One Hour to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “A small piece of glass, sir.” She held up a triangular fragment perhaps a quarter of an inch long. “On the floor.”

  He glanced at the glass sliver, wondering about it as he told her to sit still while he got a Band-Aid. The washed-board floors were at all times immaculate due to Ernestina’s care. Each morning they were swept after breakfast and once a week she scrubbed them thoroughly. She was always careful to have her uniform neat, and indoors she was never without her starched white cap. But mornings she usually went barefoot until the bulk of her work was done-and now, as he applied the Band-Aid, he asked where she had stepped on the glass.

  “Over there, sir.” She pointed toward the dining table. “Maybe you break a drinking glass last night?”

  “Not that I know of,” Wallace said. “Did you clean up the things on the porch after Mrs. Wallace and I went to dinner?”

  “Oliver, sir.”

  Wallace nodded. He knew that the servants here were not noted for their truthfulness when a small He might be advantageous. He also knew that if there was any breakage the servant was sometimes held responsible.

  “It doesn’t matter. There were two glasses when I went to bed,” he said, remembering the drink he had had with Shirley Goddard.

  “I took those this morning, sir.” She stood up, put weight on the injured foot, and apparently found it no longer hurt. “I’ll put the coffee on right now, sir.”

  Wallace glanced again at the glass triangle and put it into the ash tray which had not yet been emptied. He went over to the dining table and sat down. He started on a piece of papaw as Ernestina came in with the coffeepot and a miniature loaf of sliced hot bread that locally was called a penny loaf. Wallace, however, was not really aware of what he was eating. His nerves were already beginning to fray because he knew the rest of the morning routine. Presently Ernestina would take a cup of coffee in to Fay. This was her customary eye-opener, after which she would go back to sleep until she was ready to get up for the day, an interval that might be one hour or three.

  He knew when Ernestina walked behind his chair with the tray and its cup of coffee. By straining his ears he could hear her barefooted progress down the hall, the turn of the knob.

  It came then, and even though he had prepared himself the sound of the startled call and the following scream made him flinch. Hating himself and filled with loathing for what he had been forced to do, hearing the crashing sound of tray and crockery that punctuated the scream, he sat where he was for another second or two in a deliberate attempt to get his nerves in hand. He took another swallow of coffee and then he stood up, as ready as he ever would be for what was to come.

  Ernestina was standing just outside the doorway, the white apron lifted with both hands to cover her face. The muffled moans were high-pitched and constant and had, somehow, an almost unearthly quality as he made himself ask what the matter was.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”

  He had expected no answer. When he got none, he stepped into the room, not looking at anything but pretending to. He stepped back and closed the door; he took Ernestina by one arm and led her toward the living room. He could feel her body shake and now Oliver, who had apparently heard the scream, came hurrying across the porch.

  “It’s Mrs. Wallace,” Wallace said. “She’s dead. Take Ernestina back to your room. Make her lie down. I'll talk to you as soon as I've telephoned the police.”

  He watched through the kitchen window until the couple disappeared in the unpainted shack. There were things he wanted to say to Oliver before the police came and he waited until the man came back before he picked up the telephone. He had a little difficulty getting the operator at Police Headquarters to understand what had happened, but when he finally succeeded he turned to Oliver, who had been standing silently to one side.

  He was barefoot like his wife, and clad in khaki shorts with a matching shirt that was faded and patched. His dark face was impassive as he waited for Wallace to speak. His color, which was more brown than black, spoke of mixed blood and he had at all times been respectful and co-operative. In addition he had a brother-in-law who could make picture frames and Wallace had given him considerable business, a fact which he hoped would keep Oliver on his side, i. “I told you my wife was dead.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it’s a little more than that, Oliver. She didn’t just die, she must have been killed by someone who was here last night. How much did you hear from your place? How many cars?”

  “I hear you and the mistress come back from dinner. Soon then I hear you leave. Sleep pretty sound after that, sir. Don’t hear anything more,” he added in his soft broad accent, Wallace swallowed his disappointment and tried again. “You were working around here most of the afternoon, weren’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Did anyone come to see Mrs. Wallace?”

  “Three men, sir. One is a countryman of yours. He has been here before.”

  “Do you mean Mr. Anderson?”

  “I think that is his name, sir.”

  “Did he see my wife?”

  “No. She is not here.”

  “All right,” Wallace said, knowing he had to be patient. “Start at the beginning. When did she go to work?”- “She leave right after you do. Maybe an hour and a half she come back in taxi. Pretty soon then this man come.”

  “What man?”

  “A stranger, sir. I do not see him here before.”

  “A white man?”

  “Not white like you. More like me. Thin, not tall, with a white suit and straw hat and white shoes.”

  “What happened?”

  “He go in to see the mistress. They talk a while. I don’t know what they say but she sounds pretty angry. Sometimes talks pretty loud.”

  “Then what?”

  “Soon they come out together. The taxi is waiting and they ride off together.”

