He only hoped the sergeant would make it good.

Conway was careful to stay in character on the bus, and when he reached home he did not even stop for the drink he had been longing for. He went directly to work.

He put Helen’s soiled glove, which he had retrieved from the theatre, in one of the drawers of his dresser, and placed his own gloves in another drawer. The wallet he put in a metal box in his desk in which he kept his insurance policies. He turned the pocket of his coat, in which he had carried the mustache, inside out and vacuumed it.

And always, in the back of his mind, there was the problem of Helen’s gloves: the new ones, the ones she had bought today and had worn tonight. He dared not burn them: a thorough investigation might reveal that she had purchased gloves today, and he would have no way of accounting for their disappearance. He examined them carefully, under the strongest light he could find: they were not really soiled, but neither did they have that pristine quality which white gloves seem to lose the moment they are put on a hand. Here was a gamble he had to take, because he had deviated from the plan. He found some cleaning fluid, poured it in the wash basin, dunked the gloves in it, hung them up, and turned an electric fan on them, to hasten their drying.

Desperately he wanted that drink, but he refused to risk it. He made a sandwich and washed it down with a glass of milk. He longed to turn out the lights and get into bed; he had no fear of ghosts or conscience, he wanted only to relax, and forget his need for action or acting.

But it might seem strange, later, if the lights were turned off too early, and besides, there were still things to do. When, finally, the gloves were dry, he took them to the kitchen and ironed them. When he finished he was satisfied it would take an expert to determine whether they had ever been worn. He put them back in Helen’s handkerchief drawer. Now he might have that drink.

He made a highball, took it to his room, and started to undress. The drink was only half-finished when he was ready for bed. He remembered to go downstairs and turn on the porch light, and he left the hall light on. Then he closed his door, turned out the lights in his room, and got into bed to think out his program for tomorrow. But before he had even decided what time to get up, he was asleep.

Chapter five

Conway wakened slowly, dazedly, from a heavy, druglike sleep. Something in his subconscious kept jabbing him with a reminder that he must get up, but some part of his nervous system refused to let him move, to disturb the utter pleasure of this trancelike state. How long this tug of war went on, he did not know, but suddenly he was all awake, with a full realization of where he was, what had happened, and what still remained to be done. He sat up in bed and listened for a moment; for what, he did not quite know. He heard nothing but a wonderfully peaceful silence.

He called the Hollywood police station after breakfast, and was not surprised to learn that they had no report on either his wife or his car. At lunch time he decided it was simple prudence to avoid people as much as possible: no matter how well he played it, it was too easy to make a slip. He was in the clear, he knew that; discovery was possible only if he gave himself away. The fewer people he saw, the less chance of anything going wrong. He wanted to stay out of restaurants and bars, so he went to the nearest market and laid in a supply of meat and canned goods which would last him several days.

The neighbors, fortunately, were no problem: both he and Helen had retained the New Yorker’s habit of aloofness with neighbors who, because of propinquity, might conceivably impinge on one’s privacy. He barely knew by sight the people in the houses next door.

When he returned home, the house seemed cold and a little musty, although it was hot outside. After his dutiful call to the police station, he opened the windows in the living room, and the warm breezes flowed in and through the house. He got a bottle of beer and sat with his feet up on a table, and was suddenly conscious that he liked this place which had so recently been a prison. He was free and relieved of care; he had never known a feeling of such complete well-being. Perhaps, once — yes, it reminded him of that time. They had been fighting north of Rome; the outfit was relieved, sent to a rear area, and the gang got furloughs together. They’d gone to recently liberated Rome, and had rooms in a hotel, and even had baths. They had been clean and free: the grim weariness, the discipline, the fear of death which had been the most important things in life for so long were suddenly effaced. They had all felt it then: the ineffable peace, the sensation of being in a world where there was no war, no conflict, no unpleasantness even; where there were no orders to obey, no one to please or propitiate. It had been a Godsend then, for without those few blissful days they might all have cracked, as he did... This present surcease had come none too soon; he might, indeed, as Helen had predicted, have cracked again.

But not now. Not any more. He took a long pull at the beer. He was free now. He had peace. He could live, now, and work. And it was time to get to work.

He went upstairs and sat down before the typewriter. But he was hearing the ring of every telephone in the neighborhood, and between going to the stairs to be sure it was not his, and looking out the window every time it seemed a car might be stopping, he accomplished almost nothing. About five o’clock his phone did ring, and he had to rehearse his “Hello” three times before he dared lift the instrument and speak the word into the mouthpiece. But it was a wrong number, and he returned to his room nervous and let down.

He found he had neither the ambition to cook dinner nor the appetite to eat it. He had a sandwich and then tried, first, writing, then reading, then solitaire. Finally he sat and stared at the ceiling.

By one o’clock he felt that he might sleep. He dozed off almost as soon as he was in bed, and was wide-awake in half an hour. He spent the rest of the night alternately smoking, reading, drinking hot milk, pacing the floor, drinking beer, and trying to sleep; giving up, and then repeating the whole routine. A little after seven he did doze off, and was awake at eight. He got up then and faced the bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes in the mirror. Because he was so sure it was only a matter of minutes, he shaved, showered and dressed before he went downstairs. He called the police station, and it was no longer a routine call. Because his anxiety was so genuine, he tried to curb it, and wondered, as he did, whether it sounded less convincing than when he was play-acting.

The morning was as interminable as the night had been. How long, he wondered, could one stand going on in this vacuum? He puttered about the house, emptying ashtrays, washing dishes. It had been two days before the waitress had been found, he knew; he had even counted on a similar lapse of time. He opened the windows, but the breezes that wandered in had lost their magic. That couple who had seen him park the car: how long would they wait before reporting it? The longer the better, he tried to tell himself. He wished that he might go into the garden and do some physical labor; it might get his mind off this gnawing worry. But he might be spoken to by one of the neighbors; better not to risk it. He stared at the sheet of paper in the typewriter, and told himself that as soon as the suspense was over, he’d be able to work.

About one o’clock he went to the kitchen, looked at the steaks and chops and cold chicken he had brought home, and made himself a cheese sandwich. He ate in the kitchen; the cheese seemed dry and tasteless and it was an effort to down it. He gave up when he had eaten half of it, threw the remainder away, and took the plate and the knife he had used to the sink.

He was holding the plate under the faucet when the bell rang. It sounded with such clarion loudness that he dropped the plate, smashing it, and stood staring at the source of the startling sound. It was the front doorbell, which happened to be on the wall over the sink, and he had heard it so seldom in all the time he had lived in the house, that it was several moments before he realized what it was. He dried his hands and went to the door.

“Mr. Arthur Conway?” Conway nodded wordlessly. “My name’s Larkin. Homicide Bureau. Mind if I come in?”

Conway opened the door wider and stepped aside. He had expected a telephone call; that would have given him time to prepare himself for the inevitable police interview. He’d had two days to prepare, true, but he needed those few minutes between the call and the meeting. This detective, here without warning — did it mean something had gone wrong?

“What is it?” he said, and his mouth was dry.

“Sit down, Mr. Conway,” the detective said. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.”

“You’ve found her?” Conway sat, but only so that he could watch the detective’s eyes more closely. He had to determine how much the other knew.

“We’ve found your car.”

“But Helen — Mrs. Conway—”

“This is going to be a shock, Mr. Conway. There was a body in the car, and I’m afraid it’s your wife. I’d like you to come down with me now to identify her — if it is her.”

“What happened?” Larkin hesitated and looked at the floor. “Tell me,” Conway insisted.

“Found the car a little over an hour ago. Then they discovered her, on the floor, covered with a coat. She’d been strangled.” The detective seemed to have finished.

“But — what else? I mean, how did it happen — and when? Tell me.”

The detective rose. “There’s no use your getting all upset when we don’t even know for sure if it’s her. You come along now — then if it is — well, we’ll talk about it.”

Conway looked at him for a moment, trying to assay how much the detective was withholding. The eyes were guileless, but he might be acting, too. “I’ll get a tie and my coat,” Conway said. “I’ll be right down.”

A uniformed patrolman was at the wheel, and Conway and Larkin sat in the back for the long ride downtown. They drove for some time in silence, with Conway staring out the window. That, he was sure, was all right — normal behavior. But he was conscious that the detective was eying him from time to time, and he had to make another effort.

“Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?” Conway asked. “No clues? Nothing?”

“Not yet. Time we get downtown, they might have something.”

“When did it happen? How long had she been—?” He stopped himself, remembering that, in fiction at least, the bereaved next of kin were always unable to utter the word “dead.”

“Don’t know yet.”

Conway turned and again stared out the window. So the police had not yet got to the couple who had been on the porch. Or perhaps Detective Larkin simply hadn’t been told about it. If the car had been found only an hour ago, there had been little time for investigation. He was chilled momentarily at the realization of how important that couple were to him: they were the crucial figures in his whole scheme, for it was they who had to establish when the car had been parked. And that, in turn, was what Conway counted on to prove — if it had to be proved — that the man who had parked the car could not have been himself. But he refused to be alarmed; he enjoyed the sense of relief that the waiting was over.

The session at the Morgue was mercifully brief. He steeled himself before they went in; someone lifted the cloth which covered her face, he nodded, and then they were in an office. He signed some forms, and they went out to the street and got into the car.

“We’ll go over to Headquarters now,” Larkin said. “They’ll want to get all the information you can give ’em.”

Conway was inwardly, as well as outwardly, calm when they went through the door lettered HOMICIDE BUREAU. He was ushered into a private office, and there Larkin introduced him, quite formally, to two plainclothesmen, a lieutenant in uniform, and Captain Ramsden, Chief of the Homicide Bureau. Almost immediately the door opened and a youngish man, who looked like a salesman and a none too successful one, entered.

“This is Mr. Conway, Sergeant Bauer,” Ramsden said. Bauer acknowledged the introduction, took a small notebook from his pocket, and sat down at the side of the captain’s desk.

They asked Conway to tell everything that had happened from the time Helen and he had left the house to go to the movie, and he did. The story was not too pat; he would skip some detail, then remember it a little later, and fit it in chronologically. He was not too accurate about times; he knew they could, and would, check those later. He made it very clear that their marital life was completely happy. He gave the names of their few acquaintances and friends; he knew of no enemies. They asked further questions about parts of his account, and he repeated or enlarged on what he had already told them.

After a little more than an hour, Captain Ramsden rose from his desk.

“I guess that’s about all we can do here now,” he said. “We’ll want your fingerprints, or course. After you get them, Sergeant, you’d better take Mr. Conway out to the parking lot and go over the ground with him.”

Conway broke in. “Can’t you tell me anything, Captain? Any clues? Any suspects? It won’t bring her back, I know, but I’d hate to see whoever did this get away with it.”

“I can understand how you feel. But it’s too soon yet to have anything much. The car was found over on Fulton Street, about three miles from the theatre. One of our squad cars recognized the license as being on the stolen car list, then they found the body. A girl, a Miss — er—”

“Elsie Daniels,” Bauer prompted.

“Yes — was sitting on the porch Monday evening—”

“With her boy friend, Fred Bissell,” Bauer added.

“Yes — when the car was left there.” Conway surmised that that was the extent of Ramsden’s information, for the captain turned to Bauer. “Have you talked to her yet?”

“Sure,” said Bauer, with the air of a man about to take his rightful place at the center of the stage. “We can nail down the time within a couple minutes.” Conway glowed inwardly: this was more than he had hoped for. “They’d been listening to some music on the radio, and then Senator Taft came on. They took a couple minutes of that, and then she went in and switched over to another station. She came back out on the porch and just barely sat down when they heard this scraping noise, and noticed the car parking. Then he—”

“Wait a minute,” Ramsden interrupted. “Senator Taft was on at ten o’clock Monday night — I listened to him myself.”

“I didn’t have time to check it yet,” Bauer said.

“That’s when it was,” Ramsden said. “Somebody introduced him — short introduction, no more than a minute, and then he started speaking. So if she says they listened for a couple of minutes — well, it must have been between ten-two and, say, ten-five.”

“Yeah,” said Bauer, and Conway was unable to tell whether he was disgruntled because of the captain’s firsthand information, or merely because he had been interrupted. “Anyhow,” Bauer continued, “the guy started away from the car, and then went back and locked the door. Then he just walked off.”

“Any description?” Ramsden asked.

“Well, for once it’s not that medium-size guy in a dark suit. He had a dark suit, all right, but at least we got a little something to go on. She says he had a mustache, and was stoop-shouldered, almost hunchbacked.”

Conway was conscious that every pair of eyes in the room had been turned on him as Bauer spoke.

“That’s more than we usually get on one of these cases,” Ramsden said. Conway realized that the remark was addressed to him, and in a more friendly tone than Ramsden had used previously. He also had a moment of sympathy for every round-shouldered man in Los Angeles County, a good many of whom, he knew, would find themselves in the police line-up in the course of the next week.

“And that’s all?” he asked.

“All so far,” Bauer said.

“We’ll have something in the next day or so,” Ramsden said. “We’ve got a good man in charge of this case, Mr. Conway.” He indicated the sergeant. “Sergeant Lester R. Bauer. The R. stands for Right.” He and the lieutenant laughed; the others, who were evidently outranked by Bauer, permitted themselves no more than smiles, and Conway’s face betrayed the fact that he did not get the joke. “ ‘Right’ Bauer,” the captain explained patiently. “You’ll understand if you see much of him.”

Bauer obviously was not amused, and had started for the door when Ramsden stopped him. “Wait a minute, Sergeant,” he said, and turned to Conway. “There’s probably a flock of reporters out there. You’ve had a pretty bad couple of hours — if you don’t feel like facing them right now, the sergeant could take you down the back way, and you’ll miss them.”

“Thanks,” said Conway, genuinely surprised at this consideration. “I’d be very grateful if I could duck them.”

Bauer crossed to a door at the other side of the office, and Conway stopped and held out his hand to the captain.

“I certainly hope you can find him, whoever it was, and quickly,” he said. “I’ll do anything I can to help — you know that.”

“I’m sure of it,” Ramsden said, and then shook hands. “We’ll do our best.”

As he followed Bauer down the corridor to the fingerprint division, Conway was sanguine. He had been treated with more consideration than he had dared hope for; obviously they did not consider him a suspect, although he was, undoubtedly, at least under technical suspicion until they had had time to check his story. When his fingerprints had been taken, they made their way to the car which was waiting, with Larkin at the wheel. As he got into the back seat with the sergeant, Conway decided it would be wise to try to make friends with him, to pump him for whatever information the detective might be able to supply. But Bauer saved him the trouble.

“Wiseguy,” he murmured.

“How’s that?” Conway asked.

“That comic captain. With his jokes.”

Conway was genuinely curious, and, in addition, this seemed too good an opening to be missed. “What did he mean, ‘The R stands for Right’?”

“Some of the boys started calling me that because I’m practically always right about everything.” He said it as a simple statement of fact. “Only he thinks it’s funny or something.”

For the first time Conway looked carefully at the young man whose unimpressive facade concealed this rather staggering ego. His first impression had been justified; Sergeant Bauer did look like one of those ineffectual, already defeated salesmen who plod from door to door, endlessly and aimlessly, all their lives. He was of somewhat less than medium height, with a chin and forehead which receded almost equally; the forehead seemed to have a slight edge, but that may have been because his hairline had reached a point just above the ears. His cheeks were full and his nose broad and flat so that, from a three-quarter angle, his face looked rather like the blunt end of an egg. In his pale eyes there was nothing that remotely resembled alertness or intelligence; rather, there were placidity and self-satisfaction to an unusual degree. Conway decided that in all the world, Sergeant Bauer was the one man he would most like to have assigned to this case. And it shouldn’t be too hard to get on a friendly footing with him.

“The captain must have a pretty good opinion of you, to put you on a case like this.”

“He’s got a good opinion of me all right. But that’s not the reason he stuck me with this one.”

“No?”

“He figures I’m getting ahead too fast, so this will slow me down. There’s not a chance in a million of cracking this one, and he knows it. This was some sex maniac, or plain maniac, and there’s nothing at all to go on. There’s no reason it should have been your wife; might just as well of been any woman who was at that theatre that night, and was left alone a few minutes. It didn’t even have to be that theatre — coulda been any theatre, or any parking lot in town. But I have to go through all the motions, and waste a lot of time and energy and make up a thousand reports, but it keeps me off a case where I might really do something, and maybe get a promotion out of it, and the papers would start asking why Bauer ain’t head of the Homicide Bureau.” It was said without a trace of rancor.

Conway realized that with Bauer, at least, he was not even under technical suspicion. Here was certainly an ally to be cultivated. “If anyone can clear up this case,” he said, “you’re the man to do it.”

“Oh, sure,” the sergeant conceded. “Remember that case the papers called. ‘The White Rose Murder,’ about a year ago?” Conway did. “Well, I cracked that one single-handed. I got promoted to sergeant, and for six months he practically had me investigating overtime parking.” Conway made a sound which he hoped would be interpreted as sympathy.

“At least there’ll be some publicity out of this,” Bauer said. “My girl likes to see my name in the papers,” he added — an explanation which Conway found singularly unconvincing.

“What about the reporters?” he asked. “I suppose I’ll have to see them sooner or later.”

“Did you get to ’em, Larkin?”

“Yeah. They said they’d be there.”

“They’ll be waiting for us at your house,” the sergeant informed Conway.

“What!”

Bauer’s tone was conciliatory. “Like you just said, you got to see them sooner or later. Well, better now than having ’em wake you up all hours of the night. This way you see ’em all together, they get the pictures, and it’s over with.”

“Yes, but not now — after Captain Ramsden went to the trouble of keeping them away from me—”

“Oh, you thought he did that to make it easy on you?” Bauer’s surprise was that of an adult who finds that a child is not quite so bright as he had been led to believe, but there was still no resentment in his voice as he went on. “Oh, no — he got us out of the way so’s he could see ’em alone, and the evening papers won’t have anything but ‘Captain Ramsden said—’ and ‘According to Captain Ramsden—’ and all like that. They won’t have any pictures, so they might even have to use his. Then in a week, when we’ve hauled in a couple dozen suspects and turned ’em all loose, and the papers are yelling ‘Why ain’t something being done?’ he can say ‘See Sergeant Bauer — he’s in charge of the case.’ Oh, well, the man’s gotta protect his job.”

“I must say you take a philosophical view of the matter.”

“He’ll only make the late editions of the evening papers. We’ll get the mornings — they’re better anyway.” Conway could think of no suitable comment. A moment later Bauer saw the theatre marquee ahead.

“Tell Larkin where you left your car,” he said. “The exact place — just the way you were parked.”

Conway complied, and Larkin pulled the car into the space at the end of the lot.

“Let’s start at the theatre,” Bauer said as they got out of the car. “Did you get hold of the manager?”

“He said he’d be here,” Larkin answered.

The theatre did not open until late afternoon, but the manager was waiting for them. “Hello there,” he said when he saw Conway.

“You know each other, eh?” said Bauer.

“Always try to remember the customers’ faces. What’s it all about?”

Bauer explained briefly, and the manager’s face took on a genuinely shocked expression. “All I want to do now,” Bauer continued, “is try to figure out, as close as I can, the time the car was taken. You said you left at the end of the picture, is that right?”

“No, we left a little before the end.” Conway turned to the manager. “We left right after that musical number, when Tommy Miller comes backstage and says something about ‘How could I ever have doubted you?’”

“That’s practically the finish,” the manager corroborated. “There’s not more than a minute after that. I could have the projectionist look at the film and tell you exactly.”

“That’s close enough,” Bauer said. “What time was the picture over?”

“I’ll have to look at my time sheet for — night before last, was it?” Bauer nodded and the manager disappeared into his office. Was it only night before last? Conway thought.

The manager was back in a moment. “Feature finished at nine twenty-eight exactly.” Bauer made an entry in his notebook, and then wound his wrist watch once or twice. Conway noticed it was also a stopwatch.

