“I might have expected that.”
“I have to figure out the finish before I do any more writing. I got hot about this idea and wanted to get what I had down on paper. Now I have to stop and think out the rest.” He saw the sardonic look come into her eyes, but she said nothing. He finished his breakfast as quickly as he could and went to his room.
He read over what he had written, made a few changes, and then settled down to plot out the rest of the story. He had created a murderer who had done that so-called impossible thing: committed the “perfect crime.” His problem now was to create another character who was just a little brighter than the killer: who could smell out the murder and prove that the “perfect crime” was impossible. He rejected the easy solutions which came to him; he refused to settle for the chance coincidence, the lucky guess or the unlucky slip which might — and usually does — expose the criminal. Conway had written a murderer who knew himself and his limitations, who had planned a crime he could get away with, and cast himself in a part he could play. He had to be caught, not because he did the wrong things, but because he did the right things.
For two solid days and nights Conway wrestled with the challenge he had set himself, and was no nearer a solution than when he started. By evening of the third day he had become convinced that he had conceived a perfect murder and that there was no solution.
By means of careful timing and a good deal of listening at the door, he had managed to avoid Helen for two days. Now, with the old, familiar defeat staring at him, he dared not face her. But he had to get out, out of this room, out of the house; he needed a change of scenery, of diet, of air. He listened from behind his door for over an hour; then, having heard no sound, he ventured down.
Helen was sitting in the living room like a cat outside a mousehole.
“Don’t look so surprised — I live here, you know. And don’t forget it. How long did you think you could go on ducking me the way you’ve been these last two days?”
“I haven’t been ducking you, I’ve been working.” Even as he said it he realized the feebleness of the defense, and the opening it provided her.
“Working! At what? Giving yourself a manicure? You certainly haven’t been working at that typewriter.”
He reminded himself that he must keep calm, that he must not let her lash him into a fury. “It’s the finish,” he said. “I’ve had to think it through. It’s been a tough nut to crack.”