  Wallace thought it over and when no answer came to him he said: “What time was that, Oliver?”

  “Maybe three o’clock. Maybe half after.”

  “What about Anderson?”

  “He come maybe four but leave right away.”

  “You said three men. Who was the third?”

  “Mr. Neil Benedict, sir. He bring the mistress home but does not stay. He lets her out of car and drives off. Pretty soon then you come back.”

  Wallace found the information more puzzling than helpful and now he took a breath and looked right at Oliver.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he said, “but I want you to know this. I did not kill her. Do you believe me?” Oliver returned the look with steady eyes. “You have been fair with me, sir,” he said. “I do not hear you lie before. What you tell me now, I believe.”

  “The police are going to find out Mrs. Wallace and I didn’t get along. They’ll probably ask you about the quarrels we’ve had. I don’t want you to lie for me but I would appreciate it if you’d tell Ernestina not to make it sound any worse than it really was.”

  Oliver’s lips moved in a small smile. “No need to worry about Ernestina,” he said. “Once, a long time ago, she have some trouble with the police. She won’t tell them much.”

  They both heard the car in the lane at the same time and now, walking over to the side of the porch, they saw the small black police sedan come to a stop in front of the lean-to. The two Negroes who got out were dressed in black shorts, knee-length socks, and gray shirts with some insignia on the collar. Both wore garrison-type caps and one had a corporal’s chevrons on his sleeve.

  They looked very neat and purposeful as they came quickly round the porch and up the steps, the corporal saluting before he spoke. “You are the gentleman who called about the dead woman, sir?”

  “Yes,” Wallace said. “My wife. This way.”

  They followed him across the living room and down the hall. The tray and broken crockery were just inside the door and the spilled
coffee had not yet soaked into the floorboards. Wallace said he would have the debris cleared up but the corporal stopped him and stood uncertainly until he explained.

  “It has nothing to do with my wife,” he said. “The maid dropped the tray when she discovered the body.”

  “I understand,” the corporal said. “Well, in that case—”

  He went on into the room while Wallace called Oliver, who came presently with a dustpan and brush. While Oliver did the cleaning chore, the corporal took a long look at the chair but made no attempt to move closer. He stood very still for three seconds, as though the shock of what he saw had immobilized him. Finally his head turned to inspect the rest of the room; then, as though aware that this was a case better left for the jurisdiction of his superiors, he backed away and closed the door.

  “We will wait here,” he said when they were back in the living room. “Your name, please.” He took out a notebook and wrote down Wallace’s reply. He asked what time the body had been discovered and by whom. He wanted Olivers name, and Ernestina’s, and by then reinforcements began to arrive.

  9

  The first of the upper-echelon officials were two men in plain clothes, and the smaller of these, a slender brown-skinned man with glasses, introduced himself.

  “Inspector Edwards, C.I.D.,” he said and turned to his associate, who was taller, bulkier, and very black. “This is Sergeant Finley.”

  He spoke to the uniformed men and moved quickly into the bedroom. Again Wallace waited outside but he could tell that Edwards was making a quick inspection of the body. When he came out he asked if there was a telephone.

  Wallace paid little attention to what was said. He sat down on the wicker settee and lit a cigarette and soon other cars came to a stop outside. A man with a camera and equipment case moved up the steps accompanied by an assistant; not far behind was a small, trim-looking man with a doctors bag.

  All were Negroes. All were well-dressed; all wore jackets and felt hats, a fact which Wallace found surprising because the accepted daytime garb, even for high-placed businessmen, was slacks, white shirt, and tie, with a jacket seldom in evidence. For a few minutes, as the experts busied themselves in the bedroom, Wallace sat alone while the two uniformed officers waited by the front door. When the inspector came back he dismissed them and then he was ready for Wallace.

  “The maid discovered the body, Mr. Wallace? And you telephoned soon after this?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You do not share the same room.”

  “Not for a long time.”

  “You did not know she was there until the maid discovered her?”

  “No.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It was late.”

  “How late?”

  “Some time after midnight.”

  Edwards’s frown was beginning to show and the dark eyes had a puzzled look behind his glasses.

  “The doctor can tell us more after the autopsy but his first guess is that your wife has been dead at least twelve hours. I don’t understand, if you were here all evening—”

  “I wasn’t,” Wallace said and then, taking a breath, he added: “Maybe it would help if I told you what I did last night. It will be quicker that way and when I’m through you can start with your questions.”

  “An excellent idea.” Edwards nodded to Sergeant Finley, who acknowledged the unspoken order. He took off his hat, pulled a chair up to the table, and opened a notebook. “The sergeant will take down your statement—you can sign it later —and it is my duty to warn you at this time that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.”

  “What time do you want me to start?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, what time last night.”

  “Suppose you start at six o’clock.”

  Wallace began with his arrival at the bungalow to find Fay waiting with a drink in her hand. He chose his words with care, his mind busy as he concentrated on the facts. He did not repeat any of the conversation but kept his account as brief as he could as he spoke of Fay’s invitation to dinner; then went on from there.

