Chapter one

It was damp, it was cold; smog filled the air and rasped at the eyeballs even indoors; it was everything a day in April should not be. Arthur Conway, as he came downstairs to breakfast, ruefully acknowledged that Los Angeles could serve up as dismal weather as could be found anywhere in the world. He had planned to get out: to take a lunch, drive up in the hills, and hike until nightfall. Any day, now, there should be word about the two stories, so he could afford to loaf a bit — get out, get a little fresh air. It seemed absurd, but he had got less exercise out here than in New York; nobody walks in California, and walking was the only form of physical exertion he enjoyed.

But in weather like this, it was out of the question; even the alternative, a day in the house with Helen, was preferable. It meant, of course, that he would at least have to make a pretense of writing.

He saw them the instant he walked into the dining room: the two manila envelopes alongside his place at the table. There was no need to open them; he knew what they were. And from the way they were displayed, it was obvious that Helen knew too. She had finished her breakfast, and he could hear her in the kitchen; he realized he would have to face her, and he knew it would not be pleasant. He had had high hopes for these stories, and it was depressing to have them rejected, but his disappointment was secondary now to his concern at the prospect of the galling scene he knew was coming.

“Two more masterpieces come home to roost, I see.” He had not heard her come in from the kitchen, and now she was standing over the table, her contemptuous glance divided between him and the envelopes.

“These are the ones you were sure of, aren’t they?” she continued. “These would bring in enough so you’d have time to write some good stories. And even the pulps won’t buy your stuff.”

“I’m sorry. I tried.” That was the extent of his defense.

“You tried...” The vitriol dripped from her voice. “You haven’t written a line since you finished these. It took you three months to get this tripe on paper. Oh well, what’s the difference? Most of the time you don’t write at all, and when you do it’s no good.”

“I can’t write this junk any more.” His voice rose; he knew he shouldn’t let her get under his skin, but he seemed powerless to prevent it.

“Any more! When could you? You were going to do this stuff just long enough to get a stake — so you’d have time for that novel and that play and all the rest of the things you talked about — and I believed. Well, at least you’ve stopped talking about them.” Her voice dropped, and now her contempt became lethal. “You’ve stopped talking, and writing, and thinking — and living, as far as I’m concerned.”

She picked up some dishes and went into the kitchen. When she did not return, after a moment, Conway took advantage of his opportunity to escape. He caught up the newspapers and started for his room, but her voice followed him.

“What shall I do with these manuscripts? Put ’em where they belong — in the—” He closed the door to shut out the rest.

He was safe in his room. She wouldn’t follow him there; that was one of the few things — one of the very few — that remained from the first days of their marriage. They had met just after the war and married a month later. Any sort of apartment was almost impossible to find, but Helen had insisted they must have three rooms so that he might have a “study” where he could work without interruption. Somehow or other she had found one, and she lived up to the rule she made herself — never to enter, or even to knock, when the door was closed. She had continued to live up to it for some reason. And that was about all that remained of those gay, desperately hopeful days when they had faith in each other — and in themselves.

They had occasionally quarreled in those days, too, of course, and usually about the same thing: Conway’s failure to sell a story, or what she called his laziness. As she was apt to consider anything less than eight hours a day at the typewriter laziness, some violent disagreements ensued. But in the fervid reconciliation that always followed so quickly, she was full of remorse for her outburst; it was, she explained, because, having no ambitions for herself, she was so terribly ambitious for him.

Conway sat down to finish the papers, but his eyes fixed on the photograph which stood on his desk. She had had it taken, at his request, shortly before they were married, and it was on the desk because it had always been there; now it took up space and was in the way and it disturbed him to have to look at it — but to move it would have been an overt act. She had been blonde then, with a handsome figure and large, intense eyes. She hadn’t changed much, Conway reflected — or, rather, she’d changed in degree but not in kind. She was not only still blonde, she was considerably more so. Her figure remained good, but it was verging on heaviness, although that, perhaps, was a matter of taste, and some might call it voluptuous. Her eyes were even more intense; to Conway, at times, they were frighteningly so.

And now, although it had never been said in words, they were through. It surprised Conway that she had not already left him, although he thought he knew the reason. But he would have to wait for her to make the break; she was not a woman to allow any man to discard her.

He got a cigarette from the dresser and stopped to gaze into the mirror. He saw a man of thirty-two, who looked older, with a well set up body, hair that was thinning slightly at the temples, and a skin which would have seemed pale even in New York. His pallor was typical of the frustrations he had met with since they had come here, and he wondered how much California had had to do with what had happened to Helen and himself. Not much, he decided; they had begun to get on each other’s nerves in New York. That had been one of the reasons Helen had wanted to come out here two years ago; she had said that if he could be out of doors more, he might feel better and work better. But, as it turned out, when he proposed taking a day off, she complained bitterly, so that he neither felt nor worked better, and their relationship had steadily become worse. And as it did, Conway’s writing became more laborious and less frequent — and less salable. It was a vicious circle, and — Conway realized that he was about to wallow in self-pity; he made himself acknowledge that the reason he hadn’t been writing, and wouldn’t write today, was because he hadn’t an idea in his head. He picked up the papers again and began to read, with a forlorn hope that he might come on an idea out of which he could, somehow, make a story.

There’s one thing to be said for the Los Angeles papers, he thought as he looked through them, they never let you down. No matter how low you may be, in body or spirit, a brief contemplation of the gallery of unfortunates presented daily in the press must make your own lot seem sheer bliss.

It appeared to be about an average day. “Couple Robbed in Parked Car,” with hints of darker deeds. “Nude Woman Dancing in Park Eludes Police” — that, he thought, was a new low even for the Los Angeles gendarmerie. “Waitress Slain by Sex Fiend” — a regular weekly occurrence; they must keep a standing headline for that one. Conway wondered if the police would ever capture one of these maniacs, who seemed to make up a sizable portion of the population of Southern California. To the best of his knowledge they never had. “Main St. Bars Raided; Two B-Girls Arrested.” A blind man on Main Street at any given moment after 10 P.M. could find twenty B-Girls with their hands in someone’s pockets, but the police found two, so things must be looking up. “Wife Who Vanished from Parking Lot Found in Motel with 16-Year-Old Boy; Husband to Seek Divorce.” Conway never ceased to be amazed at what precocious juveniles they breed in California.

He blew smoke at the ceiling and again scanned the headlines. The trouble with most of the crime news in Los Angeles, he had long since concluded, was that it was too bizarre for fiction. Or else, by repetition, it had become commonplace. There were no new angles; crime was in a rut.

And then, suddenly, out of the blue, it came to him. He riffled through the paper, found the story, and reread it. What had happened was so simple it was almost ludicrous.

Mr. and Mrs. George J. Yates had gone shopping the preceding Friday night at the neighborhood Supermarket. Mr. Yates had gone in to do the marketing for the week-end — Mrs. Yates not, apparently, being the domestic type — leaving her in the car in the parking lot. When he returned, some twenty minutes later, the car was not there, nor was Mrs. Yates. He had trudged home, only to find that his wife was not there either, and the following morning he had reported her disappearance to the police. As three days passed with no news of her, Mr. Yates’ concern turned to worry, to terror, to dread of the horrible fate which had probably overtaken Mrs. Yates. But he was not prepared to be so humiliated by the preposterous truth.

