A half-dozen cars were parked in front of the house when they drove up, and eight or ten men and two women were dispersed among the cars, the porch, and the front lawn. Bauer said, “I’ll help you handle ’em,” which came as no surprise at all to Conway.
Bauer herded the group into the living room and took charge. The police, he said, were anxious to know if any private citizen had seen, or given a ride to, a suspicious character in the neighborhood where the car had been found. “Be sure to print that, and tell ’em to call the Homicide Bureau — right? Right.”
Conway told his story then; he answered questions and posed for photographs, and was photographed un-posed. The flashlights went off without warning, but Bauer was never caught off guard; he was at Conway’s elbow for every picture.
The only photograph Conway had of Helen was the one on his desk; the reporters agreed to pool it, and one photographer took it with solemn promises to the others that they would have their cuts in time for their deadlines, and an even more solemn promise to Conway that the original would be returned. And if it’s not returned, I suppose I’ll have to keep after them for it, because it might seem strange that I never want to set eyes on her again, Conway thought.
The departure of the press was the signal for the neighbors to begin calling, and the Burkes, who lived next door, arrived as Conway was standing at the door with Bauer.
“I’ll let you know if anything happens,” the detective said as he left. “Stay close to the phone.”
A little after six the last of the callers departed. Conway locked the door, drew the shades, and retired to the kitchen; he drew the shades there also before turning on the light. He had no notion that this would convince anyone that he was not at home; it would, however — particularly if he did not go to the door — persuade any further callers that he wished to be alone with his grief. This idea was followed by the thought that he should have something to be alone with: he put together the components of a Martini, and decided that he could wish for no more pleasant companion for such a moment.
He sipped the Martini while he composed a wire to Betty, Helen’s half-sister. He judged she would have scant interest in the news, for they had not communicated for almost four years; their mother’s death had precipitated a feud over the estate, and they had been bitter enemies ever since. But as she was Helen’s only living relative — a fact which had influenced his decision to kill Helen, since it meant that there would be no one to take a vital interest in the case — he thought it wise to observe the amenities.
When he had sent the telegram he made another Martini, broiled a steak, and had the most thoroughly enjoyable meal in many months. He found a little brandy in an almost forgotten bottle, and savored it with his coffee. He dined in the kitchen; nevertheless he dined, and with a sense of well-being that could not have been greater had he been in the finest restaurant in California. He was at peace with the world.
After his third cup of coffee he stacked the dishes in the sink, slipped out the kitchen door, and walked to the nearest newsstand. There he got the evening newspapers without being recognized, hurried home, and retired to his room.
The story was all over page one, under gigantic headlines. There appeared to be no question that the murder was the work of a sex maniac, although in some of the stories there seemed to be an underlying disappointment that the murderer had not left one of the unprintable symbols which had distinguished some of the juicier crimes of this ilk. Bauer certainly called it, Conway thought as he skimmed through the stories, in which Captain Ramsden’s name seemed to appear in every other paragraph.
He found, finally, the sentence for which he was searching: “Captain Ramsden stated that although police are checking the story of Arthur Conway, husband of the victim, he is not under suspicion, and therefore is not being held.” Three cheers for Captain Ramsden, Conway thought. A gentleman and a scholar. I ought to remember him in my will — for assigning Sergeant Bauer, if nothing else. He went downstairs and made himself a nightcap.
Conway slept the sleep of the just for nine hours, and was awakened by the distant tinkle of the telephone downstairs. He padded down and answered it sleepily.
“Mr. Conway? Detective Sergeant Bauer.” The title was pronounced with great impressiveness. “How you feeling?”
“All right. I just woke up.” Then, hastily, “I didn’t get to sleep till daylight. I guess I was dozing just now.”
“U-um — too bad. I’ll tell you what to do for that when I see you. Never had a sleepless night in my life.”
“You’re lucky.”
“No — just common sense. Remind me to tell you. But look — what I called you about — they picked up a bunch of suspects last night. The captain thinks you ought to come down and take a look at ’em — he thinks you might recognize somebody you saw hanging around the parking lot or the theatre or someplace.” It was clear that the detective regarded all this as utter nonsense. “I’m sending a car for you — be ready in half an hour. Right?”
“Okay.”
“Right.”
Conway was relieved to find that there was no one he had ever seen in his life among the miserable crew who were herded into the line-up. Bauer, who sat beside him, occupied himself with a crossword puzzle and barely glanced up when each new group was paraded forth under the lights. When it was over, the detective did not wait for Conway’s corroboration of his own ear her judgment. “I’ll tell Ramsden you never laid eyes on any of ’em,” he said. “Wait here for me — I’ll give you a lift.”
He was back in a few minutes and they went out to the car. “Had to send Larkin out to check some things for me,” Bauer said as he got behind the wheel.
“Will I have to come down to these line-ups every day?” Conway asked.
