Robert Sinclair: The Eleventh Hour

And no matter what he did, she’d write for the money — and get it. If he tried to warn them, tell them not to send her anything, it would be only added support for the pitiful story she’d give them. She’d figured that out, too: he could see that letter she would write. “Arthur hasn’t been well... won’t admit it... can’t even make myself write down what it is...” — the soul of delicacy, the devoted wife — “... but you know... result of that horrible war... hasn’t been able to work... need money... private sanitarium... psychiatrists...” It would be too easy.

He reached in his pocket and withdrew his total assets — seven dollars and thirty cents. Minus, he remembered, the cost of the three drinks. This was no time to be squandering money on liquor. He paid the check and left.

There was no one in California he could turn to. The only real friends they had had, the Gordons, had gone back East three months ago. They had come to know only a few other people; they were all friends of Helen’s, and he neither knew nor liked any of them very well. He started to drive aimlessly.

An hour ago, before this cataclysm had struck, he had emerged from his room with the idea of driving to the locale of his story in the hope of getting a notion which would give him a finish. Now his interest in the story was nil, but he needed something to put his mind to; later, perhaps, he could come back to the problem of Helen with some degree of reason.

So he tried to concentrate on the actions of his murderer, looking for the flaw in his plan that would trip him up. But the more he examined it, the more perfect the murder appeared. He could find no loophole anywhere. There wasn’t one.

He drove over to Santa Monica Boulevard and out toward the theatre which he had used as the prototype for the one in his story. As he passed it, he noticed the title on the marquee: “Song of Manhattan.” Irrelevantly, he remembered that Helen had mentioned that she had tried to see it at one of the big Hollywood theatres, but there had been a line, and she hadn’t wanted to wait.

And then, suddenly, it hit him. Hit him so hard that he almost lost control of the car. Trembling, he pulled over to the curb and stopped.

If this fictional murder was so perfect, he had his solution. Not of the story — but for Helen and himself.

It was so obvious, now, that the wife in the story was Helen — and the murderer himself. He wondered how long it had been in his subconscious. More important, he wondered if he dared, if he had the courage, to do it. But he had to make the attempt: there was no other way out. It wasn’t even murder, really — it was self-defense.

He dismissed the moral aspects quickly: killing Helen was as necessary and justifiable as killing Germans had been. They had represented an evil thing — Helen was evil in herself. His real concern was whether he could get away with it.

He had gone over the story so often in the past three days that he knew it by heart. But now he reviewed the facts he had actually checked — distances, timing, and locations — acutely aware of the difference between an action stated on a printed page and that same action actually accomplished. To be safe, he would have to verify the timing of the entire plan.

But first he got a newspaper and turned to the amusement section. “Song of Manhattan” was playing in a half-dozen of the second-run theatres; he selected one in Culver City, where it was extremely unlikely that he would be seen by anyone who knew him, telephoned, and learned that the picture would go on in an hour and a half.

He rehearsed, then, the plan he had devised for his fictional murderer; the plan he now proposed to make a reality. The timing had to be exact, and he referred frequently to his wrist watch with its luminous hands and dial. It had been Helen’s gift to him on their first anniversary; he was faintly pleased at the irony of the fact that it was now invaluable in planning her murder.

He completed his practice runs, satisfied that he was prepared for every contingency. Then, on his way to Culver City, he found a quiet residential street, set his speedometer, and drove exactly five-tenths of a mile. He looked at his watch and then walked as rapidly as he thought he could without attracting attention, back to his starting point.

He smiled as he realized that he had endowed his murderer with his own solitary athletic accomplishment: the speed with which he could walk. His normal pace was considerably faster than average, and he could, when he tried, keep up with another man at a jog trot. But he had done little walking of late; it was essential to clock himself so that he might schedule the timing of the entire operation. When he got back to the car he was not quite satisfied with his performance; he would have to do a little better, but he was confident that he could.

He wondered if he could contain himself to sit through the picture. But it had to be done, and when it was over, he left the theatre elated. The ending was practically perfect for his purpose. Tommy Miller and Mary Hart were the stars, and Helen adored Miller and couldn’t stand Mary Hart. The last six minutes — he had timed it to the second — consisted of a big musical number which was all Mary Hart, with Miller coming on only for a quick clinch before the fade-out. He was certain that Helen could be persuaded to walk out on that.

The house was dark when he got home, and he went directly to his room and locked the door. If he was to go through with his plan, there was one completely damning piece of evidence which must be destroyed. He took the unfinished manuscript from his desk and looked at it regretfully. But the regret was only for the hopes he had had for the story, not for what he was about to do. He was troubled by no indecision; he realized that he had made up his mind to kill Helen at the instant the thought first struck him and ever since had only been reassuring himself of the details of the plan. The details were in order, the murder was practical, the risk of detection slight. Two problems remained: in the morning the letters had to be written, but he had an idea of how that might be handled. The one important question was whether he could persuade her to go to the movie with him.

He tore up the manuscript page by page, burned the pieces, a few at a time, in a large metal ashtray, and took the charred ashes which remained and put them in the incinerator in the back yard. He went to bed then, expecting to sleep little, if at all. But the excitement of the early evening had been replaced by a kind of confident serenity, for the future promised peace. He was asleep before he really had time to savor the prospect.

Helen came down to breakfast as he got up from the table. Their eyes met, and she uttered one word.

“Noon.”

“You win,” he said.

Back in his room, he sat down at the typewriter. There was no time to waste. He wrote to Allen first. It was in the same tone as all the other letters he had written him, full of trivia, anecdotes, passing on gossip, imparting news of himself and Helen. This last was difficult, for it was almost entirely fictional: any hint of trouble between them was carefully omitted. And there was no mention at all of any need for money.

He wrote similar letters to the others, varying them as much as was possible without taking too much time; he was doubtful that Helen would continue to respect the privacy of his room. When he had finished the fifth, he addressed the envelopes, inserted the letters, and put them, unsealed, in the inside pocket of his jacket, together with five airmail stamps. There would be nothing strange in the fact that he had written all five of them the same day; it was what he usually did, after putting off answering their letters for somewhat more than a decent interval.