Mrs. Yates, it now appeared, had been sitting in the car waiting when Alvin Canmer, aged 16 and a junior at West Side High School, happened to pass the car. Alvin was on his way home from his part-time job in the hardware store, where he had waited on Mrs. Yates once or twice. He said “Good evening” to her, and a conversation ensued, the details of which, unfortunately, were not recorded. But Mrs. Yates was beginning to be bored with waiting for Mr. Yates, and also, it seems, she had been bored with Mr. Yates himself for some time. At any rate, the dialogue had apparently got down to the facts of life in near-record time, with the result that Alvin got into the car and drove to the nearest motel. There they paid a night’s rent in advance, parked the car outside their bungalow, and retired — for three days. Alvin had occasionally sallied forth for food.

But when, after three days, they had attempted to slip out without paying the balance of the bill, they had been apprehended by the motel proprietor. Finding both of them insolvent, he had called the police, who, on checking the registration of the car, learned somewhat to their surprise that they had recovered the missing Mrs. Yates, who was duly returned, temporarily, to her outraged and reluctant husband.

Along with a million other readers that morning, Conway chuckled inwardly at the story. But it was not the story itself which interested him: it was the timing of the disappearance — the suddenness, the rapidity, the unpredictability of the whole thing.

He turned to the account of the murder of the waitress.

He could sympathize with the bafflement of the police on this one. Gladys Ford, 89, divorced, had left the restaurant where she was employed at ten o’clock Saturday night. She had not, so far as could be ascertained, been seen alive again. Her parents, with whom she lived, had reported her disappearance. As in the case of Mrs. Yates, nothing had come of that, either.

Monday afternoon the patrolmen in a radio car cruising on a quiet residential street had noticed a parked car with a license number which seemed vaguely familiar. Checking, they discovered it to be on their stolen car list. Checking further, they found on the floor, covered by a blanket, the body of Gladys Ford. A resident of the neighborhood was sure the car was there before eleven o’clock Saturday night — which was no more than an hour after the unfortunate victim had left the restaurant. She had been strangled with her own belt.

The headline, “Slain by Sex Fiend,” Conway decided, might have been due to the fact that the pattern of the case somewhat resembled other sex murders of the past few months. Or it might have been that editors know that the addition of the word “Sex” lends a piquancy which is lacking in a murder performed by a run-of-the-mill maniac.

But the important thing was that tragedy, as well as romance, could strike with such complete unpredictability. And merely because of its fantastic suddenness — and senselessness — leave no trace. In that was the idea for a story, and Conway believed that he could write it.

He worked straight through until almost six o’clock, and when he stopped, weary and hungry, he felt better than he had in months. He wanted to get out of the house; he was sure Helen had no intention of getting dinner, and he hoped that he might avoid a meeting with her. He listened at the door and could hear nothing; he assumed she had followed her usual practice after one of these quarrels of going out to a movie, having dinner somewhere, and going to another movie in the evening.

He went downstairs cautiously, but all was clear, and the car was still in the garage. He was grateful that Helen was too uneasy about her driving to want to cope with Los Angeles traffic if she could avoid it.

He had a quick dinner in a neighborhood restaurant and decided to find out how practical was the scheme he had worked out for his story. What he had in mind was a “perfect murder” plot, with the police themselves providing the killer’s alibi. That, in turn, was dependent on the unexpectedness of the crime, and on exact timing.

For two hours he drove about, checking times and distances, even selecting streets and routes, to prove to himself that his scheme was valid. It was more than that, it seemed perfect; he could find no flaws in it at all. He drove home in a cheerful frame of mind.

For the next two days Conway worked steadily and contentedly. He saw Helen only at lunch, and open hostilities were avoided by the fact that neither spoke a word. He became more and more optimistic over the possibilities of the story; it might even make a picture, and a movie sale would solve all his problems. By midnight of the second day he estimated he was about halfway through.

Helen came downstairs while he was having breakfast the next morning. “You’ve been giving that typewriter quite a beating,” she said.

“It’s coming along pretty well.” He realized, suddenly, that these were the first words he had spoken to anyone in three days. The added realization came that he had not missed the sound of his own voice nor of anyone else’s — especially Helen’s.

“Just let me know if you need any paper, carbons, pencils, or erasers. The noise of that typewriter is music to me, and I’d hate to have it interrupted — it might be a long time before the inspiration returned.”

The knowledge that he was working had always mollified her; apparently it still did.

“I’d better tell you that you won’t be hearing any music this morning — or maybe even this afternoon.”

“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.”

“And you haven’t cracked it.”

“Not entirely, but—”

“And you never will.”

It was time for her to start to rage, he thought; for her voice to rise to that screaming frenzy he had come to know so well. But it didn’t. The rage was there, but it was blanketed by an icy hardness as she went on.

“Another masterpiece you couldn’t write. If all the unfinished manuscripts of Arthur Conway were laid end to end, they’d make a good paper chase. And that’s all they are good for.”

“Okay.” With a faint hope that he might be able to make it, he started for the door.

“Wait a minute. I didn’t sit around here all afternoon just to get a glimpse of your lily-white face.”

Conway breathed more easily. This was not to be a tantrum: she had something to say. “Thank you, Mrs. Conway. Somehow I didn’t think you had.”

“And don’t call me by that name — it reminds me of you. I loathe you, I detest you, I despise you, and if you were worth it, I’d hate you.”

“Very nicely put. Sounds like something out of one of those unfinished manuscripts.”

“And you can save those bum jokes.”

“I’m only filling in until you decide to come to the point.”

She hesitated only a moment. “I want a divorce. And unless you’re even stupider than I think you are, you do too. So — what do we do?”

For the first time it had been mentioned. It was out in the open, and it cleared the air to such an extent that he almost liked her.

“After considered thought, my suggestion would be that we get a divorce.”

“Very bright,” she said. “Now see what you can do with this one. What about money?”

Conway thought he knew where this was leading, but there seemed no point in hurrying her. “You know what we’ve got in the bank,” he said. “It ought to be enough for the lawyers and the court costs.”

“Yeah. And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“You think you’re going to divorce me and throw me out without a cent to my name?”

“In the first place, I’m not going to divorce you — you’re going to divorce me. In the second place, you can have every penny I’ve got. That’s my best offer.”

“That’s fine. That’d be just dandy. You give me every penny you’ve got after paying for the divorce, and I wouldn’t have bus fare. That’s a nice out for you. But what am I supposed to do?”

“You might go back to Topeka. You could make up with your sister, and live in that house your mother left her.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in Topeka, I wouldn’t speak to Betty if she was the last person on earth, and the cold little fish is my half-sister, not my sister.”

“Okay. Well, what did you do before we were married?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“As I recall, you had a job for which you were paid $37.50 a week. You lived on that, if not sumptuously, at least adequately. Since we’ve been married you’ve dwelt somewhat more comfortably, been nourished at least as well, and dressed considerably better than when you provided for yourself. To my great regret I can’t guarantee to continue this — this ‘standard of living to which you’ve become accustomed,’ I believe the phrase is. But I see no reason why you shouldn’t go to work. I’ll agree to pay you a percentage of what I earn until you remarry, as alimony, and you’ll wind up much better off than you’ve ever been. Just don’t marry another writer.”

