The Eleventh Hour

by Robert Bruce Sinclair

  “We went back just before the picture started. There was a crowd going in.”

  “And neither he nor anyone else saw you leave,” Davis continued. “And you said you left before the end of the picture, so there was no crowd coming out then.”

  “He was—” Conway stopped himself in time. He had said they had left only a minute before the end of the picture; if he said that the doorman was at the popcorn counter when they left, his lie might be revealed, which could lead to other disclosures.

  “How could the doorman be expected to remember everyone who walked past him in the course of the evening?” he said. “You’d have a fine time convincing a jury I wasn’t in the theatre just because the doorman doesn’t remember my going in or coming out.”

  “You’ve got something there,” Davis agreed. “That would be quite an assignment. But” — he paused and smiled affably — “the joke’s on you. Because I don’t have to prove you weren’t in the theatre. You just go ahead and try to prove you were. We haven’t been able to, and” — the smile vanished utterly — “you won’t be able to either, because you weren’t there. But — I can prove everything eke.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at Conway speculatively. “And now, do you want to play ball?”

  “You’re nuts!” Conway said, but he was rigid with terror. He had selected the seats in the theatre with a view to being inconspicuous, so that their early exit would not be noticed; their leaving had attracted no attention, which he had counted as an added bit of luck. He had foreseen no need of having to prove his presence in the theatre, for he could not have imagined that a muddle-headed detective would manage to prove, to a presumably sane district attorney, that the crime had taken place an hour earlier than it actually had.

  The muddle-headed detective spoke. “Mind if I say something to him?” he asked Davis.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Like I told you,” he said to Conway, “I take an interest in my clients. You’re not really a client now, of course, but I’m still interested in you. Naturally, you shouldn’t of killed her, but I can see extenuating circumstances.”

  “You’re seeing double,” Conway said.

  “I knew there was something phoney when I saw that glove you said she sent you to get. And, of course, I was right. But that’s one of the things makes me think it wasn’t premeditated, because if you’d planned it, you’d of figured out something better than that, you being a writer and all, so I’m right on that one, too. Well, if it wasn’t premeditated, it wasn’t first-degree murder. So, if you play ball with the D. A., maybe he’ll let it go at second-degree. Can’t ask for more than that.” He turned to Davis. “How about it?”

  “There do seem to have been some extenuating circumstances,” Davis said. “Of course, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to the boss. In fact, I’ll definitely recommend that we accept a plea of second-degree — if you’ll co-operate.”

  “You’re all insane,” Conway said, and his voice shook with real outrage, the righteous indignation of the artist who has created a perfect work, only to have it misunderstood, distorted, perverted, by a crass and ignorant public. “This whole idiotic accusation stems from the fact that this chowderhead detective, advised by his cretin girl friend, thinks it’s unnatural for a woman to get upset about losing a glove — even an old, worn one. From that magnificent start, he’s gone on to a series of asinine deductions, based on falsified facts. I knew my wife had withdrawn the money from the bank — I didn’t know she had it with her in the drugstore, but that discovery would hardly put me into a homicidal rage. I knew nothing at all about Taylor until I was told about him this morning in this office — and I still don’t know if it’s true. I was in the theatre at nine o’clock, and the car was parked at ten. I don’t know that,” he hastened to add, “but that’s what you’ve said right along, and I do know it wasn’t parked at nine, because it was in the parking lot, and my wife was alive, at nine-thirty. And there aren’t any extenuating circumstances, because there aren’t any circumstances at all.”

  Conway found that he was convincing himself, which, after all, was not too surprising, because everything he had said was true. “All this ‘evidence’ you think you have is phoney from start to finish,” he continued, “and if you’re silly enough to take me into court, I’ll prove it to any jury in the world — unless they’re all raving lunatics.”

  “He don’t know what he’s saying,” Bauer said.

  “Okay, Conway.” Davis turned to Ramsden. “Book him,” he said, and started for the door, then stopped and addressed Conway again. “If you change your mind, let me know. But make it quick, because if you’re going to stick to your story, and won’t co-operate, I’m going to let you have the works.”

  Chapter thirteen

  By noon of the next day Conway had had a session with the district attorney himself, been arraigned, and spent an unpleasant hour with a phalanx of reporters and photographers. He had only just been locked up in his cell when a small, round-faced man appeared at the barred door. A uniformed policeman retreated to a discreet distance.

  “I’m John Henry Gates,” the man said.

  Conway reacted at the mention of the name of the most celebrated criminal lawyer on the Coast. “Looks like you’re in a jam,” the man continued.

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks,” Conway ventured.

  Gates’s finger traveled lightly up and down one of the iron bars of the door. “These things aren’t licorice, you know. Look,” he said, “I haven’t got much time — I’ll be late for my golf game as it is. I don’t suppose they’ve given you a chance to get hold of an attorney yet?”

