Ten o'clock. A distant bell marked it; I snapped on the dash light to verify it. Nanette felt me move.
"What is it, Ed?"
"Nothing. I was looking at the time."
"Ten o'clock?"
"Yes."
We fell silent. Alan would be at the gate of Turber's by now. But what reliance could we place upon that boy Charlie's word for what he would do? Perhaps he had no key to the tennis court gate at all. Or even if he had, he would forget to come. Or Turber would see him and stop him. Or worse, follow him and trap Alan. A thousand doubts and fears for Alan's safety rose to beset me.
Ten thirty. Eleven o'clock. What was Alan doing now? But I told myself: "This is 1945—not the dark ages of the past. This is civilized New York." If Turber caught Alan prowling on the premises, what of it? He wouldn't dare murder Alan. Or would he?
Waiting is a difficult thing to do. The mind grows too active. I began to think that Alan wasn't coming back. Nanette crept against me in the darkness.
"Ed, what time is it?"
"Nearly midnight."