“I guess we’ll have to what they call re-enact the crime,” Bauer said. Conway started, but the detective went on, unheeding. “You do just exactly what you did from the time you left the theatre, and try to take the same amount of time doing it, so we can see where we’re at.”

Careful, Conway warned himself. This is the one spot that can be dangerous. There were four minutes he could not account for: the four minutes when he had been twisting the scarf around Helen’s throat and parking the car behind the plumbing shop. But he had said that they had stayed in the theater until the end of the number; there was, therefore, only a little over a minute of that time which he now had to fill with fictitious action. He knew what he was going to do; he hoped he could time it properly.

He walked at the pace they had taken: it seemed ridiculously slow to him, but the detective seemed to find it normal enough. He stopped as they had when the car had almost hit Helen. He went through the motions of unlocking the door for her and helping her in.

“I asked her to slam the door and she did,” he said. “I got her coat off the back seat and she put it around her shoulders. I started the motor and was about to back out when she discovered she couldn’t find her other glove. She rummaged through her bag,” — he pantomimed it — “and then she looked on the seat and on the floor, and then she thought it might have dropped out on the ground when she slammed the door. I got out and walked around and looked and it wasn’t there, so I got back in the car. Then she asked me if I’d go back to the theatre because she was sure she’d lost it there, and if there was anything in the world she hated it was losing one glove and having the other around to remind her of it. So I cut the motor, left the keys in the switch, and started back.”

“Just a minute.” Bauer clicked the stopwatch. “Time out. What about other people here? Did you notice?”

“I didn’t see anybody when we got here — I think we were the first ones. By the time I started back to the theatre, there were people here — a couple of cars drove out ahead of me as I was walking back to the street.” The beautiful thing, Conway reflected for the hundredth time, is that there’s no way of proving I’m lying. No one can say that I positively did not walk the length of this parking lot at nine-thirty-one Monday night, even if they round up the entire audience.

Bauer finished writing in his notebook. “Okay, let’s go on from here.”

The rest was velvet: Conway did exactly what he had done two nights before. He conversed with the absent ticketseller and doorman, and waited for their unspoken replies. He looked in the theatre himself, and then he and the manager did a very fair approximation of their conversation and search. He went through the motions of buying the popcorn, and returned to the parking lot.

“You left her for exactly ten minutes and forty seconds,” Bauer announced. “That cinches it.”

“Cinches what?”

“That it was a maniac.” Bauer’s tone implied that it must be obvious to anyone. “Had to be, to do it in that time. Some guy hanging around here, maybe sitting in one of the cars — maybe even his own. You wouldn’t notice him, but he sees you leave, waits for the other cars to get out, goes over, probably knocks her out, and away he goes. Right?” Bauer needed no confirmation, nor did he wait for any. “Right!” he affirmed.

“Yes — yes. Must be,” Conway said, readily bowing to this superior wisdom. “Shall I go on with the rest of it?”

“The rest of what?”

“What I did after that.”

“What difference does it make what you did? She was gone, wasn’t she?” The detective paused, and then said, in what seemed to Conway a slightly different tone, “Yeah, maybe you better tell me, at that — as long as we’re here.”

Conway silently cursed himself. He had prepared his story to cover every moment until he got to the police station; he had gone through the motions to cover himself if they checked on it. But Bauer was so lacking in suspicion that he had not thought to question anything Conway had told him. Now, by volunteering more than had been asked, he might have given the detective the idea that he had a prepared alibi; that his story was a little too perfect. He vowed that from here on, he would speak when spoken to, and no more.

But he had let himself in for this, and he had to carry it through. He led the detective to the entrance to the parking lot and from there pointed out the course he had taken from the time he discovered the car to be missing, until the police car arrived. “After they left,” he said, “I went on looking around — in the alley back here, the parking lot next to the theatre, up and down these side streets. It doesn’t make sense, I know, and I realized it didn’t make sense then. So when I saw this trolley coming along, I hopped on it and went down to the station.”

“Um-m.” Bauer had seemed somewhat bored by the whole recital, and now he led the way back to the car. “Might as well go now. I’ll drop you home.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Conway climbed into the car and they started off. One point remained to be got on the record; he had omitted it previously because he had feared it might make his story overprecise. He leaned back in the seat.

“I do appreciate the lift,” he said. “When you’re used to a car out here, you’re lost without it. I don’t even know how to get around. Why, the night of — the night it happened, after the police car left, I thought I’d go crazy waiting for that trolley. When I got on it, the trip took forever. Then when we got there, I didn’t even see Wilcox Avenue till we were going across it, so I had to ride an extra block. That was the last straw.”

“Um-m.”

Conway was satisfied that the statement sounded simply like the garrulity of a man under a nervous strain, and that the sergeant attached no importance to it. Nevertheless, it was on the record.

Chapter six

A half-dozen cars were parked in front of the house when they drove up, and eight or ten men and two women were dispersed among the cars, the porch, and the front lawn. Bauer said, “I’ll help you handle ’em,” which came as no surprise at all to Conway.

Bauer herded the group into the living room and took charge. The police, he said, were anxious to know if any private citizen had seen, or given a ride to, a suspicious character in the neighborhood where the car had been found. “Be sure to print that, and tell ’em to call the Homicide Bureau — right? Right.”

Conway told his story then; he answered questions and posed for photographs, and was photographed un-posed. The flashlights went off without warning, but Bauer was never caught off guard; he was at Conway’s elbow for every picture.

The only photograph Conway had of Helen was the one on his desk; the reporters agreed to pool it, and one photographer took it with solemn promises to the others that they would have their cuts in time for their deadlines, and an even more solemn promise to Conway that the original would be returned. And if it’s not returned, I suppose I’ll have to keep after them for it, because it might seem strange that I never want to set eyes on her again, Conway thought.

The departure of the press was the signal for the neighbors to begin calling, and the Burkes, who lived next door, arrived as Conway was standing at the door with Bauer.

“I’ll let you know if anything happens,” the detective said as he left. “Stay close to the phone.”

A little after six the last of the callers departed. Conway locked the door, drew the shades, and retired to the kitchen; he drew the shades there also before turning on the light. He had no notion that this would convince anyone that he was not at home; it would, however — particularly if he did not go to the door — persuade any further callers that he wished to be alone with his grief. This idea was followed by the thought that he should have something to be alone with: he put together the components of a Martini, and decided that he could wish for no more pleasant companion for such a moment.

He sipped the Martini while he composed a wire to Betty, Helen’s half-sister. He judged she would have scant interest in the news, for they had not communicated for almost four years; their mother’s death had precipitated a feud over the estate, and they had been bitter enemies ever since. But as she was Helen’s only living relative — a fact which had influenced his decision to kill Helen, since it meant that there would be no one to take a vital interest in the case — he thought it wise to observe the amenities.

When he had sent the telegram he made another Martini, broiled a steak, and had the most thoroughly enjoyable meal in many months. He found a little brandy in an almost forgotten bottle, and savored it with his coffee. He dined in the kitchen; nevertheless he dined, and with a sense of well-being that could not have been greater had he been in the finest restaurant in California. He was at peace with the world.

After his third cup of coffee he stacked the dishes in the sink, slipped out the kitchen door, and walked to the nearest newsstand. There he got the evening newspapers without being recognized, hurried home, and retired to his room.

The story was all over page one, under gigantic headlines. There appeared to be no question that the murder was the work of a sex maniac, although in some of the stories there seemed to be an underlying disappointment that the murderer had not left one of the unprintable symbols which had distinguished some of the juicier crimes of this ilk. Bauer certainly called it, Conway thought as he skimmed through the stories, in which Captain Ramsden’s name seemed to appear in every other paragraph.

He found, finally, the sentence for which he was searching: “Captain Ramsden stated that although police are checking the story of Arthur Conway, husband of the victim, he is not under suspicion, and therefore is not being held.” Three cheers for Captain Ramsden, Conway thought. A gentleman and a scholar. I ought to remember him in my will — for assigning Sergeant Bauer, if nothing else. He went downstairs and made himself a nightcap.

Conway slept the sleep of the just for nine hours, and was awakened by the distant tinkle of the telephone downstairs. He padded down and answered it sleepily.

“Mr. Conway? Detective Sergeant Bauer.” The title was pronounced with great impressiveness. “How you feeling?”

“All right. I just woke up.” Then, hastily, “I didn’t get to sleep till daylight. I guess I was dozing just now.”

“U-um — too bad. I’ll tell you what to do for that when I see you. Never had a sleepless night in my life.”

“You’re lucky.”

“No — just common sense. Remind me to tell you. But look — what I called you about — they picked up a bunch of suspects last night. The captain thinks you ought to come down and take a look at ’em — he thinks you might recognize somebody you saw hanging around the parking lot or the theatre or someplace.” It was clear that the detective regarded all this as utter nonsense. “I’m sending a car for you — be ready in half an hour. Right?”

“Okay.”

“Right.”

Conway was relieved to find that there was no one he had ever seen in his life among the miserable crew who were herded into the line-up. Bauer, who sat beside him, occupied himself with a crossword puzzle and barely glanced up when each new group was paraded forth under the lights. When it was over, the detective did not wait for Conway’s corroboration of his own ear her judgment. “I’ll tell Ramsden you never laid eyes on any of ’em,” he said. “Wait here for me — I’ll give you a lift.”

He was back in a few minutes and they went out to the car. “Had to send Larkin out to check some things for me,” Bauer said as he got behind the wheel.

“Will I have to come down to these line-ups every day?” Conway asked.

“Prob’ly — for a while, anyhow. Ramsden’s got to go through the motions, so he can have something to tell the newspapers. How’d you like the spread you got this morning?”

“I haven’t seen the morning papers yet.”

“You haven’t?” There was a definite note of incredulity in the sergeant’s voice. “We’ll stop somewhere and you can get ’em. The pictures of you came out swell. Mine were terrible — only one decent one in the lot.”

“That’s too bad.” A pause. “Have you any idea how long Ramsden will want me to go through the motions?”

“Hard to say. Maybe till something else pops up to take peoples’ minds off this. But this is the third one of these cases in two months. Like I told you yesterday, on one of these things, there’s no place to start. And the women’s clubs will start passing resolutions, and the papers’ll be printing editorials saying it ain’t safe for a woman to be out after dark, and the department’ll get it from high, low and the middle. The captain’s not very bright, but you can see he’s in a tough spot.”

“Yes. Yes, I can.”

“So he has to cover up the best way he can. Like having you look at the bums and winos they round up every night, and saying it was a squad car found the stolen car, and—”

“But didn’t they? That’s what he told me yesterday—”

“Naw. A woman calls up and says this car’s been parked there for a couple days, and how about hauling it away? So a squad car goes over, finds out it’s stolen, sees it’s locked, and sends for a tow truck. They start to hoist it with the derrick, and that’s when somebody looks inside and sees the — well, no point going into the details. But you see what I mean. It sounds better to say the police found the stolen car. As long as the dame that phoned in don’t squawk too loud to one of the papers. That’s another little thing I got to try to take care of.”

“They certainly keep you busy.”

“I got to see her anyway. The dame that phoned in is this Elsie Daniels — the same one that was on her porch and saw the guy park the car. Ramsden should of gave her a better shake in the story he gave the papers yesterday. As long as he was going to take credit for finding the car, he should of done something for her — make her out a hero, or extra smart, or something. Anyhow, I want to see her and the boy friend together, and see if there’s anything they might of forgotten to tell me yesterday. And at the same time try to keep her from blabbing about reporting the car. Hey, you can get the papers there.”

The detective double-parked near the newsstand at the corner, and Conway got out and bought the papers, reflecting that police transportation had its advantages. When he got back in the car, Bauer snatched one of the papers and turned to an inside picture page, which was devoted entirely to the murder.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing to a picture of Conway and himself. “That’s the only one of me in the lot that’s even halfway decent. And seeing it again now, even that isn’t any too good.”

How does he shave? Conway wondered. How can he do it without looking in a mirror? Conway turned to the news story in the other paper, but the detective continued looking at the picture.

“Wait till you see the ones they got in there,” he said, indicating the paper in Conway’s hand. “My girl says I ought to raise a row, but what good would it do? The damage is done now.”

“It’s a shame,” Conway said. Some of the cars stalled behind them, unaware that a police car was causing the tie-up, began honking. Bauer handed the paper to Conway and started up.

“Next time, though, I’m going to speak to those camera monkeys — tell ’em to use a little discretion with the pictures they print. After all, it’s my career.”

Conway decided that some interest in that career would not seem amiss.

“Tell me,” he said, “how did you happen to become a detective? You didn’t start out pounding a beat, did you?”

“I should say not,” Bauer said emphatically. “I was an M. P. in the army.” The instinct of the combat soldier, even though four years in the past, made Conway gag slightly. “Made quite a record for myself, so naturally they were tickled to death to get me here in L. A. Reason I came out here was because Greta was here.”

Oh, no, Conway thought. He’s not going to tell me— “Greta?” he asked.

“My girl. Works in a drive-in over on Pico. She was overseas with a USO show — that’s when I met her. She was a movie actress. Gave it up though. Couldn’t stand all them guys making passes at her.”

“I know. I’ve heard.” Conway made a mental note that the detective’s love life would be a fascinating subject for a future conversation. But at the moment some research into his methods of professional operation seemed more practical.

“I’ve written a few detective stories,” he said. “Tell me, how do you operate? Do you go in much for scientific stuff? Or do you specialize in criminal psychology? Or what?”

“Na-ah,” said Bauer. “When I get around to it I’m going to write some real detective stories. That scientific stuff — nuts. Even fingerprints. Know what they found on the steering wheel of your car? Your fingerprints and a lot of clear spots with nothing — where the killer’s gloves had wiped off yours and left none of his own. I didn’t even bother checking the fingerprint lab — I knew that’s what they’d find. The only good this fingerprint racket does is for the guys in the glove business — they must sell millions of ’em to crooks. Nowadays anybody dumb enough to leave a fingerprint where he don’t want it, shouldn’t be arrested — he oughta be in the booby hatch.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Conway said. “So what do you do?”

“I just use common sense, that’s all. Get all the facts, put ’em together the right way, and that’s all there is to it. Naturally, you got to get some facts — that’s the trouble with a case like this, you can’t get enough of ’em. Then the trick is to put ’em together right, and that’s the difference between me and the rest of these lugs. Like I told you, that’s why they call me ‘Right’ Bauer — because I practically always am.”

And that, Conway thought, covers that subject. He looked down at the paper and thought he might bring up a more important one.

“I notice it says here that I’m not under suspicion, but my story’s being checked,” he said. “How’s the checking coming along? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“It’s done,” Bauer said. “You’re in the clear. I told you yesterday it was a sex maniac, but naturally I had to cover all the angles.”

“Naturally. And thanks for telling me.”

“Of course we want you to be where we can get hold of you for a while — as long as there’s a chance of something turning up.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

Conway, like any artist, had pride in the perfection of his work. He longed to ask the detective what he had checked; what detail, or combination of them, had been the convincing proof of his innocence. He would have enjoyed dwelling on each particular of his actions, and appraising the importance of each. But he had to console himself with the thought that not all artists are destined for public recognition; in his case, he would have to be content with anonymity.

“While I think of it,” Bauer said, “yesterday in Ramsden’s office, you said you and your wife only knew about a half-dozen people out here, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I got the list of the people you mentioned here.” He tapped his pocket. “I’ll probably have to check ’em in the next couple days.”

“Check them? What for?”

“Chiefly so’s I’ll have something to put in those reports I got to make out; I can’t just sit around Headquarters when a case like this is still hot. And there’s always the chance that I’ll turn up something — you know, that she told one of her friends about some guy making a pass at her, or something like that. It won’t happen, but then again, it just might. Anyhow, I got to cover myself.”

“I see. Sort of routine investigation?”

“Yeah. But here’s what I wanted to ask you. You must of known more people than just the ones you said yesterday. Naturally, at a time like that, you wouldn’t think of all of ’em.”

“As a matter of fact, I think I did.” Conway’s mind searched quickly, trying to discover if some trap lay behind the detective’s words. “We’d met very few people since we came out here. Let me look at the list and I’ll see if I forgot anyone.”

Bauer took a piece of paper from his notebook. “What I was wondering,” he said, “didn’t your wife have an address book or a list of phone numbers, or something like that?”

“No — yes, she did.” He had genuinely forgotten for a moment, but when he remembered, there seemed no point in concealing it. “She bought an address book when we first came out here. I don’t know whether I can find it — I haven’t seen it for months.”

“Might as well look.”

As they entered the house, Bauer headed for the stairs. “Let’s try her room first,” he said.

In the tiny hall at the head of the stairs, the detective stopped. “Another thing,” he said. “While I think of it, have you got that glove you went back to the theatre to find?”

Conway stopped in his tracks. “Yes, I think so. Why?”

“I’d like to take a gander at it.”

Conway waited, but no further explanation was forthcoming. Bauer followed him into his room, and watched as he took the glove from his dresser drawer. There’s nothing to worry about, he told himself. You’re in the clear.

Bauer walked to the window with the glove, examined it carefully, and then took from his pocket the mate to it and compared them. Conway watched him narrowly, trying to divine the cause behind this.

“Doesn’t make sense,” Bauer announced finally.

“What doesn’t?”

“Look here.” He held the gloves out for Conway’s inspection. “They’ve both been darned a couple times. There’s a rip in this one, and the ends of the fingers are worn through two places in this one and one in that. They’re no good.”

The sergeant’s observation was shockingly true. Conway remembered Helen’s attitude when she had bought the gloves: she had gotten a sadistic satisfaction in letting him think she was spending their money on a whim; she would have enjoyed it less had he known that she needed the gloves. And he hadn’t noticed their condition; neither then, nor in the hurried moment when he had changed his plan and taken them from the drawer. Again his mind raced to discover what it might mean.

“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” he said.

“It doesn’t make sense, that’s all. Why would a woman make you go all the way back to that theatre to get a glove that was all worn out anyway?”

“You know how women are, Sergeant. There’s nothing that annoys them more than losing one glove.” Whatever the sergeant’s theories, he would have to admit the truth of that.

“Yeah,” Bauer conceded, “sometimes women are tough for even me to figure out. I mean, because their minds don’t always work the way a sensible person would expect them to.”

You’ve got something there, Conway thought.

“Let’s see if we can find that address book,” the detective said. He pocketed both the gloves and led the way from the room.

Conway half-feared that some emotion might well up in him when, for the first time since the night she had disappeared, he entered Helen’s room. But if there was any, it could hardly be called an emotion; he felt only the merest flicker of relief that she was not there, and never would be again. Irrelevantly, he realized that he would have to do something about disposing of Helen’s clothes.

Bauer headed straight for the dresser and opened the top drawer. Conway felt a moment of panic: it was the drawer in which he had replaced the new gloves Helen had been wearing, after he had cleaned and pressed them. The blithering idiot, Conway raged to himself. Why should he pick that particular drawer?

The detective straightened up almost immediately. In his right hand he held a small red imitation leather address book.

“See?” he said. “That’s what I mean about practically always being right.”

“It’s amazing,” Conway said. “I wouldn’t have gotten around to looking there for an hour.” Keep him taking bows, he thought.

Bauer was thumbing through the book, comparing the names he found with the ones on his list. After a few pages he stopped. “Who’s this?” he asked. Conway walked to him and looked at the open page.

“Oh,” he said. “The Gordons. They were the best friends we had out here. They went back to New York about three months ago.”

“That must be why she crossed out the address and phone number,” the sergeant observed. Conway mentally applauded this brilliant bit of deduction, but said only, “I suppose so.”

Bauer continued leafing through the book, which consisted mostly of blank white pages. “Didn’t know very many people, did you? Must of been kind of lonesome for you,” he remarked when he was halfway through.