  “No,” Conway said. “I’ve been trying to think who to—”

  “Never mind the salestalk,” the lawyer said. “I’ve already been sold. That sister-in-law of yours is a very persuasive wench. Found her waiting for me when I got up this morning, so she had breakfast with me. Very easy to look at across a breakfast table, she is — wouldn’t mind quite a spell of that, myself. Anyway, she talked me into this, which took some pretty good talking — or something. That detective, Bauer — nice guy, even if he is a little conceited — filled me in on the details, and then I talked to the D. A. I wanted to get the dope from them, see what the chances were, before I saw you — didn’t want to get your hopes up thinking I’d take the case, till I knew myself whether there was any point in it. But it shouldn’t be too tough.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Conway said. “I’ve been getting a little worried.”

  “I’ll go over all the details with you tomorrow,” Gates said. “But before tomorrow, we get Miss Betty out of town.” Conway started to protest, but the attorney stopped him. “I know — she’s just a very good friend, but some people might not think so. Back to Topeka for her tonight.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Conway conceded. “Can I see her before she goes?”

  “She’s waiting now — it’s foolish, but she insisted. Just be sure you don’t play any big love scene.” Conway nodded his acquiescence.

  “Just one more thing for now. Have you got a clean record?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Police record. Ever been arrested?”

  “Nothing worse than overtime parking.”

  “Good. Were you in the war?”

  “Three and a half years.”

  “Great. Wounded?”

  “N-no.” The hesitation was almost imperceptible, but the attorney caught it.

  “Come on, don’t have any secrets from me, boy. What was it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dishonorable discharge? Don’t try to hold out on me.”

  “Like hell it was.” Conway’s voice swelled with his indignation, but he lowered it after the momentary outburst. “It’s — well, I had sort of a crack-up just at the end, and I was in a hospital for about six months.”

  The attorney’s face lighted up. “Wonderful!” he said.

  Conwa
y looked at the attorney in horror. “You wouldn’t use that?”

  “Wouldn’t use—? What are you talking about? Certainly I’ll use it, and you’ll be very thankful we’ve got it to use.”

  “But you can’t — you can’t do that. I won’t let you.”

  “Look, boy, if I take you on, I’ll do things my way, I’ll use what I want, and conduct the case as I see fit. I’m doing you a favor, and don’t you forget it. There’s no money in it for me, and there’s certainly no glory in pleading a guy guilty to second-degree murder.”

  Conway stared at the attorney, speechless for a moment. “Wait a minute—” He faltered.

  “From what they told me,” Gates continued, “I figured I could get you off with ten years — less good behavior time, that’d be around seven. But a shell-shocked war hero, temporary insanity — if you wind up with more than five years in a nut-hut, I’ll go back to chasing ambulances.”

  For a moment the picture of Helen, grinning with sardonic satisfaction, drove every other thought from Conway’s mind. Was she to win, after all? Could she still drive him into that padded cell she had threatened?

  “I don’t blame you for being sensitive about the insanity gag,” the attorney went on, in a more sympathetic tone. “But on a straight guilty plea, even with the extenuating circumstances, you could get twenty years. I think I can do better than that for you, but even if it were ten—”

  Conway forced himself to be calm, to forget about Helen, to face the real issue. “There’s been a slight misunderstanding here, Mr. Gates,” he said. “I’m not going to plead guilty, because I’m innocent. This whole thing is a frame — they had to pin this on someone, so they’ve dreamed up a lot of phoney evidence—”

  “It didn’t sound phoney to me,” the attorney said. “You and I don’t have to play games, you know — I’m your lawyer.”

  “I don’t want a lawyer who’ll get me off with ten years — or five,” Conway shouted. “I want one who believes I’m innocent.”

  “Then you better get one.” Gates started away, then turned. “Although personally I don’t know any members of the California Bar who are under six years of age.”

  Stunned, Conway watched the attorney disappear down the corridor, and was conscious of a rising tide of misgivings within himself. John Henry Gates was a shrewd, a brilliant attorney. It was unbelievable that he should be taken in by the mass of falsehoods Bauer and an assistant district attorney had fabricated. But could it be, Conway wondered, that others might believe this distortion of facts — that he was really in danger from this incredible fiction? His mind reeled in a turmoil of indecision.

  The officer, who had left with Bates, reappeared, followed by Betty. When she caught sight of Conway she hurried past the policeman and was at the cell door in an instant.

  “Oh, darling, are you all right?” Her hands sought his, but the wire netting that covered the bars limited their contact to the fraction of a fingertip. The policeman leaned against a cell across the corridor, in sight, but out of earshot.

  “I’m fine,” Conway said, “now that I’ve seen you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, my darling?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “You knew I knew you had done it,” she said. “But I didn’t know how — I didn’t know how you’d made them think you hadn’t. If only you’d told me, I wouldn’t have been such an idiot — I’d never have mentioned that wretched rebroadcast.” She was pleading for understanding and forgiveness, and her eyes were moist as she went on. “I couldn’t guess that everything depended on that.”

  “It didn’t. The whole thing’s ridiculous. Please don’t blame yourself, my sweet.”

