The Eleventh Hour (3 page)

“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.

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.