The Eleventh Hour

Chapter three

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.

“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.