But he had let himself in for this, and he had to carry it through. He led the detective to the entrance to the parking lot and from there pointed out the course he had taken from the time he discovered the car to be missing, until the police car arrived. “After they left,” he said, “I went on looking around — in the alley back here, the parking lot next to the theatre, up and down these side streets. It doesn’t make sense, I know, and I realized it didn’t make sense then. So when I saw this trolley coming along, I hopped on it and went down to the station.”
“Um-m.” Bauer had seemed somewhat bored by the whole recital, and now he led the way back to the car. “Might as well go now. I’ll drop you home.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Conway climbed into the car and they started off. One point remained to be got on the record; he had omitted it previously because he had feared it might make his story overprecise. He leaned back in the seat.
“I do appreciate the lift,” he said. “When you’re used to a car out here, you’re lost without it. I don’t even know how to get around. Why, the night of — the night it happened, after the police car left, I thought I’d go crazy waiting for that trolley. When I got on it, the trip took forever. Then when we got there, I didn’t even see Wilcox Avenue till we were going across it, so I had to ride an extra block. That was the last straw.”
“Um-m.”
Conway was satisfied that the statement sounded simply like the garrulity of a man under a nervous strain, and that the sergeant attached no importance to it. Nevertheless, it was on the record.
Chapter six
A half-dozen cars were parked in front of the house when they drove up, and eight or ten men and two women were dispersed among the cars, the porch, and the front lawn. Bauer said, “I’ll help you handle ’em,” which came as no surprise at all to Conway.
Bauer herded the group into the living room and took charge. The police, he said, were anxious to know if any private citizen had seen, or given a ride to, a suspicious character in the neighborhood where the car had been found. “Be sure to print that, and tell ’em to call the Homicide Bureau — right? Right.”
Conway told his story then; he answered questions and posed for photographs, and was photographed un-posed. The flashlights went off without warning, but Bauer was never caught off guard; he was at Conway’s elbow for every picture.
The only photograph Conway had of Helen was the one on his desk; the reporters agreed to pool it, and one photographer took it with solemn promises to the others that they would have their cuts in time for their deadlines, and an even more solemn promise to Conway that the original would be returned. And if it’s not returned, I suppose I’ll have to keep after them for it, because it might seem strange that I never want to set eyes on her again, Conway thought.
The departure of the press was the signal for the neighbors to begin calling, and the Burkes, who lived next door, arrived as Conway was standing at the door with Bauer.
“I’ll let you know if anything happens,” the detective said as he left. “Stay close to the phone.”
A little after six the last of the callers departed. Conway locked the door, drew the shades, and retired to the kitchen; he drew the shades there also before turning on the light. He had no notion that this would convince anyone that he was not at home; it would, however — particularly if he did not go to the door — persuade any further callers that he wished to be alone with his grief. This idea was followed by the thought that he should have something to be alone with: he put together the components of a Martini, and decided that he could wish for no more pleasant companion for such a moment.
He sipped the Martini while he composed a wire to Betty, Helen’s half-sister. He judged she would have scant interest in the news, for they had not communicated for almost four years; their mother’s death had precipitated a feud over the estate, and they had been bitter enemies ever since. But as she was Helen’s only living relative — a fact which had influenced his decision to kill Helen, since it meant that there would be no one to take a vital interest in the case — he thought it wise to observe the amenities.
When he had sent the telegram he made another Martini, broiled a steak, and had the most thoroughly enjoyable meal in many months. He found a little brandy in an almost forgotten bottle, and savored it with his coffee. He dined in the kitchen; nevertheless he dined, and with a sense of well-being that could not have been greater had he been in the finest restaurant in California. He was at peace with the world.
After his third cup of coffee he stacked the dishes in the sink, slipped out the kitchen door, and walked to the nearest newsstand. There he got the evening newspapers without being recognized, hurried home, and retired to his room.
The story was all over page one, under gigantic headlines. There appeared to be no question that the murder was the work of a sex maniac, although in some of the stories there seemed to be an underlying disappointment that the murderer had not left one of the unprintable symbols which had distinguished some of the juicier crimes of this ilk. Bauer certainly called it, Conway thought as he skimmed through the stories, in which Captain Ramsden’s name seemed to appear in every other paragraph.
He found, finally, the sentence for which he was searching: “Captain Ramsden stated that although police are checking the story of Arthur Conway, husband of the victim, he is not under suspicion, and therefore is not being held.” Three cheers for Captain Ramsden, Conway thought. A gentleman and a scholar. I ought to remember him in my will — for assigning Sergeant Bauer, if nothing else. He went downstairs and made himself a nightcap.
Conway slept the sleep of the just for nine hours, and was awakened by the distant tinkle of the telephone downstairs. He padded down and answered it sleepily.
“Mr. Conway? Detective Sergeant Bauer.” The title was pronounced with great impressiveness. “How you feeling?”
“All right. I just woke up.” Then, hastily, “I didn’t get to sleep till daylight. I guess I was dozing just now.”
“U-um — too bad. I’ll tell you what to do for that when I see you. Never had a sleepless night in my life.”
“You’re lucky.”
“No — just common sense. Remind me to tell you. But look — what I called you about — they picked up a bunch of suspects last night. The captain thinks you ought to come down and take a look at ’em — he thinks you might recognize somebody you saw hanging around the parking lot or the theatre or someplace.” It was clear that the detective regarded all this as utter nonsense. “I’m sending a car for you — be ready in half an hour. Right?”
“Okay.”
“Right.”
Conway was relieved to find that there was no one he had ever seen in his life among the miserable crew who were herded into the line-up. Bauer, who sat beside him, occupied himself with a crossword puzzle and barely glanced up when each new group was paraded forth under the lights. When it was over, the detective did not wait for Conway’s corroboration of his own ear her judgment. “I’ll tell Ramsden you never laid eyes on any of ’em,” he said. “Wait here for me — I’ll give you a lift.”
He was back in a few minutes and they went out to the car. “Had to send Larkin out to check some things for me,” Bauer said as he got behind the wheel.
“Will I have to come down to these line-ups every day?” Conway asked.