The Eleventh Hour (12 page)

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.

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.”