He could push it no further now. He had to trust to luck and be prepared.
Helen went to her room when they got home; he went to his and locked the door. First he went to work on the mustache, which had some sort of gum on the back for instant attachment. It was long, black, curling, and fierce, and by daylight would have deceived no one at a distance of fifty feet. But it was not going to be seen in daylight, and he trimmed it with a pair of manicure scissors so that it became a square, rather full, military type. Under a street lamp, fleetingly, it would get by. And it would be noticed.
He dug into a suitcase in which he kept some old clothes he had hoped to wear if he ever went fishing. There was a battered hat, bought before the war, and the only one he owned, for he had not worn a hat since he had come to California. It took some getting used to, but he decided it would do.
Twice he heard the sound of the telephone being dialed, and he opened the door and listened cautiously. But there was no conversation, and he concluded that her friends, whoever they were, were not at home. He still had a chance.
When he heard her return to her room and close the door, he hurried downstairs, stopping to pick up an old, frayed bath towel on the way. In the garage he examined the towel; there were laundry marks in one corner. He tore off that end, placed the hat and the towel in the glove compartment of the car, and locked it.
The incinerator was behind the garage and not visible from the house. There was the possibility, of course, that Helen might happen to come out and find him, but he had to risk it. One at a time he burned the letters he had written at Helen’s direction, the strip he had torn off the towel, and the remainder of the disguise kit. If there should be a slip, if suspicion should be directed at him and the police were to search the house, any of these could be incriminating. He made certain that nothing but ashes remained.
There was nothing else to be done now. Except— It occurred to Conway that when they started asking questions and he said he was a writer, it might be advisable to have some evidence to that effect. He went to his room and started to write a rehash of a Western story he had done once before.
At six o’clock he went downstairs, making sure that Helen, in her room, could hear him. When he paused to listen at the foot of the stairs, he heard her door open quietly. He looked up the number of the theatre and then dialed.
“Monterey Theatre?” In the tiny house he knew Helen could hear him. “What time does ‘Song of Manhattan’ go on?”
“It’s on now. Next complete show starts at seven-thirty, and ‘Song of Manhattan’ at seven-fifty-six.”