“I can see myself ever getting a plugged nickel from you once we were divorced.”

“You’d have the devoted assistance of every police force and court of law in the United States to aid you in getting it; one of their chief functions is to guarantee the unearned increment of divorcees.”

“Let’s stop kidding. If you didn’t have it, I couldn’t get it out of you, even with the police, the army, navy and air force on my side. And you’ll never have it.”

Conway wondered how much of this constant tearing down, this repeated belittling, a man could take.

“Not that I wouldn’t get a lot of pleasure out of seeing you in jail, but it wouldn’t pay my rent. No — I want cash. Not very much, but I want it now.”

“What’s your idea of not very much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Her calmness had puzzled him from the beginning, and now he was bewildered. She had something in mind, he knew, but what it was he could not imagine.

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather have than five thousand dollars to give you. Have you any ideas as to how I might obtain that paltry sum?”

She looked at him judicially. “One of the most repulsive things about you is that cheap sarcasm you’ve become addicted to. I suppose it makes you think you’re a wit.”

Conway had no illusions about being a wit, but he did wish that occasionally he might be able to produce a comeback to some of her more devastating remarks. But his retorts had been getting more and more feeble, less and less frequent.

“Naturally I know how you can get five thousand. I wouldn’t expect you to.” Conway looked at her blankly. “I’ve made up a list of a few friends of yours back East,” she said as she took a slip of paper from her bag. “They’re all doing very nicely. And they’re all very fond of you — respect you because you’re a writer, and they’re only businessmen. They all thought you were going to write that great American novel, too. And they haven’t seen you for a couple of years, so they haven’t found out what a phoney and a flop you are. It’ll be a cinch to get five thousand out of them.”

“You’re out of your mind!”

“Oh no I’m not. This is the best idea I’ve had since I said ‘No’ the first time you proposed to me. I make you a present of the idea and you have a chance to do a little creative writing — and you’ll get paid for it for a change. Tell ’em that you’re sick, I’m sick, you’re writing that novel, I’m going to have a baby — anything you like. There are five names here,” and she handed him the list. “Allen and Tyler should be good for two thousand, maybe twenty-five hundred. Strike them for twenty-five hundred anyway. Try the others for a thousand; a couple of them might only come across with five hundred, but even so — And if you get more than the five thousand, you can keep the profit — or some of it, anyway.”

Conway’s mind must have been running in terms of fiction: he had half-expected her to name a bank to be robbed, or suggest a dope-smuggling scheme. Her plan was safer. It was also simpler, surer, and more repugnant to him.

He glanced at the list, knowing the names he would find there. His closest friends. His only friends. The men he had gone through the war with. B Company of the 165th Field Artillery had plodded across Africa, climbed through Sicily, slogged the length of the Italian boot, and these six had been together, miraculously, through it all. And they had learned the dependence of each one on all the others.

They would come through, all right. Conway knew them. Although they were scattered now and he had not seen any of them for two years, they kept in frequent touch by mail, and, if anything, the bond between them seemed stronger than ever. They’d come across. Even though all were married and most had children, and they were just beginning to get on their feet, with mortgaged houses, payments on cars, hospital and obstetricians’ and pediatricians’ bills, they wouldn’t let him down. He knew them. And they were scattered around the country; they wouldn’t check with each other, at least until afterward.

Oh, the letters would get results. They’d deprive their wives and children to help a pal out of a jam. All I have to do, Conway reflected, is to steal the money from those women and kids, hand it over to Helen, and be free... free to shoot myself.

Some of his shocked incredulity showed in his face, and Helen was amused.

“Don’t like the idea, h’m? Well, unless you’ve got a better one, that’s what you’re going to do. Or else.”

Her confidence, her good humor, bothered him more than anything else. She was so awfully sure of herself.

“Or else what?”

There was no humor now, but the confidence was even more blatant.

“Or else this. If you haven’t written those letters by noon tomorrow, I’m going to go to work on you. And I mean really go to work. I’m going to drive you out of this house or drive you crazy, or both. There’ll be such rows that the neighbors will be calling the police — or I will. But I won’t let them arrest you. I’ll be your ever-loving wife and ask them to put you in the psychiatric ward. And I’ll tell them why.”

Bull’s-eye. A direct hit.

“And then, when I’ve really given you a working over, whether you’re in a padded cell or have decided to run for it, I’ll write your pals, and what a sob story they’ll get from me. I might be able to get even more out of ’em than you could. And don’t try to write them and beat me to the punch, because anything you say now will only make it more convincing when I write — if I have to.”

Conway sat down. He had no breath and the blood was pounding in his head. She was crucifying him, he realized, in the one way she could. And she knew she could.

“All this I’m telling you is just the persuader,” she went on. “I don’t want to have to do it that way. It’ll take time and be a lot of trouble, and I might not get as much out of them as you can. But don’t think I won’t do it if I have to.”

The pounding in his head was lessening. He could think, after a fashion, and he hoped he could speak. But he dared not get up from the chair.

“Don’t try to bluff me, and don’t try to scare me.” His voice sounded steadier than he had expected. “I’ve been all right for over four years. I’ve been perfectly well.” He realized that his voice was rising, and went on more calmly. “You know it as well as I do, so don’t think you’re going to scare me with that line of talk. I don’t scare that easily.”

“No?” She leaned toward him, and he could hardly focus on the finger she pointed. “Look at yourself. You’re sweating like a horse. Your voice is croaking. And you’re so weak in the knees you can’t even stand up.”

She moved away and he no longer had to concentrate on that finger that so frightened and fascinated him, reminding him of some dread, forgotten thing in the past.

She lit a cigarette and looked at him through the lazily curling smoke. “Why do you think I’ve started all these rows the last couple of months?” she said. “Because I wanted to see how sure you were of yourself. And I found out. No matter what I said or did, you kept calm and controlled. All you wanted to do was to get away, to avoid a row — because you were scared. You’ve taken things from me no man in the world would take — no man, that is, who was in his right mind — and sure of it.”

Somehow he got to his feet and moved toward the door.

“Let me out of here,” he said, and realized that only a whisper came out. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She moved to the door and opened it.

“Just one thing more.” She stopped him with her hand. “You said a little while ago that I knew how much we had in the bank. Well, I do, but I don’t think you do, so I’ll tell you. There’s exactly one dollar; I drew out the rest this afternoon. So don’t get any ideas about taking a powder and not coming back. You wouldn’t get very far.” She dropped her hand and he started out woodenly. “Remember, noon tomorrow.”

Chapter two

Conway was not even sure that he would be able to drive, but somehow he started the car, got it out of the garage, and headed down the street. He stopped at the first bar he saw, went in, and sat in the far corner of the last booth.

By the time he finished his second drink he had stopped shaking and was able to think with some degree of clarity. And the more clearly he saw things, the worse they became. Not that he doubted his sanity — now. But he was afraid of what might happen.

