The Eleventh Hour

by Sinclair Robert

#The squad car paused for a moment at the corner, and then turned south. That could mean they intended to drive through the alley. Conway turned and walked briskly to the parking lot. He was halfway between street and alley when he saw the glare of headlights in the alley; he stepped into the shadow of a car, and saw the squad car drive slowly past. He hurried, then, to the rear of the lot, his heart in his throat, and looked after the retreating car. It proceeded without a pause past the plumbing shop, past his car and Helen, and on to the next street, where the officers, apparently feeling they had done their duty, turned north.

Now that it had come off safely, Conway was glad that the police had inspected — in their fashion — the alley: it would be evidence that the car had been driven off, out of the vicinity. He took a quick look around the parking lot; there were no signs of anyone preparing to drive out. He tossed away the popcorn and set off down the alley, still ostensibly searching for his car and his wife. When he got to the plumber’s shop, he slipped into the open space, crouched beside his car, and waited. But there was no sound, and no headlights appeared to brighten the alley. He crept into the car, smarted the motor, and stole into the alley without lights. He could turn left, in the direction opposite the one the police car had taken, but he risked coming head-on into it if they had circled the block. Instead, he turned right, in the direction they had driven, gambling that they had not stopped just around the corner. When he reached the cross street, he turned south and drove half a block before switching on his lights; there had been no sign of the police car, and if anyone else had seen his car emerge from the alley, they had not been close enough to identify it by make or license number.

It had been three and a half minutes since the police car had driven off; the next streetcar was due to pass the drugstore in ten minutes, which meant that he could go to Fulton Street. He had picked three possible locations, his choice to depend on the amount of time left to him. Of the three, he preferred Fulton Street.

He cut over to Fairfield Avenue, which was a main thoroughfare and carried a considerable amount of traffic, and again turned south. He had not expected the squad car to report his license number, and he was not certain that they had; nevertheless it was a dangerous possibility. But on a moderately crowded street he was sure there was less risk of being spotted, even should he happen to pass a patrol car, than on a less traveled one.

He crossed Beverly Boulevard, which was the southern boundary of the Hollywood precinct; now he would at least be safe from the officers who had interviewed him. He turned east, then, heading in the direction of Hollywood, on to a quiet, residential street with little traffic. He was conscious of the added danger, but what he next had to do could not be attempted on a main thoroughfare.

He was acutely aware, suddenly, of the vast difference between inventing a perfect murder and accomplishing it. The chances of his being detected in this phase of the operation were slight; he had planned it that way. But now that he had embarked on the venture, those chances loomed terrifyingly large: an accident, a traffic violation, anything which might unluckily arouse the suspicion of a cruising police car, could mean disaster. In his story he had refused to take advantage of good luck, but he had arbitrarily ruled out bad. He was sweating as he realized that no mortal could do that with impunity. Then it occurred to him that his apprehension was getting in the way of the things he had to do. He unlocked the glove compartment, took out the towel, and put on the hat and gloves.

As he drove, he folded the towel so that he had a rectangle about an inch thick, and then slipped one arm out of his jacket. When he was stopped by a traffic light, he leaned down, draped the towel over his shoulders, and then, careful not to disturb the smoothness of the towel, put on his coat, pulling the collar high so that none of the towel showed over the edge. He buttoned the jacket; the towel underneath made it too tight, and it pulled in a strange way. He twisted to look at himself in the rear-view mirror in profile: he had the appearance of a man round-shouldered to an extreme. Not quite a hunchback, but verging on a deformity. It would fit in with what he expected would be the police theory.

At the next stop light he took the mustache from his pocket, stuck it on his upper lip, and examined it in the dimness of the mirror. It’ll get by, he thought. He glanced at the time: he was on schedule. A few moments later he turned south, circled the block, and turned north into Fulton Street. He drove slowly, peering intently at the houses.

Conway had settled on this particular block the first evening he had started on the story, and had described it in detail. The houses were small, one-family dwellings, most of them with front porches. His further inspection last night had confirmed his first impression: there were a good many young people in the block, and most of the porches had been in use. That was the important thing, because he had to have witnesses.

But now, whether because of the hour or the sudden drop in temperature, the street appeared deserted. For a moment terror struck him: he was not prepared to change his plan, nor could he improvise, and it was too late to go to the alternative locations he had picked. The timing had been planned, the schedule worked out, with this block in mind, and his alibi depended on it. Then his panic subsided as, almost at the end of the block, silhouetted against an open window, he saw a couple seated in a porch swing.