Robert Sinclair - The Eleventh Hour

But when he took them to the window to examine them in the sunlight, he could find no reason for his panic. To the naked eye, even of a considerably more astute observer than Sergeant Bauer, there was no evidence that the gloves had ever been worn. The police had not questioned him about his activities the afternoon before the murder; therefore they did not know the gloves had been purchased then. There was no reason for Bauer to attach any significance whatever to the gloves. But what, then, had caused him to pause before closing the drawer?

Conway returned the gloves to their place, afraid, now that Bauer had seen them, to move them to a less conspicuous spot. He stared into the drawer from where Bauer had stood, and then, remembering the other’s height, stooped to make himself three inches shorter. There was the usual clutter of a woman’s catch-all drawer: a couple of handbags, scarves, handkerchiefs, a few letters, a bank statement. Aside from the gloves, there was nothing in the drawer which had the slightest connection with the death of his wife.

Bauer’s voice, from downstairs, interrupted him. “Come down here, will you, Mr. Conway?”

He shut the drawer, convinced now that his alarm had been caused by some figment of his imagination, but genuinely frightened at the realization that he had let himself become panicked. He had not betrayed himself to Bauer, he was sure, but it had been close; anyone a little less obtuse than the detective might have noticed something. He was in the clear; not a glimmer of suspicion had been directed at him. And none would be, unless he himself directed the suspicion. That was the one thing he had to remember.

As Conway reached the head of the stairs, he saw Bauer holding the front door open. A girl, carrying a suitcase and an overnight bag, came in. “Thank you,” she said frigidly to the detective. Then she looked up and saw Conway descending the stairs. She put down the bags and smiled up at him. “Hello, Arthur,” she said.

Bauer looked at Conway, and Conway looked from the girl to the detective and back again. He had never seen her before in his life. What kind of trick is this? he wondered.

“Don’t recognize me, do you?” she said. He shook his head, completely bewildered.

“I’m Betty.”

It was a moment before the name registered. “Helen’s sister?” he finally said.

“Half-sister.”

“You didn’t tell me she had a sister,” Bauer said.

“Half-sister,” Betty corrected. “And I must say you haven’t been very polite.”

Conway tried to pull himself out of the stunned inertia produced by the announcement of her identity. “This is Detective Sergeant Bauer,” he said.

She gave Bauer the briefest of looks, and he acknowledged the introduction with an unintelligible mutter.

“Surprised to see me?” she said with another smile at Conway.

“Yes — yes, I am. How did you get here? I wired you only last night.”

“I’d left by then. I heard about it on the radio, and then the Topeka paper called me up, and I thought — well, that I ought to hurry out here in case there was anything I could do. So I caught a plane last night, and just got here.” Conway stared at her stonily. “I must say I expected a more cordial reception than this. Aren’t you even going to ask me to sit down?”

“Yes — of course — please come in.” Conway led the way to the living room, his brain still in turmoil. This didn’t make sense: this girl, who had not seen Helen for over five years, who had not communicated with her in four, suddenly popping up like this. He had to get rid of Bauer, so that he might find out why.

“What I really want to do,” Betty said as she came into the living room, “is to take a bath and get into some other clothes. When you’ve been sitting up all night, you don’t feel very fresh, do you?”

Bauer planted himself between Conway and the girl. “You never told me she had a sister,” he said again.

“Well, I—”

“Half-sister,” Betty repeated. “He probably forgot I existed. I haven’t seen Helen for years, and we never wrote, and in fact we weren’t on very good terms ever since Mama died and left everything to me, because Helen wouldn’t stay home, but went to New York. Not that there was very much.”

Conway looked at her as she spoke. She was certainly a far cry from the girl Helen had contemptuously described as a “cold little fish.” She was not little, and the predominant impression she gave was of warmth and vitality. She was dark, with large brown eyes, a delicately modeled face, and a delectable figure: the complete antithesis of Helen’s flagrantly blonde amplitude. The sparkle of her eyes belied the sobriety and matter-of-factness of her dress and speech.

“Why’d you come out here if you weren’t on very good terms with her?” Bauer asked. “Have you any information you think might help us?”

“Good heavens, no.” She looked at Conway. “I just came out because I thought I might be able to help Arthur through this dreadful tragedy.”

It was plain that Bauer was suspicious of something; it was equally clear that he was not quite sure of what. “Then you two are pretty good friends, eh?”

“No, Sergeant — I—” Conway began.

“I hope we will be,” Betty said. “But I’d never laid eyes on him until I just walked in the door.” Bauer eyed Conway, uncertain of what to believe. “And now, Sergeant, tell me what progress you’ve made on the case.” She’s been seeing too many movies, Conway thought.

The detective glared at her. “No comment,” he said.

“I don’t think I care for your attitude,” Betty said coldly. “I happen to be the second-next-of-kin. You might remember that you are a servant of the people.”

“I’m nobody’s servant,” the detective said truculently. “And let me tell you something else—”

Conway stepped between them, as though to separate two people who were about to come to blows. This is one way to get rid of Bauer, he thought, the worst possible way. “Please,” he said, “there’s no point in being unpleasant. The sergeant has nothing to tell you. Betty, because he’s already told the newspapers everything he knows — everything, that is, which he thinks it advisable, at this time, to make public.” Out of the corner of his eye, Conway could see Bauer beginning to soften. “He’s been very frank with me, but I know there are a lot of things he hasn’t told me, simply because he doesn’t think it good policy to discuss them with anyone. If you’ll read the morning papers there, you’ll know as much as I do, which is just about all anyone does — with the exception of the sergeant.”

“I read the papers coming in from the airport,” she said. “Why do they say it’s a sex maniac?”

She’s going to do it, Conway thought. I don’t know why or when or how, but she’s going to do it. She’s going to hang me.

Bauer answered her without hesitation. “Who else would it be?” he asked.

“That’s a silly kind of reasoning,” Betty said. “There are supposed to be two million people in Los Angeles, and half of them are women, so if there was a sex maniac around, it’s a million to one he wouldn’t pick Helen. Can’t you think of something where the odds wouldn’t be quite so much against you?”

Conway found himself somewhat dizzied by this reasoning, but not Bauer. “Look,” he said. “The odds are ten million to one against your getting struck by lightning, but if you get hit, it don’t matter what the odds are — you’re dead. Right? Right. Well, your sister’s dead.”

“Half-sister,” Betty said. “And that’s just my point. If you find somebody lying down dead after a thunderstorm, you don’t just say they were struck by lightning. Right?” She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Right,” she affirmed.