Conway had gone through the war until two days before it ended. Then something gave way. The men called it shell shock, and the doctors called it combat fatigue, but in any language it was a crack-up. It got him back to a hospital in the States in a hurry, and before he was discharged, six months later, the doctor had given him the final word.

“You’re okay,” he had said. “You’re okay now, and you’ll continue to be. Just don’t worry. Don’t worry, don’t let things get you down. Don’t let yourself get too excited, or fly off the handle, or get in a rage. That’s good advice for anybody — reduces the danger of ulcers, among other things. But it’s especially good for you, after what you’ve been through.”

His outfit had been kept in Germany, and he was released from the hospital just two days before they were processed out through Fort Dix. They knew what had happened to him, but it was not mentioned in the course of the three-day reunion and celebration they staged in New York. They had been through too much together for anyone to be blamed for cracking; they had all been on the verge of it at one time or another.

But — they knew.

He had told Helen about it before they were married, and she had dismissed it as of no importance; it had never been brought up since. He had almost forgotten it himself until recently — until, he realized, a couple of months ago, when he had begun to fear the increasingly frequent battles with Helen. The psychiatrist’s words had come back to him, and he had made a conscious effort to restrain himself, as he became aware of his growing tension and insecurity. But he had not known that Helen knew that, nor that she was doing it for just that reason.

He tried to look at the thing from every angle. He would not write those letters: that he couldn’t do, no matter what happened. But if he didn’t, he dared not stay on with her: he knew she would carry out her threat, and he was honestly afraid to face it. He could think of no work he could get; he had no references, had had no job since the army. And he felt sure that Helen would find him in a very short time. He was afraid of what the feeling of being a fugitive might do to him: the chance of being hauled up on charges of desertion, non-support; the threat of being committed to a psychiatric ward. He had a car, but it was registered in both their names; he couldn’t sell it, and if he went off in it, she’d have a warrant out before morning.

And no matter what he did, she’d write for the money — and get it. If he tried to warn them, tell them not to send her anything, it would be only added support for the pitiful story she’d give them. She’d figured that out, too: he could see that letter she would write. “Arthur hasn’t been well... won’t admit it... can’t even make myself write down what it is...” — the soul of delicacy, the devoted wife — “... but you know... result of that horrible war... hasn’t been able to work... need money... private sanitarium... psychiatrists...” It would be too easy.

He reached in his pocket and withdrew his total assets — seven dollars and thirty cents. Minus, he remembered, the cost of the three drinks. This was no time to be squandering money on liquor. He paid the check and left.

There was no one in California he could turn to. The only real friends they had had, the Gordons, had gone back East three months ago. They had come to know only a few other people; they were all friends of Helen’s, and he neither knew nor liked any of them very well. He started to drive aimlessly.

An hour ago, before this cataclysm had struck, he had emerged from his room with the idea of driving to the locale of his story in the hope of getting a notion which would give him a finish. Now his interest in the story was nil, but he needed something to put his mind to; later, perhaps, he could come back to the problem of Helen with some degree of reason.

So he tried to concentrate on the actions of his murderer, looking for the flaw in his plan that would trip him up. But the more he examined it, the more perfect the murder appeared. He could find no loophole anywhere. There wasn’t one.

He drove over to Santa Monica Boulevard and out toward the theatre which he had used as the prototype for the one in his story. As he passed it, he noticed the title on the marquee: “Song of Manhattan.” Irrelevantly, he remembered that Helen had mentioned that she had tried to see it at one of the big Hollywood theatres, but there had been a line, and she hadn’t wanted to wait.

And then, suddenly, it hit him. Hit him so hard that he almost lost control of the car. Trembling, he pulled over to the curb and stopped.

If this fictional murder was so perfect, he had his solution. Not of the story — but for Helen and himself.

It was so obvious, now, that the wife in the story was Helen — and the murderer himself. He wondered how long it had been in his subconscious. More important, he wondered if he dared, if he had the courage, to do it. But he had to make the attempt: there was no other way out. It wasn’t even murder, really — it was self-defense.

He dismissed the moral aspects quickly: killing Helen was as necessary and justifiable as killing Germans had been. They had represented an evil thing — Helen was evil in herself. His real concern was whether he could get away with it.

He had gone over the story so often in the past three days that he knew it by heart. But now he reviewed the facts he had actually checked — distances, timing, and locations — acutely aware of the difference between an action stated on a printed page and that same action actually accomplished. To be safe, he would have to verify the timing of the entire plan.

But first he got a newspaper and turned to the amusement section. “Song of Manhattan” was playing in a half-dozen of the second-run theatres; he selected one in Culver City, where it was extremely unlikely that he would be seen by anyone who knew him, telephoned, and learned that the picture would go on in an hour and a half.

He rehearsed, then, the plan he had devised for his fictional murderer; the plan he now proposed to make a reality. The timing had to be exact, and he referred frequently to his wrist watch with its luminous hands and dial. It had been Helen’s gift to him on their first anniversary; he was faintly pleased at the irony of the fact that it was now invaluable in planning her murder.

He completed his practice runs, satisfied that he was prepared for every contingency. Then, on his way to Culver City, he found a quiet residential street, set his speedometer, and drove exactly five-tenths of a mile. He looked at his watch and then walked as rapidly as he thought he could without attracting attention, back to his starting point.

He smiled as he realized that he had endowed his murderer with his own solitary athletic accomplishment: the speed with which he could walk. His normal pace was considerably faster than average, and he could, when he tried, keep up with another man at a jog trot. But he had done little walking of late; it was essential to clock himself so that he might schedule the timing of the entire operation. When he got back to the car he was not quite satisfied with his performance; he would have to do a little better, but he was confident that he could.

He wondered if he could contain himself to sit through the picture. But it had to be done, and when it was over, he left the theatre elated. The ending was practically perfect for his purpose. Tommy Miller and Mary Hart were the stars, and Helen adored Miller and couldn’t stand Mary Hart. The last six minutes — he had timed it to the second — consisted of a big musical number which was all Mary Hart, with Miller coming on only for a quick clinch before the fade-out. He was certain that Helen could be persuaded to walk out on that.

The house was dark when he got home, and he went directly to his room and locked the door. If he was to go through with his plan, there was one completely damning piece of evidence which must be destroyed. He took the unfinished manuscript from his desk and looked at it regretfully. But the regret was only for the hopes he had had for the story, not for what he was about to do. He was troubled by no indecision; he realized that he had made up his mind to kill Helen at the instant the thought first struck him and ever since had only been reassuring himself of the details of the plan. The details were in order, the murder was practical, the risk of detection slight. Two problems remained: in the morning the letters had to be written, but he had an idea of how that might be handled. The one important question was whether he could persuade her to go to the movie with him.

He tore up the manuscript page by page, burned the pieces, a few at a time, in a large metal ashtray, and took the charred ashes which remained and put them in the incinerator in the back yard. He went to bed then, expecting to sleep little, if at all. But the excitement of the early evening had been replaced by a kind of confident serenity, for the future promised peace. He was asleep before he really had time to savor the prospect.

Helen came down to breakfast as he got up from the table. Their eyes met, and she uttered one word.