“Not particularly,” Conway said. “Of course we’ve missed the Gordons, but my wife and I were perfectly happy just by ourselves.”

“Who’s he?” Bauer pointed at a name which, though heavily crossed out, was still readable.

“Harry Taylor?” It was several moments before Conway was able to identify the name. “We hardly knew him. We met him once when.we had dinner with the Gordons, and then he was with them one evening when they dropped in here. That must have been almost a year ago. I don’t know why she had the name in the book.”

Bauer looked at the entry more closely. “The Hillside number was crossed out first,” he announced. “See? The hard pencil? Then the Hempstead number was crossed out the same time she crossed out the name.” It was quite obvious that this was true, but Bauer pronounced it with the air of one who had just solved the Bacon ciphers, and Conway felt unaccountably annoyed.

“I don’t know why it was there in the first place,” he said.

“You must of called him up sometime.”

“I’m sure that neither my wife nor I—” Conway began, with what he realized was too glacial a dignity. Then he remembered. “Wait a minute. George and Peggy Gordon came here for dinner one night. George had to work after dinner, so Peggy suggested we try to get this Taylor to make a fourth at bridge. I don’t remember whether my wife or Mrs. Gordon made the call. At any rate, he didn’t come over.”

“Well, makes no difference. Mind if I take this? Save me copying down all these addresses and phone numbers.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll be getting along.” The detective turned to the dresser to close the drawer. With his hands on the handles, his eyes lingered for a perceptible moment on the contents inside; then, slowly, he closed it. What caused the hesitation Conway had no way of knowing, but he felt the all too familiar tightening of his throat.

The shrill clamor of the doorbell stopped him as he followed the detective from the room. Bauer stopped at the head of the stairs to let Conway precede him.

“I don’t feel like talking to anybody right now,” Conway said. “Would you do me a favor — see who it is, and try to get rid of them?”

“Sure.” The detective started down.

“I’ll wait up here. Call me when they’ve gone.” Conway retreated into Helen’s room, closed the door, and went directly to the dresser.

He pulled out the drawer as far as Bauer had and stood looking into it. The gloves lay in the corner, undisturbed; their whiteness and newness were so glaring that it seemed as though they rested in the beam of a spotlight, that made all the other contents of the drawer appear to be in shadow. Why was I such a fool? he asked himself. Why put them back here, on top of everything? I could have wrapped them up, put them in any drawer, or under the handkerchiefs, or in the back. I knew they might be evidence — why flaunt them in the face of this birdbrain?

But when he took them to the window to examine them in the sunlight, he could find no reason for his panic. To the naked eye, even of a considerably more astute observer than Sergeant Bauer, there was no evidence that the gloves had ever been worn. The police had not questioned him about his activities the afternoon before the murder; therefore they did not know the gloves had been purchased then. There was no reason for Bauer to attach any significance whatever to the gloves. But what, then, had caused him to pause before closing the drawer?

Conway returned the gloves to their place, afraid, now that Bauer had seen them, to move them to a less conspicuous spot. He stared into the drawer from where Bauer had stood, and then, remembering the other’s height, stooped to make himself three inches shorter. There was the usual clutter of a woman’s catch-all drawer: a couple of handbags, scarves, handkerchiefs, a few letters, a bank statement. Aside from the gloves, there was nothing in the drawer which had the slightest connection with the death of his wife.

Bauer’s voice, from downstairs, interrupted him. “Come down here, will you, Mr. Conway?”

He shut the drawer, convinced now that his alarm had been caused by some figment of his imagination, but genuinely frightened at the realization that he had let himself become panicked. He had not betrayed himself to Bauer, he was sure, but it had been close; anyone a little less obtuse than the detective might have noticed something. He was in the clear; not a glimmer of suspicion had been directed at him. And none would be, unless he himself directed the suspicion. That was the one thing he had to remember.

Chapter seven

As Conway reached the head of the stairs, he saw Bauer holding the front door open. A girl, carrying a suitcase and an overnight bag, came in. “Thank you,” she said frigidly to the detective. Then she looked up and saw Conway descending the stairs. She put down the bags and smiled up at him. “Hello, Arthur,” she said.

Bauer looked at Conway, and Conway looked from the girl to the detective and back again. He had never seen her before in his life. What kind of trick is this? he wondered.

“Don’t recognize me, do you?” she said. He shook his head, completely bewildered.

“I’m Betty.”

It was a moment before the name registered. “Helen’s sister?” he finally said.

“Half-sister.”

“You didn’t tell me she had a sister,” Bauer said.

“Half-sister,” Betty corrected. “And I must say you haven’t been very polite.”

Conway tried to pull himself out of the stunned inertia produced by the announcement of her identity. “This is Detective Sergeant Bauer,” he said.

She gave Bauer the briefest of looks, and he acknowledged the introduction with an unintelligible mutter.

“Surprised to see me?” she said with another smile at Conway.

“Yes — yes, I am. How did you get here? I wired you only last night.”

“I’d left by then. I heard about it on the radio, and then the Topeka paper called me up, and I thought — well, that I ought to hurry out here in case there was anything I could do. So I caught a plane last night, and just got here.” Conway stared at her stonily. “I must say I expected a more cordial reception than this. Aren’t you even going to ask me to sit down?”

“Yes — of course — please come in.” Conway led the way to the living room, his brain still in turmoil. This didn’t make sense: this girl, who had not seen Helen for over five years, who had not communicated with her in four, suddenly popping up like this. He had to get rid of Bauer, so that he might find out why.

“What I really want to do,” Betty said as she came into the living room, “is to take a bath and get into some other clothes. When you’ve been sitting up all night, you don’t feel very fresh, do you?”

Bauer planted himself between Conway and the girl. “You never told me she had a sister,” he said again.

“Well, I—”

“Half-sister,” Betty repeated. “He probably forgot I existed. I haven’t seen Helen for years, and we never wrote, and in fact we weren’t on very good terms ever since Mama died and left everything to me, because Helen wouldn’t stay home, but went to New York. Not that there was very much.”

Conway looked at her as she spoke. She was certainly a far cry from the girl Helen had contemptuously described as a “cold little fish.” She was not little, and the predominant impression she gave was of warmth and vitality. She was dark, with large brown eyes, a delicately modeled face, and a delectable figure: the complete antithesis of Helen’s flagrantly blonde amplitude. The sparkle of her eyes belied the sobriety and matter-of-factness of her dress and speech.

“Why’d you come out here if you weren’t on very good terms with her?” Bauer asked. “Have you any information you think might help us?”

“Good heavens, no.” She looked at Conway. “I just came out because I thought I might be able to help Arthur through this dreadful tragedy.”

It was plain that Bauer was suspicious of something; it was equally clear that he was not quite sure of what. “Then you two are pretty good friends, eh?”

“No, Sergeant — I—” Conway began.

“I hope we will be,” Betty said. “But I’d never laid eyes on him until I just walked in the door.” Bauer eyed Conway, uncertain of what to believe. “And now, Sergeant, tell me what progress you’ve made on the case.” She’s been seeing too many movies, Conway thought.

The detective glared at her. “No comment,” he said.

“I don’t think I care for your attitude,” Betty said coldly. “I happen to be the second-next-of-kin. You might remember that you are a servant of the people.”

“I’m nobody’s servant,” the detective said truculently. “And let me tell you something else—”

Conway stepped between them, as though to separate two people who were about to come to blows. This is one way to get rid of Bauer, he thought, the worst possible way. “Please,” he said, “there’s no point in being unpleasant. The sergeant has nothing to tell you. Betty, because he’s already told the newspapers everything he knows — everything, that is, which he thinks it advisable, at this time, to make public.” Out of the corner of his eye, Conway could see Bauer beginning to soften. “He’s been very frank with me, but I know there are a lot of things he hasn’t told me, simply because he doesn’t think it good policy to discuss them with anyone. If you’ll read the morning papers there, you’ll know as much as I do, which is just about all anyone does — with the exception of the sergeant.”

“I read the papers coming in from the airport,” she said. “Why do they say it’s a sex maniac?”

She’s going to do it, Conway thought. I don’t know why or when or how, but she’s going to do it. She’s going to hang me.

Bauer answered her without hesitation. “Who else would it be?” he asked.

“That’s a silly kind of reasoning,” Betty said. “There are supposed to be two million people in Los Angeles, and half of them are women, so if there was a sex maniac around, it’s a million to one he wouldn’t pick Helen. Can’t you think of something where the odds wouldn’t be quite so much against you?”

Conway found himself somewhat dizzied by this reasoning, but not Bauer. “Look,” he said. “The odds are ten million to one against your getting struck by lightning, but if you get hit, it don’t matter what the odds are — you’re dead. Right? Right. Well, your sister’s dead.”

“Half-sister,” Betty said. “And that’s just my point. If you find somebody lying down dead after a thunderstorm, you don’t just say they were struck by lightning. Right?” She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Right,” she affirmed.

Bauer opened his mouth twice, like a seal coming up for air, but if he planned to say anything, he thought better of it. On the third try he said, “I’ve got to go,” and went for his hat. At the door he turned to Betty.

“Where will you be if I want to get hold of your” he asked.

“I suppose what you mean is if you want to communicate with me,” she said. “And I’ll be right here, naturally.”

Conway’s jaw dropped and the detective’s eyes widened. “Here?” he said.

“After all, the reason I came out was to help Arthur through this awful thing,” she said.

“But you can’t stay here with me,” Conway said.

“Well, we can talk about it later. You’ll let me stay long enough to have a bath and change my clothes, won’t you?”

“Yes — I suppose so.”

“Then I’ll do that right now, if the sergeant will excuse me. Would you mind bringing the luggage up, and showing me which room you want me to use?” She started up the stairs, and Conway felt the detective eying him.

“I’ll drop in the next time I’m in the neighborhood,” Bauer said, and there was something in the tone that chilled Conway. He closed the door after the sergeant, and walked slowly up the stairs with Betty’s bags.

He found her already in Helen’s room.

“I’m dying to talk to you,” she said. “And you must want to ask me a lot of things. But do you mind waiting till after I’ve bathed and changed? I’ll feel so much better then.” She looked up from hunting the zipper on the side of her skirt, and gave him what could only be described as a winning smile.

He wanted desperately to talk to her, to find out what her game was. But he didn’t know where to begin; he needed time to think, to plan his strategy. He had never been more unsure of himself. Perhaps this was the breathing space he needed; it would give him time to pull himself together.

“I’ll put some towels in the bathroom,” he said, and went out and closed the door.

Downstairs, he listened to the bedroom door open, the bathroom door close, and the bath being run. Some time later he heard the water running out of the tub, the bathroom door open, and the bedroom door close. And insistently he searched for the reason for her being here. Why had she come? There was, of course, one possible reason which was almost too frightening to contemplate: that Helen had written her recently. What Helen might have said that had roused her suspicions, he could not imagine; Helen certainly had had no inkling of the fate in store for her. But, he thought, that was not essential, because almost anything Helen would have said in a recent letter would be enough to give the lie to the story of their relationship he had already told the police. No matter how little this girl knew, it was too much. The mere fact of her presence had already roused Bauer’s suspicions, however vague. Anything she might inadvertently say could be enough to make those suspicions dangerously concrete. He knew that Bauer would make a point of talking to her, questioning her. And regardless of how stupid or clumsy he might be, it was inevitable that he would learn something.

All this, of course, was assuming that the girl had not purposely come for some sinister reason of her own. But had she some devious scheme in mind which had brought her here so quickly? Blackmail, perhaps? It was more than possible. She had seemingly tried to antagonize Bauer, so her project might not involve the police. Conway began to realize that his plan for the perfect murder was something considerably less than that: it was good chiefly in that it provided him with an alibi; it had served to divert suspicion, at first glance, from himself and point to another, unknown culprit. Already she had managed to point at least a tiny finger of suspicion at him. The chance coincidence, which he had rejected as unworthy of his story, was intruding itself into his life with no regard for its lack of artistic merit.

What would her next move be? He had to talk to her, try to find out what lay behind this hurried trip, but he had not the vaguest notion of where to start. One thing he did know: if he was not able to persuade her to return home immediately, he would have to let her remain in the house; it would be too dangerous to have her on the loose, available at any time to Bauer or, perhaps, some shrewder, more acute questioner. Here he might be able to have some control over her meetings with the police.

“They say planes aren’t dirty, but I must say I feel a lot less soiled than I did.” The voice came from the top of the stairs, and Conway turned and watched her as she descended. She was wearing a light, printed silk dress which caressed an enchanting figure, and her hair, freed now of a hat, made a luscious frame for the piquant face. The picture held him for only a moment; it was crowded out almost instantly by the fears and desperate suspicions she aroused in him, but because he still did not know what he was going to say, nor even how to begin, he said nothing. Betty apparently found this a normal reaction: there was no trace of embarrassment or coquettishness as she walked into the room.

“That detective was something to get rid of, wasn’t he?” she said.

“Why were you so anxious to get rid of him?”

“I wanted to talk to you, naturally — and I thought maybe you’d be a little curious about my turning up this way.”

She’s not going to hold back, Conway thought. She’s going to come out with it. At least I’ll know where I stand. “I’m more than a little curious,” he said.

“For one thing, I did want to see if I could be of any help to you. You wouldn’t know about this, but I’ve had sort of a schoolgirl crush on you ever since Helen sent on your picture and told us about you, when you got married. I’d always wanted to meet you, but then, of course, when Mama died, and Helen got so furious, there didn’t seem to be much chance of that. So this is the first chance I’ve had to meet my only living relative.”

The combination of naiveté and utter poise was engaging, her sincerity was disarming, and Conway decided that she was going to be more devious than he had expected. “There couldn’t have been another reason, could there?” he asked.

“Well, yes, in a way. You see, I’ll probably be getting married one of these days, and if I marry in Topeka I probably wouldn’t ever go anyplace much. I have this little income from Mama’s house, and I’ve always wanted to see California, and this seemed like a good time to do it. Can you fix it so I can go through one of the studios?”

“No,” Conway said, “I’ve never been in one myself.”

“Really? That’s too bad. Well, maybe I’ll meet someone while I’m here who could arrange it.”

“Just how long are you planning to stay?”

“I don’t know exactly. It all depends.”

“On what, if I’m not too inquisitive?”

“Oh, lots of things. My financial status, and what turns up out here, and how much I like California, and — it gets awfully hot in the summer in Topeka, you know.”

“And awfully cold in the winter.”

“Yes.” Then she realized his implication. “But I wouldn’t impose on you indefinitely — I’d find an apartment.”

“I see. No other reasons for the trip?”

“No,” she said, a little puzzled at his tone. “That’s all.”

“A desire to pay your respects to Helen’s memory wasn’t one of them, obviously.” He realized how stuffy he sounded before he even finished the sentence.

“You and I don’t have to be hypocritical about that, do we?” What does she know? he asked himself. What does she mean, you and I?

“When was the last time you heard from Helen?” he said.

“Right after Mama died — when she heard about the will. She was going to try to break it, but a Topeka lawyer advised her against it, and then she wrote me, and called me a lot of names, and said she never wanted to hear from me again. So — she didn’t.”

“She never wrote you after we moved out here?”

“I didn’t even know you had.”

“Then how did you know where we lived? You seem to have headed for this house like a homing pigeon.”

“Well, really,” she said with some exasperation, “with your name and picture and address in every paper in town, that wasn’t awfully difficult.”

“Oh.” He felt a little foolish at his inept effort to trap her. “Just what kind of help did you expect to be to me?”

“Why, cook and keep house, and keep people from bothering you. Being a writer, I’m sure you wouldn’t be very good at those things yourself. Of course, that’s one of the things about you that always appealed to me — being a writer, I mean. There’s something sort of glamorous about a writer.”

A sardonic glint came into his eyes. “Your sister didn’t think—” He stopped himself just in time. “Helen didn’t tell me you were like this,” he substituted rather lamely.

That’s her plan, he thought. To trap him in the course of casual conversation; to lead him on until he revealed his true feeling about Helen. He believed now that Helen had not written her, but he knew also that she had some suspicion which she was determined to confirm. She was beguiling, easy to talk to, and it was inevitable that if he did talk to her, he would betray himself: he would make that one slip which would be the first, and fatal, flaw in his armor. He had to get her out of the house: whatever Bauer might learn from her was less dangerous than what she could learn from him.

“You can’t stay here,” he said abruptly.

“What?” She was taken aback at the sudden harshness in his voice. “What is it? You act as if you were afraid of me.”

He laughed, as convincingly as he could, and realized he had been doing a very bad job of acting. “Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Well, you needn’t be. I noticed there’s a lock on my door, and I suppose there’s one on yours.”

So she thinks I can’t resist her charms, Conway reflected. Isn’t sex wonderful? He was quite willing to disguise himself in wolf’s clothing if it would help get rid of her. But he needed a chance to plan a new campaign.

“I haven’t had any lunch,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m a little edgy. How about you?”

“I thought that’s what was wrong with you,” she said. “But you’ve been cross-questioning me so much I haven’t had a chance to suggest it. I’ll get it right away. You see, I told you I could be a help.” She headed for the kitchen, and Conway followed. “Go away,” she said. “This is my department.” Conway retired to the living room to consider his problem. He had got nowhere when she announced, in an amazingly short time, that lunch was ready.

The meal was good, but the luncheon could hardly have been called a success. It was eaten in almost complete silence: Conway volunteered no conversation, fearing that he might make some slip, and warily responded to her efforts with no more than a “Yes” or “No.” By the time they finished, she appeared to have given up. But she made one final effort.

“This is a depressing room,” she said, indicating the dining room which Conway himself had always disliked. “Don’t you ever eat out there?” She pointed to the small square of brick outside the French windows, which, in accordance with California custom, was dignified by the name of “patio.”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Helen didn’t like to. It was always too hot or too cold.”

“I’d like it,” she said, and began gathering up the dishes.

“It was a very good lunch, and you’ve proved what a great help you are,” he said. “Now I’ll take care of these, while you go up and get ready to start looking for a place to live.”

“You are in a hurry to get me out, aren’t you?”

“Sorry if I seem rude.”

“Well, you do, and you needn’t be. I’ll find a place this afternoon. But I finish what I start, and I’m going to finish this lunch — which means washing the dishes. Go away.”

Conway felt childishly helpless. How do you stop an attractive young woman who is determined to wash dishes for you? He did not know how he could be any more rude than he had already been, and he certainly could not use force. He could help her, and thereby speed the operation, but that meant being with her: the one thing he wanted to avoid.

“I’ll go up to my room,” he said. “I’ll see if there’s anything advertised in the papers.”

He marked a few listings which he thought might be possibilities, and then sat down at the typewriter so that he might give the appearance of working. But it was over an hour before she tapped on the door.

“I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane, and it’s suddenly hit me,” she said. “I’m so sleepy I could die. I’ll just take a little catnap and then I’ll be fine, and I can get going.” Conway started to remonstrate, but the door closed, and a moment later he heard the door of Helen’s room being shut.

At least she had agreed to leave, he thought. She was in no hurry about it, and he might have to be firm, or rude again, but he was certain he could have her out of the house by tomorrow. That was not the entire solution to the problem, but it was something. It was so much, in fact, that he was even able to start working on a story idea which had come to him the night before.

When the doorbell rang, he looked at his watch and was astonished to discover that it was almost five o’clock. His surprise was succeeded by anger that he had allowed Betty to sleep away the afternoon, and he rapped sharply on her door before going downstairs. He was not unprepared to find that his caller was Sergeant Bauer.

“I was right near here, so I thought I’d drop in and see if you could save me some trouble on something,” the detective said.

“Anything I can.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any beer on ice, would you?”

“Sure thing. Be with you in a minute.” But the sergeant followed him into the kitchen.

“Has she gone?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“Not yet. She’s been asleep.”

“What!”

