Read The Eleventh Hour Online

Authors: Robert Bruce Sinclair

The Eleventh Hour (4 page)

BOOK: The Eleventh Hour
8.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“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.

BOOK: The Eleventh Hour
8.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Agent 21: The Wire by Chris Ryan
Last Gasp by Robert F Barker
Consider Phlebas by Banks, Iain M.
Riotous Assembly by Tom Sharpe
Unfettered by Sasha White
King by R.J. Larson