He was on the final letter when Helen walked in without knocking. “It’s taken you long enough,” she said as she picked up the four which were completed.
“They’re not easy to write. I made a couple of false starts.”
“As usual,” she said without lifting her eyes from the letters.
By the time she had got through the four, he had finished the last one, and she read that, too. He looked at her as she stood by the window and felt no compunction at all for what he planned to do: the fact that, having read the letters, she could still insist on sending them, was added justification. He was thankful he had found a way to take care of her as she deserved.
“I guess they’re all right. That ought to get ’em,” she said. “Where are the envelopes?”
“I’ll type them now and mail them after lunch.”
“Will you really?” He hadn’t actually expected to get away with it that easily. “You just type the envelopes and I’ll take care of the rest.”
He typed the envelopes carefully, exactly duplicating the format of the others he had put in his pocket. And it was time, he thought, to start placating her if he hoped to get her to accompany him to the theatre.
“Look, Helen—” He inserted an envelope in the machine. “I’m not going to double-cross you. I don’t like doing this thing, but I have no choice. Now that I’ve written the letters, I’m as anxious to get it over with as you are. But it’ll be at least a week before we hear from them all, so we’re stuck here in this house together for at least that long. How about a truce?”
She looked at him with an amused smile.
“Really scared, aren’t you?”
He hung on to himself with an effort and hoped the hatred didn’t show in his eyes.
“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just that we can both give each other a very unpleasant week. But what do we gain by it — either of us?”
“All right, Artie,” — she knew how the nickname annoyed him — “if that’s the way you want it. As you say, I’ve got nothing to gain.” She started for the door. “Finish up those envelopes. I’m going to get my bag.”
“Anything in the house for lunch?” He had reconnoitered the kitchen before breakfast and knew there was not.
“A truce doesn’t mean I’m going to start cooking for you.”
“I didn’t expect it. But as long as I have to go out to eat, I’ll drop you wherever you want to go.”
“Well, that’s mighty white of you.” The sarcasm in her voice did not entirely disguise her surprise. But she was herself very quickly. “Finish those envelopes.”
He started on the second one, as her voice came from her room. “And don’t seal them up. I’ll take care of that.”
Obviously her suspicions were not entirely allayed. This might be more difficult than he had expected. But these letters could not be mailed. If they were, it would be impossible to go ahead with his plan.
He had finished addressing the envelopes when she came back into the room, and while he put on a necktie and got into his jacket, she glanced at each letter, inserted it in its envelope, sealed it, and affixed the airmail stamps she had brought with her. When she had done all five, she put them in her bag and went downstairs.
He took the other set of letters from his pocket, quickly sealed and stamped them, and followed her. She was standing before the mirror in the hall, giving her lips a final going-over, which would take at least a couple of minutes; her bag stood on the table beside her. Conway wandered into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the bottle that was kept in the refrigerator, and slammed the glass to the floor. It broke into a hundred pieces, the water splashed all over, and the crash brought her to the door of the kitchen.
“Now what?”
“The glass slipped out of my hand. I’ll clean it up.”
He started toward the small coat closet off the front entry hall which, because cupboard space in the kitchen was at a premium, served as a broom closet. Helen resumed work on her mouth.
“I’m afraid it’s one of the good glasses,” he said.
“Oh, no!” she wailed, and went into the kitchen, knelt, and examined the pieces. What she hoped to accomplish by this closer inspection, Conway neither knew nor cared; he had gambled that it would be an instinctive reaction, and won. He paused at her handbag for a split second on his way to the closet, replaced the letters in it with the ones he took from his pocket almost without breaking stride, and was on his way back to the kitchen with broom and dustpan as she returned to the hall.
“Ox,” she muttered as she passed him. He almost smiled with satisfaction. It had been so easy, so smooth; maybe it was an omen.
Chapter three
Helen posted the letters at the first mailbox they passed, and when she got back in the car there was a noticeable change in her attitude. She was almost relaxed. Conway wondered if she had been less confident than she had pretended.
“If we’re going to have that truce,” she said, “how about getting some lunch?”
“Okay with me.” He was pleased that she had proposed it: he had wanted to, but feared she might be suspicious of too many overtures.
They had lunch at a drive-in near Beverly Hills with no overt unpleasantness and started toward home.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I need a pair of white gloves, and there’s a store on Beverly Drive—”
His eyes involuntarily flicked down to the gloves she was wearing. She caught the glance, and her voice snapped a little as she continued.
“This is the only pair of white gloves I’ve got to my name, and I can’t wash ’em every time I take ’em off. Of course if you don’t want to stop—”
Conway had an idea things might get very unpleasant indeed if he didn’t want to stop. He had to park half a block up from the shop, in front of a five-and-ten. As she got out of the car, he did the same.
“I’ll walk up to the corner and get a paper,” he said.
He walked a few feet and looked back. She was crossing the street in the middle of the block. He slipped into the five-and-ten.
It was another break, he thought; he wouldn’t have to find an excuse to leave the house after they got home. He coursed the store, not wanting to inquire of salespeople, and finally found the object of his search: a disguise kit put up for children — he had seen a youngster with one a few weeks ago. Fastened on a piece of cardboard were a pair of spectacles, a false nose, a mustache, and eyebrows. They were intended to be comic, and they were, but they were acceptable for his purpose. He paid for his purchase, and as he left the store, folded up the card and put it in his pocket.
He was reading the amusement page of the paper when Helen returned to the car, and as they started off she picked it up.
“There hasn’t been a decent picture in months,” she pronounced.
He had bought the paper and left it open at that page in order to lead in to going to the movie. Now he feared that he might be rushing it too much. Would it be better to wait until they got home, until Helen herself, perhaps, got restless and wanted to go out? Or should he give this new relationship another day, when she might be less suspicious of this unwonted friendliness? He would have only one chance; if he bungled it now...
“How was the Tommy Miller picture?” he asked. “What was it, ‘Song of Manhattan’?”
“I didn’t get to see it. I told you that.”
“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.