Conway was not even sure that he would be able to drive, but somehow he started the car, got it out of the garage, and headed down the street. He stopped at the first bar he saw, went in, and sat in the far corner of the last booth.
By the time he finished his second drink he had stopped shaking and was able to think with some degree of clarity. And the more clearly he saw things, the worse they became. Not that he doubted his sanity — now. But he was afraid of what might happen.
Conway had gone through the war until two days before it ended. Then something gave way. The men called it shell shock, and the doctors called it combat fatigue, but in any language it was a crack-up. It got him back to a hospital in the States in a hurry, and before he was discharged, six months later, the doctor had given him the final word.
“You’re okay,” he had said. “You’re okay now, and you’ll continue to be. Just don’t worry. Don’t worry, don’t let things get you down. Don’t let yourself get too excited, or fly off the handle, or get in a rage. That’s good advice for anybody — reduces the danger of ulcers, among other things. But it’s especially good for you, after what you’ve been through.”
His outfit had been kept in Germany, and he was released from the hospital just two days before they were processed out through Fort Dix. They knew what had happened to him, but it was not mentioned in the course of the three-day reunion and celebration they staged in New York. They had been through too much together for anyone to be blamed for cracking; they had all been on the verge of it at one time or another.
But — they knew.
He had told Helen about it before they were married, and she had dismissed it as of no importance; it had never been brought up since. He had almost forgotten it himself until recently — until, he realized, a couple of months ago, when he had begun to fear the increasingly frequent battles with Helen. The psychiatrist’s words had come back to him, and he had made a conscious effort to restrain himself, as he became aware of his growing tension and insecurity. But he had not known that Helen knew that, nor that she was doing it for just that reason.
He tried to look at the thing from every angle. He would not write those letters: that he couldn’t do, no matter what happened. But if he didn’t, he dared not stay on with her: he knew she would carry out her threat, and he was honestly afraid to face it. He could think of no work he could get; he had no references, had had no job since the army. And he felt sure that Helen would find him in a very short time. He was afraid of what the feeling of being a fugitive might do to him: the chance of being hauled up on charges of desertion, non-support; the threat of being committed to a psychiatric ward. He had a car, but it was registered in both their names; he couldn’t sell it, and if he went off in it, she’d have a warrant out before morning.
And no matter what he did, she’d write for the money — and get it. If he tried to warn them, tell them not to send her anything, it would be only added support for the pitiful story she’d give them. She’d figured that out, too: he could see that letter she would write. “Arthur hasn’t been well... won’t admit it... can’t even make myself write down what it is...” — the soul of delicacy, the devoted wife — “... but you know... result of that horrible war... hasn’t been able to work... need money... private sanitarium... psychiatrists...” It would be too easy.
He reached in his pocket and withdrew his total assets — seven dollars and thirty cents. Minus, he remembered, the cost of the three drinks. This was no time to be squandering money on liquor. He paid the check and left.
There was no one in California he could turn to. The only real friends they had had, the Gordons, had gone back East three months ago. They had come to know only a few other people; they were all friends of Helen’s, and he neither knew nor liked any of them very well. He started to drive aimlessly.
An hour ago, before this cataclysm had struck, he had emerged from his room with the idea of driving to the locale of his story in the hope of getting a notion which would give him a finish. Now his interest in the story was nil, but he needed something to put his mind to; later, perhaps, he could come back to the problem of Helen with some degree of reason.
So he tried to concentrate on the actions of his murderer, looking for the flaw in his plan that would trip him up. But the more he examined it, the more perfect the murder appeared. He could find no loophole anywhere. There wasn’t one.
He drove over to Santa Monica Boulevard and out toward the theatre which he had used as the prototype for the one in his story. As he passed it, he noticed the title on the marquee: “Song of Manhattan.” Irrelevantly, he remembered that Helen had mentioned that she had tried to see it at one of the big Hollywood theatres, but there had been a line, and she hadn’t wanted to wait.
And then, suddenly, it hit him. Hit him so hard that he almost lost control of the car. Trembling, he pulled over to the curb and stopped.
If this fictional murder was so perfect, he had his solution. Not of the story — but for Helen and himself.
