The departure of the press was the signal for the neighbors to begin calling, and the Burkes, who lived next door, arrived as Conway was standing at the door with Bauer.
“I’ll let you know if anything happens,” the detective said as he left. “Stay close to the phone.”
A little after six the last of the callers departed. Conway locked the door, drew the shades, and retired to the kitchen; he drew the shades there also before turning on the light. He had no notion that this would convince anyone that he was not at home; it would, however — particularly if he did not go to the door — persuade any further callers that he wished to be alone with his grief. This idea was followed by the thought that he should have something to be alone with: he put together the components of a Martini, and decided that he could wish for no more pleasant companion for such a moment.
He sipped the Martini while he composed a wire to Betty, Helen’s half-sister. He judged she would have scant interest in the news, for they had not communicated for almost four years; their mother’s death had precipitated a feud over the estate, and they had been bitter enemies ever since. But as she was Helen’s only living relative — a fact which had influenced his decision to kill Helen, since it meant that there would be no one to take a vital interest in the case — he thought it wise to observe the amenities.
When he had sent the telegram he made another Martini, broiled a steak, and had the most thoroughly enjoyable meal in many months. He found a little brandy in an almost forgotten bottle, and savored it with his coffee. He dined in the kitchen; nevertheless he dined, and with a sense of well-being that could not have been greater had he been in the finest restaurant in California. He was at peace with the world.
After his third cup of coffee he stacked the dishes in the sink, slipped out the kitchen door, and walked to the nearest newsstand. There he got the evening newspapers without being recognized, hurried home, and retired to his room.
The story was all over page one, under gigantic headlines. There appeared to be no question that the murder was the work of a sex maniac, although in some of the stories there seemed to be an underlying disappointment that the murderer had not left one of the unprintable symbols which had distinguished some of the juicier crimes of this ilk. Bauer certainly called it, Conway thought as he skimmed through the stories, in which Captain Ramsden’s name seemed to appear in every other paragraph.
He found, finally, the sentence for which he was searching: “Captain Ramsden stated that although police are checking the story of Arthur Conway, husband of the victim, he is not under suspicion, and therefore is not being held.” Three cheers for Captain Ramsden, Conway thought. A gentleman and a scholar. I ought to remember him in my will — for assigning Sergeant Bauer, if nothing else. He went downstairs and made himself a nightcap.
Conway slept the sleep of the just for nine hours, and was awakened by the distant tinkle of the telephone downstairs. He padded down and answered it sleepily.
“Mr. Conway? Detective Sergeant Bauer.” The title was pronounced with great impressiveness. “How you feeling?”