The Eleventh Hour Read online

  “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 mov
ie 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.

  Chapter four

  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 betwee
n 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.