The Eleventh Hour

by Sinclair Robert

He pulled up and parked in front of the house without having to back up, and noticed that the curb was unusually high. So he backed once, to get very close, and there was a grinding screech as the fender scraped against the concrete. They’ve got to notice that, he reasoned.

He cut the lights and switched off the ignition, leaving the keys in the lock. He rolled up the windows and locked the door from the inside. He leaned over into the back and pulled the coat to cover a bit of shoe which was exposed. He bent down in the front seat so that, unobserved, he might press the mustache more firmly to his lip. Then he got out of the car and started off.

He went no more than three or four steps when he stopped, returned to the car, and locked the door. He could hear the radio through the open window of the house. He turned and walked off as rapidly as he could without belying his hunched shoulders. He saw no one, either in the houses or on the street, but there were at least two witnesses who would certainly establish the approximate time the car was parked. That was all he really needed. He turned the corner, consulted his watch, straightened a little, and walked more rapidly.

Had he taken the trolley from the drugstore to the police station, he would have had a thirteen-minute wait, followed by an eleven-minute ride to the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Wilcox. Ten and a half minutes had elapsed since the police car had left him; there remained thirteen and a half minutes to walk the one and four-tenths miles to the corner where he would have gotten off the trolley to go to the police station. It meant walking at the rate of a mile in less than ten minutes, a feat which almost any man would find impossible. Conway was counting on the fact that the police would believe it impossible for him: that was part of the plan.

He turned another corner and quickened his pace. The mustache bothered him and it had served its purpose; he ripped it off and folded it in his pocket. He had wanted to be noticed when he got out of the car; now his aim was to be as inconspicuous as he could: as little like the figure who had parked the car as possible. The gloves were unusual on a spring evening; he slipped them off and into his pocket.

He turned another corner and, when he approached the middle of the block and was sure no one was near, reached up under his coat and removed the towel. He tore it into four parts and at the next corner dropped a piece into the gutter on each side of the street. He got rid of the other two pieces at the next corner. The hat followed. Ripped into three fragments, it was unrecognizable as anything but three dirty bits of felt, and it was disposed of at the next two intersections.

He was now walking as rapidly as he could; he was beginning to perspire, and the muscles in his calves were aching. But he was falling behind schedule: he was doing better than he had last night when he had timed himself, but it was not good enough, not what he had thought he could do, not what he had to do. He dared not run: nothing would be more suspicious than a man running down a quiet street late in the evening.

He still had to rid himself of the mustache, and he tore it into small pieces, dropping a tiny bit every fifty feet or so. His face streamed perspiration and his clothing clung to him, but he tried to force himself even more; he knew that it was useless and feared that even the pace he was going would attract attention, but he dared not slacken.

He had intended to zigzag, turning at every corner, so that he would come on to Santa Monica Boulevard one block west of Wilcox, but now he was forced to abandon that part of the plan. He headed straight for Santa Monica; he had, at least, to see the streetcar. He strained every nerve in the last block; he made it just as the car went past him.

But he saw what he needed to. The car was comfortably filled; enough so that one passenger, more or less, would not be noticed. He could slow his pace somewhat, now, so that he would not be conspicuous, and he could see that the car had a green light and did not stop at Wilcox. A block farther on, at Cahuenga, it did stop; he was able to see people standing at the exit door. Conway relaxed; he could take it easy now. The timing would be right: he would reach the police station exactly when he would have had he been on the trolley.