“Prob’ly — for a while, anyhow. Ramsden’s got to go through the motions, so he can have something to tell the newspapers. How’d you like the spread you got this morning?”
“I haven’t seen the morning papers yet.”
“You haven’t?” There was a definite note of incredulity in the sergeant’s voice. “We’ll stop somewhere and you can get ’em. The pictures of you came out swell. Mine were terrible — only one decent one in the lot.”
“That’s too bad.” A pause. “Have you any idea how long Ramsden will want me to go through the motions?”
“Hard to say. Maybe till something else pops up to take peoples’ minds off this. But this is the third one of these cases in two months. Like I told you yesterday, on one of these things, there’s no place to start. And the women’s clubs will start passing resolutions, and the papers’ll be printing editorials saying it ain’t safe for a woman to be out after dark, and the department’ll get it from high, low and the middle. The captain’s not very bright, but you can see he’s in a tough spot.”
“Yes. Yes, I can.”
“So he has to cover up the best way he can. Like having you look at the bums and winos they round up every night, and saying it was a squad car found the stolen car, and—”
“But didn’t they? That’s what he told me yesterday—”
“Naw. A woman calls up and says this car’s been parked there for a couple days, and how about hauling it away? So a squad car goes over, finds out it’s stolen, sees it’s locked, and sends for a tow truck. They start to hoist it with the derrick, and that’s when somebody looks inside and sees the — well, no point going into the details. But you see what I mean. It sounds better to say the police found the stolen car. As long as the dame that phoned in don’t squawk too loud to one of the papers. That’s another little thing I got to try to take care of.”
“They certainly keep you busy.”
“I got to see her anyway. The dame that phoned in is this Elsie Daniels — the same one that was on her porch and saw the guy park the car. Ramsden should of gave her a better shake in the story he gave the papers yesterday. As long as he was going to take credit for finding the car, he should of done something for her — make her out a hero, or extra smart, or something. Anyhow, I want to see her and the boy friend together, and see if there’s anything they might of forgotten to tell me yesterday. And at the same time try to keep her from blabbing about reporting the car. Hey, you can get the papers there.”
The detective double-parked near the newsstand at the corner, and Conway got out and bought the papers, reflecting that police transportation had its advantages. When he got back in the car, Bauer snatched one of the papers and turned to an inside picture page, which was devoted entirely to the murder.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing to a picture of Conway and himself. “That’s the only one of me in the lot that’s even halfway decent. And seeing it again now, even that isn’t any too good.”
How does he shave? Conway wondered. How can he do it without looking in a mirror? Conway turned to the news story in the other paper, but the detective continued looking at the picture.
“Wait till you see the ones they got in there,” he said, indicating the paper in Conway’s hand. “My girl says I ought to raise a row, but what good would it do? The damage is done now.”
“It’s a shame,” Conway said. Some of the cars stalled behind them, unaware that a police car was causing the tie-up, began honking. Bauer handed the paper to Conway and started up.
“Next time, though, I’m going to speak to those camera monkeys — tell ’em to use a little discretion with the pictures they print. After all, it’s my career.”
Conway decided that some interest in that career would not seem amiss.
“Tell me,” he said, “how did you happen to become a detective? You didn’t start out pounding a beat, did you?”
“I should say not,” Bauer said emphatically. “I was an M. P. in the army.” The instinct of the combat soldier, even though four years in the past, made Conway gag slightly. “Made quite a record for myself, so naturally they were tickled to death to get me here in L. A. Reason I came out here was because Greta was here.”
Oh, no, Conway thought. He’s not going to tell me— “Greta?” he asked.
“My girl. Works in a drive-in over on Pico. She was overseas with a USO show — that’s when I met her. She was a movie actress. Gave it up though. Couldn’t stand all them guys making passes at her.”
“I know. I’ve heard.” Conway made a mental note that the detective’s love life would be a fascinating subject for a future conversation. But at the moment some research into his methods of professional operation seemed more practical.
“I’ve written a few detective stories,” he said. “Tell me, how do you operate? Do you go in much for scientific stuff? Or do you specialize in criminal psychology? Or what?”
“Na-ah,” said Bauer. “When I get around to it I’m going to write some real detective stories. That scientific stuff — nuts. Even fingerprints. Know what they found on the steering wheel of your car? Your fingerprints and a lot of clear spots with nothing — where the killer’s gloves had wiped off yours and left none of his own. I didn’t even bother checking the fingerprint lab — I knew that’s what they’d find. The only good this fingerprint racket does is for the guys in the glove business — they must sell millions of ’em to crooks. Nowadays anybody dumb enough to leave a fingerprint where he don’t want it, shouldn’t be arrested — he oughta be in the booby hatch.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Conway said. “So what do you do?”
