Manhunt. Volume 2, Number 10, December, 1954

“Conventions are always headed up by local people in the town where the convention’s held,” I told her. “Usual procedure is for the chairman to rent a temporary post office box under the convention’s name, then inform Western Union wires addressed to convention headquarters are to be delivered either to his office or home. He’ll have the same office and home after the convention.”

“I see. Well, when the wire comes back from convention headquarters saying Lawrence never reported in. I’m to phone the police and report him missing.”

“You’ve got it pretty well,” I said, satisfied that she could carry it off. “There’s only one more thing. You’ve got to get it across to Harry Cushman that if he mentions his part in this, he’s an accessory to first-degree murder. He’s going to have to know Lawrence is dead, because otherwise he may get rattled enough at his continued disappearance to take his story to the police. Don’t give him any details. Just give it to him cold that Lawrence is dead and he’d better keep his mouth shut if he wants to stay out of jail. Also tell him to stay completely away from you for the present. I don’t want the cops accidentally stumbling over him, because while I’m sure he’ll keep his mouth shut if he’s left alone, I think he’d break pretty easily under questioning. If he keeps away from you, there isn’t any reason for the cops to find out you even know him.”

“I understand,” she said. “I can handle Harry.”

We took MacArthur Bridge back into St. Louis. I drove straight to my flat, then turned the car over to Helena. I didn’t invite her in.

Standing on the sidewalk with my bag in one hand and my new fishing gear in the other, I said, “I’ve kept a list of expenses. But I’ll wait until the police lose interest in your husband and you get your affairs straightened out before I bill you. I imagine your money will be tied up for some time if everything was in Lawrence’s name.”

“Are you adding an additional fee for disposing of Lawrence?” she asked.

“That was on the house. Just don’t give me any more little jobs like that.”

“Will I see you again, Barney? I mean aside from when you submit your expense account.”

I shook my head definitely. “You’re a lovely woman, and except for the third party you rang in on our trip,

I enjoyed the week thoroughly. But this is the end. When things quiet down, you divorce Lawrence for desertion and marry some nice millionaire. Harry Cushman, maybe, if he isn’t too scared to come near you again.”

I thought for a moment her expressionless face looked a little wistful, but it may have been imagination. Her voice was as totally lacking in emotion as usual when she spoke.

“Good-by, Barney.”

“Good-by, Helena,” I said.

She drove away.

17

I had hoped that was the end of it, but at nine Monday evening Helena phoned me at home.

“Everything went smoothly, Barney,” she announced the moment I picked up the phone. “It worked out just as you said. The police were just here for a picture of Lawrence to teletype to New York. They weren’t in the least suspicious, and about all they asked me was if he’d said anything about financial troubles recently.”

Her call upset me. “Listen,” I said. “Did it occur to you your phone might be tapped?”

She was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Could it be?”

“No,” I snapped. “They wouldn’t tap a phone on a routine missing person case. But don’t call me again. It’s an unnecessary risk.”

“I’m sorry, Barney. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Just let me know if something goes wrong,” I said. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re doing fine.”

But she phoned me again at nine Tuesday night.

As soon as I recognized her voice, I said bitterly, “I told you not to phone!”

“You said I should if something went wrong. Well, something has.”

I felt a cold chill run along my spine. “What?”

“You’ll have to come out here, Barney. Right away.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. But you must come. Immediately.”

“As soon as I can get a taxi,” I said, and hung up.

All the way out to Helena’s home in the cab I wondered what possibly could have gone wrong. There wasn’t anything that could have gone wrong, I kept assuring myself. If ever a perfect murder had been pulled, Lawrence Powers’s was it. Not only was the body beyond recovery, the police didn’t even suspect there had been a murder, and probably never would.

The only thing I could think of was that Harry Cushman had gone to the police. But that seemed inconceivable to me. If I had evaluated him right, he’d stay as far away from both the police and Helena as he could get from the minute he realized he could be charged as an accessory to first-degree homicide.

My thoughts hadn’t accomplished anything but to get me all upset by the time we arrived at Helena’s home.

Helena met me at the front door. She wore a red, off-the-shoulder hostess gown, and she looked as calm and unruffled as ever.

“Alice isn’t here,” she greeted me. “I sent her home at six because I expected Harry at seven.”