The Eleventh Hour

by Robert Bruce Sinclair

  “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.”
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  “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 h
ave 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.