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.