  “You’re here, behind these bars so that I can’t even touch you. That’s not ridiculous,” she said, and there was no sign of tears now. “But — we can’t think about that... They say that Gates is the best man out here. How did you like him?”

  “He wants me to plead guilty to second-degree.”

  “Well, naturally,” she said.

  “Look, Betty,” he said earnestly. “The car wasn’t parked at nine-four, as they claim now. I was in the theatre with Helen then, and we got in the car in the parking lot at nine-thirty.”

  “Darling, please don’t,” she begged. “Not to me — you don’t have to. Bauer told me the case they’ve got. He likes you — and he says your only chance is to plead guilty. Gates thinks he can get you off with seven or eight years.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Conway demanded. “Mine or Bauer’s?”

  “I know how you feel,” she said gently. “But don’t say things like that. I love you, and you’re the only person in the world I care about. But I also know what Gates and Bauer think — that you have no choice but to plead guilty. They know, I know, the district attorney knows — the jury would know. Oh, my dearest, I couldn’t bear it if you — if—” The tears came now, and there was no doubting her sincerity.

  “Did you say you loved me?” he asked.

  “You know I do.”

  “Gates seemed pretty sure he could get me off with seven years. Maybe — maybe even less.”

  “It’s so much better than taking a chance.”

  “Would you wait for me?”

  “I’d marry you this minute if you wanted me to — and if we could. But that would be putting a noose around your neck.”

  “I know that. But would you wait for me?”

  “I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “I love you.”

  Conway looked at the lovely face, and into the warm, fervent eyes, and forced himself to confront reality. “We’re talking like schoolkids,” he said harshly. “You can’t promise to wait five or seven or ten years.”

  “I would.”

  “And if you could, and did, wait, you can’t promise to love me then,” he went on with relentless logic. “Nobody in the world could.”

  “I could,” she said. “But if you don’t believe me, what do you want me to do?”

  “Do you think you can go on loving me until after the trial?”

  “You can’t do that — you can’t take a chance on—”

  “I’ve taken one chance — I’ve got to take another. Go back to Topeka, Betty, tonight. That’s the one thing Gates said that made sense. Just don’t fall in love with anybody else for a few months.”

  “Darling, I won’t let you do this on my account. I’ll—”

  “I’m not doing it just on your account. But I can’t let them get away with this — it would be a miscarriage of justice. If I let them lock me up for seven years, I’d be really insane. Don’t worry, my sweet — I’ll see you in Topeka.”

  Arthur Conway sat, his head in his hands, as Assistant District Attorney Davis swung into the conclusion of his summing up to the jury. Conway wondered why he had ever thought of it as a perfect murder: it didn’t sound like one as Davis told it.

  “The one thing you have to decide is whether this defendant has told the truth,” Davis said.

  Conway reflected that he had told the truth, and practically nothing but the truth. Not, of course, the whole truth, although, in a way, he had been closer to it than the prosecution.

  “... How can anyone believe this man’s story that he was in the theatre at the time the murder car was parked by the murderer?” Davis continued.

  How, indeed? Conway wondered. His own attorney — the one he had engaged when Gates refused to take the case except on his own terms — hadn’t believed him; had urged him to accept the prosecutor’s offer right up until the opening of the trial. But — might there be one — just one — of those twelve men and women who had believed him?

  “... His only defense, his only alibi, is that he was in the theatre at that time. But he has been unable to produce one single witness to support that alibi...”

  That was true, too. And there had been no way to shake the testimony of the couple who established the time the car had been parked; no way, that is, except to reveal that he himself had
parked it at ten.

  “... We have shown that the defendant had a motive — two motives, in fact...”

  All the motives in the world except the right one, Conway reflected.

  “... The defendant has claimed that he and his wife were on good terms — a bald-faced He, for she hated the defendant, intended to divorce him and planned to marry Taylor. When he discovered, in the drugstore, that she had withdrawn the money from the bank, she saw no reason for any further concealment, and she told him about Taylor. And then he strangled her — murdered her in cold blood.”

  How can he he so wrong, and yet so convincing, Conway wondered. Can’t they realize that if it had been that way, I could have divorced her? I wouldn’t have had to kill her. He found himself looking at the entire proceedings in a detached fashion, rather like a critic watching a somewhat implausible play. He still found it hard to believe that he could be convicted of a crime, even though he had committed it, on such a web of utterly false and circumstantial evidence.

  “... I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to remember one further thing. The murdered woman is not on trial here. If she took money from their bank account which was not all hers, there are laws covering theft, and this defendant could have found redress in the courts. If her conduct with Taylor was not above reproach, there are laws which provide for divorce. Instead of invoking the law, this man murdered her, and there are laws covering that, too. Your duty is to see that this man pays the penalty the law provides for murder.”

  The jury was back in less than two hours with its verdict. Guilty. Murder in the First Degree. Without recommendations.

  After his appeal had been denied he received a note, unsigned, but postmarked Topeka. “I wish you’d believed me,” it read, “because I’m going to go on loving you all my life.” But he told himself that the message was intended to convey more solace than truth; that it could not be an accurate prophecy.