“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.