“Noon.”

“You win,” he said.

Back in his room, he sat down at the typewriter. There was no time to waste. He wrote to Allen first. It was in the same tone as all the other letters he had written him, full of trivia, anecdotes, passing on gossip, imparting news of himself and Helen. This last was difficult, for it was almost entirely fictional: any hint of trouble between them was carefully omitted. And there was no mention at all of any need for money.

He wrote similar letters to the others, varying them as much as was possible without taking too much time; he was doubtful that Helen would continue to respect the privacy of his room. When he had finished the fifth, he addressed the envelopes, inserted the letters, and put them, unsealed, in the inside pocket of his jacket, together with five airmail stamps. There would be nothing strange in the fact that he had written all five of them the same day; it was what he usually did, after putting off answering their letters for somewhat more than a decent interval.

He started, then, on the letters Helen wanted him to write. He knew she would insist on reading them, so he wrote them as she had directed. And even though he knew they would never be seen by any other eyes, he was appalled to read what he was putting on paper.

He was on the final letter when Helen walked in without knocking. “It’s taken you long enough,” she said as she picked up the four which were completed.

“They’re not easy to write. I made a couple of false starts.”

“As usual,” she said without lifting her eyes from the letters.

By the time she had got through the four, he had finished the last one, and she read that, too. He looked at her as she stood by the window and felt no compunction at all for what he planned to do: the fact that, having read the letters, she could still insist on sending them, was added justification. He was thankful he had found a way to take care of her as she deserved.

“I guess they’re all right. That ought to get ’em,” she said. “Where are the envelopes?”

“I’ll type them now and mail them after lunch.”

“Will you really?” He hadn’t actually expected to get away with it that easily. “You just type the envelopes and I’ll take care of the rest.”

He typed the envelopes carefully, exactly duplicating the format of the others he had put in his pocket. And it was time, he thought, to start placating her if he hoped to get her to accompany him to the theatre.

“Look, Helen—” He inserted an envelope in the machine. “I’m not going to double-cross you. I don’t like doing this thing, but I have no choice. Now that I’ve written the letters, I’m as anxious to get it over with as you are. But it’ll be at least a week before we hear from them all, so we’re stuck here in this house together for at least that long. How about a truce?”

She looked at him with an amused smile.

“Really scared, aren’t you?”

He hung on to himself with an effort and hoped the hatred didn’t show in his eyes.

“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just that we can both give each other a very unpleasant week. But what do we gain by it — either of us?”

“All right, Artie,” — she knew how the nickname annoyed him — “if that’s the way you want it. As you say, I’ve got nothing to gain.” She started for the door. “Finish up those envelopes. I’m going to get my bag.”

“Anything in the house for lunch?” He had reconnoitered the kitchen before breakfast and knew there was not.

“A truce doesn’t mean I’m going to start cooking for you.”

“I didn’t expect it. But as long as I have to go out to eat, I’ll drop you wherever you want to go.”

“Well, that’s mighty white of you.” The sarcasm in her voice did not entirely disguise her surprise. But she was herself very quickly. “Finish those envelopes.”

He started on the second one, as her voice came from her room. “And don’t seal them up. I’ll take care of that.”

Obviously her suspicions were not entirely allayed. This might be more difficult than he had expected. But these letters could not be mailed. If they were, it would be impossible to go ahead with his plan.

He had finished addressing the envelopes when she came back into the room, and while he put on a necktie and got into his jacket, she glanced at each letter, inserted it in its envelope, sealed it, and affixed the airmail stamps she had brought with her. When she had done all five, she put them in her bag and went downstairs.

He took the other set of letters from his pocket, quickly sealed and stamped them, and followed her. She was standing before the mirror in the hall, giving her lips a final going-over, which would take at least a couple of minutes; her bag stood on the table beside her. Conway wandered into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the bottle that was kept in the refrigerator, and slammed the glass to the floor. It broke into a hundred pieces, the water splashed all over, and the crash brought her to the door of the kitchen.

“Now what?”

“The glass slipped out of my hand. I’ll clean it up.”

He started toward the small coat closet off the front entry hall which, because cupboard space in the kitchen was at a premium, served as a broom closet. Helen resumed work on her mouth.

“I’m afraid it’s one of the good glasses,” he said.

“Oh, no!” she wailed, and went into the kitchen, knelt, and examined the pieces. What she hoped to accomplish by this closer inspection, Conway neither knew nor cared; he had gambled that it would be an instinctive reaction, and won. He paused at her handbag for a split second on his way to the closet, replaced the letters in it with the ones he took from his pocket almost without breaking stride, and was on his way back to the kitchen with broom and dustpan as she returned to the hall.

“Ox,” she muttered as she passed him. He almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been so easy, so smooth; maybe it was an omen.

Chapter three

Helen posted the letters at the first mailbox they passed, and when she got back in the car there was a noticeable change in her attitude. She was almost relaxed. Conway wondered if she had been less confident than she had pretended.

“If we’re going to have that truce,” she said, “how about getting some lunch?”

“Okay with me.” He was pleased that she had proposed it: he had wanted to, but feared she might be suspicious of too many overtures.

They had lunch at a drive-in near Beverly Hills with no overt unpleasantness and started toward home.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I need a pair of white gloves, and there’s a store on Beverly Drive—”

His eyes involuntarily flicked down to the gloves she was wearing. She caught the glance, and her voice snapped a little as she continued.

“This is the only pair of white gloves I’ve got to my name, and I can’t wash ’em every time I take ’em off. Of course if you don’t want to stop—”

Conway had an idea things might get very unpleasant indeed if he didn’t want to stop. He had to park half a block up from the shop, in front of a five-and-ten. As she got out of the car, he did the same.

“I’ll walk up to the corner and get a paper,” he said.

He walked a few feet and looked back. She was crossing the street in the middle of the block. He slipped into the five-and-ten.

It was another break, he thought; he wouldn’t have to find an excuse to leave the house after they got home. He coursed the store, not wanting to inquire of salespeople, and finally found the object of his search: a disguise kit put up for children — he had seen a youngster with one a few weeks ago. Fastened on a piece of cardboard were a pair of spectacles, a false nose, a mustache, and eyebrows. They were intended to be comic, and they were, but they were acceptable for his purpose. He paid for his purchase, and as he left the store, folded up the card and put it in his pocket.

He was reading the amusement page of the paper when Helen returned to the car, and as they started off she picked it up.

“There hasn’t been a decent picture in months,” she pronounced.

He had bought the paper and left it open at that page in order to lead in to going to the movie. Now he feared that he might be rushing it too much. Would it be better to wait until they got home, until Helen herself, perhaps, got restless and wanted to go out? Or should he give this new relationship another day, when she might be less suspicious of this unwonted friendliness? He would have only one chance; if he bungled it now...

“How was the Tommy Miller picture?” he asked. “What was it, ‘Song of Manhattan’?”

“I didn’t get to see it. I told you that.”

“I remember you mentioned it. I thought you’d seen it.”

“Shows how much attention you pay to what I say.” But her voice was not as edgy as he had come to expect. He dared to try one more tentative lead.

