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.
#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 have 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.
But he saw what he needed to. The car was comfortably filled; enough so that one passenger, more or less, would not be noticed. He could slow his pace somewhat, now, so that he would not be conspicuous, and he could see that the car had a green light and did not stop at Wilcox. A block farther on, at Cahuenga, it did stop; he was able to see people standing at the exit door. Conway relaxed; he could take it easy now. The timing would be right: he would reach the police station exactly when he would have had he been on the trolley.
He mopped the perspiration from his face and hands. He’d have to cool off a bit in these three blocks. It would be natural to be perspiring somewhat, to be a little out of breath, when he arrived, but his present condition could hardly be excused by a three-block walk. He went over the details of what he would say. Everything had gone as scheduled, so far, exactly according to plan.
His legs still ached and his clothing was moist, but he had regained his breath and the perspiration did not show when he arrived at the station. The sergeant at the desk looked up over his paper with some annoyance as Conway came up to him. The after-dinner rush of stolen car reports was over, and it would be a little while before the drunks started being hauled in; this was his rest period, and he disliked having it broken in on.
“Sergeant, my wife’s disappeared, and so has my car.” Conway found that he did not have to simulate his breathlessness.
“Yeah? What happened?”
Conway related the story, much as he had before. “And after the police car drove off, I looked around some more,” he concluded. “Then a streetcar came along, and I decided I wanted to report it, so I jumped on the car and came down here.”
“Why don’t you call up and see if she’s home now?” the sergeant suggested.
“I did once, but — what time is it?” They both looked at the clock above the desk. “Ten twenty-four. I’ll try it again.”
“There’s a phone booth in the hall,” the sergeant said, and returned to his newspaper.
Conway dialed the number and, because the time had now been established and there was no longer need for haste, let it ring half a dozen times before he returned to the desk. “No answer,” he said.
The sergeant reluctantly put aside his paper and reached for a form. “Sure you want to do this now?” he asked. “Why don’t you wait till morning? She probably just drove off with somebody to have a drink.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Conway wondered if he was playing the part of the fatuous, doting husband too convincingly. He had done everything he could to seem a ludicrous figure to the squad-car men. He did not want this pile of suet behind the desk to take him too seriously, either; on the other hand neither did he want to have to insist too much, in order to get the report on the police blotter. And it had to be there, in writing that even an assistant district attorney could read.
“She’d never do anything like that,” he repeated. “She didn’t like to drive, and she wouldn’t go off in my car with anyone else — she wouldn’t be that inconsiderate.” Careful now, don’t overdo it, he cautioned himself. “Besides we know hardly anyone out here. Who would she meet to go anywhere with?”
The sergeant rubbed his face with his hand, and Conway saw the smile he was trying to conceal — the same smile which had been on the faces of the radio-car men. The memory of the disappearance of Mrs. Yates was still green. But this grin was too obvious to be concealed — or to be ignored.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Conway said. “You’re remembering that woman who left her husband in the market and went off to a motel with that boy.” Indignation came into his voice. “Well, my wife’s not like that, and don’t go thinking she is.”
The grin disappeared. “No, no — I wasn’t thinking of that at all. Nothing like it.” He was having difficulty keeping the smile off his face; he picked up a pen and bent over the desk. “Now, where’d you say this happened?”
Conway went over the details again; there were two forms to fill out and he had to sign both of them. He started to leave as two policemen came in.
“Just be sure to let us know if she turns up,” the sergeant called after him. Conway turned and nodded his assent. The sergeant’s grin was coming back; he could hardly wait to tell his story to an audience.
Conway did not delay. He only hoped the sergeant would make it good.
Conway was careful to stay in character on the bus, and when he reached home he did not even stop for the drink he had been longing for. He went directly to work.
He put Helen’s soiled glove, which he had retrieved from the theatre, in one of the drawers of his dresser, and placed his own gloves in another drawer. The wallet he put in a metal box in his desk in which he kept his insurance policies. He turned the pocket of his coat, in which he had carried the mustache, inside out and vacuumed it.
And always, in the back of his mind, there was the problem of Helen’s gloves: the new ones, the ones she had bought today and had worn tonight. He dared not burn them: a thorough investigation might reveal that she had purchased gloves today, and he would have no way of accounting for their disappearance. He examined them carefully, under the strongest light he could find: they were not really soiled, but neither did they have that pristine quality which white gloves seem to lose the moment they are put on a hand. Here was a gamble he had to take, because he had deviated from the plan. He found some cleaning fluid, poured it in the wash basin, dunked the gloves in it, hung them up, and turned an electric fan on them, to hasten their drying.
Desperately he wanted that drink, but he refused to risk it. He made a sandwich and washed it down with a glass of milk. He longed to turn out the lights and get into bed; he had no fear of ghosts or conscience, he wanted only to relax, and forget his need for action or acting.
But it might seem strange, later, if the lights were turned off too early, and besides, there were still things to do. When, finally, the gloves were dry, he took them to the kitchen and ironed them. When he finished he was satisfied it would take an expert to determine whether they had ever been worn. He put them back in Helen’s handkerchief drawer. Now he might have that drink.
He made a highball, took it to his room, and started to undress. The drink was only half-finished when he was ready for bed. He remembered to go downstairs and turn on the porch light, and he left the hall light on. Then he closed his door, turned out the lights in his room, and got into bed to think out his program for tomorrow. But before he had even decided what time to get up, he was asleep.