He went upstairs and sat down before the typewriter. But he was hearing the ring of every telephone in the neighborhood, and between going to the stairs to be sure it was not his, and looking out the window every time it seemed a car might be stopping, he accomplished almost nothing. About five o’clock his phone did ring, and he had to rehearse his “Hello” three times before he dared lift the instrument and speak the word into the mouthpiece. But it was a wrong number, and he returned to his room nervous and let down.
He found he had neither the ambition to cook dinner nor the appetite to eat it. He had a sandwich and then tried, first, writing, then reading, then solitaire. Finally he sat and stared at the ceiling.
By one o’clock he felt that he might sleep. He dozed off almost as soon as he was in bed, and was wide-awake in half an hour. He spent the rest of the night alternately smoking, reading, drinking hot milk, pacing the floor, drinking beer, and trying to sleep; giving up, and then repeating the whole routine. A little after seven he did doze off, and was awake at eight. He got up then and faced the bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes in the mirror. Because he was so sure it was only a matter of minutes, he shaved, showered and dressed before he went downstairs. He called the police station, and it was no longer a routine call. Because his anxiety was so genuine, he tried to curb it, and wondered, as he did, whether it sounded less convincing than when he was play-acting.
The morning was as interminable as the night had been. How long, he wondered, could one stand going on in this vacuum? He puttered about the house, emptying ashtrays, washing dishes. It had been two days before the waitress had been found, he knew; he had even counted on a similar lapse of time. He opened the windows, but the breezes that wandered in had lost their magic. That couple who had seen him park the car: how long would they wait before reporting it? The longer the better, he tried to tell himself. He wished that he might go into the garden and do some physical labor; it might get his mind off this gnawing worry. But he might be spoken to by one of the neighbors; better not to risk it. He stared at the sheet of paper in the typewriter, and told himself that as soon as the suspense was over, he’d be able to work.
About one o’clock he went to the kitchen, looked at the steaks and chops and cold chicken he had brought home, and made himself a cheese sandwich. He ate in the kitchen; the cheese seemed dry and tasteless and it was an effort to down it. He gave up when he had eaten half of it, threw the remainder away, and took the plate and the knife he had used to the sink.
He was holding the plate under the faucet when the bell rang. It sounded with such clarion loudness that he dropped the plate, smashing it, and stood staring at the source of the startling sound. It was the front doorbell, which happened to be on the wall over the sink, and he had heard it so seldom in all the time he had lived in the house, that it was several moments before he realized what it was. He dried his hands and went to the door.
“Mr. Arthur Conway?” Conway nodded wordlessly. “My name’s Larkin. Homicide Bureau. Mind if I come in?”
Conway opened the door wider and stepped aside. He had expected a telephone call; that would have given him time to prepare himself for the inevitable police interview. He’d had two days to prepare, true, but he needed those few minutes between the call and the meeting. This detective, here without warning — did it mean something had gone wrong?
“What is it?” he said, and his mouth was dry.
“Sit down, Mr. Conway,” the detective said. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.”