Robert Sinclair - The Eleventh Hour

A perfect reading, Conway thought: impossible to tell whether he’s prepared to lend me money, or wants to borrow some. “I’m not rolling,” he said. “I can’t do anything elaborate, but I think I can manage to do it respectably.”

“Course you could go to Woodlawn Haven,” Bauer said. “But they don’t need the publicity so much. You’ll get a better break from one of the smaller places that can really use the advertising.” Conway could only look at him. “But not too small. You’ll be surprised, I’ll bet, how big a turn-out you’ll get.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Conway said. Which was true. With all his meticulous planning, he had given no thought to the necessity for what is known as a Christian burial. Nor to the sideshow that is apt to accompany the burial of a spectacular murder victim. “I’d like as little publicity as possible,” he said.

“Oh, sure,” said the detective, thoroughly unconvinced. “Try the Walbridge Mortuary. Mention my name. Not that I get a cut,” he added hastily. “But they’ll play ball with you, and the Department plays ball with them. They ought to do it for the price of the casket. And they’ll put on a service no woman could ask for more. They certainly did all right for Layzelle Llewellyn.”

“Who?” Conway asked.

“The White Rose. You know, I told you.”

“Oh, yes. You said I might be able to save you some trouble,” Conway said, hoping he was not changing the subject too abruptly.

“Yeah. Larkin and I’ve been checking that list of your friends this afternoon.”

“And—?”

“I was right, like I knew I’d be. Nothing. Not a thing. What a waste of manpower.”

“Too bad. But, as you say, you knew nothing would come of it.”

“Yeah. They’re all just terribly shocked, and wish they could do something, and are we going to find the killer? And I have to stand there and lie in their teeth, and then when nothing happens they’ll remember me and not realize I’m just covering up for the Department, so they’ll think I’m the schnook. And that’s one thing I can’t stand.” He stared moodily at the beer.

“I don’t see how anybody could think that of you.”

“A lot of people ain’t good judges of character.” He put down his empty glass, and Conway proved himself at least a good enough judge of character to get another bottle from the icebox. The detective brightened.

“Well, as long as I started checking these people, I might as well finish,” Bauer said as he opened the bottle. “That Taylor that was crossed out — know where he worked or anything?”

Conway took a sip from his glass. He would have liked to drink a toast to Sergeant Bauer and his search for Mr. Taylor. A long chase and a merry one, he thought; it’ll keep you out of mischief.

“I haven’t any idea,” he said with complete truthfulness. “I think he was a salesman of some sort, but I don’t know what he sold, and I haven’t the vaguest notion of where he worked.” He led the way into the living room.

“Oh. Well, just thought you might save me a little time. Don’t know anything else about him, eh?”

“Not a thing. He was a little taller than me, black hair, dark. Do you think he may know something?”

“Nah. It’s just that I got to go through the motions. Say, is that dame ever coming down?”

“I heard her walking around — she ought to be down any minute. Did you want to see her?”

“Sure I want to see her.”

Conway wondered whether the sergeant merely wanted to prove that he could hasten Betty’s departure, or whether he had other reasons for wishing to talk to her. Whichever it was, Conway knew there was no chance of balking the detective, once he had made up his mind. He went to the foot of the stairs.

“Betty,” he called.

“Be down in a minute.”

“I got to get going,” Bauer said.

“I don’t know what can be taking her so long,” Conway said. “But you know women.”

“Yeah,” said Bauer. “And that reminds me. I had lunch with Greta and showed her those beat-up gloves. And you know what she said? She said, ‘Good gosh, if a woman was lucky enough to lose one of those, why would she want it back? If she lost one, she could throw the other one away with a clear conscience.’ Makes sense. And that’s a woman’s way of figuring. Gotta take that into account.”

He’s not stupid enough on his own, Conway thought; he has to call on Greta for assistance. “All women aren’t alike, you know, Sergeant. Maybe Greta has an old world point of view that—”

“Old world?” the sergeant interrupted. “You mean she’s a foreigner?” A belligerent note came into his voice. “She was born in Elyria, Ohio.”

“I’m sorry, I just thought, from her name—”

“Her name’s Gertrude,” the sergeant said with finality.

“Well, anyway, there’s no accounting for the way women think. All I know is that my wife was very annoyed at losing the glove, and asked me to go back and look for it. Maybe she wanted to use them for working in the garden.”

“Helen? Working in the garden?” Betty smiled incredulously as she came into the room. “She certainly must have changed.”

Conway stood in impotent rage as the detective wandered to a window from which the garden was fully visible. It was quite evident that it had felt the ministrations of no loving hands, gloved or ungloved, for a long time.

“She do much gardening?” Bauer asked.

“No.” Conway searched for an explanation which the girl would be unable to contradict. “She was always talking about getting at the garden, but she never did anything about it. It was sort of a joke between us.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?”

“What the joke was about her not doing any gardening.”

“It wasn’t funny. It was just sort of a private joke between us — the way you and Greta probably have private jokes.” Is he ribbing me? Conway wondered.

But the sergeant’s face was guileless. “We don’t have any jokes, Greta and me,” he said. “She hasn’t got a very good sense of humor.” Praise from Caesar, Conway thought.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” Betty asked.

“Nothing,” Conway said shortly. “Sergeant, you were going to—”

But Bauer had taken the gloves from his pocket. “It don’t make sense to me that anybody would care if they did lose one of these gloves,” he said. “Any woman would be glad to get rid of them.”

Conway caught the quick glance Betty flashed at him. “Any woman except Helen,” she said as she examined the gloves. “She could never bear to lose anything — and she never threw anything away.”

Startled at this manifest untruth, Conway looked at her, but she was bending over to get a cigarette from the box on the table. He was utterly bewildered. A moment earlier she had intimated, for Bauer’s benefit, that he was lying; now she had lied, to cover up for him.

“No cigarettes,” she announced. “I’ll really have to get to work on this house. I spent an hour after lunch cleaning the kitchen, and I didn’t even make an impression.” Conway held out a pack of cigarettes, and she took one without meeting his eyes.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Bauer said. “Mr. Conway told me you weren’t going to stay here.”

“I told Mr. Conway,” she said frigidly, “that I would leave as soon as I could find a suitable place to stay. I intended to start looking this afternoon, but he didn’t wake me, and I overslept.”

“There’s a motel not far from here,” the detective said. “I happened to pass it on my way over and noticed a ‘Vacancy’ sign. I can take you over there now, if you’re ready.”