“She said she was passing out for lack of sleep, and wanted to take a nap before she went out looking for a place to move. I got busy and didn’t realize how late it was.”

Conway handed him a glass of beer, and the detective took a long drink. “This don’t look good, you know — you and a young girl being alone here in this house.”

“You’re telling me,” Conway said. “I told her she had to find someplace else to stay, and she finally agreed to. Now she’s wasted the afternoon. If you can do anything to hurry her, I’ll be very grateful.”

“Just leave it to me,” Bauer said. “Certainly seems funny, her coming here at all.”

“If I had my car, I’d pile her and her luggage into it, and find a place for her in a hurry,” Conway said. “Have you any idea when I’ll get it back?”

“Couple of days, prob’ly. And they ought to release the body tomorrow. Who you going to have?”

“Have?”

“Mortician.” Conway stared blankly. “For the funeral.”

“I–I hadn’t thought.”

“Better call one. They’ll check with the medical examiner, and as soon as he’s finished — well, they’ll handle everything.”

“Oh.”

The sergeant’s manner took on an air of diffidence which Conway had never observed before. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to be nosy, but — ah — how you fixed for money?”

A perfect reading, Conway thought: impossible to tell whether he’s prepared to lend me money, or wants to borrow some. “I’m not rolling,” he said. “I can’t do anything elaborate, but I think I can manage to do it respectably.”

“Course you could go to Woodlawn Haven,” Bauer said. “But they don’t need the publicity so much. You’ll get a better break from one of the smaller places that can really use the advertising.” Conway could only look at him. “But not too small. You’ll be surprised, I’ll bet, how big a turn-out you’ll get.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Conway said. Which was true. With all his meticulous planning, he had given no thought to the necessity for what is known as a Christian burial. Nor to the sideshow that is apt to accompany the burial of a spectacular murder victim. “I’d like as little publicity as possible,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” said the detective, thoroughly unconvinced. “Try the Walbridge Mortuary. Mention my name. Not that I get a cut,” he added hastily. “But they’ll play ball with you, and the Department plays ball with them. They ought to do it for the price of the casket. And they’ll put on a service no woman could ask for more. They certainly did all right for Layzelle Llewellyn.”

“Who?” Conway asked.

“The White Rose. You know, I told you.”

“Oh, yes. You said I might be able to save you some trouble,” Conway said, hoping he was not changing the subject too abruptly.

“Yeah. Larkin and I’ve been checking that list of your friends this afternoon.”

“And—?”

“I was right, like I knew I’d be. Nothing. Not a thing. What a waste of manpower.”

“Too bad. But, as you say, you knew nothing would come of it.”

“Yeah. They’re all just terribly shocked, and wish they could do something, and are we going to find the killer? And I have to stand there and lie in their teeth, and then when nothing happens they’ll remember me and not realize I’m just covering up for the Department, so they’ll think I’m the schnook. And that’s one thing I can’t stand.” He stared moodily at the beer.

“I don’t see how anybody could think that of you.”

“A lot of people ain’t good judges of character.” He put down his empty glass, and Conway proved himself at least a good enough judge of character to get another bottle from the icebox. The detective brightened.

“Well, as long as I started checking these people, I might as well finish,” Bauer said as he opened the bottle. “That Taylor that was crossed out — know where he worked or anything?”

Conway took a sip from his glass. He would have liked to drink a toast to Sergeant Bauer and his search for Mr. Taylor. A long chase and a merry one, he thought; it’ll keep you out of mischief.

“I haven’t any idea,” he said with complete truthfulness. “I think he was a salesman of some sort, but I don’t know what he sold, and I haven’t the vaguest notion of where he worked.” He led the way into the living room.

“Oh. Well, just thought you might save me a little time. Don’t know anything else about him, eh?”

“Not a thing. He was a little taller than me, black hair, dark. Do you think he may know something?”

“Nah. It’s just that I got to go through the motions. Say, is that dame ever coming down?”

“I heard her walking around — she ought to be down any minute. Did you want to see her?”

“Sure I want to see her.”

Conway wondered whether the sergeant merely wanted to prove that he could hasten Betty’s departure, or whether he had other reasons for wishing to talk to her. Whichever it was, Conway knew there was no chance of balking the detective, once he had made up his mind. He went to the foot of the stairs.

“Betty,” he called.

“Be down in a minute.”

“I got to get going,” Bauer said.

“I don’t know what can be taking her so long,” Conway said. “But you know women.”

“Yeah,” said Bauer. “And that reminds me. I had lunch with Greta and showed her those beat-up gloves. And you know what she said? She said, ‘Good gosh, if a woman was lucky enough to lose one of those, why would she want it back? If she lost one, she could throw the other one away with a clear conscience.’ Makes sense. And that’s a woman’s way of figuring. Gotta take that into account.”

He’s not stupid enough on his own, Conway thought; he has to call on Greta for assistance. “All women aren’t alike, you know, Sergeant. Maybe Greta has an old world point of view that—”

“Old world?” the sergeant interrupted. “You mean she’s a foreigner?” A belligerent note came into his voice. “She was born in Elyria, Ohio.”

“I’m sorry, I just thought, from her name—”

“Her name’s Gertrude,” the sergeant said with finality.

“Well, anyway, there’s no accounting for the way women think. All I know is that my wife was very annoyed at losing the glove, and asked me to go back and look for it. Maybe she wanted to use them for working in the garden.”

“Helen? Working in the garden?” Betty smiled incredulously as she came into the room. “She certainly must have changed.”

Conway stood in impotent rage as the detective wandered to a window from which the garden was fully visible. It was quite evident that it had felt the ministrations of no loving hands, gloved or ungloved, for a long time.

“She do much gardening?” Bauer asked.

“No.” Conway searched for an explanation which the girl would be unable to contradict. “She was always talking about getting at the garden, but she never did anything about it. It was sort of a joke between us.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“What the joke was about her not doing any gardening.”

“It wasn’t funny. It was just sort of a private joke between us — the way you and Greta probably have private jokes.” Is he ribbing me? Conway wondered.

But the sergeant’s face was guileless. “We don’t have any jokes, Greta and me,” he said. “She hasn’t got a very good sense of humor.” Praise from Caesar, Conway thought.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” Betty asked.

“Nothing,” Conway said shortly. “Sergeant, you were going to—”

But Bauer had taken the gloves from his pocket. “It don’t make sense to me that anybody would care if they did lose one of these gloves,” he said. “Any woman would be glad to get rid of them.”

Conway caught the quick glance Betty flashed at him. “Any woman except Helen,” she said as she examined the gloves. “She could never bear to lose anything — and she never threw anything away.”

Startled at this manifest untruth, Conway looked at her, but she was bending over to get a cigarette from the box on the table. He was utterly bewildered. A moment earlier she had intimated, for Bauer’s benefit, that he was lying; now she had lied, to cover up for him.

“No cigarettes,” she announced. “I’ll really have to get to work on this house. I spent an hour after lunch cleaning the kitchen, and I didn’t even make an impression.” Conway held out a pack of cigarettes, and she took one without meeting his eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Bauer said. “Mr. Conway told me you weren’t going to stay here.”

“I told Mr. Conway,” she said frigidly, “that I would leave as soon as I could find a suitable place to stay. I intended to start looking this afternoon, but he didn’t wake me, and I overslept.”

“There’s a motel not far from here,” the detective said. “I happened to pass it on my way over and noticed a ‘Vacancy’ sign. I can take you over there now, if you’re ready.”

“I shall look for an apartment tomorrow, but I will not stay in a ratty motel when there is a perfectly good room with a perfectly good bed upstairs.”

This was obviously too much for the sergeant’s tender sensibilities. “How can you sleep in the bed your own murdered sister slept in?”

“Half-sister. And if I were home in Topeka I’d be sleeping in the bed she slept in, because I still use the one we shared when we were kids. I don’t see any reason to be morbid about it.”

“And I don’t see how a girl who looks like you do can be so unconscious. Don’t you know it just ain’t right, your staying here in this house?”

“Where I come from,” she said, “when anyone’s in trouble, or there’s sickness or death in the family, their friends and relatives all pitch in and do what they can to help. Well, I haven’t noticed anyone else trying to help Arthur, and as long as he’s the only relative I’ve got, it seems to me I ought to try to do what I can.”

“But what will people say? How does it look to people?” The sergeant was growing exasperated. “I’ll tell you how it looks — it don’t look decent. Right?” He turned to Conway as he confirmed his own judgment. “Right.”

She looked him up and down coolly, impersonally, and it was a moment before she spoke. “Sergeant Bauer,” she said glacially, “I have looked after my reputation — and my virtue — without the help of the Los Angeles Police Department up to now, and I think I can continue to do so. Right now I’d be much happier without your advice, opinion, or company.”

Conway expected that the detective would explode, but he only stood, dumbly. Betty walked to the door, flung it open, picked up Bauer’s hat, and held it out to him. He walked to her, took the hat without breaking stride, and left. She closed the door firmly behind him.

“People like that do make me angry,” she said in a voice that was remarkably calm.

“Would you mind telling me just why you put on that act?” Conway asked.

“Was it that bad?” She shook her head ruefully. “I guess I’m not a very good actress. Anyway, it was good enough for him — it worked.”

“What was the idea?”

She looked at him in surprise. “I just wanted him to go away — and I thought you did too.”

“I had no particular reason to ‘want him to go away’ — and certainly not in that fashion.”

“My mistake,” she said. “What shall we do tonight?”

“I’d also be interested to know why you said Helen couldn’t bear to lose anything and never threw anything away.”

She looked at him for a moment before replying. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said. Again that dread of hidden danger, the fear of the secret knowledge she possessed, gripped him. “Do you feel like going out, or shall we have dinner here?” she continued.

“You do as you like,” he said. “I’m having dinner here.”

“All right.” His rudeness, he noticed, no longer seemed to have any effect. “I’ll start getting it.”

He debated, and decided against, offering her a drink or having one himself. He was sure that he would not be affected by a cocktail or two, but he preferred to take no chance of having his tongue loosened. Dinner was even more silent than lunch had been.

When they were through, he said, “I’ll do the dishes.”

“You know what I said this noon about finishing what I start,” she said.

“All right. Then if you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs and try to do some work.”

“You know, you really ought to get out more,” she said. “I’ll bet you’ve been cooped up in this house for days.”

“May I remind you that my wife has just died, and that I’m not exactly in the mood for the gay spots?”

“I didn’t mean that. As Sergeant Bauer would say, that wouldn’t look good. But you could—”

“I didn’t say it wouldn’t look good — I said I’m not in the mood for it.”

“Naturally you’re upset because she was murdered. But that doesn’t mean you have to put on this big grief act.”

He stared at her for several moments before he dared speak. “What are you talking about?” he said.

“You were married for four years, weren’t you? Well, after living with her for four years, you certainly couldn’t have liked her. Nobody who’d had four years of Helen could be sorry when it was over, no matter what had to happen to put an end to it.”

There was utter candor in her eyes, and he could not face them. “You — you’re out of your mind,” he said. He fled to his room and locked the door.

What did she know? What did she suspect? What was she plotting? How was she planning to trap him? The questions to which there were no answers went reeling about in his brain. Her seeming honesty and artlessness were so disarming that it was difficult to guard against them. She had to be got out of the house, and quickly; that would help.

But — would it be enough?

He was horrified as he realized the implication of what he was thinking. Was that the only way he could save himself — by killing this girl, too? But he wasn’t a killer, even though he had murdered Helen. He had no qualms about that: it had been his only chance of salvation. Even Betty knew that was justified. Or did she? Had that remark been a trick to decoy him into some damning revelation? She seemed such a completely engaging person — or might have, at another time or place. He couldn’t kill her — but what other way out was there? Except that he couldn’t get away with it: even his perfect murder, so carefully planned, showed signs of coming apart at the seams. And if two sisters, within a week— Not even Bauer would be fooled under those circumstances. But — was there any way?

He heard her come upstairs, and a long time after her door closed, he peered out. No light showed under the door, so he went downstairs and made himself a drink. Then, on second thought, he took ice, soda and the bottle of whisky to his room and locked himself in.

Chapter eight

When Conway’s eyes opened in the morning, the first thing they saw was the small clock on the night table. When the eyes focused, he jerked to a sitting position, surprised to discover that it was ten o’clock. He tried to sort out the thoughts that came crowding into a head which was too full of riveting machines to be able to think. At least there had been no phone call from Bauer, which meant that he was not wanted at the line-up. As for Betty, perhaps he could cope with her after some coffee.

His place was set at the dining-room table, and the coffee pot was simmering on the stove. He poured a cup, drank it black, and poured another which he took back to the table with him. Betty was nowhere to be seen; he assumed that she had already eaten and gone to her room. He started on the papers and the grapefruit which were at his place, simultaneously.

The case was still on the front pages, but it was down to one column, consisting of a reworking of the facts, conjectures and surmises which had been printed yesterday. The only added information was the disclosure that no sex crime had been committed; both papers, with an unmistakable air of disappointment, concluded that the murderer must be merely a homicidal maniac. It was only a matter of time, Conway reflected gratefully, until, as Bauer had predicted, something else, newer, more sensational, would come along to push the murder of Helen Conway off the front pages, and into the already crowded oblivion of unsolved crimes.

The final paragraph of one story caught his eye: “Captain Ramsden referred newsmen to Detective Sergeant Bauer for further developments in the case, explaining that Sergeant Bauer had been put in full charge.” The sergeant is not so dumb, Conway thought, and then amended, about some things.

“I didn’t hear you come down — I’d have gotten your coffee.” The voice came from outside; he looked on to the patio and saw Betty’s head peering over the back of the settee on which she had been lying in the sun, out of sight. She stood up, and Conway’s hangover was dissipated by a new and more dizzying intoxication.

She was wearing shorts and a bra: the shorts were very short and the bra was extensive enough, perhaps, to ward off arrest. All that had been promised by the dress she had worn yesterday was now ravishingly fulfilled. Conway was reminded of the pin-up girls who had been the major hobby of a good many GI’s; here before him was the first one he had ever seen in the flesh. The vision came toward him, and with something like horror he remembered that last night he had actually thought of destroying this loveliness.

She stood in the doorway and indicated the paper he still held in his hand. “The story doesn’t seem to rate as much attention this morning,” she said.

The spell was broken. For a few moments he had been conscious only of the sheer pleasure he was deriving from her beauty. Her words brought back a realization of the threat she represented. He turned back to his breakfast, and his voice was noncommittal when he spoke.

“Bauer said it would die down pretty quickly,” he said.

“Do you think they’ll find the—” She hesitated, and Conway wondered why she stuck on the word. “—the one who killed her?” she finished.

“I doubt it. Bauer’s said from the first there was practically no chance.”

“Well, that’s their problem, and I’m not going to worry about it — not on a day like this.” She was leaning against the side of the doorway, in profile to him; now she stretched her arms and for a moment stood on tiptoe, her back arched, the leg muscles tensed, her breasts high. “O-oh, it’s been so wonderful out in the sun,” she said as she relaxed. “Why don’t you get into a pair of shorts and we’ll bake in it together? I’m so disgustingly white I can’t bear it.”

Conway dared look at the whiteness for only a moment. “I wonder what the neighbors would think,” he said.

“Oh, the neighbors!” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “We can’t be seen here on the patio. You and that detective are worse than anybody in Topeka. How about going to the beach, then? I’ve got to wear this outfit sometime.” She tugged at the shorts and covered an additional fraction of an inch of thigh, and laughed. “I got it at a sale last fall. I guess everybody else in Topeka had sense enough to know they wouldn’t dare wear it there. So it was the first thing I packed. Do you think it’s too much?”

“There’s certainly not too much of it.”

She laughed again. “All right — I have a bathing suit that’s at least moderately decent. How about the beach?”

Because he found the prospect so inviting, he had to be brutal. “Have you any intention of looking for that apartment, or are you just planning on staying here indefinitely?”

“Sorry,” she said, looking as though he had slapped her. “I’ll get dressed.”

His remorse was genuine as she left the room. He knew that he dared not let himself be ensnared by a pretty face or an alluring figure or the charm she unquestionably possessed. But — could he be wrong? Might she really be as gay and delightful and straightforward as she seemed? He tried to puzzle it out with an aching head, for when she left the room, the intoxication left with her and only the hangover remained.

She was back, dressed for the street, before he had left the table. “If you want to have dinner here tonight, you’d better get some food — there’s hardly anything in the icebox,” she said. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back for my things — if you go out, will you leave the key under the mat, or something?”

Conway realized that she still was feeling the hurt, and was trying to be cold and distant. But she had none of Helen’s steely venom. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to touch her and tell her he was sorry, tell her that he hated to treat her in this fashion, that he was compelled to in self-defense. “I’ll leave the front door on the latch,” was what he said, and she was gone.

He thumbed through the papers lethargically, and his eye was caught by the obituary page. He remembered Bauer’s counsel about the funeral; he rose from the table and forced himself to call the Walbridge Mortuary. As the sergeant had predicted, their price was very reasonable, and they agreed, with suspicious readiness, to Conway’s request for no publicity. They promised to let him know when the remains would be released, adding that the police were apt to take their time in these cases. Conway hung up, reflecting that only one more unpleasant task had to be faced: the funeral service. He hoped it might be soon.

He went upstairs then, took some aspirin, and lay down. He dozed fitfully, and was awakened by the sound of the doorbell. It did not surprise him; he knew who would be at the door, and he knew the greeting he would hear when he opened it. He was right on both counts.

“I was right near here so I thought I’d drop in and — say, you look terrible. What’s the matter?”

“What?” Conway’s hand automatically went to his face. “Oh — I guess it’s because I haven’t shaved yet. I finally got a little sleep this morning — I was awake most of the night.” Let’s see what he can make of that, Conway thought.

“That reminds me, I promised to tell you what to do about that.”

“So you did.”

“Well, here it is. When you can’t sleep, it’s generally because you’re thinking about something that’s keeping you awake. Unless it’s something you ate, of course. Okay, so here’s what you got to do: stop thinking about it. That’s all there is to it.”

“I see. What do I think about?”

“Nothing. Just absolutely nothing at all. It’s as simple as that. Right? Right.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Conway said.

The detective lowered his voice. “Where is she?”

“Went out a couple of hours ago. Said she’d be back for her things when she found a place. I think she meant it.”

“Good — that’s great.” The detective’s satisfaction seemed somewhat overdone to Conway. “Say, while I think of it,” Bauer continued, “the other day when you were down at Headquarters, Sherlock Ramsden must of been thinking so hard about those reporters that he didn’t find out hardly anything from you.”

“I told him everything I knew,” Conway protested.

“I’m not blaming you. You told him everything he asked you, but he only asked about that night. Well, I’ve checked all that and got nowhere, so now I got to start earlier. What about the day before? Sunday, that was.”

“I worked all day, and Helen was at home.” That was easy — it happened to be true. The next he had to take a chance on, for he had no idea whether Helen had gone out after he had left the house. “We’d planned to go out to dinner, but she had a headache, and only wanted some soup, so I made it for her, and she went to bed. I’d been in the house all day and wanted a little fresh air, so I took a drive down to the beach, sat there for a while and thought about a story I was writing, and came home.”

“Um-m,” said Bauer. “What about Monday?”

Conway recounted the day in detail. They had been together all day, except when he had been in his room in the morning, writing letters. They had had lunch, and she had wanted to do some shopping; he had bought a paper and read in the car while he waited for her. He had a sudden thought.

“I remember something now,” he said. “She bought a pair of gloves, and when she came back to the car she said, ‘I’ve finally got two pairs of white gloves. Now I won’t have to wash a pair every time I take them off.’ “ Conway managed to suppress the smile of triumph which he felt.

“Then she had another pair besides the ones she was wearing that night?” The satisfaction was replaced by a surge of anger as Conway realized the detective had not even noticed the pristine gloves in the drawer yesterday.

