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 between 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.
“My wife and I just saw the picture,” he began, “and when we got back to the car she discovered she’d lost a glove. The doorman let me in to look for it, but I couldn’t find it, and I wondered if it had been turned in to you.”