Her handbag was still on the front seat beside him, and he hesitated for a moment. The money was an element not covered by the plan. But he couldn’t leave it there. For one tiling, it would leave him penniless. For another, it would open up a line of questioning — what was she doing with three hundred and fifty dollars in her purse? He could invent a story to cover her withdrawal of the money from the bank, if it should come to the attention of the police. Quickly he found the wallet, put it in his pocket, and dropped the handbag on the floor beside her. Then he took the coat from the back seat and draped it over her, so that she was completely covered.
He took the keys from the ignition without locking it, rubbed his handkerchief over part of the steering wheel, and got out of the car, closing the door quietly. The space between the car and the wall was narrow; he had to move carefully to avoid getting dirt on his coat.
He considered walking back down the alley to the parking lot, so that he might, perhaps, be seen and remembered as he walked back to the theatre. But it was too late to take a chance. At any moment a car might emerge from the lot into the alley; he would be certain to be seen and remembered. Two doors from the plumbing shop there was a passage between the buildings. He hurried into it just as the headlights of a car turned into the alley.
There was no one within fifty feet when he emerged from the other end of the passage, and he walked, rather slowly, back toward the parking lot. He stopped for a moment before a store window in which he could see his reflection. He smoothed his hair with his hands and wiped the perspiration from his face. Otherwise he seemed to look all right.
As he approached the parking lot, two cars drove out, and he crossed the street to avoid being picked up by the headlights of any other cars which might emerge. He had not, he was sure, been seen by anyone who could possibly identify him, between the plumbing shop and the parking lot. The first, and most difficult, phase of Operation Murder was over. Unless the car was found in the next few minutes, he had a chance. Even if it were discovered within the next twenty minutes, he had a very good chance. But he was confident that both these possibilities were extremely unlikely. He now had to stick to the plan, be careful of details, meticulous about the timing. That was the important thing: the timing. Once arrived at the theatre, he had to use up time. He looked at his watch.
He went first to the ticketseller, and explained that his wife thought she’d lost a glove — could he go in and look for it? She sent him on to the doorman, to whom he repeated his request. The doorman was agreeable, and passed him through. He spent a minute or two searching about in the general vicinity of where they had sat, and then returned to the lobby, and headed for the manager’s office.
He wanted to get his story on record, so he went into more detail than he had with the ticketseller or the doorman.
“My wife and I just saw the picture,” he began, “and when we got back to the car she discovered she’d lost a glove. The doorman let me in to look for it, but I couldn’t find it, and I wondered if it had been turned in to you.”
“Nope. No gloves tonight,” said the heavy-set man behind the desk.
“Oh. Well, I wondered — do you have a flashlight here that I could borrow? It was pretty dark in there and I may have missed it. It’s only been a couple of minutes — I doubt if anyone’s picked it up. And — well, you know how women are.”
The manager found a flashlight in a drawer and got up. “Nothing more annoying than losing one glove,” he said. “And nothing more useless than finding one. Why don’t women ever lose two gloves? That wouldn’t make ’em near as mad.”
Conway felt a little glow of pride in his psychology. Originally he had intended to lose a handkerchief, but when he had seen the extra pair of gloves in the drawer, he had remembered Helen’s irritation in the past when she had lost a glove. It was far more plausible that he be sent back to recover a glove than a handkerchief. The soundness of his reasoning had already been confirmed.
The manager carried the flashlight, and Conway led him to a seat three rows in front of the one he had occupied. “We were sitting right about here, I think,” he whispered. “On the aisle.”
The manager directed the light on the floor; Conway knelt and looked long and carefully. Then he moved to the row behind, and finally to the row where he had placed the glove. He rose, holding it triumphantly. The manager seemed almost as pleased as Conway.
In the lobby, Conway was voluble in his thanks. The manager was distressed at the amount of dirt which had managed to attach itself to the glove.
“We probably stepped on it, or kicked it, when we were coming out,” Conway said. “But it’ll wash out.” He folded the glove, put it in his pocket, and was about to leave when he caught sight of the popcorn stand.
“Think I’ll take some popcorn to my wife,” he said. “She loves it — and it might make her forget how long I’ve been gone.”
“Good idea,” said the manager. “Best popcorn in town.”
Conway bought a large bag of popcorn, stopped to thank the manager again, and walked from the theatre. It had been nine minutes since he had arrived back at the theatre; he wished that it had been a little longer, but there seemed no plausible way to prolong the time.
He walked back to the parking lot at a normal pace. Fewer than half the spaces were occupied now; there was no one in sight, but just in case there might be an unseen audience, he went through with his act. He walked to where the car had been parked, and was surprised to find it gone; he looked up and down the alley for a moment, then walked back through the lot to the street. He went back to the theatre, walking somewhat faster now.
Again he stopped at the ticketseller’s booth first.
“Has a young lady been here looking for me?” He must be careful not to be too agitated this early. He smiled at the cashier. “I mean — you remember I came back a few minutes ago looking for a glove my wife lost. I found the glove, but now I can’t find my wife. She’s wearing a pink suit and a bright red scarf. Have you seen her?”
“She hasn’t come to the window,” the girl answered. “You might ask the doorman.”
The doorman was certain that no one in a pink suit and red scarf had been in the lobby, and Conway turned away and stood for a few moments, puzzled. Then he headed across the street to the drugstore.
In the drugstore, he looked around intently; he questioned the clerk behind the cigar counter, and then, catching sight of the waitress who had served them coffee, he repeated the question to her. He stood in the door for a moment, in deep thought, then went out and hurried back to the parking lot. Again there seemed to be no one about, but he examined every car there. He went then to the parking lot across the street, next to the theatre, and questioned the attendant. He went on to the theatre, and this time directly to the doorman.
“You haven’t seen—?” he began.
The doorman was seated, reading a magazine. He looked up, shook his head, and returned to his reading.
Again Conway stood, thinking. Then slowly, thoughtfully, he crossed to the drugstore.
He dialed the number of his home, and waited while the phone rang several times. Then he came out of the booth, looked in the telephone directory on the nearby rack, went back and dialed the police.
“Police Department.”
“Will you send a squad car right away to Santa Monica Boulevard and Nichols Street?” His voice had taken on a tone of nervous, suppressed excitement.
“What’s the name and address?”
“Arthur Conway. I’m at the drugstore on the corner. I—”