Robert Sinclair - The Eleventh Hour

“Right after Mama died — when she heard about the will. She was going to try to break it, but a Topeka lawyer advised her against it, and then she wrote me, and called me a lot of names, and said she never wanted to hear from me again. So — she didn’t.”

“She never wrote you after we moved out here?”

“I didn’t even know you had.”

“Then how did you know where we lived? You seem to have headed for this house like a homing pigeon.”

“Well, really,” she said with some exasperation, “with your name and picture and address in every paper in town, that wasn’t awfully difficult.”

“Oh.” He felt a little foolish at his inept effort to trap her. “Just what kind of help did you expect to be to me?”

“Why, cook and keep house, and keep people from bothering you. Being a writer, I’m sure you wouldn’t be very good at those things yourself. Of course, that’s one of the things about you that always appealed to me — being a writer, I mean. There’s something sort of glamorous about a writer.”

A sardonic glint came into his eyes. “Your sister didn’t think—” He stopped himself just in time. “Helen didn’t tell me you were like this,” he substituted rather lamely.

That’s her plan, he thought. To trap him in the course of casual conversation; to lead him on until he revealed his true feeling about Helen. He believed now that Helen had not written her, but he knew also that she had some suspicion which she was determined to confirm. She was beguiling, easy to talk to, and it was inevitable that if he did talk to her, he would betray himself: he would make that one slip which would be the first, and fatal, flaw in his armor. He had to get her out of the house: whatever Bauer might learn from her was less dangerous than what she could learn from him.

“You can’t stay here,” he said abruptly.

“What?” She was taken aback at the sudden harshness in his voice. “What is it? You act as if you were afraid of me.”

He laughed, as convincingly as he could, and realized he had been doing a very bad job of acting. “Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Well, you needn’t be. I noticed there’s a lock on my door, and I suppose there’s one on yours.”

So she thinks I can’t resist her charms, Conway reflected. Isn’t sex wonderful? He was quite willing to disguise himself in wolf’s clothing if it would help get rid of her. But he needed a chance to plan a new campaign.

“I haven’t had any lunch,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m a little edgy. How about you?”

“I thought that’s what was wrong with you,” she said. “But you’ve been cross-questioning me so much I haven’t had a chance to suggest it. I’ll get it right away. You see, I told you I could be a help.” She headed for the kitchen, and Conway followed. “Go away,” she said. “This is my department.” Conway retired to the living room to consider his problem. He had got nowhere when she announced, in an amazingly short time, that lunch was ready.

The meal was good, but the luncheon could hardly have been called a success. It was eaten in almost complete silence: Conway volunteered no conversation, fearing that he might make some slip, and warily responded to her efforts with no more than a “Yes” or “No.” By the time they finished, she appeared to have given up. But she made one final effort.

“This is a depressing room,” she said, indicating the dining room which Conway himself had always disliked. “Don’t you ever eat out there?” She pointed to the small square of brick outside the French windows, which, in accordance with California custom, was dignified by the name of “patio.”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Helen didn’t like to. It was always too hot or too cold.”

“I’d like it,” she said, and began gathering up the dishes.

“It was a very good lunch, and you’ve proved what a great help you are,” he said. “Now I’ll take care of these, while you go up and get ready to start looking for a place to live.”

“You are in a hurry to get me out, aren’t you?”

“Sorry if I seem rude.”

“Well, you do, and you needn’t be. I’ll find a place this afternoon. But I finish what I start, and I’m going to finish this lunch — which means washing the dishes. Go away.”

Conway felt childishly helpless. How do you stop an attractive young woman who is determined to wash dishes for you? He did not know how he could be any more rude than he had already been, and he certainly could not use force. He could help her, and thereby speed the operation, but that meant being with her: the one thing he wanted to avoid.

“I’ll go up to my room,” he said. “I’ll see if there’s anything advertised in the papers.”

He marked a few listings which he thought might be possibilities, and then sat down at the typewriter so that he might give the appearance of working. But it was over an hour before she tapped on the door.

“I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane, and it’s suddenly hit me,” she said. “I’m so sleepy I could die. I’ll just take a little catnap and then I’ll be fine, and I can get going.” Conway started to remonstrate, but the door closed, and a moment later he heard the door of Helen’s room being shut.

At least she had agreed to leave, he thought. She was in no hurry about it, and he might have to be firm, or rude again, but he was certain he could have her out of the house by tomorrow. That was not the entire solution to the problem, but it was something. It was so much, in fact, that he was even able to start working on a story idea which had come to him the night before.

When the doorbell rang, he looked at his watch and was astonished to discover that it was almost five o’clock. His surprise was succeeded by anger that he had allowed Betty to sleep away the afternoon, and he rapped sharply on her door before going downstairs. He was not unprepared to find that his caller was Sergeant Bauer.

“I was right near here, so I thought I’d drop in and see if you could save me some trouble on something,” the detective said.

“Anything I can.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any beer on ice, would you?”

“Sure thing. Be with you in a minute.” But the sergeant followed him into the kitchen.

“Has she gone?” he asked in a stage whisper.

“Not yet. She’s been asleep.”

“What!”

“She said she was passing out for lack of sleep, and wanted to take a nap before she went out looking for a place to move. I got busy and didn’t realize how late it was.”

Conway handed him a glass of beer, and the detective took a long drink. “This don’t look good, you know — you and a young girl being alone here in this house.”

“You’re telling me,” Conway said. “I told her she had to find someplace else to stay, and she finally agreed to. Now she’s wasted the afternoon. If you can do anything to hurry her, I’ll be very grateful.”

“Just leave it to me,” Bauer said. “Certainly seems funny, her coming here at all.”

“If I had my car, I’d pile her and her luggage into it, and find a place for her in a hurry,” Conway said. “Have you any idea when I’ll get it back?”

“Couple of days, prob’ly. And they ought to release the body tomorrow. Who you going to have?”

“Have?”

“Mortician.” Conway stared blankly. “For the funeral.”

“I–I hadn’t thought.”

“Better call one. They’ll check with the medical examiner, and as soon as he’s finished — well, they’ll handle everything.”

“Oh.”

The sergeant’s manner took on an air of diffidence which Conway had never observed before. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to be nosy, but — ah — how you fixed for money?”