But he had to try. If he failed, he might be able to get her to stay for some of the cartoon or newsreel. That would be less safe, but at least it was a chance. The danger was that she would stay for two, three, four minutes of the number, and then want to go. Two minutes — perhaps he could take that gamble. Three minutes — could he? — dared he? Four minutes — that he couldn’t. But what then? Because it was certain that this was his last chance. He could imagine her reaction if he asked her to go to a movie again.
He had been staring at the picture, seeing nothing, for what seemed an interminable time. And then there was a chord of music; before his eyes could focus on the screen, he knew that this was the final number. He had to act — and quickly. He leaned toward Helen.
“I read about this number — this is really what I wanted to see. She made this song, you know — they say it’s the greatest thing she’s ever done.”
No reaction.
Mary Hart sang a verse of the song. He glanced at Helen out of the corner of his eye; she was leaning back in her seat, apparently quite content with what she was seeing and hearing, although it was obvious that this was Mary Hart’s number and there was no way for Tommy Miller to come into it.
The verse and one chorus ran a minute and ten seconds, he knew; at the end of the chorus he looked at Helen as if to see whether she found it as entrancing as he did. She had slumped down in the chair, apparently ready to see it through. He realized that he had lost; he sat back in the seat, trying to think of some way to get her to stay for part of the newsreel.
Mary Hart danced the next chorus. One minute forty-five seconds, he thought. His mind was ticking like a taximeter. Then the number began to get really spectacular, as a host of girls appeared from nowhere and took up the song. After no more than eight bars, Helen leaned toward him.
“I’m leaving,” she said. She stood up. Conway looked at her, momentarily speechless.
“I’m leaving, and you’d better come, too.” She didn’t whisper, but her voice was low. He didn’t think anyone could hear. He left his seat and went up the aisle ahead of her. It was two minutes and five seconds after the start of the number; with luck he would have four minutes and fifty-five seconds without interruption.
He looked around the lobby at a scene of complete inactivity — no one either leaving or coming in. There was an added break he hadn’t counted on: the doorman was over talking to the girl behind the candy and popcorn counter, so they left without having come face to face with anyone.
He let Helen get a couple of steps ahead, thinking she might walk a little more rapidly than if she thought he was trying to hurry her. As she started to cross the street, she turned and spoke over her shoulder.
“What you can see in that—” She didn’t finish, for Conway had leaped forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her back to the curb. A jalopy, filled with five or six adolescents, whizzed past, missing her by inches.
“Thanks,” she said, and she was breathing rapidly. “You surprise me.”
His own pulse was pounding. He didn’t know why he had done it: it had been an instinctive reaction. Maybe they’d have missed her, perhaps only injured her. But they had been going at least forty-five, and in the quick glance he’d had of them, the driver seemed to have his arm around the girl at his side; he probably could not have avoided hitting Helen. It might all have been taken care of for him, Conway thought bitterly. Fate had tried to give him an assist, and he had been too stupid to take advantage of it.
They crossed the street. His stomach was queasy, and his pulse seemed to be pounding like a riveting machine. For the past two hours there had been but one thought in his mind: how to get her out of the theatre at the proper time. His only fear had been that he might fail in that vitally important preliminary. He hadn’t failed, but now the new fear that consumed him was almost paralyzing. He felt no pity, no qualms of conscience over this thing which had to be done; only a horrible doubt of himself, of whether he could, physically, go through with it. There, only a few steps ahead, was the car. Only seconds in the future, lay murder.
He unlocked the door and, when she was in, closed it carefully, so that it did not catch on the second notch. Then he walked around, got behind the wheel, and started the motor. The door rattled slightly.
“I didn’t close the door all the way. Will you slam it?”
She twisted in the seat to reach the door handle. “For once in your life you were right about the weather,” she said. “Can you reach my coat?”
It was a good excuse to get one knee on the seat, as if to reach over into the back, and he knelt behind her. She opened the door and slammed it.
It went exactly according to plan. His hands dropped over her shoulders, crossed, and seized the scarf by its opposite ends. His arms jerked back, the scarf crossed and made a double loop around her throat. He pulled it taut, and then twisted it.
It was done expertly, as he had planned, and so quickly that she didn’t struggle until the strong, silken noose began to tighten about her neck. Then her arms flailed the air, trying to reach him; he pushed her off the seat, onto the floor, so that she could not reach his face. She clawed at his wrists, but her gloves effectively sheathed her nails, and he prevented her from getting a firm grip on his hands. She half-twisted around for a moment, and in the dim light he caught a glimpse of her face; there was no trace of fear on it, or even realization of what was happening: only rage and hatred. She doesn’t know yet that she’s dying, he thought. He twisted the scarf tighter.
Chapter four
He could not look at his watch, and he peered anxiously at the entrance to the parking lot; there was no one in sight. Then he realized that her struggling had become feebler. He had been holding her by the arm to try to keep her from thrashing about; now the arm relaxed, her body seemed to crumple. He was not certain that she was dead, but he could not take time to make sure. He tied a knot in the scarf, backed the car out of the space, turned right, and drove down the alley.
It was dark and he dared not turn on his headlights. He guided the car slowly, carefully, for about two hundred feet, stopped, and backed the car into an open space behind a plumber’s shop.
He had observed this place casually some time ago; he had remembered it when he was writing the story, for it seemed to offer a perfect spot for concealment for a short time, and he had checked on it last night. There was an area the width of the building, and about twenty-five feet deep, where the little panel trucks which went out on jobs in the daytime were loaded; at night the three trucks were parked there, backed up against the loading platform, headed toward the alley. There was ample room for another car, and now Conway backed the small sedan alongside one of the trucks, between it and the brick wall of the building next door. Seen from the alley, there appeared to be four trucks lined up in company front. He did not anticipate any closer inspection in the short while the car would remain there.
He cut the motor, looked at his watch, and took a deep breath. Six minutes had elapsed since the start of that final number; the picture must be just over. There was not much time.
He leaned down and removed the gloves from Helen’s still warm hands and put them in his inside pocket. He put the mate to the glove he had dropped in the theatre, on her right hand. He felt for her pulse, but could detect no throbbing sign of life. Then he grasped her under the arms and pulled her to a sitting position on the seat. The body he had once known so well was heavy; heavier than he’d thought. It took all his strength to lift her over the back of the seat and put her on the floor. The body slipped from his grasp before he had lowered it all the way, and landed with a thud. He felt almost apologetic for this final, unnecessary hurt.