“She’s a lucky girl.” Conway was beginning to lose interest in Detective Sergeant Bauer’s philosophy of life and love.
The detective looked at him reflectively. “You don’t seem to be very much upset about this Taylor,” he said.
Conway realized that his preoccupation with other matters was causing him to forget his role of the bereaved, and deceived, husband. “I don’t know,” he said. “After the week I’ve had — first her disappearance, then learning she’d been murdered, I guess nothing can hit you very hard.”
“Yeah,” Bauer said, “you’re sort of paralyzed.”
“How about Taylor’s alibi?” Conway asked. “What do you think of it?”
“Can’t tell yet. We’ll know more by morning.”
“The captain seemed to think he might be able to fake an alibi. Isn’t that pretty hard to do?”
“Practically impossible,” Bauer said. “Unless there are a lot of awful dumb detectives around.”
Conway felt encouraged to go on. “I didn’t understand what you said up in the office about my having an alibi. What did the car being parked at ten-four have to do with it?”
“That was just one thing,” the detective replied. “Like to know why we were sure so quick that you didn’t do it?”
“I’d be very interested,” Conway said, conscious of his understatement.
Bauer assumed his professorial air. “Any time a woman’s murdered,” he said, “naturally the first suspect is her husband. That’s only common sense, because, the way it works out, most married women who get killed, it turns out it’s their husband did it. I don’t know why that is,” he mused. “Funny thing, because most men aren’t killed by their wives.”
“Very interesting,” Conway said. “I’d never realized that.”
“Anyway, the first thing I did was check up on you to see if you might have killed her. Not if you did, mind you, but if you could have.”
“It never occurred to me that I might need an alibi,” Conway said. “All the time I was looking for her, after the squad car left me, and then on the trolley going down to the police station — I doubt if anyone would remember seeing me then, or that I could prove where I was, and when.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” the detective stated. “When a guy’s on the level, he’s got a lot of things working for him he don’t even know about. And vice versa. When he isn’t, there’s a lot of things working against him.” The remark disturbed Conway vaguely, but he dismissed it as Bauer went on. “For instance, that squad car looked all over the neighborhood after it left you, and there was no sign of your car. If you’d done it, the car couldn’t be very far away. But, of course, they might of missed it, so I don’t count that as a positive fact.”
“I see.”
“But then we got two very positive facts. The car was parked between ten-o-two and ten-o-four, and you were at the police station at ten twenty-three. No taxis picked up any fares around there at that time, and there’s been no report of a private car giving anybody a lift. Besides, nobody who’d just left a dead bod}^ in a car would be fool enough to ask for a lift. And a man running down a quiet street couldn’t help but be noticed. So if it was you parked that car, it means you’d have to of walked to the station in twenty-one minutes. Well, that can’t be done — I checked it personally, so there’s no possibility of me being wrong.”
“I’d never have thought of that,” Conway said.
“There was another thing, and this is what I mean about things working for a fellow that he don’t even know about. You happened to mention something I bet you don’t even know you said, and you know I’m not conceited, but not one man in a thousand would of paid any attention to it.”
“What was that?”
“You just happened to mention that when you were on that streetcar, you missed the stop at Wilcox and had to ride on to Cahuenga. You didn’t even know it meant anything when you told me. Well, it was certainly a long shot that the motorman or conductor would remember what stops they made three nights before, but I took it. And whaddya know, the motor-man was coming down with the flu that night, and that was the last trip he made. He was in a hurry to finish the trip, and trying to make up time, and he remembered that he beat a light at Wilcox. Somebody bawled him out for it when he stopped at Cahuenga. So now you see why I said you had an alibi you couldn’t of faked?”
“I didn’t realize you’d gone to so much trouble on my account, Sergeant,” Conway said in all honesty. “And I’m truly grateful to you. You haven’t missed a trick.”
Chapter twelve
Conway signed a receipt for the car, and a mechanic brought it out as Larkin drove into the garage in the police car.
“I’ll ride with Mr. Conway,” Bauer said. “You follow us out to the house.”
“Car seems to be all right,” Conway said. “What have they been doing with it all this time?”
“They take it apart, they analyze everything, they put it together, and finally figure out the guy who done it was under nine feet tall because he didn’t poke a hole in the roof with his head. They drive me crazy, those scientifics.”
“I can believe that,” Conway said.
“Betty home?” the detective asked.
“She was when I left. I promised to take her for a drive this afternoon — show her some of the town.”
“I wouldn’t say anything about this Taylor business to her,” Bauer said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t think nice women ought to hear about that kind of stuff. Certainly can’t do any good. And her own sister and all — might even give her ideas.”
“She’ll read about it in the papers anyway.”
“Only if we really pin it on this guy,” the detective replied. “And I don’t think we can. Just tell her I’m looking around to see if there’s anything I might have missed — letters or phone numbers or anything.”
When they arrived at the house, they found Betty listening to a speech on the radio.
“What’s that?” Bauer demanded. “Couldn’t you get a ball game?”
“I didn’t try,” Betty answered. “That’s the President.”
“Rebroadcasting that speech he made last night?” Conway asked. Betty nodded.
“If it wasn’t for the baseball, I’d never look at a radio,” the sergeant said. “Why do they keep rebroadcasting these speeches? Once is plenty for most of ’em.”
“They’re ‘broadcasting it at this more convenient time,’ “ Betty answered. “That’s what the man said.”
“What’s more convenient about it?” Bauer growled.
“He made the speech about eight-thirty last night in New York,” she explained patiently. “That’s five-thirty here, which isn’t a very good time, so they put it on again this morning. Public service, the radio people call it.”
“It’d be more of a public service if they’d broadcast a game from the Polo Grounds out here right now,” Bauer said.
“Well, do you want to get started?” Conway asked.
“H-mm?” A faraway look had come into the detective’s eyes, and he seemed to recall himself with an effort. “Oh — yeah,” he said rather uncertainly.
“Started at what?” Betty asked.
Conway was about to explain when Bauer interrupted. “I just happened to think of something,” he said. “I forgot it was Saturday — something I got to do before noon.” He was on his way to the door. “The other thing can wait — I’ll be out this afternoon sometime.”
Conway wondered what new inspiration had struck the detective, but Betty was more practical. “At least we don’t have to ask him to lunch,” she observed.
While she prepared the meal, Conway made a thorough search of Helen’s room. In a cardboard box, with some other costume jewelry, he found a pair of earrings he had never seen before; they were, he assumed, a gift from Taylor which she had thought it unwise to wear. Otherwise there was nothing, not even a scrap of paper, which could possibly have been a clue to the liaison with Taylor. Conway took some slight consolation from the fact that he had not been exceptionally stupid; he could see no reason why he should have known about, or even suspected, the affair.