“I just use common sense, that’s all. Get all the facts, put ’em together the right way, and that’s all there is to it. Naturally, you got to get some facts — that’s the trouble with a case like this, you can’t get enough of ’em. Then the trick is to put ’em together right, and that’s the difference between me and the rest of these lugs. Like I told you, that’s why they call me ‘Right’ Bauer — because I practically always am.”
And that, Conway thought, covers that subject. He looked down at the paper and thought he might bring up a more important one.
“I notice it says here that I’m not under suspicion, but my story’s being checked,” he said. “How’s the checking coming along? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“It’s done,” Bauer said. “You’re in the clear. I told you yesterday it was a sex maniac, but naturally I had to cover all the angles.”
“Naturally. And thanks for telling me.”
“Of course we want you to be where we can get hold of you for a while — as long as there’s a chance of something turning up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”
Conway, like any artist, had pride in the perfection of his work. He longed to ask the detective what he had checked; what detail, or combination of them, had been the convincing proof of his innocence. He would have enjoyed dwelling on each particular of his actions, and appraising the importance of each. But he had to console himself with the thought that not all artists are destined for public recognition; in his case, he would have to be content with anonymity.
“While I think of it,” Bauer said, “yesterday in Ramsden’s office, you said you and your wife only knew about a half-dozen people out here, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I got the list of the people you mentioned here.” He tapped his pocket. “I’ll probably have to check ’em in the next couple days.”
“Check them? What for?”
“Chiefly so’s I’ll have something to put in those reports I got to make out; I can’t just sit around Headquarters when a case like this is still hot. And there’s always the chance that I’ll turn up something — you know, that she told one of her friends about some guy making a pass at her, or something like that. It won’t happen, but then again, it just might. Anyhow, I got to cover myself.”
“I see. Sort of routine investigation?”
“Yeah. But here’s what I wanted to ask you. You must of known more people than just the ones you said yesterday. Naturally, at a time like that, you wouldn’t think of all of ’em.”
“As a matter of fact, I think I did.” Conway’s mind searched quickly, trying to discover if some trap lay behind the detective’s words. “We’d met very few people since we came out here. Let me look at the list and I’ll see if I forgot anyone.”
Bauer took a piece of paper from his notebook. “What I was wondering,” he said, “didn’t your wife have an address book or a list of phone numbers, or something like that?”
“No — yes, she did.” He had genuinely forgotten for a moment, but when he remembered, there seemed no point in concealing it. “She bought an address book when we first came out here. I don’t know whether I can find it — I haven’t seen it for months.”
“Might as well look.”
As they entered the house, Bauer headed for the stairs. “Let’s try her room first,” he said.
In the tiny hall at the head of the stairs, the detective stopped. “Another thing,” he said. “While I think of it, have you got that glove you went back to the theatre to find?”
Conway stopped in his tracks. “Yes, I think so. Why?”
“I’d like to take a gander at it.”
Conway waited, but no further explanation was forthcoming. Bauer followed him into his room, and watched as he took the glove from his dresser drawer. There’s nothing to worry about, he told himself. You’re in the clear.
Bauer walked to the window with the glove, examined it carefully, and then took from his pocket the mate to it and compared them. Conway watched him narrowly, trying to divine the cause behind this.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Bauer announced finally.
“What doesn’t?”
“Look here.” He held the gloves out for Conway’s inspection. “They’ve both been darned a couple times. There’s a rip in this one, and the ends of the fingers are worn through two places in this one and one in that. They’re no good.”
The sergeant’s observation was shockingly true. Conway remembered Helen’s attitude when she had bought the gloves: she had gotten a sadistic satisfaction in letting him think she was spending their money on a whim; she would have enjoyed it less had he known that she needed the gloves. And he hadn’t noticed their condition; neither then, nor in the hurried moment when he had changed his plan and taken them from the drawer. Again his mind raced to discover what it might mean.
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” he said.
“It doesn’t make sense, that’s all. Why would a woman make you go all the way back to that theatre to get a glove that was all worn out anyway?”
“You know how women are, Sergeant. There’s nothing that annoys them more than losing one glove.” Whatever the sergeant’s theories, he would have to admit the truth of that.
“Yeah,” Bauer conceded, “sometimes women are tough for even me to figure out. I mean, because their minds don’t always work the way a sensible person would expect them to.”
You’ve got something there, Conway thought.
“Let’s see if we can find that address book,” the detective said. He pocketed both the gloves and led the way from the room.
Conway half-feared that some emotion might well up in him when, for the first time since the night she had disappeared, he entered Helen’s room. But if there was any, it could hardly be called an emotion; he felt only the merest flicker of relief that she was not there, and never would be again. Irrelevantly, he realized that he would have to do something about disposing of Helen’s clothes.
Bauer headed straight for the dresser and opened the top drawer. Conway felt a moment of panic: it was the drawer in which he had replaced the new gloves Helen had been wearing, after he had cleaned and pressed them. The blithering idiot, Conway raged to himself. Why should he pick that particular drawer?