“I just happened to see it advertised. It’s playing at — what’s the name of that theatre on Santa Monica, not far from us?”

“Where?” She looked eagerly down the list. “Oh, the Monterey.”

“I thought I’d like to see it myself. Might go tonight.”

“Why don’t you?”

He had to take the plunge. “Want to come along?” he asked.

He could feel her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “I might,” she said, and then added, “if I can’t find anything better to do.”

He could push it no further now. He had to trust to luck and be prepared.

Helen went to her room when they got home; he went to his and locked the door. First he went to work on the mustache, which had some sort of gum on the back for instant attachment. It was long, black, curling, and fierce, and by daylight would have deceived no one at a distance of fifty feet. But it was not going to be seen in daylight, and he trimmed it with a pair of manicure scissors so that it became a square, rather full, military type. Under a street lamp, fleetingly, it would get by. And it would be noticed.

He dug into a suitcase in which he kept some old clothes he had hoped to wear if he ever went fishing. There was a battered hat, bought before the war, and the only one he owned, for he had not worn a hat since he had come to California. It took some getting used to, but he decided it would do.

Twice he heard the sound of the telephone being dialed, and he opened the door and listened cautiously. But there was no conversation, and he concluded that her friends, whoever they were, were not at home. He still had a chance.

When he heard her return to her room and close the door, he hurried downstairs, stopping to pick up an old, frayed bath towel on the way. In the garage he examined the towel; there were laundry marks in one corner. He tore off that end, placed the hat and the towel in the glove compartment of the car, and locked it.

The incinerator was behind the garage and not visible from the house. There was the possibility, of course, that Helen might happen to come out and find him, but he had to risk it. One at a time he burned the letters he had written at Helen’s direction, the strip he had torn off the towel, and the remainder of the disguise kit. If there should be a slip, if suspicion should be directed at him and the police were to search the house, any of these could be incriminating. He made certain that nothing but ashes remained.

There was nothing else to be done now. Except— It occurred to Conway that when they started asking questions and he said he was a writer, it might be advisable to have some evidence to that effect. He went to his room and started to write a rehash of a Western story he had done once before.

At six o’clock he went downstairs, making sure that Helen, in her room, could hear him. When he paused to listen at the foot of the stairs, he heard her door open quietly. He looked up the number of the theatre and then dialed.

“Monterey Theatre?” In the tiny house he knew Helen could hear him. “What time does ‘Song of Manhattan’ go on?”

“It’s on now. Next complete show starts at seven-thirty, and ‘Song of Manhattan’ at seven-fifty-six.”

Helen came in as he hung up.

“Show starts at seven-twenty,” he said.

“You going?”

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

He hoped he could mask his anxiety. “Want to come along?”

He knew that she wanted no part of an evening with him, even in a movie theatre. But she had nothing else to do. He could see her indecision in the way she fingered her cigarette.

“I do want to see that picture.” He breathed a prayer of gratitude for Tommy Miller. “And I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. What time did you say?”

“Seven-twenty. I’d like to see the newsreel.”

“I’ll get ready.”

He had advanced the time for two reasons. The parking lot was apt to fill up quickly, and it was important that he get a space toward the back. In addition, if they got to the theatre early, they would see the finish of the picture, and there would be no question, then, of Helen being willing to leave before the end. She was always meticulous about seeing a picture from the beginning, and hated to come in in the middle, but, he thought, if they were there, what could she do about it? He didn’t think she’d stand in the lobby.

He changed into an inconspicuous gray suit, wrapped the mustache in paper, and put it in his pocket. When he heard Helen leave her room, he put the car keys on his dresser, threw a sheet of paper over them, and went downstairs. Helen, wearing a pink linen suit with a vivid red scarf around her neck, was carefully putting on her new gloves. He disliked the suit; he thought it exaggerated the already too full lines of her body, and he wondered, idly, what had ever attracted him to her physically. He detested the garishness of the scarf, too, but Helen wore scarves whenever possible, and this was her current favorite. He had expected she would wear it and was glad that she had; it was perfect for his purpose.

“Better take a coat,” he said. “It’s apt to be cold later.”

“I haven’t got a coat I can wear with this.”

“Leave it in the car. At least you’ll have it for the drive home.” He got her polo coat from the closet and she reluctantly took it.

When they got to the car he discovered that he had forgotten the keys and had to go back to get them. He headed straight for Helen’s room and the drawer in which she kept her handkerchiefs. All exactly according to plan.

He riffled quickly through the pile of handkerchiefs, looking for one of her best ones. He selected one, and then hesitated as his eye caught, at the front of the drawer, the old pair of gloves. An idea struck him: the gloves would be better than the handkerchief, and he wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He considered hastily for a moment: the gloves had been worn, but did not seem soiled, and they were folded neatly together; they would change none of his plan, except to make it more plausible. He replaced the handkerchief, put the gloves in his pocket, got the keys from his room, and rejoined Helen. Her comment on his stupidity in forgetting the keys was about what he had expected.

The theatre was on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard, and there was a moderately large, fairly well-lit parking lot directly alongside it. But there was a charge of a quarter, and the Conways, some time previously, had discovered a lot across, and a little way down, the street. It was between a market and a bank, and was unattended at night. It was easy to get in and out because it ran through from the street to the alley behind it: one could enter or leave either way. And it was not lighted. There was room for no more than about twenty cars, and Conway had noticed in his reconnoitering that a good many people seemed to be economy-minded. By the time the seven-thirty showing started it would undoubtedly be full, so he hurried Helen through her dinner and then disregarded speed limits and her temper impartially after they left the restaurant.

Helen took it as a matter of course when he drove in there instead of going to the regular parking lot next to the theatre. His timing had been good: there were only a few cars. He drove all the way back and parked in the space next but one to the alley.

“Why didn’t you leave the car at the restaurant? It wouldn’t have been much further to walk,” she said as she got out. Conway stopped to lock the doors of the car.

“What’s the matter with all these?” she demanded as they walked past the unoccupied spaces nearer the street. “Are they reserved for people who earn a living?”

She’ll never let up, he thought. She’ll never let up as long as she lives. But she’ll let up pretty soon now.

Aloud he said, “This whole place’ll be filled up in about two minutes, and when the picture’s over the whole mob will be banging fenders trying to be the first ones out, while we’re just breezing away.”

“Yeah, you can’t afford to stall around here,” she said. “You’ve got so many important things to do.”

Conway looked at her, startled, but on her face was only the pleased expression that indicated her satisfaction with a gratifyingly nasty dig. But he was worried; he dared not antagonize her. Something could still go wrong.

As he bought the tickets, she looked suspiciously at the empty lobby. Conway was about to hand them to the doorman when she spoke.

“What time does the show start?”

“Seven-thirty, ma’am.”

She looked at her watch. It was, as Conway knew only too well, seven-nineteen.

“What’s on now?”

“The feature. It’ll be over in about nine minutes.”

“You idiot!” She looked at Conway a long moment before she turned and started toward the sidewalk. He snatched the tickets from the doorman and followed her.

“Don’t blame me for this,” he said as he caught up to her. “The girl told me over the phone — seven-twenty. Half the time they switch the program around — or else they just naturally don’t know what they’re talking about. Why blame me? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it?”

