The Eleventh Hour

by Robert Bruce Sinclair

  “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 whethe
r 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.