“What’s the nature of the complaint?”
“It’s an emergency. Please hurry. I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.” He hung up.
It might sound like a robbery or as if violence threatened. It might be someone reporting a neighbor’s mayhem, or the recognition of a criminal. It might also, of course, be a man reporting a missing car and wife, though Conway doubted that that would occur to the voice on the other end of the line. But it wasn’t important. What was important was that his report was on record, and that they would have to send a cruising patrol car. They wouldn’t dare not send it.
He went outside and stood on the sidewalk, pacing a little, and scanning the passing cars. A streetcar went past. He noted the time: exactly on schedule. In less than three minutes the squad car appeared. He was at its side before the patrolman had time to open the door.
“I’m Arthur Conway — the one who called for you,” he said. “I left my wife in the car in the parking lot down there, went back to the theatre to get a glove she lost — I was only gone a few minutes — and when I came back she wasn’t there. The car’s gone, and she isn’t anywhere around.”
“Come again, buddy, a little slower. Just what happened?”
Conway was conscious that he made a somewhat ridiculous figure, standing there with a bag of popcorn in his hand, reporting a wife who had walked out on him — or, rather, driven off on him. It was necessary that they look on him as a rather pathetic figure of fun — now. The popcorn had been planned, and bought, with that effect in mind. Later they would remember his concern, which now seemed so exaggerated.
He told what had occurred, then, in sequence, being careful not to be too precise or detailed; something had to be saved for later. He told of his search of the neighborhood, he mentioned that he had left the keys in the car but explained that his wife didn’t like to drive; it was unthinkable that she would drive off and leave him to walk home.
As he went on with his account, he could see the quizzical look come into the face of the patrolman on the right. When the officer turned his head away to look at the driver, Conway knew it was to hide a smile, or perhaps to wink at his partner.
“Well, what do you want us to do, buddy?” he asked when he turned back to Conway.
“Why, find her — look for her.”
“Why don’t you try telephoning home? She’s probably there by now.”
“I called just a few minutes ago. She wouldn’t go off alone, I tell you.”
“Well, maybe she didn’t.” The patrolman was unable to hide the smile this time, and Conway was gratifyingly conscious of what he was thinking. “Maybe—” A sharp nudge in the ribs stopped him, and the driver continued the sentence.
“Maybe she got tired of waiting and a friend came along and drove her home.”
“You don’t understand,” said Conway, wondering if he looked like the kind of man whose wife would go off to a motel on five minutes’ notice. “She wouldn’t—”
“Look, buddy—” The joke and the patrolman’s patience were beginning to wear thin. “You want to report a stolen car and a missing woman?”
“Oh, no,” said Conway. “I thought we could drive around here and try to find her or the car, or something.”
“We’re not running any passenger service tonight,” the driver said. “If you want to report the car or your wife now, we’ll take it. If you want to do it later, go to the nearest police station. My advice is, don’t do it.”
“Thanks. But — you will be on the look-out, won’t you?”
“Sure. What kind of a car?”
Conway described the car and gave the license number. They did not trouble to write it down; he concluded they did not intend to phone it in to headquarters.
“I’ll look around here a little more and then call home again,” he said. “If I do decide to report it, where should I go?”
“Hollywood Station. Wilcox Avenue, north of Santa Monica.” The patrolman picked up the radio telephone as the car started off. Reporting completion of the call; that meant there would be a record of the time. It was unlikely they would report the license number of the car, but it was a possibility, and not a pleasant one to contemplate.
Waiting to see the direction the police car would take, Conway glanced at the bench next to the trolley stop sign; three rather poorly dressed people were there, which meant that the next car would stop. That was good; not vital, but good. And the car was due in thirteen minutes.
#The squad car paused for a moment at the corner, and then turned south. That could mean they intended to drive through the alley. Conway turned and walked briskly to the parking lot. He was halfway between street and alley when he saw the glare of headlights in the alley; he stepped into the shadow of a car, and saw the squad car drive slowly past. He hurried, then, to the rear of the lot, his heart in his throat, and looked after the retreating car. It proceeded without a pause past the plumbing shop, past his car and Helen, and on to the next street, where the officers, apparently feeling they had done their duty, turned north.
Now that it had come off safely, Conway was glad that the police had inspected — in their fashion — the alley: it would be evidence that the car had been driven off, out of the vicinity. He took a quick look around the parking lot; there were no signs of anyone preparing to drive out. He tossed away the popcorn and set off down the alley, still ostensibly searching for his car and his wife. When he got to the plumber’s shop, he slipped into the open space, crouched beside his car, and waited. But there was no sound, and no headlights appeared to brighten the alley. He crept into the car, smarted the motor, and stole into the alley without lights. He could turn left, in the direction opposite the one the police car had taken, but he risked coming head-on into it if they had circled the block. Instead, he turned right, in the direction they had driven, gambling that they had not stopped just around the corner. When he reached the cross street, he turned south and drove half a block before switching on his lights; there had been no sign of the police car, and if anyone else had seen his car emerge from the alley, they had not been close enough to identify it by make or license number.
It had been three and a half minutes since the police car had driven off; the next streetcar was due to pass the drugstore in ten minutes, which meant that he could go to Fulton Street. He had picked three possible locations, his choice to depend on the amount of time left to him. Of the three, he preferred Fulton Street.
He cut over to Fairfield Avenue, which was a main thoroughfare and carried a considerable amount of traffic, and again turned south. He had not expected the squad car to report his license number, and he was not certain that they had; nevertheless it was a dangerous possibility. But on a moderately crowded street he was sure there was less risk of being spotted, even should he happen to pass a patrol car, than on a less traveled one.
He crossed Beverly Boulevard, which was the southern boundary of the Hollywood precinct; now he would at least be safe from the officers who had interviewed him. He turned east, then, heading in the direction of Hollywood, on to a quiet, residential street with little traffic. He was conscious of the added danger, but what he next had to do could not be attempted on a main thoroughfare.
He was acutely aware, suddenly, of the vast difference between inventing a perfect murder and accomplishing it. The chances of his being detected in this phase of the operation were slight; he had planned it that way. But now that he had embarked on the venture, those chances loomed terrifyingly large: an accident, a traffic violation, anything which might unluckily arouse the suspicion of a cruising police car, could mean disaster. In his story he had refused to take advantage of good luck, but he had arbitrarily ruled out bad. He was sweating as he realized that no mortal could do that with impunity. Then it occurred to him that his apprehension was getting in the way of the things he had to do. He unlocked the glove compartment, took out the towel, and put on the hat and gloves.