He knew it had, and that slowed her for a moment.

“Come on across the street. You can have that cup of coffee you missed at dinner.”

She hesitated for a moment. “All right. But don’t try to rush me back to see the newsreel. You see the newsreel if you want to.”

They sat, without talking, in a booth in the drugstore across the street while she had a piece of pie and both had coffee. When he was sure she was down to the last swallow, he picked up the check and fished in his pockets. He was able to come up with seventeen cents.

She saw the money in his hand and laughed.

“I ought to let you stay and wash dishes to pay for it.” She dug into her bag and produced a bulging wallet, removed a dollar, and threw it alongside the check.

Conway stared at the wad of money. He had completely forgotten about the withdrawal from the bank, for that had not been a part of the fictional murder he had devised. His mind raced, trying to think what effect it would have on his plan. It might, if it were found out, lead to questioning. He could invent a story to cover it, he was sure; he couldn’t abandon his only hope of deliverance because he hadn’t planned on one detail. But he was unreasoningly angry because she had taken the money, and was carrying it around with her.

“You must be out of your mind, having that much money on you,” he said heatedly. “You’re just begging to be hit over the head.”

“What would you like me to do, leave it home? Ha! That would be bright, wouldn’t it?” She replaced the wallet in her bag. “I’ll take my chances on being hit over the head.”

“Who’s gonna get hit over the head?” There was a throaty chuckle. “I wouldn’t wanna miss that.” The waitress had approached from behind Conway, who was too startled to do more than look at her.

Helen smiled at her pleasantly. “My husband thinks I might — but he’s wrong, as usual,” she said.

The waitress, a hard-faced woman with a patently false air of joviality, picked up the bill and started to make change. “They always worry, don’t they?” she said, obviously referring to some low form of animal life.

“Especially over trifling little things.” Helen gave him a too sweet smile, and Conway was dismayed at the prospect of what she might reveal, merely in order to embarrass him in front of the waitress. He had to divert the course of the dialogue in some way.

“I just mentioned that that scarf makes her look like a target,” he said, seizing on the most prominent object in his range of vision.

“Makes you see red, eh?” The waitress laughed out of all proportion at her joke and turned to Helen. “Men have funny ideas about clothes.”

“Most men — but not all.” Helen rose, terminating the conversation. The waitress moved on to the next booth, but before she was out of earshot, Helen spoke to Conway. “Don’t forget the change, financier — you can keep it.” He left a tip for the waitress, pocketed the rest, and followed her out of the store.

They crossed the street to the theatre in silence. Now there was a good deal of activity in the lobby; a steady stream of people were passing into the theatre, and Conway had an anxious moment. But the darkened auditorium was less full than the lobby indicated, and they found two seats almost exactly where he had hoped to, three rows from the back, on the right of the right center aisle. This was the loge section which, in the Monterey Theatre, meant that the seats were large, overstuffed leather armchairs, with backs high enough to give the occupant a feeling almost of privacy. But what was important was the location: not many people would see them when they left; certainly none would remember the exact moment of their departure.

The picture started, and he was able to examine the unexpected problem he had to face. He had thought that if he could placate Helen enough to go to the theatre at all, they would be on moderately amicable terms. He had not reckoned with her anger at being early, or a quarrel about the money. There was no truce now: far from concurring with any wish of his, whatever she did now she would do only if she thought it would hurt, humiliate, or discommode him. It was essential to his plan that they leave before the end of the picture. Knowing Helen’s distaste for Mary Hart, he had anticipated that, when the star started her final number, he could say, “You’re right, she’s terrible. I don’t want to see any more of this. Come on, let’s go.” But the events of the past twenty minutes had rendered that simple plan worthless. His only possible hope of success seemed to lie in taking the opposite tack.

So after Mary Hart’s second song, which ended in a large, luscious close-up, he leaned slightly toward Helen and whispered, “She’s the greatest thing in pictures.” Helen glared at him in answer.

He was careful not to overplay it. During one number he sat forward in the chair, watching raptly. He remembered the scene which cued in the next to the last number. He took out a package of gum and offered a piece to Helen, which she refused. It was timed so that he was just taking a piece himself when the music brought Mary Hart on to the screen, and he was, apparently, so overcome at the sight of her that he dropped the gum to the floor. Helen muttered something unintelligible, and he leaned down to recover the stick of gum. As he did, he took from his pocket one of the gloves he had taken from Helen’s drawer. Concealed in his palm, he brushed it along the floor for a moment, dirtying it, and then pushed it under the seat in front of him.

Then he rose and tried to devote his attention to the screen, because the zero hour, or moment, was approaching. And he did not know how to handle Helen. He had a sudden feeling of panic; a frightening realization that he must have been mad to think he could get away with this kind of scheme.

The final musical number he had clocked at five minutes, followed by a minute of dialogue leading into the embrace and fade-out. He had determined that they must leave the theatre no later than one minute after the start of the number, for Helen walked slowly; it would take them two minutes to get to the parking lot, and he needed three undisturbed minutes after they reached the car. The picture would just be over then. It was unlikely that anyone would walk out during the musical number, but highly probable that quite a few would leave in the course of that final minute. That was the danger: that some youthful member of the audience might leave at the end of the number, walk to the parking lot in a minute, and be there a moment too soon. It could be desperately close.

But he had to try. If he failed, he might be able to get her to stay for some of the cartoon or newsreel. That would be less safe, but at least it was a chance. The danger was that she would stay for two, three, four minutes of the number, and then want to go. Two minutes — perhaps he could take that gamble. Three minutes — could he? — dared he? Four minutes — that he couldn’t. But what then? Because it was certain that this was his last chance. He could imagine her reaction if he asked her to go to a movie again.

He had been staring at the picture, seeing nothing, for what seemed an interminable time. And then there was a chord of music; before his eyes could focus on the screen, he knew that this was the final number. He had to act — and quickly. He leaned toward Helen.

“I read about this number — this is really what I wanted to see. She made this song, you know — they say it’s the greatest thing she’s ever done.”

No reaction.

Mary Hart sang a verse of the song. He glanced at Helen out of the corner of his eye; she was leaning back in her seat, apparently quite content with what she was seeing and hearing, although it was obvious that this was Mary Hart’s number and there was no way for Tommy Miller to come into it.

The verse and one chorus ran a minute and ten seconds, he knew; at the end of the chorus he looked at Helen as if to see whether she found it as entrancing as he did. She had slumped down in the chair, apparently ready to see it through. He realized that he had lost; he sat back in the seat, trying to think of some way to get her to stay for part of the newsreel.

Mary Hart danced the next chorus. One minute forty-five seconds, he thought. His mind was ticking like a taximeter. Then the number began to get really spectacular, as a host of girls appeared from nowhere and took up the song. After no more than eight bars, Helen leaned toward him.

“I’m leaving,” she said. She stood up. Conway looked at her, momentarily speechless.

“I’m leaving, and you’d better come, too.” She didn’t whisper, but her voice was low. He didn’t think anyone could hear. He left his seat and went up the aisle ahead of her. It was two minutes and five seconds after the start of the number; with luck he would have four minutes and fifty-five seconds without interruption.

