Robert Sinclair - The Eleventh Hour

“I haven’t seen the morning papers yet.”

“You haven’t?” There was a definite note of incredulity in the sergeant’s voice. “We’ll stop somewhere and you can get ’em. The pictures of you came out swell. Mine were terrible — only one decent one in the lot.”

“That’s too bad.” A pause. “Have you any idea how long Ramsden will want me to go through the motions?”

“Hard to say. Maybe till something else pops up to take peoples’ minds off this. But this is the third one of these cases in two months. Like I told you yesterday, on one of these things, there’s no place to start. And the women’s clubs will start passing resolutions, and the papers’ll be printing editorials saying it ain’t safe for a woman to be out after dark, and the department’ll get it from high, low and the middle. The captain’s not very bright, but you can see he’s in a tough spot.”

“Yes. Yes, I can.”

“So he has to cover up the best way he can. Like having you look at the bums and winos they round up every night, and saying it was a squad car found the stolen car, and—”

“But didn’t they? That’s what he told me yesterday—”

“Naw. A woman calls up and says this car’s been parked there for a couple days, and how about hauling it away? So a squad car goes over, finds out it’s stolen, sees it’s locked, and sends for a tow truck. They start to hoist it with the derrick, and that’s when somebody looks inside and sees the — well, no point going into the details. But you see what I mean. It sounds better to say the police found the stolen car. As long as the dame that phoned in don’t squawk too loud to one of the papers. That’s another little thing I got to try to take care of.”

“They certainly keep you busy.”

“I got to see her anyway. The dame that phoned in is this Elsie Daniels — the same one that was on her porch and saw the guy park the car. Ramsden should of gave her a better shake in the story he gave the papers yesterday. As long as he was going to take credit for finding the car, he should of done something for her — make her out a hero, or extra smart, or something. Anyhow, I want to see her and the boy friend together, and see if there’s anything they might of forgotten to tell me yesterday. And at the same time try to keep her from blabbing about reporting the car. Hey, you can get the papers there.”

The detective double-parked near the newsstand at the corner, and Conway got out and bought the papers, reflecting that police transportation had its advantages. When he got back in the car, Bauer snatched one of the papers and turned to an inside picture page, which was devoted entirely to the murder.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing to a picture of Conway and himself. “That’s the only one of me in the lot that’s even halfway decent. And seeing it again now, even that isn’t any too good.”

How does he shave? Conway wondered. How can he do it without looking in a mirror? Conway turned to the news story in the other paper, but the detective continued looking at the picture.

“Wait till you see the ones they got in there,” he said, indicating the paper in Conway’s hand. “My girl says I ought to raise a row, but what good would it do? The damage is done now.”

“It’s a shame,” Conway said. Some of the cars stalled behind them, unaware that a police car was causing the tie-up, began honking. Bauer handed the paper to Conway and started up.

“Next time, though, I’m going to speak to those camera monkeys — tell ’em to use a little discretion with the pictures they print. After all, it’s my career.”

Conway decided that some interest in that career would not seem amiss.

“Tell me,” he said, “how did you happen to become a detective? You didn’t start out pounding a beat, did you?”

“I should say not,” Bauer said emphatically. “I was an M. P. in the army.” The instinct of the combat soldier, even though four years in the past, made Conway gag slightly. “Made quite a record for myself, so naturally they were tickled to death to get me here in L. A. Reason I came out here was because Greta was here.”

Oh, no, Conway thought. He’s not going to tell me— “Greta?” he asked.

“My girl. Works in a drive-in over on Pico. She was overseas with a USO show — that’s when I met her. She was a movie actress. Gave it up though. Couldn’t stand all them guys making passes at her.”

“I know. I’ve heard.” Conway made a mental note that the detective’s love life would be a fascinating subject for a future conversation. But at the moment some research into his methods of professional operation seemed more practical.

“I’ve written a few detective stories,” he said. “Tell me, how do you operate? Do you go in much for scientific stuff? Or do you specialize in criminal psychology? Or what?”

“Na-ah,” said Bauer. “When I get around to it I’m going to write some real detective stories. That scientific stuff — nuts. Even fingerprints. Know what they found on the steering wheel of your car? Your fingerprints and a lot of clear spots with nothing — where the killer’s gloves had wiped off yours and left none of his own. I didn’t even bother checking the fingerprint lab — I knew that’s what they’d find. The only good this fingerprint racket does is for the guys in the glove business — they must sell millions of ’em to crooks. Nowadays anybody dumb enough to leave a fingerprint where he don’t want it, shouldn’t be arrested — he oughta be in the booby hatch.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Conway said. “So what do you do?”

“I just use common sense, that’s all. Get all the facts, put ’em together the right way, and that’s all there is to it. Naturally, you got to get some facts — that’s the trouble with a case like this, you can’t get enough of ’em. Then the trick is to put ’em together right, and that’s the difference between me and the rest of these lugs. Like I told you, that’s why they call me ‘Right’ Bauer — because I practically always am.”

And that, Conway thought, covers that subject. He looked down at the paper and thought he might bring up a more important one.

“I notice it says here that I’m not under suspicion, but my story’s being checked,” he said. “How’s the checking coming along? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“It’s done,” Bauer said. “You’re in the clear. I told you yesterday it was a sex maniac, but naturally I had to cover all the angles.”

“Naturally. And thanks for telling me.”

“Of course we want you to be where we can get hold of you for a while — as long as there’s a chance of something turning up.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

Conway, like any artist, had pride in the perfection of his work. He longed to ask the detective what he had checked; what detail, or combination of them, had been the convincing proof of his innocence. He would have enjoyed dwelling on each particular of his actions, and appraising the importance of each. But he had to console himself with the thought that not all artists are destined for public recognition; in his case, he would have to be content with anonymity.

“While I think of it,” Bauer said, “yesterday in Ramsden’s office, you said you and your wife only knew about a half-dozen people out here, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I got the list of the people you mentioned here.” He tapped his pocket. “I’ll probably have to check ’em in the next couple days.”

“Check them? What for?”

“Chiefly so’s I’ll have something to put in those reports I got to make out; I can’t just sit around Headquarters when a case like this is still hot. And there’s always the chance that I’ll turn up something — you know, that she told one of her friends about some guy making a pass at her, or something like that. It won’t happen, but then again, it just might. Anyhow, I got to cover myself.”