  He told where they had gone, whom they had seen, when they returned to the bungalow. He told about the brief argument, and because he had already seen the inspector glance at the scratches on the back of his hand, he now gave him a better look.

  “What we argued about doesn’t matter now,” he said. “We had them frequently. She slapped me and I grabbed her arm. I don’t think she meant to claw me but in trying to get my hand off she did. To keep from making things worse I left. I went back to the Tavern and when I came back about an hour later there was no one here. At least that’s the way it looked.”

  He stopped to light another cigarette and arrange his thoughts. He knew then that he could not speak about the unidentified car and the man who jumped him from behind. He thought he could make the police believe the story he gave them but not if he included the attack. No one would believe that he could be jumped that way and, finding the house open, not make a thorough search to see if anything had happened to Fay.

  With this in mind he told about his visit to the Carvers and the reason for it. He explained how he had found Shirley Goddard waiting when he returned but he did not give her reasons for the call. The police would certainly check with Shirley and she could tell them what she chose; for now he simply said she had been in the neighborhood and stopped in for a drink.

  Edwards checked with Finley to see if the sergeant was getting all of this and now he said: “When you returned the second time you looked for your wife. You opened the door of her bedroom?”

  “But not all the way, Inspector. I seldom went into that room since my wife moved in.”

  “Was the light on?”

  “No,” Wallace said, and found the lie came easily. “I opened the door far enough to get a look at the bed. It hadn’t been used. There was no reason to go any farther. As a matter of fact, Miss Goddard did the same thing.”

  He went on to tell what Shirley had done when she went to the bathroom and then glanced into Fay’s room.

  “Miss Goddard asked almost the same questions you did, and got the same answers from me.”

  “You assumed that your wife had gone out again during your absence?”

  “Naturally.”

  “This was not unusual?”

  “Not particularly. She frequently went out with other men.

  She seldom told me her plans and it was the same way with me.”

  Edwards thought it over. “From what she said earlier and at the Tavern—I mean, about wanting to come back here— you got the idea she expected someone. You think that’s the reason she wanted you to leave?”

  “I do now,” Wallace said. “At the time I was too annoyed to give it much thought.”

  “Then the last time you saw your wife alive was when you returned to the Tavern . . . What time was that?”

  “I didn't look, but I'd say about a quarter after nine.”

  “According to your story, the inference is that she was killed during your absence.”

  “How else can you figure it?”

  “Tell me, Mr. Wallace. Do you ever smoke cigars?”

  Wallace scowled at the inspector as he tried to find the connection. He had noticed that the man had been poking at the cigarette butts in the ash tray and now he watched him remove them one by one.

  “Practically never.”

  Edwards tipped the ash tray to give him a look and he saw that some of the ashes were darker and more cohesive than others.

  “From a cigar,” Edwards said, pointing. “Do you know anyone who does smoke them?”

  “Yes,” Wallace said, seeing again the cigar in Joe Anderson’s mouth as he sat at the Tavern bar. “A man named Anderson. Joe Anderson. He’s developing some property up in the hills.”

  He went on to tell how Fay had stopped to speak to Anderson as well as Neil Benedict and Nick Rand.
>
  “She was friendly with Mr. Anderson?” Edwards asked.

  Id say so.

  “It is possible that he could have come here in your absence?”

  “Certainly it’s possible.”

  “When are your ash trays cleaned? I mean, as a rule?”

  Wallace said he did not think there was any set time. He said that Ernestina usually cleaned the room after breakfast, that Oliver had straightened up the porch after he and Fay had gone to dinner.

  Edwards nodded to the sergeant and stood up as the doctor came back into the room. While they went into a conference two white-coated ambulance attendants came up the steps with a rolled-up stretcher and disappeared down the hall. When they came out a minute or two later Wallace was purposely standing by a side window, his angular face grave and his blue eyes clouded with distress. He tried not to think about Fay but it did not help the gnawing emptiness inside him. He looked at the high, neighboring hedge and the seawall that closed off the beach; farther on to the right the grayish rippled waters of the Gulf looked uninviting even in the bright morning sunlight. He could hear the heavy footsteps of the ambulance men as they went out with their burden and he did not move until someone called his name. When he turned, Edwards was beckoning.

  “Come, please, Mr. Wallace.”

  In the bedroom the photographer was starting to put his things away but the fingerprint man was still busy. There were smudges of his powders here and there, some black, some white. At the moment he was working on the two bags in the closet. When he stepped back, he spoke to Edwards.

  “The big one’s empty, sir. I did not open this one”—he indicated the dark-blue hatbox—'“but it looks like the lock has been forced.”

  Edwards borrowed the mans magnifying glass and hunkered down beside the hatbox. When he was satisfied he opened it. He examined the passport, the travel folders, the airline ticket. When he opened the leather jewel case he turned to Wallace.

  “Would you know if anything was missing?”