It was so obvious, now, that the wife in the story was Helen — and the murderer himself. He wondered how long it had been in his subconscious. More important, he wondered if he dared, if he had the courage, to do it. But he had to make the attempt: there was no other way out. It wasn’t even murder, really — it was self-defense.
He dismissed the moral aspects quickly: killing Helen was as necessary and justifiable as killing Germans had been. They had represented an evil thing — Helen was evil in herself. His real concern was whether he could get away with it.
He had gone over the story so often in the past three days that he knew it by heart. But now he reviewed the facts he had actually checked — distances, timing, and locations — acutely aware of the difference between an action stated on a printed page and that same action actually accomplished. To be safe, he would have to verify the timing of the entire plan.
But first he got a newspaper and turned to the amusement section. “Song of Manhattan” was playing in a half-dozen of the second-run theatres; he selected one in Culver City, where it was extremely unlikely that he would be seen by anyone who knew him, telephoned, and learned that the picture would go on in an hour and a half.
He rehearsed, then, the plan he had devised for his fictional murderer; the plan he now proposed to make a reality. The timing had to be exact, and he referred frequently to his wrist watch with its luminous hands and dial. It had been Helen’s gift to him on their first anniversary; he was faintly pleased at the irony of the fact that it was now invaluable in planning her murder.
He completed his practice runs, satisfied that he was prepared for every contingency. Then, on his way to Culver City, he found a quiet residential street, set his speedometer, and drove exactly five-tenths of a mile. He looked at his watch and then walked as rapidly as he thought he could without attracting attention, back to his starting point.
He smiled as he realized that he had endowed his murderer with his own solitary athletic accomplishment: the speed with which he could walk. His normal pace was considerably faster than average, and he could, when he tried, keep up with another man at a jog trot. But he had done little walking of late; it was essential to clock himself so that he might schedule the timing of the entire operation. When he got back to the car he was not quite satisfied with his performance; he would have to do a little better, but he was confident that he could.
He wondered if he could contain himself to sit through the picture. But it had to be done, and when it was over, he left the theatre elated. The ending was practically perfect for his purpose. Tommy Miller and Mary Hart were the stars, and Helen adored Miller and couldn’t stand Mary Hart. The last six minutes — he had timed it to the second — consisted of a big musical number which was all Mary Hart, with Miller coming on only for a quick clinch before the fade-out. He was certain that Helen could be persuaded to walk out on that.
The house was dark when he got home, and he went directly to his room and locked the door. If he was to go through with his plan, there was one completely damning piece of evidence which must be destroyed. He took the unfinished manuscript from his desk and looked at it regretfully. But the regret was only for the hopes he had had for the story, not for what he was about to do. He was troubled by no indecision; he realized that he had made up his mind to kill Helen at the instant the thought first struck him and ever since had only been reassuring himself of the details of the plan. The details were in order, the murder was practical, the risk of detection slight. Two problems remained: in the morning the letters had to be written, but he had an idea of how that might be handled. The one important question was whether he could persuade her to go to the movie with him.
He tore up the manuscript page by page, burned the pieces, a few at a time, in a large metal ashtray, and took the charred ashes which remained and put them in the incinerator in the back yard. He went to bed then, expecting to sleep little, if at all. But the excitement of the early evening had been replaced by a kind of confident serenity, for the future promised peace. He was asleep before he really had time to savor the prospect.
Helen came down to breakfast as he got up from the table. Their eyes met, and she uttered one word.
“Noon.”
“You win,” he said.
Back in his room, he sat down at the typewriter. There was no time to waste. He wrote to Allen first. It was in the same tone as all the other letters he had written him, full of trivia, anecdotes, passing on gossip, imparting news of himself and Helen. This last was difficult, for it was almost entirely fictional: any hint of trouble between them was carefully omitted. And there was no mention at all of any need for money.
He wrote similar letters to the others, varying them as much as was possible without taking too much time; he was doubtful that Helen would continue to respect the privacy of his room. When he had finished the fifth, he addressed the envelopes, inserted the letters, and put them, unsealed, in the inside pocket of his jacket, together with five airmail stamps. There would be nothing strange in the fact that he had written all five of them the same day; it was what he usually did, after putting off answering their letters for somewhat more than a decent interval.