“I just told you — she bought them that afternoon.”

Bauer shook his head. “If she had another pair, I sure don’t understand why she wanted to find the one she lost in the theatre.”

The detective walked slowly to the door. “Guess I’ll be getting along,” he said.

“What’s on your mind, Sergeant?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Say, while I think about it, have you made the arrangements?”

“With the mortician? Yes. And thanks very much for your advice.”

“Treat you okay on the price?”

“I think they’re being very reasonable. I wouldn’t have thought of that angle if you hadn’t mentioned it.”

“Think nothing of it. So you’re okay financially?”

“Yes. At least I can get by. Why?”

“Just interested, that’s all. Don’t believe all you read about these hard-hearted flatfoots. You got a lousy break and I feel sympathy for you. Lots of times I get interested in my clients.”

So that’s what I am, Conway thought.

“Look — it’s none of my business, of course—” The detective hesitated. That I don’t believe, Conway reflected. Watch out for this one.

“How much money you got in the bank?” the sergeant asked hesitantly.

So that was it. “Practically none,” Conway said. “A dollar, I think.”

The detective’s surprise was evident. “Then you know about it?”

“About what?”

“About her withdrawing the money,”

“Know about it? Why, of course. The balance in our checking account had gotten pretty low, and they were making a service charge for every check we wrote. So she drew it out, and was going to open a savings account, but then she started thinking about the service charge, and got annoyed at the bank, and decided to open the account somewhere else. But she wanted to talk to me about it before she did, so she brought the cash home. It’s still in the house — I just haven’t gotten around to taking it to a bank.”

“Not safe, having a lot of money in the house. Well, I gotta—” Crestfallen, Bauer started through the door. Press your advantage, Conway thought.

“But, Sergeant, what made you think there was something out of line about withdrawing the money? How did you know about it, anyway?”

“I kept thinking about those gloves — it didn’t seem kosher, going to all that trouble to find one. So I wondered if maybe she had some idea in the back of her mind, that night, where she wanted to get away from you for a little while, so she sends you on this fool’s errand. Naturally, I don’t know what the idea is — I need more facts. Well, I got a pretty good pair of eyes in my head, and yesterday I see a bank envelope in her drawer. When you got the facts about people’s money, you got one of the most important facts about anybody. So, I check with the bank this morning and find out she made the withdrawal the day before she was killed. Okay, so that’s a fact. But” — he shook his head sadly — “the trouble is, it don’t fit in right — at least not the way I thought it was going to.” He cast off the momentary blow to his apperception. “But you’ll find out one thing about Detective Sergeant Lester R. Bauer — when he’s not right, he’s the first one to admit it. Of course, it don’t happen often.”

“By the way,” Conway said, “have you found Taylor yet?”

“No, but we will.” As he went down the steps, the walk and voice of the detective were equally dispirited. “Not that I think it makes much difference.”

By late afternoon the more acute agonies in Conway’s skull had subsided, and he walked to the market to stock up on food. When he returned he went in the kitchen door, stowed away his purchases, and then, walking through the dining room, heard voices. On the patio, and apparently on the best of terms, were Betty and the sergeant. The increasingly familiar terror crept over him: what had the girl told Bauer? They could not have had much time together, but he should not have let them be together at all. Or was this not a mere coincidence? Had she perhaps phoned the detective, met him earlier, and been brought back by him? He debated whether to try to eavesdrop, but the voices were too low to be distinct through the closed door. There was no alternative: he had to interrupt before more damage was done, try to learn what had already transpired. He unlocked the door and stepped out to the patio.

“This looks very cozy,” he said. “I didn’t notice your car.”

“It’s across the street. I was just driving by when I happened to notice Betty sitting on the front porch.”

“You forgot to leave the door on the latch,” she said, but there was no reproach in her voice.

“Sorry.”

“So I wondered why she was sitting there, and it looked like a good chance to clear up the misunderstanding we had yesterday.”

“It appears that you’ve managed to clear it up very nicely.”

“Oh, sure,” the detective said. “It was just that she didn’t give me a chance to tell her what I really meant. But it’s okay now, eh, Betty?”

“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t understand.”

“It’s just that she don’t look like anybody’s sister-in-law.”

“Very nicely put,” said Conway.

“And she found an apartment, so that fixes everything,” the detective said.

“I don’t know if it does,” she said. “I didn’t tell you this — I can’t move in until Sunday, but I couldn’t find anything else at all — that I could afford, that is. Do you think it will be all right to stay here till then?” She looked at both the men.

“I guess so,” Bauer said cautiously. “I guess two more days can’t do much harm.”

Two more days, Conway thought. Could he cope with her wiles, could he keep from making a slip for two days? He was tormented by the combination of his desire to get her out of the house, to return to the peaceful solitude he had known for just twenty-four hours, and the pleasure which, however unwillingly, he was coming to find in her company.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “it’s all right with me.”

“Thanks,” Betty said.

“Say, where you having supper?” the detective suddenly demanded.

“I don’t know. Here, I guess.”

“You can’t stay cooped up here all the time — you’ll go stir-crazy. Come on out and have supper with me. It’s Friday — say, I’ll take you to a place where you’ll get the best pot roast you ever sunk a tooth in. Reasonable, too. Only have it Fridays. Come on. Unless” — he looked from one to the other — “you two have other plans.”

Conway preferred to take Bauer in small doses, and he had already had enough for one day. But there was no telling what the sergeant might think if he refused.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “How about you, Betty?”

“Fine. I’ll go up and change.”

“Care for a beer while we’re waiting?” Conway asked as Betty went into the house.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The detective headed for the kitchen with no further urging.

“What’s been happening? Anything new?”

“Nah.” Bauer reached into the icebox, removed a bottle of beer, and unerringly opened the drawer in which the opener was kept. A memory like an elephant, Conway reflected. Not to mention a skin. “I been using up energy and gasoline and getting nowhere.”

“How about Taylor? Have you found him?”

“We’ve found sixteen Harry Taylors in the phone book, but none of ’em is the Harry Taylor who knew you. Like I told you, I don’t think it makes any difference if we find him or not — it only makes me mad that we ain’t been able to.”

The sergeant had found one of the good glasses and was pouring his beer as Conway finished making his own drink. “How did you make out with the girl? You must have done all right.”

“What girl?”

“What was her name — Elsie Daniels? The one who first reported the car. Remember, you told me you had to see her, and fix Ramsden’s saying the police had found the car? I notice she hasn’t said anything to the papers.”

“Oh, her.” The sergeant’s voice expressed his scorn for Miss Daniels and his own achievement. “She’s so dumb I don’t think she can read. All she saw in the papers was the pictures of her and this crumb she’s so nuts about. I talked to the two of ’em together. So help me, if Greta ever behaved like that in front of anybody, I’d walk out on her. Disgusting.”

“What do you mean? From the pictures she looked like a nice, simple, attractive girl.”

“Simple is right. And what can you tell from them newspaper pictures? Look at the ones of me.” The recollection depressed Bauer to such an extent that he finished his beer and took another bottle from the icebox.

“At any rate, you kept her from spoiling Ramsden’s story to the papers.”

“Yeah, but I thought I might be able to get a little more information if I saw ’em both together. It’s a good thing I talked to ’em separately first, or I’d never of got anything. All they could do was hold hands and paw each other and giggle. Like when I said, ‘It was a few minutes after ten when you saw the car park, right?’ she says, ‘Oh, it don’t seem like it could of been as late as that, does it, hon?’ and she giggles, and he giggles, and she nuzzles herself into his neck, and I wished I could slap a pair of bracelets on ’em with a ten-foot pole in between.”

“So you got nothing new out of them?”

“Nah. It’s lucky a political speech happened to come on the radio. Otherwise they wouldn’t of known if it was ten o’clock or Tuesday.”

Conway thought of the importance he had placed on having witnesses to the time the car was parked, and realized how dangerously close he had come to having nothing of the sort. He had, of course, made sure there were witnesses when he parked. He had not expected the time to be established as accurately as it had been, but, if the detective was right, his fate had rested in the laps of two lovesick morons. He gave a silent vote of thanks to Senator Taft.

“I’d better get cleaned up myself,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.” The sergeant was moving toward the refrigerator. “Have another beer,” Conway said as he went through the door.

Chapter nine

Bauer drove into the parking lot behind a National drugstore on Beverly Boulevard. They got out of the car, and Bauer led the way into the store. Conway expected him to head for the cigar counter or the telephones, but the detective led the way to an unoccupied booth, motioned Conway and Betty to be seated, and handed them menus. Becoming aware of Conway’s expression, he laughed.

“Surprised, eh? Bet you didn’t even know about the food here. Well, you’re in for a real surprise when you taste that pot roast. Of course, they got other things too, if you don’t like pot roast. But order pot roast for me.” He started sliding out of the seat. “Got to phone and check in.”

Conway watched the detective disappear into a phone booth. He looked around at the chromium splendor and neon garishness; he heard the orders being called at the counter and smelled the unappetizing blend of food, cosmetics and pharmaceuticals. The place was hot, crowded, noisy, and even more resplendent than its sister emporium in which Helen and he had had coffee before going to the movie; his one desire was to get out as quickly as possible. He motioned to a waitress who passed the booth several times, but she, in common with most of her kind, had more important things to do and stared straight through him. He thought of the steaks reposing in the refrigerator at home and asked himself why he had allowed himself to be inveigled into coming to this pavilion of indigestion. Then his annoyance gave way to concern as another idea struck him: Why had Bauer wanted to inveigle him into coming here? He glanced at Betty, but she was surveying the establishment as though it were a moderately interesting anthill.

A waitress finally came to the table. “Pot roast for you, Betty?” Conway asked.

“Chocolate milkshake,” she said. “No — on second thought, I’ll have a lemon phosphate. I don’t want to spoil my dinner.”

Conway ordered for himself and Bauer, and he and Betty sat in the silence which had come to be habitual between them at meals. From where he sat he could see the detective in the phone booth; was it, he wondered, a routine checking in, or was it part of some devious scheme? He saw Bauer emerge from the booth, walk around the cosmetics counter, and speak to the waitress whose attention he had earlier tried to attract. He could see only a bit of her profile, but there was something vaguely familiar about her. As Bauer left her, Conway picked up the menu and studied it; he was pleased to discover that the machinations of the detective no longer upset or disturbed him. He had only to be patient for a little while: he knew that Bauer would tip his hand very quickly. He had no doubt as to his ability to cope with the mental gyrations of the sergeant. It was Betty he had to worry about.

“Order yet?” Bauer asked as he slid into the booth.

Conway’s eyes came up from the menu; he had apparently been unaware of the detective’s approach. He nodded. “Prices are certainly reasonable,” he said as he put the menu aside.

The waitress brought two large plates, covered with food, which might have been titled “Study in Monochrome.” The meat was gray, the potatoes were gray, the vegetables were gray. Different shades of gray, to be sure, but still gray. Conway made a mental note to remember this dish if ever he began to gain weight: it could be counted on to overcome any temptation to overeat.

“Wait’ll you try that,” Bauer said as he attacked the contents of his plate. Then he noticed the glass in front of Betty. “That all you’re having?” he demanded.

She favored him with an oversweet smile. “Every once in a while I go on a diet,” she said. “Just whenever I get the idea — and feel strong enough to resist food. This is the first time I’ve had enough will power in quite a while.”

Conway took a small bite of the meat; it was quite as bad as he had anticipated, and he looked at Bauer. The detective was struggling manfully.

“Not quite as good as usual,” he said. “But just the same, it’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, for the price?”

“The prices are certainly reasonable,” was the best Conway could manage. He wondered how much of this fodder he would have to choke down in order not to offend the detective.

“That’s the only thing Greta and me ever fight about,” Bauer said.

“What is?” Conway asked. He welcomed conversation; it might take his mind off the food.

“Money. That is, wasting it — extravagance.”

“That’s not uncommon,” Conway said.

A forkful of pot roast paused on its way to Bauer’s mouth, and he looked at Conway. “I guess not,” he said. “I guess even married couples fight about one thing another every once in a while. Did you and your wife have many — er — disagreements about money — or anything?”

“No-o,” Conway said. Why should Bauer bring this up now, he wondered. And in Betty’s presence. Had she been telling the detective of Helen’s real character? He was on record with the police that their married life had been a happy one. He had to stick to his story; and no matter how well Betty had known Helen five years ago, she could not contradict his version of their marital relationship. “No,” he said, “less than most people, I think. We had very few in the four years we were married.” Betty looked at him but said nothing.

“Not about money?”

“No,” Conway said, and then it dawned on him. The waitress Bauer had spoken to passed close to the table, and Conway happened to glance up so that he saw her face from a low angle, and in that instant he remembered her. It was the woman who had served Helen and himself in that other National drugstore. It was so absurdly clear now that it was difficult not to laugh aloud. But — how much had she heard that night? What had she said to arouse Bauer’s suspicion? “We only quarreled about silly little things. Even quarrel is too strong a word—”

“What kind of silly little things? I’m just asking,” the detective explained, “because I might get married one of these days, and if I do I don’t want any trouble. Maybe you can give me a few tips.”

“Well, let me think.” Bauer could easily have confronted him with the waitress, and had her identify him, but that, Conway could only assume, would have been too easy. The sergeant must have gone to considerable trouble to have her transferred to this store for this one night so that she would be less readily recognizable; he would be hurt to learn that his elaborate stratagem had been so quickly seen through. “Things like — well, I hate to tell you this, because I don’t like to think about it. But we had a misunderstanding the day she — the last day she was here.” Conway, ever conscious of Betty, knew that he had to guard against overdoing it.

“What was that?” Bauer asked, his dinner now entirely forgotten.

The temptation to tease the sergeant along was too great. “She’d withdrawn the money from the bank the day before, as you know, and we were going to open a new account after we’d had lunch. Well, there was a misunderstanding — I thought she’d brought the money with her, and she thought I had. So we had a little tiff about it — nothing serious, and we made it up right away, but now I’d give anything if I hadn’t lost my temper even that little bit. That’s why I’ve still got the money in the house — it was too late, then, to go home, pick it up, and get back to the bank.”

Bauer said “U-um,” and Betty was again looking around the store, seemingly paying no attention to them.

“Well, that’s the kind of thing I mean. We were both a little quick-tempered, and we’d have occasional flare-ups, but they never lasted more than a few minutes.”

“Well, if that’s all—” Bauer said, sounding more disappointed than reassuring. “And anyway you made it up, you say.”

The sergeant was being unusually subtle, and Conway hurriedly decided to take no chances on being left out on a limb without having concluded his recital.

“Yes, we did. But that wasn’t all — we had another spat that night.” He caught a gleam in the detective’s eye. “Oh, we made that up, too. But it makes you feel pretty rotten to realize that on the last day we were ever going to have together—” Conway was tempted to let his voice break the least bit, but decided it was inadvisable in Betty’s presence.

“You don’t have to feel so bad about it,” Bauer said. “Come on, get it off your chest. You’ll feel better.”

“It was even sillier than the other. When we left the house to go to dinner, I asked her if she had some money — I only had a few bucks in my pocket. I guess she thought I asked if she had the money. Anyway, when we found we were early for the picture we went across the street for a cup of coffee. I only had a few cents, so I asked her to let me have a dollar, and she opened her purse and I saw the whole roll of money. Well, I thought it wasn’t very bright to carry that amount of money around at night, and I said so. So she got mad and asked what did I expect her to do, and I said I didn’t expect her to walk around with a red flag — she was wearing that red scarf — asking to be hit over the head. Then she said, ‘Here, you take it if you think I’m apt to get hit over the head,’ but I didn’t want her flashing it around in the drugstore, so we waited until we got into the theatre, and she gave it to me there.” Conway’s voice became almost a whisper. “Then we held hands all through the picture.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Bauer demanded. “Don’t you see what happened? Some guy saw her with that dough, thought she still had it after the movie, and knocked her off for it.”

Conway realized he had been stupid not to mention it; he had been so wrapped up in his original plan that he had failed to take advantage of an accident which would have served to divert suspicion even further from himself. But it was too late now to be of use; since he had not spoken of it before, it was necessary to minimize its importance.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “it was so trivial I’d forgotten about it. And I’m sure nobody saw it — she only took the dollar out of her bag, and I happened to see the rest of the money in the wallet.”

“Can’t be sure,” Bauer said.

“I suppose it’s possible that someone might have walked past the booth at just the right second, looked down and happened to see the wallet in her purse,” Conway went on. “But it never even occurred to me until now.”

“Um-m,” said the detective. “Well, it don’t get us anyplace much, just saying that somebody might of seen the dough. Still—” He tried another mouthful of food and worked at it for some time before he looked again at Conway. “Say, this potroast is terrible tonight. I guess neither of us is very hungry, eh? What say we blow?”

“Fine with me.”

“You know, sometimes I don’t mind being on a diet a bit,” Betty said.

When they reached the car, Bauer stopped suddenly. “I forgot to call and check in,” he said. “Wait here in the car. Won’t be a minute.”

Conway was conscious of Betty’s sidelong glance as they sat in the car, but she said nothing. He knew, of course, that Bauer was talking to the waitress, checking the details of his story. He could think of nothing that would not dovetail; the waitress could have heard little of the preliminary conversation, he was sure.

He lit a cigarette and pondered on Bauer’s technique. If this man is typical of the detective force, he reflected, it’s a wonder anyone’s in jail. When Bauer emerged from the rear entrance a few moments later, Conway realized that he was regarding him with genuine fondness.

“Have to go back down to Headquarters,” Bauer said. “Never a minute’s peace.”

“Something up?”

“Yeah — I think they picked up another round-shouldered guy with a dark suit. I’ll drop you home.”

Conway waited for the sergeant to bring up the subject of the waitress and his suspicions. But nothing was said, and Conway realized it was too much to expect the detective to acknowledge himself wrong a second time. I wish he’d stop getting these ideas, Conway thought; a few more bum deductions and he may start not liking me so much.

They rode home in a silence so unusual that Conway knew Bauer must be feeling very dejected indeed. “Thanks for the dinner, Sergeant,” he said as they stopped in front of the house.

“And thanks for the chance to try out my will power,” Betty said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’ll take you out some night when we all have better appetites,” Conway said.

“That’ll be after I’m off this case,” Bauer said. “Be seeing you,” he mumbled as he drove off.

“Maybe you’ll appreciate my cooking now,” Betty said as Conway unlocked the door. She headed straight for the icebox. “You didn’t eat enough of that wood-pulp to affect your appetite, did you?”

“I could force myself to dally with one of those steaks if it were sufficiently rare,” he said. “What a smart girl you were.”

“Not always.”

“Meaning what?”

“We’ll take that up later. Is it warm enough to eat in the patio?”

“It’ll be perfect — I’ll set up a card table. But first, I’ll manufacture a Martini or two — I think we’re entitled to it.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “I guess you are.”

Chapter ten

The dinner was an unqualified success. They ate by candlelight in the little patio, screened from the wind and the prying eyes of any neighbors. Betty was gay and talkative, and because she kept the conversation away from the murder, or any mention of Helen, Conway was able to let down his guard and enjoy himself. It was, he realized, the first human companionship he had taken pleasure from in many months. She had read almost everything he had written, and she discussed the stories with relish and intelligence. Only once did they skirt dangerous ground, when she ventured the opinion that his more recent stories had lacked the vigor and brightness of his earlier work. She sensed his tightening, and quickly turned the conversation into other channels.

“I’m going to clear the table, stack the dishes, and do them in the morning,” she said when they finished. “You can help clear, if you like. Then we can sit down and have coffee.”

She poured the coffee and he held a match for her cigarette and looked at the lovely oval of her face in the amber glow. He was at peace now, with her, and, more important, with himself; he felt a sense of well-being, of content, as heady as a tropical night. He wished, suddenly and wholeheartedly, that she had not found the apartment, and that she might remain here. And he wanted to make amends for his churlishness since her arrival.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Fine, thanks.” She smiled up at him.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“How about some brandy? Or maybe there’s some green mint. It was a wonderful dinner — we ought to top it off with something.”