He looked around the lobby at a scene of complete inactivity — no one either leaving or coming in. There was an added break he hadn’t counted on: the doorman was over talking to the girl behind the candy and popcorn counter, so they left without having come face to face with anyone.

He let Helen get a couple of steps ahead, thinking she might walk a little more rapidly than if she thought he was trying to hurry her. As she started to cross the street, she turned and spoke over her shoulder.

“What you can see in that—” She didn’t finish, for Conway had leaped forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her back to the curb. A jalopy, filled with five or six adolescents, whizzed past, missing her by inches.

“Thanks,” she said, and she was breathing rapidly. “You surprise me.”

His own pulse was pounding. He didn’t know why he had done it: it had been an instinctive reaction. Maybe they’d have missed her, perhaps only injured her. But they had been going at least forty-five, and in the quick glance he’d had of them, the driver seemed to have his arm around the girl at his side; he probably could not have avoided hitting Helen. It might all have been taken care of for him, Conway thought bitterly. Fate had tried to give him an assist, and he had been too stupid to take advantage of it.

They crossed the street. His stomach was queasy, and his pulse seemed to be pounding like a riveting machine. For the past two hours there had been but one thought in his mind: how to get her out of the theatre at the proper time. His only fear had been that he might fail in that vitally important preliminary. He hadn’t failed, but now the new fear that consumed him was almost paralyzing. He felt no pity, no qualms of conscience over this thing which had to be done; only a horrible doubt of himself, of whether he could, physically, go through with it. There, only a few steps ahead, was the car. Only seconds in the future, lay murder.

He unlocked the door and, when she was in, closed it carefully, so that it did not catch on the second notch. Then he walked around, got behind the wheel, and started the motor. The door rattled slightly.

“I didn’t close the door all the way. Will you slam it?”

She twisted in the seat to reach the door handle. “For once in your life you were right about the weather,” she said. “Can you reach my coat?”

It was a good excuse to get one knee on the seat, as if to reach over into the back, and he knelt behind her. She opened the door and slammed it.

It went exactly according to plan. His hands dropped over her shoulders, crossed, and seized the scarf by its opposite ends. His arms jerked back, the scarf crossed and made a double loop around her throat. He pulled it taut, and then twisted it.

It was done expertly, as he had planned, and so quickly that she didn’t struggle until the strong, silken noose began to tighten about her neck. Then her arms flailed the air, trying to reach him; he pushed her off the seat, onto the floor, so that she could not reach his face. She clawed at his wrists, but her gloves effectively sheathed her nails, and he prevented her from getting a firm grip on his hands. She half-twisted around for a moment, and in the dim light he caught a glimpse of her face; there was no trace of fear on it, or even realization of what was happening: only rage and hatred. She doesn’t know yet that she’s dying, he thought. He twisted the scarf tighter.

Chapter four

He could not look at his watch, and he peered anxiously at the entrance to the parking lot; there was no one in sight. Then he realized that her struggling had become feebler. He had been holding her by the arm to try to keep her from thrashing about; now the arm relaxed, her body seemed to crumple. He was not certain that she was dead, but he could not take time to make sure. He tied a knot in the scarf, backed the car out of the space, turned right, and drove down the alley.

It was dark and he dared not turn on his headlights. He guided the car slowly, carefully, for about two hundred feet, stopped, and backed the car into an open space behind a plumber’s shop.

He had observed this place casually some time ago; he had remembered it when he was writing the story, for it seemed to offer a perfect spot for concealment for a short time, and he had checked on it last night. There was an area the width of the building, and about twenty-five feet deep, where the little panel trucks which went out on jobs in the daytime were loaded; at night the three trucks were parked there, backed up against the loading platform, headed toward the alley. There was ample room for another car, and now Conway backed the small sedan alongside one of the trucks, between it and the brick wall of the building next door. Seen from the alley, there appeared to be four trucks lined up in company front. He did not anticipate any closer inspection in the short while the car would remain there.

He cut the motor, looked at his watch, and took a deep breath. Six minutes had elapsed since the start of that final number; the picture must be just over. There was not much time.

He leaned down and removed the gloves from Helen’s still warm hands and put them in his inside pocket. He put the mate to the glove he had dropped in the theatre, on her right hand. He felt for her pulse, but could detect no throbbing sign of life. Then he grasped her under the arms and pulled her to a sitting position on the seat. The body he had once known so well was heavy; heavier than he’d thought. It took all his strength to lift her over the back of the seat and put her on the floor. The body slipped from his grasp before he had lowered it all the way, and landed with a thud. He felt almost apologetic for this final, unnecessary hurt.

Her handbag was still on the front seat beside him, and he hesitated for a moment. The money was an element not covered by the plan. But he couldn’t leave it there. For one tiling, it would leave him penniless. For another, it would open up a line of questioning — what was she doing with three hundred and fifty dollars in her purse? He could invent a story to cover her withdrawal of the money from the bank, if it should come to the attention of the police. Quickly he found the wallet, put it in his pocket, and dropped the handbag on the floor beside her. Then he took the coat from the back seat and draped it over her, so that she was completely covered.

He took the keys from the ignition without locking it, rubbed his handkerchief over part of the steering wheel, and got out of the car, closing the door quietly. The space between the car and the wall was narrow; he had to move carefully to avoid getting dirt on his coat.

He considered walking back down the alley to the parking lot, so that he might, perhaps, be seen and remembered as he walked back to the theatre. But it was too late to take a chance. At any moment a car might emerge from the lot into the alley; he would be certain to be seen and remembered. Two doors from the plumbing shop there was a passage between the buildings. He hurried into it just as the headlights of a car turned into the alley.

There was no one within fifty feet when he emerged from the other end of the passage, and he walked, rather slowly, back toward the parking lot. He stopped for a moment before a store window in which he could see his reflection. He smoothed his hair with his hands and wiped the perspiration from his face. Otherwise he seemed to look all right.

As he approached the parking lot, two cars drove out, and he crossed the street to avoid being picked up by the headlights of any other cars which might emerge. He had not, he was sure, been seen by anyone who could possibly identify him, between the plumbing shop and the parking lot. The first, and most difficult, phase of Operation Murder was over. Unless the car was found in the next few minutes, he had a chance. Even if it were discovered within the next twenty minutes, he had a very good chance. But he was confident that both these possibilities were extremely unlikely. He now had to stick to the plan, be careful of details, meticulous about the timing. That was the important thing: the timing. Once arrived at the theatre, he had to use up time. He looked at his watch.

He went first to the ticketseller, and explained that his wife thought she’d lost a glove — could he go in and look for it? She sent him on to the doorman, to whom he repeated his request. The doorman was agreeable, and passed him through. He spent a minute or two searching about in the general vicinity of where they had sat, and then returned to the lobby, and headed for the manager’s office.

He wanted to get his story on record, so he went into more detail than he had with the ticketseller or the doorman.

“My wife and I just saw the picture,” he began, “and when we got back to the car she discovered she’d lost a glove. The doorman let me in to look for it, but I couldn’t find it, and I wondered if it had been turned in to you.”