He started, then, on the letters Helen wanted him to write. He knew she would insist on reading them, so he wrote them as she had directed. And even though he knew they would never be seen by any other eyes, he was appalled to read what he was putting on paper.
He was on the final letter when Helen walked in without knocking. “It’s taken you long enough,” she said as she picked up the four which were completed.
“They’re not easy to write. I made a couple of false starts.”
“As usual,” she said without lifting her eyes from the letters.
By the time she had got through the four, he had finished the last one, and she read that, too. He looked at her as she stood by the window and felt no compunction at all for what he planned to do: the fact that, having read the letters, she could still insist on sending them, was added justification. He was thankful he had found a way to take care of her as she deserved.
“I guess they’re all right. That ought to get ’em,” she said. “Where are the envelopes?”
“I’ll type them now and mail them after lunch.”
“Will you really?” He hadn’t actually expected to get away with it that easily. “You just type the envelopes and I’ll take care of the rest.”
He typed the envelopes carefully, exactly duplicating the format of the others he had put in his pocket. And it was time, he thought, to start placating her if he hoped to get her to accompany him to the theatre.
“Look, Helen—” He inserted an envelope in the machine. “I’m not going to double-cross you. I don’t like doing this thing, but I have no choice. Now that I’ve written the letters, I’m as anxious to get it over with as you are. But it’ll be at least a week before we hear from them all, so we’re stuck here in this house together for at least that long. How about a truce?”
She looked at him with an amused smile.
“Really scared, aren’t you?”
He hung on to himself with an effort and hoped the hatred didn’t show in his eyes.
“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just that we can both give each other a very unpleasant week. But what do we gain by it — either of us?”
“All right, Artie,” — she knew how the nickname annoyed him — “if that’s the way you want it. As you say, I’ve got nothing to gain.” She started for the door. “Finish up those envelopes. I’m going to get my bag.”
“Anything in the house for lunch?” He had reconnoitered the kitchen before breakfast and knew there was not.
“A truce doesn’t mean I’m going to start cooking for you.”
“I didn’t expect it. But as long as I have to go out to eat, I’ll drop you wherever you want to go.”
“Well, that’s mighty white of you.” The sarcasm in her voice did not entirely disguise her surprise. But she was herself very quickly. “Finish those envelopes.”
He started on the second one, as her voice came from her room. “And don’t seal them up. I’ll take care of that.”
Obviously her suspicions were not entirely allayed. This might be more difficult than he had expected. But these letters could not be mailed. If they were, it would be impossible to go ahead with his plan.
He had finished addressing the envelopes when she came back into the room, and while he put on a necktie and got into his jacket, she glanced at each letter, inserted it in its envelope, sealed it, and affixed the airmail stamps she had brought with her. When she had done all five, she put them in her bag and went downstairs.
He took the other set of letters from his pocket, quickly sealed and stamped them, and followed her. She was standing before the mirror in the hall, giving her lips a final going-over, which would take at least a couple of minutes; her bag stood on the table beside her. Conway wandered into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the bottle that was kept in the refrigerator, and slammed the glass to the floor. It broke into a hundred pieces, the water splashed all over, and the crash brought her to the door of the kitchen.
“Now what?”
“The glass slipped out of my hand. I’ll clean it up.”
He started toward the small coat closet off the front entry hall which, because cupboard space in the kitchen was at a premium, served as a broom closet. Helen resumed work on her mouth.
“I’m afraid it’s one of the good glasses,” he said.
“Oh, no!” she wailed, and went into the kitchen, knelt, and examined the pieces. What she hoped to accomplish by this closer inspection, Conway neither knew nor cared; he had gambled that it would be an instinctive reaction, and won. He paused at her handbag for a split second on his way to the closet, replaced the letters in it with the ones he took from his pocket almost without breaking stride, and was on his way back to the kitchen with broom and dustpan as she returned to the hall.
“Ox,” she muttered as she passed him. He almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been so easy, so smooth; maybe it was an omen.