“No thanks — and,do you mind waiting, just for a little while? I don’t mean to be a wet blanket,” she added hastily. “It’s only that I don’t want you to be at all confused, and I don’t want to be — because I’ve been too much so for the past couple of days.”

“You’re being very cryptic,” he said. “You were starting to be, a little, before dinner, too.”

“I won’t be any more,” she said. “I want to get everything straight. Because I can’t stand your being suspicious of me, as you’ve been ever since I’ve been here, Oh, you had reason to be — I can see that now. But it never occurred to me. And that’s what I want to straighten out.” She was leaning toward him, eager sincerity shining in her eyes, and she looked very young.

He couldn’t help himself. “You’re utterly lovely,” he said. The words had to be spoken.

“What?” She drew back. “Don’t confuse me any more.” She hesitated a moment. “You’ve shown quite a talent for silence since I’ve been here. Don’t stop now.”

“I’d like to make up for some of that silence.”

“In a little while. But there’s something I want to say now — quite a few things, in fact.”

“I’m listening.”

She took a deep breath. “When I first heard, on the radio, of Helen’s — death, there were no details at all. But I felt — instinctively, I knew, that you’d done it.”

“What!” He had expected almost anything, but he was not prepared for quite such a stunning blow.

“Please,” she said. “I caught the first plane I could, thinking you’d be in jail when I got here. I wanted to let you know that I was on your side — that I’d be a character witness, or whatever you call it. I mean, I could have told what Helen was really like, and what justification you had. It wasn’t that I hated Helen — it’s just that there was something all wrong with her, and since Mama’s gone, I’m the only one who could have helped you.”

“Go on,” Conway said, his throat dry.

“Then when I got here and saw the papers at the airport, and read that you weren’t being held, I had to think that maybe I was wrong. That’s when I started getting confused, because I didn’t believe that sex-maniac thing for a minute.”

“You don’t know Los Angeles.”

“Maybe not. But I do know that that kind of thing just never happens to people like Helen.”

“You haven’t seen Helen for five years — how can you be so positive of what she was like? People change, you know.”

Betty nodded. “I even began to believe that, for a while. You were pretty convincing — and then it seemed to me you started overdoing it. And I got more confused, and didn’t know where I was.”

“Obviously, in a state of utter confusion.”

She shook her head. “Not now. You see, there was another thing I couldn’t understand — why you were so terribly rude, so frightfully anxious to get rid of me. And then this morning, after I left here, it suddenly came to me.”

“What did?”

“The explanation. I have to tell you this, so you’ll understand what I did. It’s going to sound terribly conceited, but — well, I’ve never known a man who’s seen as much of me as you have, who — I don’t mean it that way, and I’m sorry about the sunsuit this morning—”

“Please don’t be,” he said. “You were sheer delight this morning.”

“I’m not fishing. I only meant that I’ve never spent this much time with a man without his making some kind of a pass at me. I know that sounds awful, but — well, it didn’t seem normal. And I’m sure you are.” Conway himself, at this point, was sure of nothing. “Then I thought, ‘Maybe I’m all right for Topeka, but this is Hollywood.’ So I walked down Hollywood Boulevard, and was very observant, and the reactions seemed about the same as at home, or maybe more so. So that’s when I was certain.”

“Certain of what?”

“That there was another woman.” Conway half-rose from his chair, then collapsed again. “Then I wasn’t confused any more, because everything made sense,” she continued. “Originally I’d thought you’d probably killed Helen in a fit of rage, which would be perfectly understandable — I wanted to myself a dozen times when we were kids. But as soon as I saw you I knew you weren’t like that — you’re the long-suffering type, who’d stick until she drove you crazy.” He stared at her, unnerved by this mixture of fact and fantasy. “Or you could have gotten a divorce — Helen would have made you pay, but it would have been worth it. But — if you’d found someone else, that’s the one thing Helen would never forgive, and you’d never be able to get rid of her. So that explained why you did it, and why you could look at me as if I was painted on a wall, and why you were so anxious to get me out of the house. I even rather enjoyed thinking how jealous of me she must be — the woman, I mean.”

Conway had listened with increasing incredulity and relief to this elaborate scenario. So long as she’s that far off the track, he thought, I don’t have to worry. “Have you done much writing, Betty?” he asked. “Because what you’ve dreamed up is the damnedest fiction I’ve ever heard.”

“U-um,” she said noncommittally. “Well, after I’d figured this all out, I realized that my coming and staying with you was the luckiest thing that could have happened to you. Because as long as I was in the house, she couldn’t come here, and you couldn’t go to see her, so there was a good deal less chance of your throwing suspicion on yourself. So then I decided that the best thing would be for me just to stay on here with you — and tell you why, of course.”

“Then why did you get the apartment?”

“That’s just it — I didn’t. I went to Grauman’s Chinese, and two broadcasts, and did some window-shopping, and came home. And then that detective talked to me.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. I said he talked to me.”

Conway breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven you didn’t tell him about these pipe dreams — that’s all he’d need. What did he have to say to you?”

“He was very apologetic about his insinuations of yesterday. And then he said he liked you, and my being here made it very tough on him and the police department. Because if the neighbors or anybody found out about it, and it got to the papers, it would throw suspicion on you right away, and then the police would have to do a lot of investigating, which would be very unpleasant for you, even though they knew you were innocent. And then I suddenly realized that it had just been my own conceit that made me think there was another girl, and that you had a perfectly good reason for wanting to get rid of me. So I knew I’d better get out of here — and quick.”

“That, unfortunately, makes sense,” he said. “And it’s the first thing you’ve said that does,” he added. “It’s not that I have anything to hide, and I’m not worried about the police. But the newspapers would have a field day if they found out that an attractive — to say the least — young woman had moved in with me the day after my wife’s body was found. I don’t know what they’d make of the fact that she was my half-sister-in-law, but you can be sure it would be something nasty. So, much as I’d like you to stay here, now that I’ve gotten to know you, I think it would be a lot better for both of us if you got a place of your own — at least for a while.”

“Shall I go to a hotel tonight?”

He considered for a moment, and the prospect of seeing her again at breakfast overrode common sense. “I don’t think it’s as urgent as that,” he said. “You can go out tomorrow and find a place. I’d go with you, but I might be recognized, and that wouldn’t look too well, either.”

“I’ve certainly loused things up,” she said.

“You haven’t,” Conway assured her. “And I’m grateful to you for wanting to be on my side.” It would do no harm to let her think he believed her. And, he reflected, perhaps he did.

She came over and sat beside him on the settee. “Thank you for saying that,” she said. “It’s been so awful for you, and all I’ve done is complicate things, when I really wanted to be of some help, in some way. Please believe me.” She was very close; he looked down at the soft, warm eyes, the red, inviting mouth, and it was inevitable: his arms went round her, and their lips met, gently at first, then with increasing ardor, as each felt the urgency of the other’s desire.

She drew away and looked up at him gravely. “You didn’t love her, did you?”

“No,” he said, and then stopped. Had this whole performance been a trap? He kissed her again. If it was, it was a snare of perfumed velvet and satin and rose petals. This time it was Conway who broke the embrace and looked at her. “I didn’t love her. But you were wrong in thinking that I couldn’t stand her or that she was driving me crazy, or that I killed her. I just wasn’t in love with her any more.”

She raised her face to his, and her humid lips mutely asked to be kissed. Afterward, her arms tightly about him, she asked, “Do you love me?”

“Yes. Yes — I think so. It’s all a little bewildering.”

“I know,” she said.

“When did you begin to think you loved me?” Then she laughed. “That sounds awfully ingenue, doesn’t it?”

“Somehow I don’t seem to mind.” She kissed him lightly. “It was sometime between dinner and when I first kissed you,” he said.

She sighed contentedly, her head against his shoulder. “It’s been a wonderful evening. Since we’ve been home, I mean,” she amended. “Why did Bauer take us to that frightful drugstore?”

Conway smiled at the recollection. “He had the waitress there who served Helen and me before we went to the movie. That was his unique method of having her identify me.”

“Why did you tell him all that stuff about Helen having a roll of money, and your ‘little disagreements’?”

Involuntarily Conway tightened, and he knew that the girl must have felt it too. “It just happened to be true,” he said, and was conscious that his voice had taken on an aggressive note. He stroked her hair and tried to recapture their earlier mood. “I’m glad you didn’t find an apartment,” he said.

She drew away from him and sat erect. “Don’t say that,” she said.

“Why not? Don’t you love me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Of course I do. Since the moment I walked in the door, I guess. I’m going to hate being alone and away from you. But — it isn’t any good.” She slipped from his arms and stood looking down at him. “Not unless we trust and believe in each other. And I don’t believe you’ve told me the truth — I don’t believe you trust me enough to tell me. I don’t blame you for anything you’ve done — not anything. I understand. But if we’re to mean something to each other, I’d have to know the truth — I’d have to know that you knew you could trust me that much. I can’t love a man who has to be suspicious and on guard every other minute we’re together.”

“You’re wrong,” he said without hesitation. Then he looked at her, rose, and flicked his cigarette into the garden. The answer had been instinctive, but now he was wallowing in a sea of indecision. She knew the truth — and for a moment he longed for the peace he could find only with someone who did know, someone with whom he could drop his eternal vigilance. He looked at her: the luminescent eyes were guileless; she was a figure of utter enchantment, offering him love and tenderness and peace. Then he brought himself up sharply and realized he was being naive. The alluring charm might be bait, the promised tender raptures could be the promise of a noose around his neck. The gamble was too great: he had to play it alone.

“I’ve told you the truth,” he said. “I had nothing to do with Helen’s death.”

“Please,” she said. “Don’t tell me if you can’t trust me. Just don’t lie to me.” She stabbed out her cigarette. “It’s getting late, and I want to start out early tomorrow. I’m going up to bed.”

He looked at her slim loveliness silhouetted in the light from inside, and moved toward her. Gradually, as though in spite of herself, she responded to his kiss. But when she drew away, she looked at him with cool composure.

“Just to save any embarrassment,” she said, “I think I ought to tell you that I’m going to lock my door. Good night.”

She had been gone for several minutes before Conway’s reason was able to dominate his emotions. Then, tormented and desolate as he was, he decided that perhaps it was just as well.

Chapter eleven

Bauer called early the next morning to tell Conway he would be wanted at the line-up and that his car had been released and could be picked up afterward. When he had shaved and dressed, he came downstairs to find Betty at the breakfast table. She was wearing the suit in which she had arrived.

“I’m disappointed,” he said. “I’d hoped for the other breakfast costume.”

She poured the coffee and smiled at him.

“Some other time — maybe. You might let me come over here occasionally and take a sunbath. But as soon as I do these dishes, I’m off. I’ve got to find a place today.”

“They’re releasing my car this morning — I ought to be back here with it by noon. Wait until then — I can drive you around this afternoon, cover a lot more ground, and save a good deal of wear and tear on the feet.”

“How will that look?”

“I’ll stay in the car. I don’t think anyone will notice me.”

When Detective Larkin arrived to pick him up, Conway was waiting on the porch. He was not sure whether Bauer had reported Betty’s arrival, and there seemed no reason for Larkin to learn of it. As he got in the car, he wondered whether the police customarily provided transportation for the bereaved kin of murder victims. He could only conclude that the Department was aware that it was a target for criticism and, by its treatment of him, hoped to forestall at least one detractor. They’re wasting their money, he thought; I’d be the last person in the world to criticize anything about this police department.

He skimmed through the papers as they drove. One carried the story on page three, another on page five, and neither said anything that had not been said in every story since the discovery of the body. Clearly, the newspapers were losing interest in the case, a fact which would very soon permit the police to drop it. As he put the papers on the seat beside him, he reflected that this might be the last time he would be called to Headquarters.

Bauer met him and took him into the large room where the line-up took place. The detective seemed unusually taciturn; he found chairs for them and buried himself in his crossword puzzle. As each new group was paraded onto the brilliantly lighted platform, his head came up only long enough for a fleeting glance at the suspects, and then his attention returned to the puzzle.

Conway, though he had nothing else to occupy his interest, paid little more attention to the proceedings than did the sergeant. The motley groups who were herded on, made to stand for a few moments or several minutes, and then herded off, seemed more miserable, decrepit, and unshaven than on the earlier day. Conway continued to look in the general direction of the stage, as a matter of form, but it could hardly be said that he was concentrating on it.

After a half-hour of this, when Conway was very bored and acutely depressed, an assortment of unfortunates appeared who, as a group, were indistinguishable from any of the others who had preceded them. Bauer gave them his customary quick glance, and then leaned to Conway.

“You been looking ’em all over carefully?”

Conway nodded.

“Haven’t seen anybody looked familiar?”

“Not a soul.”

“Nobody in this bunch?”

Conway knew Bauer well enough to realize that there was someone in this group the detective expected him to identify. He looked searchingly at each individual, but when he had gone from one end of the line to the other, and back again, he was forced to turn to Bauer and shake his head.

“Okay,” the detective said. “Let’s get out of here.” Conway followed him out of the room and into the hall. “We’re going down to Ramsden’s office.”

Conway fell into step with the detective as he tried to fathom the meaning of what was taking place. It seemed probable that they had turned up a suspect. But why should he be expected to recognize him? Surely there was no one in that last unkempt, unshaven lot he had ever seen before. A sudden recollection of Bauer’s previous disappointments almost made him smile; the detective, he feared, was in for another one this morning. Conway hoped he wouldn’t be too stubborn about this new suspect, whoever he was.

Captain Ramsden was evidently expecting them. “Good morning, Mr. Conway,” he said.

“Good morning, Captain. Nice to see you again.”

“Have a chair.” He turned to Bauer. “Well?”

“He claims he didn’t recognize him.”

“Really?” Ramsden looked at Conway. “There’s nothing to be gained by that, you know.”

“All I know is that I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about,” Conway said. “Would you mind letting me in on it?”

“I can understand your reticence, Mr. Conway,” Ramsden said, “your desire, now that she’s dead, to protect your wife’s reputation as best you can, regardless of your personal feelings in the matter. But I have to remind you that you may be obstructing justice.”

“I guess I’m not very bright,” Conway said, thoroughly puzzled. “Could you tell me in words of one syllable?”

“There’s no point in playing dumb,” Bauer said. “You saw him. We finally picked him up last night. You never saw a scareder guy than Harry Taylor. But we got the whole story.”

“Harry Taylor?”

“In person.”

“Was he in that last line-up?” Conway struggled to recall the individuals in the final group. “He must have been the one next to the end, on the right — the tall one. I swear, though, I didn’t recognize him. I’ve only seen him twice in my life, and — well, all that gang looked like bums.”

“He’s no man of distinction this morning,” Bauer admitted.

“But why are you holding him?”

“You know why we’re holding him,” the detective said.

“I’m not sure that he does, Bauer,” the captain said. “I want the truth, Mr. Conway — we won’t hold it against you that you haven’t told us before — didn’t you know that your wife had been seeing a good deal of Taylor recently?”

“I don’t believe it!” This is another of Bauer’s fantastic theories, Conway thought.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but it’s true,” Ramsden said. “Taylor is a salesman for a machine-tool concern. He has quite a large territory to cover in Southern California, and he’s out of town four or five days a week. That’s one reason it’s taken us so long to find him. But on the days — and nights — he was in town, your wife spent a great deal of time with him. They were very good friends, Mr. Conway, if you know what I mean. He’s admitted it.”

Conway felt as if he had been hit in the pit of the stomach. He knew that he must think clearly, logically, that he must determine how this incredible revelation might affect him. But his brain at the moment was beyond discipline; it whirled in a chaos of confusion. How much had Taylor told them? How much did Taylor know? What did Taylor know that he himself did not? One fact emerged clearly: his whole plan had been based on the fact that he and Helen were an island alone in this community; that they had no intimates, no confidantes, who could give the lie to his version of their relationship. Now, suddenly, there had appeared someone who had been much closer to Helen than himself.

The shock of the disclosure was so great that it did not occur to Conway that he should act like a trusting husband who has just learned of his wife’s perfidy. But the emotions his face revealed must have seemed valid enough to the two detectives; they sat in silence as he struggled to assay the full meaning of the horrifying discovery. It was Bauer who finally spoke.

“I guess maybe he really didn’t know,” he said to Ramsden. “I don’t see how a guy could help knowing if a thing like that was going on, but it looks like maybe he didn’t.”

“You didn’t know she was seeing Taylor at all?” Ramsden asked.

“I–I still can’t believe it,” Conway said, and realized that the fear and confusion in his mind gave his voice a genuinely shaken quality. “What did Taylor say?”

“Had you and your wife discussed a divorce?”

Here was the trap, he thought. What had Taylor told them? But it didn’t matter — he had to stick by what he had told Bauer. “No — of course not,” he said.

“Taylor says she was going to divorce you and marry him.”

“What!”

“He says she was going to divorce you as soon as she got a little money — meaning, I suppose, as soon as you got a little money — which she expected to be soon.”

So Taylor knew about the money. And if he knew that, he probably knew all the rest — the quarrels, the threats, the letters... But the letters had never been sent; if Taylor thought he knew about them, he would be proved wrong. As for the rest, it was Taylor’s word against his, and the word of a husband would carry greater weight than that of a paramour.

“He’s lying,” Conway said. “I don’t believe any of it.”

“About that — maybe he is,” Ramsden admitted. “But not about the essentials. You don’t think he wanted to admit any of this, do you? He wasn’t anxious to get involved.”

“But why did he? I mean, how did you get him to admit — whatever he did?”

“She’s been going to see him for almost three months. The apartment superintendent identified her from her picture. When we told Mr. Taylor we knew that, the young man saw he was really in a jam, and started to talk.”

“A jam?” Conway’s head began to clear; somewhat incredulously he realized that the detectives’ suspicions were directed, not at himself, but at Taylor. “You mean you think he was the — that he had something to do with it?”

“That’d be a pretty good guess, wouldn’t it?”

Conway’s mouth was dry, and perspiration stood out on his head. “Have you any proof — any evidence, beyond what you’ve told me?”

“That’s quite a bit, don’t you think?” Ramsden said dryly. “Of course we don’t know yet why he’d do it. Maybe he found out she was stringing him along, and had no intention of divorcing you and marrying him.”

“Maybe she found some other guy and was going to give Taylor the air,” Bauer suggested.

The notion seemed absurd to Conway, but not, apparently, to Ramsden. “Are you sure you’ve told us everything you know? About her friends, I mean, or the names of anyone she may have mentioned, or who may have called her?”

“I’m positive,” Conway said. “I gave Sergeant Bauer her address book, and I haven’t been able to think of anyone she knew who wasn’t listed there. I’d even forgotten about Taylor.”

“Well,” Ramsden said, “maybe we won’t have to look any further.”

Conway realized that he was treading on dangerous ground, but he had to know more. Did they really believe Taylor had done it, or was this all merely a screen for their suspicion of himself? How much were they keeping from him?

“But you must have more to go on than you’ve told me. You can’t convict a man just because he thought she was going to divorce me and marry him — if he did think that.”

“Hardly,” Ramsden said. “But it’s something to start from. As I said, we don’t know the motive yet — but there’s a pretty good chance we can find one.”

“You could say I had a motive.” He had to take the chance — had to find out where he stood. “I didn’t have, until two minutes ago, and I wouldn’t have killed her, or anyone else, for that reason. But you don’t know that. So you might say I had a motive.”

“Yeah, you might of had,” Bauer said quietly.

Conway glanced quickly at the sergeant, frightened by something in his voice. But he plunged on because, having gone this far, he dared not stop.

“Where does he say he was? Hasn’t he some alibi?”

