Robert Sinclair: The Eleventh Hour

“I remember you mentioned it. I thought you’d seen it.”

“Shows how much attention you pay to what I say.” But her voice was not as edgy as he had come to expect. He dared to try one more tentative lead.

“I just happened to see it advertised. It’s playing at — what’s the name of that theatre on Santa Monica, not far from us?”

“Where?” She looked eagerly down the list. “Oh, the Monterey.”

“I thought I’d like to see it myself. Might go tonight.”

“Why don’t you?”

He had to take the plunge. “Want to come along?” he asked.

He could feel her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “I might,” she said, and then added, “if I can’t find anything better to do.”

He could push it no further now. He had to trust to luck and be prepared.

Helen went to her room when they got home; he went to his and locked the door. First he went to work on the mustache, which had some sort of gum on the back for instant attachment. It was long, black, curling, and fierce, and by daylight would have deceived no one at a distance of fifty feet. But it was not going to be seen in daylight, and he trimmed it with a pair of manicure scissors so that it became a square, rather full, military type. Under a street lamp, fleetingly, it would get by. And it would be noticed.

He dug into a suitcase in which he kept some old clothes he had hoped to wear if he ever went fishing. There was a battered hat, bought before the war, and the only one he owned, for he had not worn a hat since he had come to California. It took some getting used to, but he decided it would do.

Twice he heard the sound of the telephone being dialed, and he opened the door and listened cautiously. But there was no conversation, and he concluded that her friends, whoever they were, were not at home. He still had a chance.

When he heard her return to her room and close the door, he hurried downstairs, stopping to pick up an old, frayed bath towel on the way. In the garage he examined the towel; there were laundry marks in one corner. He tore off that end, placed the hat and the towel in the glove compartment of the car, and locked it.

The incinerator was behind the garage and not visible from the house. There was the possibility, of course, that Helen might happen to come out and find him, but he had to risk it. One at a time he burned the letters he had written at Helen’s direction, the strip he had torn off the towel, and the remainder of the disguise kit. If there should be a slip, if suspicion should be directed at him and the police were to search the house, any of these could be incriminating. He made certain that nothing but ashes remained.

There was nothing else to be done now. Except— It occurred to Conway that when they started asking questions and he said he was a writer, it might be advisable to have some evidence to that effect. He went to his room and started to write a rehash of a Western story he had done once before.

At six o’clock he went downstairs, making sure that Helen, in her room, could hear him. When he paused to listen at the foot of the stairs, he heard her door open quietly. He looked up the number of the theatre and then dialed.

“Monterey Theatre?” In the tiny house he knew Helen could hear him. “What time does ‘Song of Manhattan’ go on?”

“It’s on now. Next complete show starts at seven-thirty, and ‘Song of Manhattan’ at seven-fifty-six.”

Helen came in as he hung up.

“Show starts at seven-twenty,” he said.

“You going?”

“I think so.”

“Oh.”

He hoped he could mask his anxiety. “Want to come along?”

He knew that she wanted no part of an evening with him, even in a movie theatre. But she had nothing else to do. He could see her indecision in the way she fingered her cigarette.

“I do want to see that picture.” He breathed a prayer of gratitude for Tommy Miller. “And I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. What time did you say?”

“Seven-twenty. I’d like to see the newsreel.”

“I’ll get ready.”

He had advanced the time for two reasons. The parking lot was apt to fill up quickly, and it was important that he get a space toward the back. In addition, if they got to the theatre early, they would see the finish of the picture, and there would be no question, then, of Helen being willing to leave before the end. She was always meticulous about seeing a picture from the beginning, and hated to come in in the middle, but, he thought, if they were there, what could she do about it? He didn’t think she’d stand in the lobby.

He changed into an inconspicuous gray suit, wrapped the mustache in paper, and put it in his pocket. When he heard Helen leave her room, he put the car keys on his dresser, threw a sheet of paper over them, and went downstairs. Helen, wearing a pink linen suit with a vivid red scarf around her neck, was carefully putting on her new gloves. He disliked the suit; he thought it exaggerated the already too full lines of her body, and he wondered, idly, what had ever attracted him to her physically. He detested the garishness of the scarf, too, but Helen wore scarves whenever possible, and this was her current favorite. He had expected she would wear it and was glad that she had; it was perfect for his purpose.

“Better take a coat,” he said. “It’s apt to be cold later.”

“I haven’t got a coat I can wear with this.”

“Leave it in the car. At least you’ll have it for the drive home.” He got her polo coat from the closet and she reluctantly took it.

When they got to the car he discovered that he had forgotten the keys and had to go back to get them. He headed straight for Helen’s room and the drawer in which she kept her handkerchiefs. All exactly according to plan.

He riffled quickly through the pile of handkerchiefs, looking for one of her best ones. He selected one, and then hesitated as his eye caught, at the front of the drawer, the old pair of gloves. An idea struck him: the gloves would be better than the handkerchief, and he wondered why it had not occurred to him before. He considered hastily for a moment: the gloves had been worn, but did not seem soiled, and they were folded neatly together; they would change none of his plan, except to make it more plausible. He replaced the handkerchief, put the gloves in his pocket, got the keys from his room, and rejoined Helen. Her comment on his stupidity in forgetting the keys was about what he had expected.

The theatre was on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard, and there was a moderately large, fairly well-lit parking lot directly alongside it. But there was a charge of a quarter, and the Conways, some time previously, had discovered a lot across, and a little way down, the street. It was between a market and a bank, and was unattended at night. It was easy to get in and out because it ran through from the street to the alley behind it: one could enter or leave either way. And it was not lighted. There was room for no more than about twenty cars, and Conway had noticed in his reconnoitering that a good many people seemed to be economy-minded. By the time the seven-thirty showing started it would undoubtedly be full, so he hurried Helen through her dinner and then disregarded speed limits and her temper impartially after they left the restaurant.

Helen took it as a matter of course when he drove in there instead of going to the regular parking lot next to the theatre. His timing had been good: there were only a few cars. He drove all the way back and parked in the space next but one to the alley.

“Why didn’t you leave the car at the restaurant? It wouldn’t have been much further to walk,” she said as she got out. Conway stopped to lock the doors of the car.