Robert Sinclair - The Eleventh Hour

“Then she had another pair besides the ones she was wearing that night?” The satisfaction was replaced by a surge of anger as Conway realized the detective had not even noticed the pristine gloves in the drawer yesterday.

“I just told you — she bought them that afternoon.”

Bauer shook his head. “If she had another pair, I sure don’t understand why she wanted to find the one she lost in the theatre.”

The detective walked slowly to the door. “Guess I’ll be getting along,” he said.

“What’s on your mind, Sergeant?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Say, while I think about it, have you made the arrangements?”

“With the mortician? Yes. And thanks very much for your advice.”

“Treat you okay on the price?”

“I think they’re being very reasonable. I wouldn’t have thought of that angle if you hadn’t mentioned it.”

“Think nothing of it. So you’re okay financially?”

“Yes. At least I can get by. Why?”

“Just interested, that’s all. Don’t believe all you read about these hard-hearted flatfoots. You got a lousy break and I feel sympathy for you. Lots of times I get interested in my clients.”

So that’s what I am, Conway thought.

“Look — it’s none of my business, of course—” The detective hesitated. That I don’t believe, Conway reflected. Watch out for this one.

“How much money you got in the bank?” the sergeant asked hesitantly.

So that was it. “Practically none,” Conway said. “A dollar, I think.”

The detective’s surprise was evident. “Then you know about it?”

“About what?”

“About her withdrawing the money,”

“Know about it? Why, of course. The balance in our checking account had gotten pretty low, and they were making a service charge for every check we wrote. So she drew it out, and was going to open a savings account, but then she started thinking about the service charge, and got annoyed at the bank, and decided to open the account somewhere else. But she wanted to talk to me about it before she did, so she brought the cash home. It’s still in the house — I just haven’t gotten around to taking it to a bank.”

“Not safe, having a lot of money in the house. Well, I gotta—” Crestfallen, Bauer started through the door. Press your advantage, Conway thought.

“But, Sergeant, what made you think there was something out of line about withdrawing the money? How did you know about it, anyway?”

“I kept thinking about those gloves — it didn’t seem kosher, going to all that trouble to find one. So I wondered if maybe she had some idea in the back of her mind, that night, where she wanted to get away from you for a little while, so she sends you on this fool’s errand. Naturally, I don’t know what the idea is — I need more facts. Well, I got a pretty good pair of eyes in my head, and yesterday I see a bank envelope in her drawer. When you got the facts about people’s money, you got one of the most important facts about anybody. So, I check with the bank this morning and find out she made the withdrawal the day before she was killed. Okay, so that’s a fact. But” — he shook his head sadly — “the trouble is, it don’t fit in right — at least not the way I thought it was going to.” He cast off the momentary blow to his apperception. “But you’ll find out one thing about Detective Sergeant Lester R. Bauer — when he’s not right, he’s the first one to admit it. Of course, it don’t happen often.”

“By the way,” Conway said, “have you found Taylor yet?”

“No, but we will.” As he went down the steps, the walk and voice of the detective were equally dispirited. “Not that I think it makes much difference.”

By late afternoon the more acute agonies in Conway’s skull had subsided, and he walked to the market to stock up on food. When he returned he went in the kitchen door, stowed away his purchases, and then, walking through the dining room, heard voices. On the patio, and apparently on the best of terms, were Betty and the sergeant. The increasingly familiar terror crept over him: what had the girl told Bauer? They could not have had much time together, but he should not have let them be together at all. Or was this not a mere coincidence? Had she perhaps phoned the detective, met him earlier, and been brought back by him? He debated whether to try to eavesdrop, but the voices were too low to be distinct through the closed door. There was no alternative: he had to interrupt before more damage was done, try to learn what had already transpired. He unlocked the door and stepped out to the patio.

“This looks very cozy,” he said. “I didn’t notice your car.”

“It’s across the street. I was just driving by when I happened to notice Betty sitting on the front porch.”

“You forgot to leave the door on the latch,” she said, but there was no reproach in her voice.

“Sorry.”

“So I wondered why she was sitting there, and it looked like a good chance to clear up the misunderstanding we had yesterday.”

“It appears that you’ve managed to clear it up very nicely.”

“Oh, sure,” the detective said. “It was just that she didn’t give me a chance to tell her what I really meant. But it’s okay now, eh, Betty?”

“Yes,” she said. “I didn’t understand.”

“It’s just that she don’t look like anybody’s sister-in-law.”

“Very nicely put,” said Conway.

“And she found an apartment, so that fixes everything,” the detective said.

“I don’t know if it does,” she said. “I didn’t tell you this — I can’t move in until Sunday, but I couldn’t find anything else at all — that I could afford, that is. Do you think it will be all right to stay here till then?” She looked at both the men.

“I guess so,” Bauer said cautiously. “I guess two more days can’t do much harm.”

Two more days, Conway thought. Could he cope with her wiles, could he keep from making a slip for two days? He was tormented by the combination of his desire to get her out of the house, to return to the peaceful solitude he had known for just twenty-four hours, and the pleasure which, however unwillingly, he was coming to find in her company.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “it’s all right with me.”

“Thanks,” Betty said.

“Say, where you having supper?” the detective suddenly demanded.

“I don’t know. Here, I guess.”

“You can’t stay cooped up here all the time — you’ll go stir-crazy. Come on out and have supper with me. It’s Friday — say, I’ll take you to a place where you’ll get the best pot roast you ever sunk a tooth in. Reasonable, too. Only have it Fridays. Come on. Unless” — he looked from one to the other — “you two have other plans.”

Conway preferred to take Bauer in small doses, and he had already had enough for one day. But there was no telling what the sergeant might think if he refused.

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “How about you, Betty?”

“Fine. I’ll go up and change.”

“Care for a beer while we’re waiting?” Conway asked as Betty went into the house.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The detective headed for the kitchen with no further urging.

“What’s been happening? Anything new?”

“Nah.” Bauer reached into the icebox, removed a bottle of beer, and unerringly opened the drawer in which the opener was kept. A memory like an elephant, Conway reflected. Not to mention a skin. “I been using up energy and gasoline and getting nowhere.”

“How about Taylor? Have you found him?”

“We’ve found sixteen Harry Taylors in the phone book, but none of ’em is the Harry Taylor who knew you. Like I told you, I don’t think it makes any difference if we find him or not — it only makes me mad that we ain’t been able to.”