“Yes,” Ramsden said. “Claims he was in San Bernardino that night — on business. We’re checking it now. Of course, he’s had four days to fake a story — or he may even have planned it in advance.”

“That’s the difference between you and him.” Bauer sat on the edge of the desk and smiled, and Conway’s pulse began to resume its normal beat. “Even if you had the motive, you had an alibi you couldn’t have faked. I know — I checked it. For one thing, the car was parked by the murderer at ten-o-four, and it’s impossible you could of been there at that time. That’s what makes a good detective — being able to tell the real thing from the phoneys. Right, Captain?” Rams-den nodded, a little indulgently, it seemed to Conway. “And I’m never wrong on those things. You positively couldn’t of done it, and nobody in his right mind would try to pin it on you. Him? Well, we’ll see.”

“Now that you’ve told Mr. Conway the secret of your success,” Ramsden said, “I think you might go out to his house and take another look around. See if you can find any letters, or phone numbers — anything at all that hasn’t been covered. If Mr. Conway didn’t know about Taylor, there may be other things that escaped his notice.”

“Okay.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Conway.” Ramsden held out his hand. “Sorry I had to be the one to tell you about this.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Conway said, and followed Bauer through the door.

Larkin was waiting in the outer office. “I’m going over to the garage with Mr. Conway,” Bauer said. “He’s going to get his car back. Meet me there and we’ll go out to his house. Might as well walk over,” he said to Conway. “It’s just around the corner.”

They walked down the corridor in silence. Free of the terror which had gripped him in Ramsden’s office, Conway could think calmly. Now that he knew he was in the clear, he could consider Taylor and his plight. He had no particular fondness for Taylor, but he did not want to see him — or anyone else — go to the gas chamber for the murder of Helen; she was dead, she had deserved death, and no one merited punishment for it. Nor did he resent what Taylor had done; he could understand, vaguely, that someone might be taken in by Helen, for after all he himself had been, although it seemed a long time ago. His predominant emotion was one of anger at himself, at his stupidity in not knowing of the affair with Taylor. He could have divorced her with no trouble at all and thus have been spared the worry and strain of this past week — and of the past two months, for that matter. The fact that Helen might also have preferred to be alive rather than dead did not occur to him.

Bauer’s voice broke in on his reflections. “I don’t understand,” he said, “how a fellow’s wife could be pulling a thing like that, and him not get on to it.”

For once, Conway thought, he’s got a point. “It’s hard to believe,” he said. “But you see I worked a lot at night. It got pretty dull for her sitting home every evening, so she used to go to the movies. Every once in a while I’d offer to take her, but she’d say she didn’t want to interfere with my work, and I believed her. I think it was true, at first. Lately, of course — well, I guess she didn’t see as many movies as I thought.”

“Still and all, I should think you coulda told from the way she acted—”

“I guess I’m like most men — conceited enough to think ‘How could a woman want another man when she has me?’ ”

“Not me — I’m no egotist,” said Bauer. “I take nothin’ for granted — especially about women. I watch Greta like a hawk.”

“Probably the best way,” Conway said.

“Sure. She knows it, so it makes it easy for her. That way there’s no temptation for her to step out of line.”

“She’s a lucky girl.” Conway was beginning to lose interest in Detective Sergeant Bauer’s philosophy of life and love.

The detective looked at him reflectively. “You don’t seem to be very much upset about this Taylor,” he said.

Conway realized that his preoccupation with other matters was causing him to forget his role of the bereaved, and deceived, husband. “I don’t know,” he said. “After the week I’ve had — first her disappearance, then learning she’d been murdered, I guess nothing can hit you very hard.”

“Yeah,” Bauer said, “you’re sort of paralyzed.”

“How about Taylor’s alibi?” Conway asked. “What do you think of it?”

“Can’t tell yet. We’ll know more by morning.”

“The captain seemed to think he might be able to fake an alibi. Isn’t that pretty hard to do?”

“Practically impossible,” Bauer said. “Unless there are a lot of awful dumb detectives around.”

Conway felt encouraged to go on. “I didn’t understand what you said up in the office about my having an alibi. What did the car being parked at ten-four have to do with it?”

“That was just one thing,” the detective replied. “Like to know why we were sure so quick that you didn’t do it?”

“I’d be very interested,” Conway said, conscious of his understatement.

Bauer assumed his professorial air. “Any time a woman’s murdered,” he said, “naturally the first suspect is her husband. That’s only common sense, because, the way it works out, most married women who get killed, it turns out it’s their husband did it. I don’t know why that is,” he mused. “Funny thing, because most men aren’t killed by their wives.”

“Very interesting,” Conway said. “I’d never realized that.”

“Anyway, the first thing I did was check up on you to see if you might have killed her. Not if you did, mind you, but if you could have.”

“It never occurred to me that I might need an alibi,” Conway said. “All the time I was looking for her, after the squad car left me, and then on the trolley going down to the police station — I doubt if anyone would remember seeing me then, or that I could prove where I was, and when.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” the detective stated. “When a guy’s on the level, he’s got a lot of things working for him he don’t even know about. And vice versa. When he isn’t, there’s a lot of things working against him.” The remark disturbed Conway vaguely, but he dismissed it as Bauer went on. “For instance, that squad car looked all over the neighborhood after it left you, and there was no sign of your car. If you’d done it, the car couldn’t be very far away. But, of course, they might of missed it, so I don’t count that as a positive fact.”

“I see.”

“But then we got two very positive facts. The car was parked between ten-o-two and ten-o-four, and you were at the police station at ten twenty-three. No taxis picked up any fares around there at that time, and there’s been no report of a private car giving anybody a lift. Besides, nobody who’d just left a dead bod}^ in a car would be fool enough to ask for a lift. And a man running down a quiet street couldn’t help but be noticed. So if it was you parked that car, it means you’d have to of walked to the station in twenty-one minutes. Well, that can’t be done — I checked it personally, so there’s no possibility of me being wrong.”

“I’d never have thought of that,” Conway said.

“There was another thing, and this is what I mean about things working for a fellow that he don’t even know about. You happened to mention something I bet you don’t even know you said, and you know I’m not conceited, but not one man in a thousand would of paid any attention to it.”

“What was that?”

“You just happened to mention that when you were on that streetcar, you missed the stop at Wilcox and had to ride on to Cahuenga. You didn’t even know it meant anything when you told me. Well, it was certainly a long shot that the motorman or conductor would remember what stops they made three nights before, but I took it. And whaddya know, the motor-man was coming down with the flu that night, and that was the last trip he made. He was in a hurry to finish the trip, and trying to make up time, and he remembered that he beat a light at Wilcox. Somebody bawled him out for it when he stopped at Cahuenga. So now you see why I said you had an alibi you couldn’t of faked?”

“I didn’t realize you’d gone to so much trouble on my account, Sergeant,” Conway said in all honesty. “And I’m truly grateful to you. You haven’t missed a trick.”

Chapter twelve

Conway signed a receipt for the car, and a mechanic brought it out as Larkin drove into the garage in the police car.

“I’ll ride with Mr. Conway,” Bauer said. “You follow us out to the house.”

“Car seems to be all right,” Conway said. “What have they been doing with it all this time?”

“They take it apart, they analyze everything, they put it together, and finally figure out the guy who done it was under nine feet tall because he didn’t poke a hole in the roof with his head. They drive me crazy, those scientifics.”

“I can believe that,” Conway said.

“Betty home?” the detective asked.

“She was when I left. I promised to take her for a drive this afternoon — show her some of the town.”

“I wouldn’t say anything about this Taylor business to her,” Bauer said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t think nice women ought to hear about that kind of stuff. Certainly can’t do any good. And her own sister and all — might even give her ideas.”

“She’ll read about it in the papers anyway.”

“Only if we really pin it on this guy,” the detective replied. “And I don’t think we can. Just tell her I’m looking around to see if there’s anything I might have missed — letters or phone numbers or anything.”

When they arrived at the house, they found Betty listening to a speech on the radio.

“What’s that?” Bauer demanded. “Couldn’t you get a ball game?”

“I didn’t try,” Betty answered. “That’s the President.”

“Rebroadcasting that speech he made last night?” Conway asked. Betty nodded.

“If it wasn’t for the baseball, I’d never look at a radio,” the sergeant said. “Why do they keep rebroadcasting these speeches? Once is plenty for most of ’em.”

“They’re ‘broadcasting it at this more convenient time,’ “ Betty answered. “That’s what the man said.”

“What’s more convenient about it?” Bauer growled.

“He made the speech about eight-thirty last night in New York,” she explained patiently. “That’s five-thirty here, which isn’t a very good time, so they put it on again this morning. Public service, the radio people call it.”

“It’d be more of a public service if they’d broadcast a game from the Polo Grounds out here right now,” Bauer said.

“Well, do you want to get started?” Conway asked.

“H-mm?” A faraway look had come into the detective’s eyes, and he seemed to recall himself with an effort. “Oh — yeah,” he said rather uncertainly.

“Started at what?” Betty asked.

Conway was about to explain when Bauer interrupted. “I just happened to think of something,” he said. “I forgot it was Saturday — something I got to do before noon.” He was on his way to the door. “The other thing can wait — I’ll be out this afternoon sometime.”

Conway wondered what new inspiration had struck the detective, but Betty was more practical. “At least we don’t have to ask him to lunch,” she observed.

While she prepared the meal, Conway made a thorough search of Helen’s room. In a cardboard box, with some other costume jewelry, he found a pair of earrings he had never seen before; they were, he assumed, a gift from Taylor which she had thought it unwise to wear. Otherwise there was nothing, not even a scrap of paper, which could possibly have been a clue to the liaison with Taylor. Conway took some slight consolation from the fact that he had not been exceptionally stupid; he could see no reason why he should have known about, or even suspected, the affair.

After lunch he took Betty in the car and began searching for an apartment; late in the afternoon, after a dozen stops, he saw her walk toward the car smiling, for the first time since they had started out.

“I’ve taken it,” she said. “It’s not much, but it’s not too bad, I can almost afford it, and I can get in right away. If you don’t mind a little more taxi service, I’ll pick up my bags and move in now.”

Conway knew that he was being irrational before he spoke. “Must you?” he asked. “Why don’t we have dinner, and then after it’s dark I’ll drive you over.”

She turned to him and smiled, that warm, adorable smile he was finding more and more irresistible. “If you like,” she said.

Conway expected Bauer to appear the moment they reached home, but when, after dinner, the table had been cleared, and he and Betty again sat over coffee and cigarettes, he became optimistic that he might have the evening alone with her. Her youthful enthusiasm, her mature tranquillity, he found more endearing than ever, and it required conscious effort to refrain from making love to her.

He had not told her about Helen and Taylor, not for the reasons Bauer had advanced, but simply because there had been no time to go into it. Now, because he wanted to be as honest as he dared be, there seemed no reason to withhold it.

“I got rather a shock this morning,” he said. “The police picked up a man who’s admitted he was having an affair with Helen.”

Betty looked up at him slowly. “Oh?” she said.

“You don’t seem very surprised.”

“Not particularly. Who was it?”

“A man named Taylor — I’d met him a couple of times. I didn’t even recognize him in the line-up. I’m afraid he’s in for rather a bad time.”

“You don’t think he had anything to do with it?”

Conway shook his head. “Regardless of your faith in the law of averages, I still think it was a maniac.”

“You didn’t suspect anything?”

“It never occurred to me. That’s what worried me this morning — that they wouldn’t believe me; that they’d start thinking they’d found a motive for me to kill her, and then go on from there. It’s a good thing they weren’t as suspicious as you.”

She looked at him soberly. “They didn’t know Helen as I did. I’m not surprised she had a lover, but she’d be too clever to let you find out, because then you could have divorced her. She couldn’t have endured that. No, I’m sure you didn’t know about it.”

“I don’t want to turn your pretty head with flattery,” he said, “but that’s the first logical observation you’ve made since you’ve been here.”

“Do you mind very much? I know it must have been a shock, but — do you care terribly?”

“I don’t care anything about any woman in the world — except you,” he said.

“Oh, my darling—” She was at his side in an instant. “I’ve so needed to hear that.” Her lips entreated a kiss and her arms encircled him fiercely. Then, “I’ve needed that even more,” she said.

“I wasn’t sure, after last night,” he said. “I didn’t know how you felt about it today.”

“I couldn’t stop loving you overnight. I don’t think I can stop loving you ever.”

“I’ve been afraid, a dozen times today, that I’d lost you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” she whispered. “Unless you want to.”

“I’m going to tonight — when you leave here.”

“I don’t want to leave you.” Her eyes lifted to his. “Oh, why can’t you have faith in me? What must I do to make you trust me?”

No man on earth, Conway thought, could doubt her. Or resist her. He could tell her, prove his faith in her, and she would be a haven where he could put aside his fears, his suspicions, his constant vigilance. He had to tell her: he was starving for this love she offered.

“I do trust you, my dearest,” he said, and at that moment the clangor of the doorbell echoed from the house.

They sprang apart guiltily. “It’s Bauer, damn him,” Conway said. “Stay here. I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.”

It was not Bauer, but Larkin and another detective whom Conway saw when he opened the door.

“Want you at Headquarters right away,” Larkin said.

“What’s up?”

“I dunno. They never tell me anything.”

“I’ll get a coat and turn out some of these lights,” Conway said. He went into the dining room and noticed Larkin move to keep him in view. He stepped out onto the patio and blew out the two candles which were still alight on the table. Betty, on the settee, was out of sight of the detective.

“I have to go to Headquarters,” he whispered. “Wait for me, my darling.” In the darkness, he saw her nod her head. “I won’t be long.” He pretended to lock the door to the patio, picked up a coat, and rejoined the detectives in the hall.

Larkin drove and the other detective sat in back with Conway. Both men were unusually taciturn. Or perhaps, Conway thought, it seems that way because I’m used to Bauer. But try as he might, he was unable to elicit a shred of information from either of them.

The two men accompanied him to Ramsden’s office, and Larkin knocked before opening the door. He went inside for a moment, and then the door opened again, and he motioned for Conway to enter.

Ramsden, seated behind his desk, looked steadily at him as he came in. “Good evening, Captain,” Conway said.

“Hello, Conway.” The “Mister” was conspicuous by its absence, and Conway wondered whether this indicated familiarity or — or what? Bauer was seated at one side of the captain’s desk, and a young man at the other.

Ramsden indicated the young man. “This is Mr. Davis,” he said, and Conway noted that the young man was tall and thin, with a very high forehead and a collar to match. “He’s the assistant district attorney,” Ramsden continued.

“Good evening, Mr. Davis,” Conway said, and felt his throat begin to tighten even as he spoke.

“Hello, Conway,” Davis said. “I understand you murdered your wife.”

“What!” The word leaped involuntarily from Conway’s lips. He looked at Bauer, whose expression did not change, and then at Ramsden.

The captain nodded. “That’s right, Conway.”

Davis rose from his chair. “Sit down, Conway.” Larkin brought a chair and Conway sank into it. “We’ve got the whole thing taped,” Davis said as he sat on the edge of Ramsden’s desk. “You might as well make a full confession.”

He’s bluffing, Conway thought. They’ve got something, but he’s bluffing. He remembered the other times he had almost panicked because of something Bauer had said or done, and resolved that it would not happen again. “I don’t know how much you know about this case, Mr. Davis,” he was able to say in an almost completely normal voice. “But I didn’t murder my wife, and the captain and the sergeant know that I couldn’t have. They just happened to mention that only this morning.”

“That was this morning,” Ramsden said.

“Yes,” Davis said, “and since this morning, thanks to some excellent detective work by Sergeant Bauer, the picture has changed. What was not possible then has become very possible indeed.”

“I know. The Einstein theory.”

“Look, pal,” Bauer said, “there was a little mistake made — a lucky mistake for you, up to now. You been on borrowed time since the day after the body was discovered. If it hadn’t been that somebody put the right facts together wrong, I’d of had this wrapped up in twenty-four hours.”

“Would someone mind translating this doubletalk?” Conway asked.

“We’ll begin at the beginning,” Davis said. “We’ll tell you exactly what you did and when you did it. There are a few details still missing, of course — we haven’t had time to check everything since this afternoon — and if you want to help us out with those, maybe we can help you out a little. Might even make some sort of a deal. Sergeant Bauer seems to think you rate a break.”

“That’s very kind of him,” Conway said.

“It starts in the drugstore, when you went over to get that cup of coffee because you were early for the picture. You had to ask your wife for money to pay the check. She was careless and you saw that she had a roll. You asked where she’d gotten it, and, because she wasn’t sticking with you much longer anyway, and didn’t care what you thought about it, she told you. She told you that she’d cleaned out your joint account, and, naturally, you got sore, and you had a fight. That we label Motive Number One.”

“One hundred per cent wrong so far,” Conway said. “I knew about the money an hour after she’d withdrawn it. I got a little upset because she was carrying it around. I told the sergeant all this.”

“Yeah,” Bauer said. “You told me.”

Davis appeared not to have heard the interruption. “Naturally, after that, you were in no mood to go to a movie. Nor was she. So you went back to the car. Somehow — this is one of the details you can help with — you found out about the affair with Taylor. I imagine that she probably taunted you with it — she was through with you, anyway. Motive Number Two.”

“Wait a minute,” Bauer broke in. “I got it. That red scarf she was wearing, that you didn’t like—” He turned to Davis. “He told the waitress he couldn’t stand it, and they were arguing about it. I don’t know if I told you before, but Taylor gave her that. So here’s what happened. Conway’s beefing about the scarf, and she says, ‘You got good reason not to like it — if you only knew.’ So he wants to know what she’s talking about, and she lets him have it. One thing leads to another, and” — he turned to Conway — “that’s when you killed her, figuring the scarf made it poetical justice.”

“I think that’s probably just about it, Sergeant,” Davis said. “How about it, Conway?”

“You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried,” Conway said. “But I guess you are trying, at that. For your information, until this moment, I didn’t know anything about that scarf.”

“There seem to have been a lot of things you didn’t know about,” Ramsden interjected.

“At any rate,” Davis continued, “you took the scarf and choked her and killed her. And then you snapped out of your murderous rage, and realized you had a dead body in the car. You drove around for a while, wondering what to do about it, and then you remembered these maniac killings, and you got a brilliant idea. You figured it all out, and you figured you could make it look like one of them, and get away with it. So you just parked the car on the first quiet street you came to, and went back to the theatre.”

“Let’s stop kidding,” Conway said. “I don’t know what you’re driving at; you must have something on your minds, but it certainly can’t be that you believe I did this thing. The car was parked at ten-o-four, remember? And you yourself, Sergeant, said I couldn’t have done it then.”

“That’s right,” Bauer said. “You couldn’t of done it if the car was parked at ten-o-four. If. That’s what threw me, and it was a lucky break for you — for a while. You must of had a good laugh when you found out that’s what we were going on — you couldn’t of hoped for a break like that. But — and I don’t expect you to be surprised at this — that car wasn’t parked at ten-o-four, it was parked at nine-o-i our, as I found out only this afternoon. So now d’you see what’s changed since this morning?”

Conway looked at them incredulously. “What did you do, bribe that couple to change their story?”

“Wait a minute, Conway—” Ramsden half-rose from his chair. “We’ve taken enough lip from you.”

“He’s naturally disappointed,” Bauer said placatingly, “after getting away with it this long. But don’t you go talking about bribes,” he said sternly to Conway. “You ought to know by this time that a man like me don’t have to pull stuff like that. Matter of fact, it was you tipped me off. You remember, you were talking about rebroadcasts this morning? It must of been your unconscious, thinking about it. Anyhow, I did a little checking up.