The detective straightened up almost immediately. In his right hand he held a small red imitation leather address book.
“See?” he said. “That’s what I mean about practically always being right.”
“It’s amazing,” Conway said. “I wouldn’t have gotten around to looking there for an hour.” Keep him taking bows, he thought.
Bauer was thumbing through the book, comparing the names he found with the ones on his list. After a few pages he stopped. “Who’s this?” he asked. Conway walked to him and looked at the open page.
“Oh,” he said. “The Gordons. They were the best friends we had out here. They went back to New York about three months ago.”
“That must be why she crossed out the address and phone number,” the sergeant observed. Conway mentally applauded this brilliant bit of deduction, but said only, “I suppose so.”
Bauer continued leafing through the book, which consisted mostly of blank white pages. “Didn’t know very many people, did you? Must of been kind of lonesome for you,” he remarked when he was halfway through.
“Not particularly,” Conway said. “Of course we’ve missed the Gordons, but my wife and I were perfectly happy just by ourselves.”
“Who’s he?” Bauer pointed at a name which, though heavily crossed out, was still readable.
“Harry Taylor?” It was several moments before Conway was able to identify the name. “We hardly knew him. We met him once when.we had dinner with the Gordons, and then he was with them one evening when they dropped in here. That must have been almost a year ago. I don’t know why she had the name in the book.”
Bauer looked at the entry more closely. “The Hillside number was crossed out first,” he announced. “See? The hard pencil? Then the Hempstead number was crossed out the same time she crossed out the name.” It was quite obvious that this was true, but Bauer pronounced it with the air of one who had just solved the Bacon ciphers, and Conway felt unaccountably annoyed.
“I don’t know why it was there in the first place,” he said.
“You must of called him up sometime.”
“I’m sure that neither my wife nor I—” Conway began, with what he realized was too glacial a dignity. Then he remembered. “Wait a minute. George and Peggy Gordon came here for dinner one night. George had to work after dinner, so Peggy suggested we try to get this Taylor to make a fourth at bridge. I don’t remember whether my wife or Mrs. Gordon made the call. At any rate, he didn’t come over.”
“Well, makes no difference. Mind if I take this? Save me copying down all these addresses and phone numbers.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll be getting along.” The detective turned to the dresser to close the drawer. With his hands on the handles, his eyes lingered for a perceptible moment on the contents inside; then, slowly, he closed it. What caused the hesitation Conway had no way of knowing, but he felt the all too familiar tightening of his throat.
The shrill clamor of the doorbell stopped him as he followed the detective from the room. Bauer stopped at the head of the stairs to let Conway precede him.
“I don’t feel like talking to anybody right now,” Conway said. “Would you do me a favor — see who it is, and try to get rid of them?”
“Sure.” The detective started down.
“I’ll wait up here. Call me when they’ve gone.” Conway retreated into Helen’s room, closed the door, and went directly to the dresser.
He pulled out the drawer as far as Bauer had and stood looking into it. The gloves lay in the corner, undisturbed; their whiteness and newness were so glaring that it seemed as though they rested in the beam of a spotlight, that made all the other contents of the drawer appear to be in shadow. Why was I such a fool? he asked himself. Why put them back here, on top of everything? I could have wrapped them up, put them in any drawer, or under the handkerchiefs, or in the back. I knew they might be evidence — why flaunt them in the face of this birdbrain?
But when he took them to the window to examine them in the sunlight, he could find no reason for his panic. To the naked eye, even of a considerably more astute observer than Sergeant Bauer, there was no evidence that the gloves had ever been worn. The police had not questioned him about his activities the afternoon before the murder; therefore they did not know the gloves had been purchased then. There was no reason for Bauer to attach any significance whatever to the gloves. But what, then, had caused him to pause before closing the drawer?
Conway returned the gloves to their place, afraid, now that Bauer had seen them, to move them to a less conspicuous spot. He stared into the drawer from where Bauer had stood, and then, remembering the other’s height, stooped to make himself three inches shorter. There was the usual clutter of a woman’s catch-all drawer: a couple of handbags, scarves, handkerchiefs, a few letters, a bank statement. Aside from the gloves, there was nothing in the drawer which had the slightest connection with the death of his wife.
Bauer’s voice, from downstairs, interrupted him. “Come down here, will you, Mr. Conway?”
He shut the drawer, convinced now that his alarm had been caused by some figment of his imagination, but genuinely frightened at the realization that he had let himself become panicked. He had not betrayed himself to Bauer, he was sure, but it had been close; anyone a little less obtuse than the detective might have noticed something. He was in the clear; not a glimmer of suspicion had been directed at him. And none would be, unless he himself directed the suspicion. That was the one thing he had to remember.