“Remember, we were here in this office the day the body was found, and I said this Elsie Daniels told me they’d been listening to Senator Taft when they saw the car being parked. Well, somebody” — there was a barely perceptible glance at Ramsden — “figured that made it ten o’clock, because that’s when most people here heard the speech. But” — the sergeant paused professorially — “that was not a fact. When I got the real fact, this afternoon, all I had to do was take it and the other facts I had, and put ’em together right, like I told you. Senator Taft’s speech was broadcast from two local stations here at ten o’clock, all right. But those were rebroadcasts. By looking up the radio logs at the newspaper, I find out it was broadcast at nine o’clock from a Denver station which not many sets can pick up out here. But whaddaya know? Elsie’s family just got a big new radio that can get it, as I proved this afternoon. And to top it off, the Denver station is practically right next to KNX on the dial, which is what Elsie usually tuned to, on account of the music.

“The other day, when I told Elsie and her boy friend it was ten o’clock when the car stopped, they both said, ‘Oh, it couldn’t of been as late as that.’ I figured that was because they’d been mushing and lost track of the time, but it turns out they were right. What happened was, they intended to tune in KNX, but, not being used to the new radio, they didn’t hit it right on the nose. What they got instead was Denver. So today when I asked ’em again what time they thought it was, they were positive it wasn’t ten. So it must of been nine, which all adds up and makes sense. At nine-o-four, or very close to it,” he was addressing Conway now, “you parked your car with your wife’s body in it, and got out and walked away.”

“I have to hand it to you, Sergeant, for figuring that out,” Davis said. “It’s brilliant.” Conway expected Bauer to take a bow, but instead he ploughed along with his recital.

“You got out of the car,” he continued, “and walked up to Santa Monica Boulevard—”

“Wait a minute,” Conway interrupted. “The car wasn’t parked at nine o’clock because it was still in the parking lot. And I didn’t park it at nine or ten or any other time, because I couldn’t have. Why don’t you look for the man who did — at least you know he had a mustache and was practically hunchbacked.”

Davis’s glance at Ramsden was somewhat disconcerted. They muffed that one, Conway thought. Bauer, however, did not hesitate.

“There’s a dozen five-and-tens and souvenir stores along Santa Monica and Hollywood Boulevard open that time of night,” he said. “And they all sell those disguise kits for kids. You parked around a corner on a dark street, locked the car, went into one of those places, paid your quarter, trimmed the mustache a little, and stuck it on. All you have to do to look like a hunchback is hunch up your coat, hunch over your shoulders, and, see?” — the sergeant demonstrated — “I’m a hunchback.

“Another thing, just so you know I haven’t missed any details,” the detective continued to Davis, “he had a hat when he got out of the parked car. Naturally, to help hide his face. What happened was this: he left the hat in the car with her coat, so he had no hat in the drugstore. He wears the hat when he gets out of the car, after he’s parked it, and when he gets a couple blocks away from it, he takes off the mustache, throws it away, rips up the hat and gets rid of the pieces, and arrives at the theatre with no hat. I did a little looking around his house the other day — not a sign of a hat anywhere.”

“I haven’t worn, or owned, a hat since I came to California — like thousands of other men,” Conway said.

“Well, you coulda bought that, too,” Bauer said. “But I’m surprised a man like you would go in for kid stuff like that disguise. I s’pose you were pretty rattled, though. Must of been, to think we’d pay any attention to that.”

Conway resolutely refused to let himself become panicked. But he could feel that all-too-familiar constriction of the throat begin to come on, and he wondered how much longer he could continue this show of nonchalance.

“Anyhow, you walked up to Santa Monica Boulevard, which took you about twenty minutes,” the detective continued, and then added to Davis, “I checked that. You were shot with luck, because a trolley car came along there at nine twenty-two, which was just about when you hit Santa Monica, and got you back to the theatre at nine-thirty — just in time to let you see the audience leaving the theatre after the picture.”

“No trick to it at all,” Conway said. “All I had to do was to be in two places at the same time.”

“The doorman let you into the lobby,” Bauer went on, “you went into the theatre, threw the glove under a seat, got the manager, and let him watch you find the glove. All very neat.”

“To say the least,” Conway said.

“Then you went to the parking lot, found your car gone, which it certainly was — it had been gone for an hour and a half — went through the motions of looking for your car and your wife — very convincingly, I got to hand it to you — called the police, got on a trolley and went to the police station. Eight? Eight.”

The facts were so wrong, and the deductions made from them so ridiculous, that Conway could almost relax. That he was suspected at all was disturbing, but they were, as yet, so far from knowing the real facts of the murder that he saw no reason to be too perturbed.

“You have a great future as a fiction writer,” he said to Bauer. “That makes a very nice story — except that at nine-o-four I was in the movie with my wife, and at nine-thirty I walked with her to the parking lot and the car was there. How do you explain that?”

“Very simply,” Davis said. “You’re the fiction writer. You weren’t in the movie at nine-o-four, or any other time, because you didn’t go back to the theatre after you left the drugstore. The doorman remembers you when you started to go in and your wife found out you were early, and called you an idiot, and walked off, with you following her. But he didn’t see you come back.”

“We went back just before the picture started. There was a crowd going in.”

“And neither he nor anyone else saw you leave,” Davis continued. “And you said you left before the end of the picture, so there was no crowd coming out then.”

“He was—” Conway stopped himself in time. He had said they had left only a minute before the end of the picture; if he said that the doorman was at the popcorn counter when they left, his lie might be revealed, which could lead to other disclosures.

“How could the doorman be expected to remember everyone who walked past him in the course of the evening?” he said. “You’d have a fine time convincing a jury I wasn’t in the theatre just because the doorman doesn’t remember my going in or coming out.”

“You’ve got something there,” Davis agreed. “That would be quite an assignment. But” — he paused and smiled affably — “the joke’s on you. Because I don’t have to prove you weren’t in the theatre. You just go ahead and try to prove you were. We haven’t been able to, and” — the smile vanished utterly — “you won’t be able to either, because you weren’t there. But — I can prove everything eke.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at Conway speculatively. “And now, do you want to play ball?”

“You’re nuts!” Conway said, but he was rigid with terror. He had selected the seats in the theatre with a view to being inconspicuous, so that their early exit would not be noticed; their leaving had attracted no attention, which he had counted as an added bit of luck. He had foreseen no need of having to prove his presence in the theatre, for he could not have imagined that a muddle-headed detective would manage to prove, to a presumably sane district attorney, that the crime had taken place an hour earlier than it actually had.

The muddle-headed detective spoke. “Mind if I say something to him?” he asked Davis.

“Go ahead.”

“Like I told you,” he said to Conway, “I take an interest in my clients. You’re not really a client now, of course, but I’m still interested in you. Naturally, you shouldn’t of killed her, but I can see extenuating circumstances.”

“You’re seeing double,” Conway said.

“I knew there was something phoney when I saw that glove you said she sent you to get. And, of course, I was right. But that’s one of the things makes me think it wasn’t premeditated, because if you’d planned it, you’d of figured out something better than that, you being a writer and all, so I’m right on that one, too. Well, if it wasn’t premeditated, it wasn’t first-degree murder. So, if you play ball with the D. A., maybe he’ll let it go at second-degree. Can’t ask for more than that.” He turned to Davis. “How about it?”

“There do seem to have been some extenuating circumstances,” Davis said. “Of course, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to the boss. In fact, I’ll definitely recommend that we accept a plea of second-degree — if you’ll co-operate.”

“You’re all insane,” Conway said, and his voice shook with real outrage, the righteous indignation of the artist who has created a perfect work, only to have it misunderstood, distorted, perverted, by a crass and ignorant public. “This whole idiotic accusation stems from the fact that this chowderhead detective, advised by his cretin girl friend, thinks it’s unnatural for a woman to get upset about losing a glove — even an old, worn one. From that magnificent start, he’s gone on to a series of asinine deductions, based on falsified facts. I knew my wife had withdrawn the money from the bank — I didn’t know she had it with her in the drugstore, but that discovery would hardly put me into a homicidal rage. I knew nothing at all about Taylor until I was told about him this morning in this office — and I still don’t know if it’s true. I was in the theatre at nine o’clock, and the car was parked at ten. I don’t know that,” he hastened to add, “but that’s what you’ve said right along, and I do know it wasn’t parked at nine, because it was in the parking lot, and my wife was alive, at nine-thirty. And there aren’t any extenuating circumstances, because there aren’t any circumstances at all.”

Conway found that he was convincing himself, which, after all, was not too surprising, because everything he had said was true. “All this ‘evidence’ you think you have is phoney from start to finish,” he continued, “and if you’re silly enough to take me into court, I’ll prove it to any jury in the world — unless they’re all raving lunatics.”

“He don’t know what he’s saying,” Bauer said.

“Okay, Conway.” Davis turned to Ramsden. “Book him,” he said, and started for the door, then stopped and addressed Conway again. “If you change your mind, let me know. But make it quick, because if you’re going to stick to your story, and won’t co-operate, I’m going to let you have the works.”

Chapter thirteen

By noon of the next day Conway had had a session with the district attorney himself, been arraigned, and spent an unpleasant hour with a phalanx of reporters and photographers. He had only just been locked up in his cell when a small, round-faced man appeared at the barred door. A uniformed policeman retreated to a discreet distance.

“I’m John Henry Gates,” the man said.

Conway reacted at the mention of the name of the most celebrated criminal lawyer on the Coast. “Looks like you’re in a jam,” the man continued.

“Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks,” Conway ventured.

Gates’s finger traveled lightly up and down one of the iron bars of the door. “These things aren’t licorice, you know. Look,” he said, “I haven’t got much time — I’ll be late for my golf game as it is. I don’t suppose they’ve given you a chance to get hold of an attorney yet?”

“No,” Conway said. “I’ve been trying to think who to—”

“Never mind the salestalk,” the lawyer said. “I’ve already been sold. That sister-in-law of yours is a very persuasive wench. Found her waiting for me when I got up this morning, so she had breakfast with me. Very easy to look at across a breakfast table, she is — wouldn’t mind quite a spell of that, myself. Anyway, she talked me into this, which took some pretty good talking — or something. That detective, Bauer — nice guy, even if he is a little conceited — filled me in on the details, and then I talked to the D. A. I wanted to get the dope from them, see what the chances were, before I saw you — didn’t want to get your hopes up thinking I’d take the case, till I knew myself whether there was any point in it. But it shouldn’t be too tough.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Conway said. “I’ve been getting a little worried.”

“I’ll go over all the details with you tomorrow,” Gates said. “But before tomorrow, we get Miss Betty out of town.” Conway started to protest, but the attorney stopped him. “I know — she’s just a very good friend, but some people might not think so. Back to Topeka for her tonight.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Conway conceded. “Can I see her before she goes?”

“She’s waiting now — it’s foolish, but she insisted. Just be sure you don’t play any big love scene.” Conway nodded his acquiescence.

“Just one more thing for now. Have you got a clean record?”

“What do you mean?”

“Police record. Ever been arrested?”

“Nothing worse than overtime parking.”

“Good. Were you in the war?”

“Three and a half years.”

“Great. Wounded?”

“N-no.” The hesitation was almost imperceptible, but the attorney caught it.

“Come on, don’t have any secrets from me, boy. What was it?”

“Nothing.”

“Dishonorable discharge? Don’t try to hold out on me.”

“Like hell it was.” Conway’s voice swelled with his indignation, but he lowered it after the momentary outburst. “It’s — well, I had sort of a crack-up just at the end, and I was in a hospital for about six months.”

The attorney’s face lighted up. “Wonderful!” he said.

Conway looked at the attorney in horror. “You wouldn’t use that?”

“Wouldn’t use—? What are you talking about? Certainly I’ll use it, and you’ll be very thankful we’ve got it to use.”

“But you can’t — you can’t do that. I won’t let you.”

“Look, boy, if I take you on, I’ll do things my way, I’ll use what I want, and conduct the case as I see fit. I’m doing you a favor, and don’t you forget it. There’s no money in it for me, and there’s certainly no glory in pleading a guy guilty to second-degree murder.”

Conway stared at the attorney, speechless for a moment. “Wait a minute—” He faltered.

“From what they told me,” Gates continued, “I figured I could get you off with ten years — less good behavior time, that’d be around seven. But a shell-shocked war hero, temporary insanity — if you wind up with more than five years in a nut-hut, I’ll go back to chasing ambulances.”

For a moment the picture of Helen, grinning with sardonic satisfaction, drove every other thought from Conway’s mind. Was she to win, after all? Could she still drive him into that padded cell she had threatened?

“I don’t blame you for being sensitive about the insanity gag,” the attorney went on, in a more sympathetic tone. “But on a straight guilty plea, even with the extenuating circumstances, you could get twenty years. I think I can do better than that for you, but even if it were ten—”

Conway forced himself to be calm, to forget about Helen, to face the real issue. “There’s been a slight misunderstanding here, Mr. Gates,” he said. “I’m not going to plead guilty, because I’m innocent. This whole thing is a frame — they had to pin this on someone, so they’ve dreamed up a lot of phoney evidence—”

“It didn’t sound phoney to me,” the attorney said. “You and I don’t have to play games, you know — I’m your lawyer.”

“I don’t want a lawyer who’ll get me off with ten years — or five,” Conway shouted. “I want one who believes I’m innocent.”

“Then you better get one.” Gates started away, then turned. “Although personally I don’t know any members of the California Bar who are under six years of age.”

Stunned, Conway watched the attorney disappear down the corridor, and was conscious of a rising tide of misgivings within himself. John Henry Gates was a shrewd, a brilliant attorney. It was unbelievable that he should be taken in by the mass of falsehoods Bauer and an assistant district attorney had fabricated. But could it be, Conway wondered, that others might believe this distortion of facts — that he was really in danger from this incredible fiction? His mind reeled in a turmoil of indecision.

The officer, who had left with Bates, reappeared, followed by Betty. When she caught sight of Conway she hurried past the policeman and was at the cell door in an instant.

“Oh, darling, are you all right?” Her hands sought his, but the wire netting that covered the bars limited their contact to the fraction of a fingertip. The policeman leaned against a cell across the corridor, in sight, but out of earshot.

“I’m fine,” Conway said, “now that I’ve seen you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, my darling?”

“Tell you what?”

“You knew I knew you had done it,” she said. “But I didn’t know how — I didn’t know how you’d made them think you hadn’t. If only you’d told me, I wouldn’t have been such an idiot — I’d never have mentioned that wretched rebroadcast.” She was pleading for understanding and forgiveness, and her eyes were moist as she went on. “I couldn’t guess that everything depended on that.”

“It didn’t. The whole thing’s ridiculous. Please don’t blame yourself, my sweet.”

“You’re here, behind these bars so that I can’t even touch you. That’s not ridiculous,” she said, and there was no sign of tears now. “But — we can’t think about that... They say that Gates is the best man out here. How did you like him?”

“He wants me to plead guilty to second-degree.”

“Well, naturally,” she said.

“Look, Betty,” he said earnestly. “The car wasn’t parked at nine-four, as they claim now. I was in the theatre with Helen then, and we got in the car in the parking lot at nine-thirty.”

“Darling, please don’t,” she begged. “Not to me — you don’t have to. Bauer told me the case they’ve got. He likes you — and he says your only chance is to plead guilty. Gates thinks he can get you off with seven or eight years.”

“Whose side are you on?” Conway demanded. “Mine or Bauer’s?”

“I know how you feel,” she said gently. “But don’t say things like that. I love you, and you’re the only person in the world I care about. But I also know what Gates and Bauer think — that you have no choice but to plead guilty. They know, I know, the district attorney knows — the jury would know. Oh, my dearest, I couldn’t bear it if you — if—” The tears came now, and there was no doubting her sincerity.

“Did you say you loved me?” he asked.

“You know I do.”

“Gates seemed pretty sure he could get me off with seven years. Maybe — maybe even less.”

“It’s so much better than taking a chance.”

“Would you wait for me?”

“I’d marry you this minute if you wanted me to — and if we could. But that would be putting a noose around your neck.”

“I know that. But would you wait for me?”

“I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “I love you.”

Conway looked at the lovely face, and into the warm, fervent eyes, and forced himself to confront reality. “We’re talking like schoolkids,” he said harshly. “You can’t promise to wait five or seven or ten years.”

“I would.”

“And if you could, and did, wait, you can’t promise to love me then,” he went on with relentless logic. “Nobody in the world could.”

“I could,” she said. “But if you don’t believe me, what do you want me to do?”

“Do you think you can go on loving me until after the trial?”

“You can’t do that — you can’t take a chance on—”

“I’ve taken one chance — I’ve got to take another. Go back to Topeka, Betty, tonight. That’s the one thing Gates said that made sense. Just don’t fall in love with anybody else for a few months.”

“Darling, I won’t let you do this on my account. I’ll—”

“I’m not doing it just on your account. But I can’t let them get away with this — it would be a miscarriage of justice. If I let them lock me up for seven years, I’d be really insane. Don’t worry, my sweet — I’ll see you in Topeka.”

Arthur Conway sat, his head in his hands, as Assistant District Attorney Davis swung into the conclusion of his summing up to the jury. Conway wondered why he had ever thought of it as a perfect murder: it didn’t sound like one as Davis told it.

“The one thing you have to decide is whether this defendant has told the truth,” Davis said.

Conway reflected that he had told the truth, and practically nothing but the truth. Not, of course, the whole truth, although, in a way, he had been closer to it than the prosecution.

“... How can anyone believe this man’s story that he was in the theatre at the time the murder car was parked by the murderer?” Davis continued.

How, indeed? Conway wondered. His own attorney — the one he had engaged when Gates refused to take the case except on his own terms — hadn’t believed him; had urged him to accept the prosecutor’s offer right up until the opening of the trial. But — might there be one — just one — of those twelve men and women who had believed him?

“... His only defense, his only alibi, is that he was in the theatre at that time. But he has been unable to produce one single witness to support that alibi...”

That was true, too. And there had been no way to shake the testimony of the couple who established the time the car had been parked; no way, that is, except to reveal that he himself had parked it at ten.

“... We have shown that the defendant had a motive — two motives, in fact...”

All the motives in the world except the right one, Conway reflected.

“... The defendant has claimed that he and his wife were on good terms — a bald-faced He, for she hated the defendant, intended to divorce him and planned to marry Taylor. When he discovered, in the drugstore, that she had withdrawn the money from the bank, she saw no reason for any further concealment, and she told him about Taylor. And then he strangled her — murdered her in cold blood.”

How can he he so wrong, and yet so convincing, Conway wondered. Can’t they realize that if it had been that way, I could have divorced her? I wouldn’t have had to kill her. He found himself looking at the entire proceedings in a detached fashion, rather like a critic watching a somewhat implausible play. He still found it hard to believe that he could be convicted of a crime, even though he had committed it, on such a web of utterly false and circumstantial evidence.

“... I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to remember one further thing. The murdered woman is not on trial here. If she took money from their bank account which was not all hers, there are laws covering theft, and this defendant could have found redress in the courts. If her conduct with Taylor was not above reproach, there are laws which provide for divorce. Instead of invoking the law, this man murdered her, and there are laws covering that, too. Your duty is to see that this man pays the penalty the law provides for murder.”

The jury was back in less than two hours with its verdict. Guilty. Murder in the First Degree. Without recommendations.

After his appeal had been denied he received a note, unsigned, but postmarked Topeka. “I wish you’d believed me,” it read, “because I’m going to go on loving you all my life.” But he told himself that the message was intended to convey more solace than truth; that it could not be an accurate prophecy.

But until the end — which came shortly after he entered the gas chamber at San Quentin — Conway vowed that he was the victim of the foulest miscarriage of justice in the history of California. And, in a sense, he was.

Was, that is, if you view justice as a sort of game, played strictly according to rules, with the method, and not the ultimate result, the important thing. If, on the other hand, you string along with the dictionary definition, then Conway received no more nor less than justice, for he was rendered what was his due. So, in a sense, justice was served, too.

Content

Robert B. Sinclair
The Eleventh Hour

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen