Tiger by the Tail

I

A TALL slim blonde in a white summer frock, walking just ahead of him, caught Ken Holland’s eye. He studied her, watching her gentle undulations as she walked. He quickly shifted his eyes. He hadn’t looked at a woman like this since he had first met Ann.

What’s the matter with me? he asked himself. I’m getting as bad as Parker.

He looked again at the blonde. An evening out with her, he thought, would be sensational.

What the eye doesn’t see, Parker was always saying, the heart doesn’t grieve about. That was true. Ann would never know. After all’, other married men did it. Why shouldn’t he?

But when the girl crossed the road and he lost sight of her, he jerked his mind back with an effort to the letter he had received that morning from Ann.

She had been away now for five weeks, and she wrote to say her mother was no better, and she had no idea when she was coming back.

Why did her mother have to live miles away from anywhere and be so cussedly independent ? Ken asked himself as he walked briskly towards the bank. No one over seventy should be allowed to live alone. When they got ill, their long-suffering daughters had to go and look after them, and their still more long-suffering sons-in-law had to fend for themselves.

Five weeks was too long, and Ken was sick of looking after himself; sicker still of being without Ann.

He ran down the steps leading to the staff cloakroom where he found Parker adjusting his tie in the mirror over the toilet basins.

“Hello,” Parker said, grinning. “How’s the bachelor this morning? When’s Ann coming home?”

“I wish I knew,” Ken said, washing his hands. “The old girl’s still bad. Ann doesn’t know when she’ll get away.”

Parker sighed.

“I wish to heck my wife would take a month off. I haven’t had her out of my hair for fourteen years.” He inspected his chin in the mirror. “You’re a damn lucky guy, but you don’t seem to know it. Why you haven’t painted the town red beats me. I don’t know; some guys don’t know what they’re here for.”

“Oh, shut up!” Ken growled. He was sick of Parker’s continual jibes. Ever since Ann went away, Parker had been on at him to kick over the traces. Not a day passed but Parker was nagging at him to have a night out.

Parker was forty-five, inclined to fat and going bald. He was always resurrecting the past, remembering what a rake he had been, and how all women had found him irresistible, and still found him irresistible for that matter.

“You’re edgy,” Parker said, looking intently at Ken. “And I don’t blame you. You want to let off a little steam. I was talking to old Hemmingway on the way up. He says you can’t do better than have a night out at the Cigale. Haven’t been myself, worse luck, but he goes regularly, and he was telling me it’s the spot. It sounds swell: good food, cheap drinks and plenty of willing wantons. It’d do you a power of good. A change of women now and then is good for us all.”

“You go ahead and change women,” Ken snapped. “I’m satisfied with what I’ve got.”

But during the morning he became aware of an increasing restlessness: something he had been experiencing in a milder degree for the past week. Ever since he had married he had looked forward to going home opening the front door and seeing with a sense of satisfied pleasure Ann appear to greet him. But these past five weeks had changed all that: the thought of returning each evening to the empty bungalow irritated him now.

His mind shifted to the conversation he had had with Parker. The Cigale.

He had seen the nightclub several times from the outside. It was down a side turning off Main Street: a gaudy place, decorated with neon lights and chromium. He recollected the glossy pictures of show girls that he had glanced at as he had passed.

It was not a place for a respectably married bank official to go to. As he closed his till before going to lunch, he decided firmly against the Cigale. He would go home as usual and be bored.

He went down to the cloakroom for his hat.

Parker was washing his hands, as Ken came in.

“There you are,” Parker said, reaching for a towel. “Well, have you made up your mind what you are going to do tonight? What’s it going to be — wine, women and song or just a nice, friendly woman?”

“I’m going home. The lawn wants cutting.”

Parker grimaced.

“Hell! You must be in a worse rut than I am. Imagine cutting the lawn when the wife’s away! Seriously, Holland, you have a duty to yourself. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about. It may be your last chance before you get old and useless.”

“Oh dry up!” Ken exclaimed, exasperated. “The trouble with you is that you’ve never grown up.”

“Thank the Lord I haven’t.” Parker said. “When my idea of fun is cutting the goddam lawn, I’ll know it’s time I was buried.”

Ken left him, still talking, and climbed the steps that led to the staff exit.

Parker’s continual suggestions irritated him, and he was frowning as he walked along the hot sidewalk to the restaurant where he always took his meals.

He was thinking: of course he’s right. I am in a rut. I’ve been in a rut ever since I married. I don’t suppose I’ll get another chance to kick the can around. Ann won’t leave me again: anyway, not for years. But do I want to kick the can around? If only I knew when Ann was coming back. This might go on for weeks.

It may be your last chance before you get old and useless, Parker had said. That was true. Ann would never know. Why not have a night out tonight? Why not?

He suddenly felt excited and reckless. He would do it! It would probably turn out to be a flop, but anything was better than returning to the empty bungalow.

He would go to the Cigale and have a couple of drinks. Maybe some blonde would be willing to share his company without making any complications.

That’s it, he said to himself, as he walked on towards the restaurant; a final night out; a swan song.

II

The afternoon dragged for Ken. For the first time since he could remember, his work bored him and he caught himself continually looking at the wall clock.

The stale, baked air coming in from the street, the roar of the traffic and the hot, sweating faces of his customers irritated him.

“A perfect evening to cut a lawn,” Parker said with a grin as the messenger closed the doors of the bank. “You’ll sweat like a horse.”

Ken didn’t say anything. He began to check his cash.

“You want to get organized, Holland,” Parker went on. “There are plenty of able-bodied men who’ll cut your lawn while you go out and enjoy yourself.”

“Skip it, will you?” Ken said shortly. “You’re not even being funny.”

Parker eyed him thoughtfully, sighed and shook his head.

“You poor guy! You don’t know what you’re missing.”

They worked in silence until both had checked their cash, then Parker said, “If you’ve brought your car, you can drive me home.”

Parker lived in a road next to Ken’s; and although Ken didn’t want any more of his company, he couldn’t refuse.

“Okay,” he said, gathering up his cash-box and books. “Make it snappy. I’ve had about enough of this place for today.”

As they drove through the heavy traffic, Parker glanced at the evening papers and gave out the more interesting items of news.

Ken scarcely listened.

Away from the bank now, and heading for home, his natural caution reasserted itself.

He would cut the lawn, he told himself, and he would spend the rest of the evening at home. He must have been nuts even to contemplate having a night out. If he slipped up, was seen or got himself into a mess, he might not only ruin his marriage, but he might end his career.

“Don’t bother to take me right home,” Parker said suddenly. “I want to stretch my legs. Take me to your place and I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“I don’t mind taking you home.”

“I’ll walk. Maybe you’ll offer me a drink. I’m right out of whisky.”

Ken was tempted to say he was too. He wanted to be rid of Parker, but he checked the impulse and, now he was clear of the heavy traffic, he accelerated and in a few minutes pulled up outside the neat little bungalow in line with a number of similar bungalows.

“My word! Your lawn does need cutting,” Parker said as they got out of the car. “That’s going to be quite a job.”

“It won’t take long,” Ken returned, leading the way up the path. He unlocked the front door and they entered the small hall.

The air was hot and close, and Ken hurried into the lounge to throw open the windows.

“Phew! Been shut up all day, hasn’t it?” Parker said, following him.

“All the afternoon,” Ken returned, taking off his coat and dropping it on to a chair. “Our help only comes in during the morning.”

He went over and mixed two large highballs. The two men lit cigarettes and raised their glasses.

“Mud in your eye,” Parker said. “I can’t stay long; my wife will be wondering where I am. You know, Holland, I sometimes wonder if I was wise to get married. It has a lot of advantages, of course, but women are so damned exacting. They don’t seem to realize a guy wants a little freedom now and then.”

“Now don’t start that all over again,” Ken said sharply.

“It’s a fact,” Parker said. He finished his highball, sighed and looked expectantly at Ken. “That was pretty good.”

“Want another?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

Ken finished his drink, got up and made two more.

“How long has Ann been away?” Parker asked, taking the glass Ken handed to him.

“Five weeks.”

“That’s too long. What’s the matter with the old girl ?”

“I don’t know. Old age, I guess. This could go on for another month.”

“How would you like to step out tonight?” Parker asked, looking at Ken with a little leer.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, strictly between you and me and the bedpost, I have a little arrangement that works pretty well. I wouldn’t mind putting you in the way of some fun too.”

“Arrangement? What’s that mean?”

“I have an outlet that the wife doesn’t know about. It’s not always easy to fix, but I manage to have a fling every once in a while when the wife goes to see her mother.”

Ken looked at him.

“You mean some woman ?”

“Some woman! How right you are. Old Hemmingway put me on to this dish. Everything’s very discreet; no danger of being seen, and everything taken care of. She’s a hostess. You needn’t be more than friendly if you don’t want to. She takes care of lonely guys like you. You pay her, of course. You can take her out for the evening and leave her at her apartment if you feel like it, or if you don’t you can go in. She’s a damn convenient and very safe outlet.” He took out his billfold, scribbled something on one of his cards and put it on the table. “That’s her phone number. Her name’s Fay Carson. All you have to do is call her, tell her you want to see her, and she’ll give you an appointment. She rates a little high, but she’s worth it.”

“No, thank you,” Ken said sharply.

“Take it and don’t be a mug,” Parker finished his drink and stood up. “I’d like to do her a good turn. I promised her I’d recommend her to my friends. I always keep a promise.”

Ken flicked the card off the table towards the fireplace.

“No, thanks,” he said again.

“Keep it by you. Take her out. She’s fun. She’s just what a lonely guy needs. Take her out tonight to a show. What’s the matter with that? She’s really something. I wouldn’t put you onto a cheap floosie. This girl’s got everything.”

“I’m sure of that,” Ken said curtly. “But I’m not interested.”

“Well, it’s your funeral. See you tomorrow. Thanks for the drink.” Parker nodded to the card lying in the hearth. “Don’t leave that about. Lock it up somewhere for future reference.”

“You better take it,” Ken said, moving towards the hearth. “I don’t want it.”

“Keep it. You never know. So long now. I’ll let myself out.” Ken picked up the card, Parker crossed the hall, opened the front door and went off down the path.

Ken glanced at the telephone number written on the card. Riverside 33344. He hesitated for a moment, then tore the card in half and dropped it into his trash basket.

He picked up his coat and went along the passage to the bedroom. He stood in the doorway, looking into the big, airy room. It looked horribly neat and unlived-in and forsaken. He tossed his coat on the bed and began to strip off his clothes. He felt hot and sticky. Through the curtained window he could see the evening sun blazing down on the thick grass of the lawn.

Too early to start pushing a mower yet, he told himself, and went into the bathroom and took a shower.

He felt better when he had put on an open-necked shirt and a pair of old slacks. He wandered into the lounge and stood looking around.

The time was twenty minutes past six: a long time before he went to bed, and already he felt lonely.

He crossed to the table and splashed whisky into his glass, carried the glass to an armchair near the radio and sat down, He turned on the radio, lit a cigarette and stared emptily at the opposite wall.

So Parker had found himself a girl. That surprised Ken. He had always regarded Parker as a man who talked a lot and did nothing.

As some speaker began a lecture on the horrors of the H-bomb, Ken impatiently snapped off the radio. He got up and walked over to the window to stare out at the garden. He had no inclination to cut the lawn or go out and weed the rose bed, which was in need of attention.

He remained looking out of the window for some minutes; his face darkened by a frown. Then he glanced at his wrist-watch, lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug and went across the room to the hall. He opened the front door and walked out on to the porch.

The atmosphere was hot and close.

Probably a storm blowing up, he thought. It’s too damned hot to cut the lawn. I’ll skip it for tonight. Might be cooler tomorrow.

The moment he had made the decision he felt more relaxed in mind. How quiet and empty the bungalow felt, he thought, returning to the hall. He wandered into the lounge and finished the whisky in his glass, and without thinking, splashed more whisky into the empty glass and carried it into the kitchen.

This was going to be another dull evening, he thought as he opened the refrigerator to see what Carrie, the coloured help, had left him for supper. A glance at the empty shelves told him she had forgotten to prepare anything, and he slammed the door shut. There were cans of food in the pantry, but he didn’t feel like eating out of a can.

Shrugging impatiently, he went back to the lounge and put on the television.

The prancing blonde in a frilly little skirt who appeared on the screen held his attention. He sat down and watched her. She reminded him of the slim blonde he had seen on the street that morning. He watched an indifferent programme for half an hour or so and during that time he twice got up to refill his glass. At the end of the programme, and before a new one began, he snapped off the television, got to his feet and began to pace slowly up and down.

Parker’s flat-footed cliche kept going through his mind: what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about.

He looked at his watch. In another hour it would be dusk. He went over to the whisky bottle. There was only a little left now, and he emptied what there was into the glass. The previous drinks he had had were now affecting him, and he felt in an increasingly reckless mood.

Why stay in tonight? he asked himself. Why not give Parker’s girl a trial? She takes care of lonely guys, Parker had said. That’s what he was, wasn’t he?

He carried his drink into the bedroom, set it down on the dressing-table, pulled off his shirt and took a new one from a drawer.

What was her telephone number?

He closed his eyes while he tried to think, and discovered he had drunk more whisky than he had thought.

Riverside 33344.

Everything depends on her voice he said to himself and what she says. If she sounds awful, I can always hang up. If no one answers, then I will cut the lawn. That’s a bet.

Buttoning up his shirt, he went into the lounge and dialled the number. He listened to the burr-burr-burr on the line, aware that his heart was now beating rapidly.

She’s not there, he said to himself after a few moments and he felt both relieved and disappointed. Well, this lets me out. I’ll skip it and cut the lawn; but he was reluctant to replace the receiver.

Then suddenly there was a click over the line, and his heart missed a beat and then raced.

A girl’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Is that Miss Carson?” he asked cautiously.

“That’s right. Who’s calling?”

He could almost hear a smile in her bright, gay voice.

“I guess you wouldn’t know me. A friend of mine…” He broke off, floundering.

“Oh.” The girl laughed. It was a nice, friendly laugh and Ken felt suddenly at ease. “Well, don’t be shy. Do you want to come on over?”

“That was the idea, but perhaps you are tied up?”

“I’m not. How long will you be?”

“I don’t know where you are.”

The girl laughed again.

“25 Lessington Avenue. Do you know it?”

“That’s off Cranbourne Street, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I’m on the top floor; only heaven is higher. Have you a car?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t leave it outside. There’s a parking lot at the corner.”

Lessington Avenue was on the other side of the town to where Ken lived. It would take him twenty minutes to get there.

“I could get over by nine,” he said.

“I’ll be waiting. You’ll find the front door open. Just walk up.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Until nine o’clock then. Good-bye for now.”

The line went dead, and he slowly replaced the receiver.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Even now he hadn’t committed himself, he thought. I needn’t go. I have still time to make up my mind.

He returned to the bedroom and finished dressing. As he knotted his tie, he recalled the sound of her voice. He tried to create a mental picture of her. Was she blonde? Was she tall? She sounded young. Parker said she had everything. She must be pretty good for Parker to say that.

He slipped on his coat. Then leaving the bedroom he went into the lounge. For a long moment, he stood, hesitating.

At least I can look at the place he thought. If it isn’t much I needn’t go in. Damn it! I needn’t feel so shifty about this. It’s not as if I’m going to misbehave myself with the girl. I’ll take her to a show or a night-club.

He took out his billfold and checked his money. He noticed his hands were shaking and he grinned.

As he looked across the room to the front door, he found he couldn’t look at the silver-framed photograph of Ann which stood on the desk.

I

THERE were only four cars in the big parking lot at the corner of Lessington Avenue.

The attendant, an elderly man wearing a white overall, came out of his little hut and waved Ken to park beside a glittering Buick.

As Ken cut the engine and got out of his car, the attendant said, “Going to be long, mister?”

“I may be. I don’t know. Depends if my friend happens to be in,” Ken said cautiously. “How long can I keep it here?”

The attendant gave him a knowing little smile.

“All night if you want to. Lots of guys leave their cars here all night.”

Ken wondered uneasily if the old man guessed where he was going. He paid for the parking ticket.

“I bet I don’t see those four guys tonight,” the attendant went on, waving his hand towards the four cars. “This is a proper night-out district.”

Ken forced an uneasy smile.

“Is it? I didn’t know.”

The attendant gave him a wink.

“Nor did the other guys,” he said, and walked back to his hut.

By now dusk had fallen, and Ken felt fairly secure as he walked along Lessington Avenue.

It was a quiet street, bordered on either side by shady trees that acted as a screen. The houses looked neat and respectable and he met no one during the short walk to No. 25.

Parker had said it was very discreet, no danger of being seen, and everything taken care of.

So far he was right.

Ken paused to look up and down the street before mounting the steps that led to No. 25. Satisfied no one was watching him, he climbed the steps, turned the door handle and pushed open the door. He stepped quickly into the hall.

Facing him was a flight of stairs. On the wall, by the stairs, was a row of mail boxes. He paused to look at them. Above each was a card, carrying the owner’s name.

He read: May Christie, Gay Hordern. Eve Barclay. Glorie Gold. Fay Carson.

Birds of a feather, he thought uneasily. What was he walking into?

He stood hesitating at the foot of the stairs. For a long moment his nerve failed, and he almost decided to retreat back to his car. He was nuts to come to this house, he told himself, not knowing what this girl even looked like. If it hadn’t been for the whisky he had drunk, he would have turned back, but the whisky still had charge of him and urged him on.

Parker said she was all right. Parker came to see her regularly. She must be all right.

He began to climb the stairs.

On the third landing, the sound of a radio playing swing music came through a red-painted front door. He continued up the stairs, and as he was within four stairs of the fourth landing, he heard a door open and then slam shut.

Before he could make up his mind whether to turn around and bolt down the stairs, footsteps sounded on the landing, and a man appeared at the head of the stairs.

He was short, fat and going bald and he carried a snap-brim hat which he slapped against his thigh as he paused to stare at Ken.

In spite of his baldness, he couldn’t have been much older than Ken. There was something repulsively soft about his appearance. He reminded Ken of a stale cream bun. He had great black, protruding eyes, the whites of which were shot. A thin, ugly mouth, a small hooked nose, and sharply pointed ears that were set tightly against the sides of his head made him one of the most extraordinary looking men Ken had ever seen.

His suit was creased and baggy, and his orange and blue patterned tie was grease-stained.

Under his left arm he carried a fawn-coloured Pekinese dog whose long, silky coat told of hours of careful grooming. The dog was as immaculate as its master was shabby.

The fat man stepped back.

“Come up, sir,” he said in a soft effeminate voice. “I never cross on the stairs. You weren’t by any chance coming to see me?”

The black bloodshot eyes went over Ken, and Ken had an uncomfortable feeling the fat man was memorizing every little detail about him.

“No. I’m going further up,” Ken said, hurrying up the stairs.

“We should have an elevator,” the fat man complained. “These awful stairs are bad for my heart. Leo hates them too.” He touched the dog’s head with a fat, grubby forefinger. “Such a beautiful creature, don’t you think?” He moved the dog forward a little as if inviting Ken’s inspection. “Do you admire dogs, sir?”

Ken edged around the fat man.

“Yeah, I guess I do. He’s certainly a fine animal,” he said uncomfortably.

“He has won many prizes,” the fat man went on. “Only this month he got a gold cup.”

The dog stared at Ken. Its eyes were like those of its master: dark, protruding and bloodshot.

Ken went on up the stairs. When he reached the top landing he paused. As he had walked up the remaining stairs, he had been listening for sounds of the fat man going down, but he had heard nothing.

He stepped softly to the banister rail and looked over.

On the landing below, the fat man stood motionless, looking up. Their eyes met and the fat man smiled. It was a curious sly, knowing smile, and it startled Ken. The Pekinese also looked up. Its flat, black-muzzled face was stolid with indifference.

Ken moved hurriedly back, and turned to face the green-painted front door on the far side of the landing. He was aware that his heart was pounding and his nerves were jumpy. The encounter with the fat man had shaken him.

If he hadn’t been sure the fat man was still standing on the lower landing, Ken would have about faced and got out of the house as quickly as he could. But the idea of having to pass the fat man again was more than his shaken nerves could stand.

Wishing now he hadn’t been such a reckless fool as to come to this house, Ken gingerly pushed the bell button.

II

The front door opened almost immediately.

The girl who held the door open was dark, vivacious and pre«cy. At a guess she was twenty-three or four. Her hair, dressed to her shoulders, was as black as a raven’s wing. She had wide-set, blue eyes, a big, generous, scarlet-painted mouth and a friendly smile that did much to restore Ken’s shaken nerves. . She wore a pale blue summer frock, and the shape he saw under the frock set his heart thumping.

“Hello,” she said, standing aside. “Come on in.”

He was aware of her quick, searching scrutiny. What she saw seemed to please her, for she gave him another flashing smile as he walked awkwardly into a big, airy sitting-room.

Before the empty fireplace stood a massive leather couch. Three lounging chairs, a radiogram, a television set, a big walnut liquor cabinet, and a dining table that stood in the bay window completed the furnishing.

Bowls of flowers stood on the table, the top of the radiogram and on the mantelpiece.

The girl closed the front door and moved over to the liquor cabinet. She rolled her hips deliberately as she walked, and glanced over her shoulder to see his reaction.-

Ken was reacting. He thought she had a sensational figure.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “Sit down and relax. I’m absolutely harmless, and you don’t have to be shy or frightened of me.”

“I’m not frightened of you,” Ken said, warming to her. “It’s just I’m not used to this sort of thing.”

She laughed.

“I should hope not. A nice boy like you shouldn’t need anyone like me.” She quickly mixed two highballs as she talked. “What’s the idea, Buster?” she went on. “Your girl let you down?”

Ken felt himself go hot.

“Not exactly.”

She carried the drinks over to the couch and sat beside him.

“Sorry; that slipped out. I didn’t mean to stick my nose where it isn’t wanted,” she said. “It’s just you’re not the type I usually meet.” She gave him one of the tall glasses. “I’m in luck tonight Here’s to fun, Buster.”

Ken was glad of the highball. He hadn’t expected anything like this. The set-up wasn’t sordid at all. The room was better than his own sitting-room.

The girl was like one of the girls at his bank, only a lot prettier. He would never have guessed she was what she was.

“Are you in a rush to get away?” she asked, crossing one slim leg over the other and carefully adjusting her skirt to cover her knee.

“Why no. That is…”

“That’s fine. There’s nothing I hate more than the guy who tears in here, and tears out again. Most of them do. I guess their wives are waiting for them. Do you want to stay here?”

Ken hesitated. He would have liked nothing better, but he remembered his determination not to get himself involved in anything he would regret later.

“I guess not,” he said awkwardly. “The fact is — I really only want — I thought we could do a show or something like that.”

The girl looked quickly at him, then smiled.

“Of course, if that’s what you really want. But look, Buster, it’s going to cost you the same one way or the other. So you can please yourself.”

“Let’s go out,” Ken said, feeling himself grow hot. He took out his billfold. “Shall we settle the financial arrangements now?”

“Twenty bucks: does that sound like hell?” she said, smiling at him.

“That’s all right,” Ken said, and gave her two tens.

“It’s okay with me if you want to change your mind,” she said, getting up. “Let’s see how we go, shall we?”

She crossed the room went into another room and returned immediately.

“Well, now,” she said, sitting on the arm of his chair. “What shall we do?”

He found her presence disturbing. Already his determination to behave was wilting.

“I thought we might go to a nightclub,” he said. “I’ll have to be careful not to be seen.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll go to the Blue Rose. I bet none of your pals ever go to a joint like that. You’ll have fun, and the drinks aren’t too poisonous. I must change. Do you want to come in?”

Ken looked blank.

“That’s all right. I’ll sit here.”

“You’re a funny guy. I have to keep most of them out with a shot-gun. Don’t be too shy, will you?”

“That’s okay,” Ken muttered, not looking at her.

She gave him a puzzled stare, shook her head, and went into the bedroom, leaving the door wide open.

Ken sat still while he wrestled with his conscience. It would have been easier and so much less complicated if she had run true to type. If she had been a hard little floosie, his coming here wouldn’t have taken on this disconcerting personal atmosphere.

“For goodness’ sake, Buster,” the girl said, coming to the bedroom door, “stop looking like the wrath of God. What’s the matter?”

She came over to where he was sitting took the highball out of his hand and put it on the table. She dropped on her knees in front of him.

“We have plenty of time,” she said. “We can go out later.” She slid her arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Buster.”

Throwing caution to the winds, he caught her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.

III

It was ten-thirty when they left the apartment. They met no one on the stairs, and they picked up a passing taxi outside the house.

“The Blue Rose,” the girl said to the driver. “122nd Street.”

In the dark seclusion of the taxi she sat close to Ken, holding his hand.

“I like you, Buster,” she said, “You don’t know what a change you are to the usual guys I get snarled up with.”

Ken smiled at her, not saying anything. He felt relaxed and happy. This night was off the record: hours that didn’t count in his routine of life. In this way, he had got the better of his conscience. He knew he had been extraordinarily lucky to find a girl like Fay to share this stolen night out. By tomorrow the whole episode would be behind him: a memory he would have for the rest of his days. It would never happen again, he assured himself. He wouldn’t want it to happen again. But now it was happening, he would be a fool not to enjoy every second of it.

He looked at Fay as they passed a battery of neon lights advertising a cereal food. The blue, green and red lights lit up the interior of the cab.

She looked extraordinarily attractive, he thought, in the electric blue, full-skirted frock, cut low to show to advantage her creamy white shoulders. Around her throat she wore a necklace of dark blue beads that emphasized the blueness of her eyes.

He had forgotten he had paid her twenty dollars for this night out. It was odd, but he felt as if he had gone back five years and was spending the kind of night he had so often spent before he met Ann.

“Do you like dancing, Buster?” she asked suddenly.

“Sure; do you?”

“I love it. I used to earn a living as a dancer, then things went wrong. I lost my partner, and I couldn’t find another, so I gave it up. We used to give exhibitions at the Blue Rose. It’s not a bad little club. I think you’ll like it.”

“What happened to your partner?” Ken asked, merely to carry on the conversation.

He saw her face tighten.

“Oh, he went away. He wasn’t the type to stick at anything for long.”

Ken felt instinctively that this was a sore point with her, and he changed the subject.

“Who’s the fat man who lives in the apartment below yours? The one with the Pekinese ?”

She turned her head sharply to look at him.

“Did you see him, then?”

“I met him on the stairs.”

Fay made a little grimace.

“He’s a horrible little louse. No one knows what he does for a living. His name’s Raphael Sweeting, believe it or not. He’s always stopping me on the stairs. He uses that lap dog of his as an excuse to talk.”

The cab slowed down and pulled up outside a tall, dark building.

They got out of the cab, and Ken paid off the driver.

“Is this it ?” he said, staring up at the building.

“It’s down this alley,” Fay said, slipping her arm through his. “You needn’t be scared you’ll meet anyone you know. The members are strictly limited, and they don’t come from your part of the world.”

Ken followed her down the narrow alley. At the end of it was a heavy oak door with a judas window. Over the door, fashioned cleverly from neon tubes was a big blue rose. Its blue light reflected faintly on the gleaming brass of the door’s fitments.

Fay touched a bell-push by the side of the door.

They stood, side by side, waiting.

Away in the far distance came a rumble of thunder.

“Hear that?” Ken said.

“I’ve been expecting a storm all the evening. Let’s hope it cools the air.”

The judas window slid back and a white thin face with hard expressionless eyes appeared for a brief moment, then the door opened.

“Evening, Miss Carson.”

The man who had opened the door was short and thickset with a mop of blond wavy hair. He eyed Ken over, and gave him a brief nod.

“Hello, Joe,” Fay said, smiling. “Busy tonight?”

“So, so,” Joe returned. “Your table’s free.”

She nodded and led Ken across the bare lobby, down a passage to another heavy door. As she opened the door, the sound of a dance band reached them.

They walked down red-carpeted stairs where a hat check girl took Ken’s hat. They went on into a big ornate bar.

There were a number of people in the bar, and Ken looked at them uneasily.

He saw at once he had nothing to worry about. Fay was right. These people certainly didn’t come from his part of the world. The women were hard, showy and noisy. The men looked tough and sporting. Several of the women and a number of the men were in evening dress. None of them took any notice of Ken. Three or four of the men saluted Fay and men looked away.

The barman came over, wiping the shiny counter with a cloth.

“Evening, Miss Carson.”

“Two martinis, Jack.”

She climbed up on to a stool, while Ken stood at her side.

The barman served two martinis, and then moved away to serve a tall negro who had just come in.

Ken looked at the negro curiously.

He was a massive man, standing about six foot four, with shoulders that looked as wide as a barn door. His head was closely shaved, and he had a crinkled scar that began just under his right eye and went down in small puckers to his mouth.

He wore a lavender-coloured velveteen jacket, black trousers, a white nylon shirt and a mauve bow tie. A big diamond glittered in the centre of his shirt and flashed every time he moved.

“Hello, Sam,” Fay said, lifting her hand and wriggling her fingers at the negro.

He gave a slow, expansive smile, revealing a mouthful of big, gold-capped teeth.

“Enjoy yourself, honey,” he said in a deep, rich voice.

His black eyes dwelt on Ken for a brief moment, and then he gave him a little nod. He carried his drink across the room and sat down beside a thin mulatto girl in a low-cut green evening dress who was smoking a cigarette in a foot-long holder. She caught Fay’s eye and waved.

“That’s Sam Darcy,” Fay told Ken. “He owns this joint. He gave me my first break. He’s a swell guy. That’s Claudette, his wife.”

“What a size he is!” Ken said, impressed.

“He used to be one of Joe Louis’s sparring partners. He built up this club from nothing. I wish you could have seen it when I first danced here. It was nothing but a damp cellar with a few tables and a pianist. In five years it’s grown to this.” She finished her martini and slid off the stool. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Ken paid for the drinks and followed her across the bar, and into the restaurant.

Several couples were dancing, and most of the tables were occupied.

The Captain of waiters, a dark, hawk-eyed Italian, bustled forward, greeted Fay effusively and conducted them to a table against the wall.

It was while they were finishing an excellent mushroom and prawn omelette that Ken noticed a strikingly beautiful girl come to the door of the restaurant.

She immediately attracted his attention, and he wasn’t the only man in the room to stare at her.

She was tall and willowy. Her blonde curls were piled high up on the top of her beautifully shaped head. She wore a sea-green evening gown, cut low enough to show an expanse of creamy white skin that made Ken’s eyes pop. Her enormous eyes were emerald green and her eyelashes curled upwards and seemed to be touching her eyelids.

It wasn’t so much her face that Ken stared at. Her figure would have stampeded an octogenarian. It stampeded Ken.

“Phew! Who’s that ?” he asked turning to Fay.

“Sensational, isn’t she?” Fay returned, and he was startled to see how hard her face had become. “You’re looking at the biggest bitch in town.”

“You sound prejudiced,” Ken said, and laughed. He looked again at the blonde. She glanced at him without interest, looked beyond him at Fay and then turned and went out of the restaurant. “Who is she, anyway?”

“Her name’s Gilda Dorman,” Fay said. “She and I used to share an apartment together once. She sings now. I guess if I had her shape, her morals and a voice like hers I’d be a success too.”

The angry bitterness in her voice embarrassed Ken. He pushed back his chair.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Fay made an effort and forced a smile.

“Sorry: I was just sounding off. I hate that bitch like poison. She broke up my dancing act.” She got up. “Come on then; let’s dance.”

IV

Ken’s wrist-watch showed twenty minutes past midnight as Fay and he walked into the bar.

“One quickie and then home,” Fay said.

Ken ordered two highballs.

“I’ve had a wonderful evening,” he said. “I’ve really enjoyed myself.”

She gave him a saucy little look from under her eyelashes.

“You’re not going to leave me now, are you?”

Ken didn’t even hesitate. The damage was done. He had no intention of going back to the lonely, empty bungalow.

“You said I could change my mind. I’ve changed it,” he said.

She leaned against him.

“Tell me, Buster, is this the very first time you have gone off the rails?”

He looked as startled as he felt.

“What do you mean ?”

“I bet you are married, and I bet your wife’s away. That’s right isn’t it?”

“Am I so damned obvious?” Ken asked, annoyed she could read him so easily.

She patted his arm.

“Let’s go home. I shouldn’t have said that. But you interest me, Buster. I’ve had such a nice evening with you. You’re such a refreshing change. I just wanted to make certain you belong to someone. If you don’t, I’ll try and capture you for myself.”

Ken reddened.

“I belong to someone all right,” he said.

Fay lifted her shoulders, smiling.

“All the nice ones do.” She slid her arm through his. “Let’s go.”

Sam Darcy was in the lobby as Ken collected his hat.

“Going early, honey?” he said softly to Fay.

“It’s late enough for me, Sam. See you tomorrow.”

“That’s right.”

Joe the doorman opened the door and stood aside.

“Good night, Miss Carson.”

“So long, Joe.”

They stepped into the still, hot night.

“It’s like an oven isn’t it?” Fay said, linking her arm through Ken’s.

They walked down the alley to the main street and paused to look for a taxi.

“One will be along in a moment,” Fay said, opened her bag and took out a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Ken, and they both lit up.

Ken glanced across the road as he noticed a man come out of an opposite alley. He had a brief glimpse of him before the man stopped abruptly, moved quickly out of the rays of a street light into the shadows: a tall, thin, blond man not wearing a hat, young and from what Ken saw of him, good looking.

Ken thought nothing of this at the time, but later he was to remember this man.

A taxi came around the corner and Fay waved.

They sat side by side in the darkness of the cab. Fay leaned against him, holding his hand, her head against his shoulder.

It was an extraordinary thing, he found himself thinking, but I feel I’ve known this girl for years.

He was completely at ease in her company now, and he knew he would have to make a very strong effort to resist the temptation of seeing her again.

“How long have you been on this racket?” he asked.

“About a year.” She glanced up at him. “And Buster, darling, please don’t start trying to reform me. It’s such an old, old gag, and I get so tired of guys telling me I should be a good girl.”

“I guess you would get tired of a line like that. It’s not my business, but I should have thought you could have made a success of anything you took up. You dance so well. Isn’t there anything in that for you now?”

“Maybe, but I just don’t want to go back to dancing. Without the right partner it’s no fun. What do you do for a living, Buster?”

He saw the danger of telling her that. There were only three banks in the city. It wouldn’t be hard to fond him again. He had read enough accounts of professional men getting themselves blackmailed to take the chance of telling her what he did.

“I work in an office,” he said cautiously.

She looked at him and laughed, patting his hand.

“Don’t look so scared. I’ve told you before: I’m perfectly harmless.” She moved away so she could face him. “You took an awful risk tonight, Buster.

Do you realize that?”

He laughed*awkwardly.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“But you did. You are happily married and you have a position to keep up. Suddenly out of the blue, you call up a girl you don’t know anything about and have never seen and make a blind date with her. You might have picked one of the floosies who live in my block. Any of those harpies would have battened on to you and you would have had a hell of a struggle to shake them off.”

“It wasn’t as bad as that. You were recommended to me by a friend.”

“He wasn’t much of a friend, Buster,” she said seriously. “My old man had a saying that applies to you. Whenever I wanted to do something risky, he would tell me to watch my step. ‘Be careful,’ he would say, ‘you might be catching a tiger by its tail.’ I’ve never forgotten that saying. Don’t you forget it either, Buster. You’re going to forget all about me after tonight. If you get the wayward feeling again, don’t call me up. I won’t see you.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I wouldn’t like you to get into trouble because of me.”

Ken was touched.

“You’re a funny girl: too good for this racket.”

She shook her head.

“I wish I was. It just happens, Buster, there’s something about you that’s made me soft tonight.” She laughed. “We’ll be letting our hair down in a moment and sobbing over each other. Well, here we are.”

Ken paid off the taxi, and together they walked up the steps and opened the front door.

They began the long climb to the top floor.

It was probably because she had underlined the risk he was running; something he knew for himself, but something he had dismissed because it had suited him to dismiss it, that, as he climbed the stairs, he was suddenly apprehensive. He should have dropped her at her apartment block and taken the taxi back to his own home, he told himself. He had had a swell evening. There was no point in continuing this escapade any further.

A tiger by the tail, she had said. Suppose now the tiger suddenly awoke?

But in spite of his uneasiness, he continued to climb the stairs after her, until they reached the fourth landing.

Facing them as they mounted the last few stairs, stood the fawn Pekinese. Its bulging bloodshot eyes surveyed them stonily, and it gave a sudden shrill yap that made Ken’s heart skip a beat.

As if waiting for the signal, the fourth-floor front door opened quickly, and Raphael Sweeting appeared.

He wore a threadbare silk dressing-gown over a pair of black lounging pyjamas. Pasted to his moist thick underlip was an unlighted cigarette.

“Leo!” he said severely, “I’m really ashamed of you.” He gave Ken that sly, knowing smile Ken had seen before. “The poor little fellow imagines he is a watch dog,” he went on. “So ambitious for such a mite, don’t you think?”

He bent and gathered the dog up in his arms.

Neither Fay nor Ken said anything. They kept on, both of them knowing that Sweeting was staring after them, and his intense curiosity seemed to bum into their backs with the force of a blow-lamp.

Ken found he was sweating. There was something alarming and menacing about this fat, sordid little man. He couldn’t explain the feeling, but it was there.

“Dirty little spy,” Fay said as she unlocked her front door. “Always hanging about just when he’s not wanted. Still, he’s harmless enough.”

Ken doubted this, but he didn’t say anything. It was a relief to get inside Fay’s apartment and shut the front door.

He tossed his hat on a chair and moved over to the fireplace, feeling suddenly awkward.

Fay went up to him, slid her arms around his neck and offered him her lips.

For a moment he hesitated then he kissed her. She closed her eyes, leaning against him, but now he suddenly wished she wouldn’t.

She moved away from him, smiling.

“I’ll be with you in two seconds, Buster,” she said. “Help yourself to a drink and fix me one too.”

She went into the bedroom and shut the door after her.

Ken lit a cigarette and moved over to the liquor cabinet. He was sure now that he shouldn’t have come up to her apartment. He didn’t know why, but the evening had gone dead on him. He was suddenly ashamed of himself. He thought of Ann. It was an inexcusable and disgraceful act of disloyalty. If Ann ever discovered what he had done, he could never look her in the face again.

He poured out a stiff drink and swallowed half of it.

The least he could do now, he told himself, moving slowly about the room, glass in hand, was to go home.

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed a quarter to one.

Yes, he would go home, he decided, and feeling a little virtuous at making a sacrifice that most men, he felt, wouldn’t have been able to resist, he sat down and waited.

A sudden rumble of thunder not far off startled him.

It was quite a walk from Fay’s apartment to the parking lot. He wished she would hurry. He didn’t want to get wet.

A flash of lightning penetrated the white curtains that were drawn across the window. Then thunder crashed violently overhead.

He got up, pushed aside the curtain and peered down into the street.

In the light of the street lamps he could see the sidewalk was already spotted with rain. Forked lightning lit up the rooftops and again thunder crashed violently.

“Fay!” he called, moving away from the window. “Are you coming?”

There was no answer from the bedroom, and thinking she might have gone into the bathroom, he returned to the window.

It was raining now, and the sidewalk glistened in the lamp light. Rain made patterns on the window, obscuring his view.

Well, he couldn’t walk through this, he told himself. He would have to wait until it cleared a little, and his determination not to spend the night with Fay began to weaken.

The damage was already done, he thought, crushing out his cigarette. No point really in getting soaked. She expected him to stay the night. She would most certainly be offended if he didn’t. Besides, it might be safer to stay here than return home so late. Mrs. Fielding, his next-door neighbour, was certain to hear his car and wonder what he had been up to. She was certain to tell Ann on her return that he hadn’t come home until the small hours.

He finished his whisky and went over to the cabinet to make himself another.

She’s taking her time, he thought, looking towards the bedroom door.

“Hurry up, Fay,” he called. “What are you doing?”

The silence that greeted him puzzled him. What was she up to? he wondered. She had been in there for over ten minutes.

He stood listening. He heard nothing but the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantelpiece and the rain beating against the window.

Then suddenly the lights in the room went out, plunging him into hot, inky darkness.

For a moment he was badly startled, then he realized a fuse must have blown. He groped for the table and set his glass down.

“Fay!” he called, raising his voice. “Where’s the fuse box? I’ll fix it.”

He thought he heard a door creak as if it were stealthily opening.

“Have you got a flashlight?” he asked.

The silence that greeted him sent a sudden chill crawling up his spine.

“Fay! Did you hear me?”

Still no sound but he was sure that someone was in the room. He groped in his pocket for his cigarette lighter. A board creaked near him.

He suddenly felt frightened, and he stepped back hurriedly, cannoning into the table. He heard his glass of whisky crash to the floor.

“Fay! What are you playing at?” he demanded hoarsely.

He distinctly heard a footfall, then a chair moved. The hair on the nape of his neck bristled.

He got out his lighter, but his hand was shaking so badly the lighter slipped out of his grasp and dropped on the floor.

As he bent to grope for it, he heard the sound of a lock click back, then a door creaked.

He looked towards the front door, trying to see through the darkness that enveloped him. He could see nothing.

Then the front door slammed shut, making him start violently, and he distinctly heard the sound of footsteps running down the stairs.

“Fay!”

He was thoroughly alarmed now.

His groping fingers found the lighter and he snapped down the lever.

The flame made a tiny light but enough for him to see the room was empty.

Was it Fay who had just left the apartment or an intruder?

“Fay?”

The uncanny, frightening silence that greeted him stampeded him into a panic.

Shielding the flame of his lighter with his hand, he moved slowly across the room to the bedroom door.

“Are you there, Fay?”

He held the lighter high above his head. The flame was slowly diminishing. In another moment or so it would go out.

He moved forward, peering into the dark room. He looked towards the bed. What he saw there made him catch his breath.

Fay lay across the bed, her arms above her head. A narrow ribbon of blood ran between her breasts, crossing her arched ribs and making a puddle on the floor.

He stood paralysed, staring at her, unable to move.

The flickering flame of the Lighter suddenly went out.

I

A vivid streak of forked lightning lit up the room with an intense bluewhite light, and the crash of thunder that followed rattled the windows.

In the brief moment of light, Ken saw a flashlight on the bedside table and he snatched it up and turned it on.

The hard circle of light fell directly on Fay as she lay outstretched on the bed.

Ken bent over her. Her half-open eyes stared blankly and fixedly at him. Blood, coming from a small blue-black puncture above her left breast, was now reduced to a trickle. Her lips moved, then a muscular spasm passed over her and she arched her back, her hands closing into tight, knucklewhite fists.

“For God’s sake, Fay!” Ken gasped.

Into her blank eyes came an expression of terror, then as suddenly the terror went away, her eyes rolled back and her muscles relaxed. A quiet, gasping sigh came through her clenched teeth, and she seemed to grow smaller, suddenly doll-like, not human.

Shaking from head to foot, Ken stared stupidly at her. He had trouble in holding the flashlight steady.

He put a shaking hand over her left breast, getting blood from her on his fingers. He could feel no heart beat.

“Fay!”

His voice was a hoarse croak.

He stepped back, wanting to vomit, feeling a rush of saliva come into his mouth. He shut his eyes and fought back the sickness. After a moment he gained control of himself and, unsteadily, moved further away from the bed. As he did so, his foot touched something hard and he looked down, turning the beam of his flashlight on the object.

Lying on the carpet was a blue-handled ice-pick, its short, sharp blade red with blood.

He stared at it, scarcely breathing.

This was murder!

The discovery was almost too much for him. He felt his knees give, and he sat down hurriedly.

Thunder continued to rumble overhead, and the rain increased its violence. He heard a car coming swiftly up the road, its engine noisy and harsh. He held his breath while he listened. The car went on, passing the house, and he began to breathe again.

Murder!

He got to his feet.

I’m wasting time, he thought. I must call the police.

He turned the beam of the flashlight on Fay again. He had to convince himself that she was dead. He bent over her and touched the artery in her neck. He could feel nothing, and he had again to fight down the nauseating sickness.

As he stepped back, his foot slipped into something that made him shudder. He had stepped into a puddle of blood that had formed on the blue and white carpet.

He wiped his shoe on the carpet, and then walked unsteadily into the sitting-room.

The hot, inky darkness, pierced only by the beam of the flashlight, suffocated him. He made his way across the room to the liquor cabinet, poured himself out a stiff whisky and gulped it down. The spirit steadied his shaken nerves.

He swung the beam of light around, trying to locate the telephone. He saw the telephone on a small table by the settee. He made a move towards it, then stopped.

Suppose the police refused to accept his story? Suppose they accused him of killing Fay?

He turned cold at the thought.

Even if they did accept his story, and if they caught the killer, he would be chief witness in a murder trial. How was he going to explain being in the apartment when the murder happened? The truth would come out. Ann would know. The bank would know. All his friends would know.

His mouth turned dry.

He would be front-page news. Everyone would know that, while Ann was away, he had gone to a call-girl’s place.

Get out of this, he told himself. You can’t do anything for her. She’s dead. You’ve got to think of yourself. Get out quick!

He crossed the room to the front door; then he stopped short.

Had he left any clue in this dark apartment that would lead the police to him? He mustn’t rush away like this in a blind panic. There were sure to be some clues he had left.

He stood there in the darkness, fighting his panic, trying to think.

His finger-prints were on the glasses he had used. He was taking away Fay’s flashlight: that might be traced to him. His prints were also on the whisky bottle.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.

Only the killer and himself knew Fay was dead. He had time. He mustn’t panic. Before he left, he must check over this room and the bedroom to make absolutely certain he hadn’t left anything to bring the police after him.

Before he could do that he must have light to see what he was doing.

He began a systematic search for the fuse-box, and finally found it in the kitchen. On the top of the fuse-box was a packet of fuse wire. He replaced the fuse, turned down the mains switch. The lights went up in the kitchen.

Using his handkerchief he wiped the fuse-box carefully, then returned to the sitting-room.

His heart was thumping as he looked around the room. His hat lay on the chair where he had dropped it. He had forgotten his hat. Suppose he had given way to panic and had gone, leaving it there? It had his name in it!

To make certain he didn’t forget it, he put it on.

He then collected the broken pieces of the smashed tumbler, put them in a newspaper and crushed the pieces into fine particles with his heel. He carried them in the newspaper into the kitchen and dropped them into the trash basket.

He found a swab in the kitchen sink and returned to the sitting-room. He wiped the glass he had just used and also the whisky bottle.

In the ash-tray were four stubs of cigarettes he had smoked. He collected these and put them in his pocket, then wiped the ash-tray.

He tried to remember if he had touched anything else in the room. There was the telephone. He crossed the room and carefully wiped the receiver.

There didn’t seem anything else in the room that needed his attention.

He was scared to go back into the bedroom, but he knew he had to. He braced himself, slowly crossed the room and turned on the bedroom lights. Keeping his eyes averted from Fay’s dead and naked body, he put the flashlight, after carefully wiping it, on the bedside table where he had found it. Then he paused to look around the room.

He had touched nothing in the room except the flashlight. He was sure of that. He looked down at the blue-handled ice-pick, lying on the carpet. Where had it come from? Had the killer brought it with him? He didn’t think- that likely. If he had brought it with him, he would have taken it away with him. And how had the killer got into the apartment? Certainly not by climbing up to a window. He must have had a key or picked the lock of the front door.

But what did that matter? Ken thought. Time was getting on. Satisfied now he had left no finger-prints nor any clue to bring the police after him, he decided to go out.

But before going he had to get rid of the blood on his hands and check his clothes over.

He went into the bathroom. Careful to cover the taps with his handkerchief before turning them on, he washed the dried blood off his hands. He dried them on a towel, and then went to stand before the long mirror to take careful stock of his clothes.

His heart gave a lurch as he saw a small red stain on the inside of his left sleeve. There was also a red stain on the cuff of his left trousers leg.

He stared at the stains, feeling panic grip him. If anyone saw him now!

He ran more water into the toilet basin, took a sponge from the sponge rack and dabbed feverishly at the stains. The colour changed to a dirty brown, but the stains remained.

That would have to do, he thought, as he rinsed but the sponge, grimacing as the water in the basin turned a bright pink. He let out the water and replaced the sponge.

Turning off the light, he walked hurriedly through the bedroom into the sitting-room.

It was time to go.

He looked around once more.

The storm was passing. The thunder was now a distant rumble, but the rain continued to splash against the windows.

He had done all he could to safeguard himself. The time was twenty minutes to two. With any luck he wouldn’t meet anyone at this time on the stairs. He crossed to the front door, turned off the light, and reached for the door handle. If he met someone… He had to make an effort to turn back the catch on the lock. Then he heard a sudden sound outside that turned him into a frozen, panic-stricken statue.

Against the front door, he heard a soft scratching sound.

He held his breath while he listened, his heart hammering.

To his straining ears came the sound of soft snuffling. There was a dog outside, and he immediately remembered the fawn Pekinese, and then he remembered Raphael Sweeting.

He had forgotten Sweeting.

Sweeting had seen him return to the apartment with Fay. Ken remembered how the fat little man had stared at him, as if memorizing every detail about him. When the police discovered Fay’s body, Sweeting was certain to come forward with Ken’s description.

Ken shut his eyes as he fought down his growing panic.

Pull yourself together, he told himself. There must be thousands of men who look like you. Even if he did tell the police what I look like, how could the police find me ?

He leaned against the door, listening to the dog as it continued to snuffle, its nose hard against the bottom of the door.

Then Ken heard the stairs creak.

“Leo!”

Sweeting’s soft effeminate voice made Ken’s heart skip a beat.

“Leo! Come here!”

The dog continued to snuffle against the door.

Ken waited. His heart thudded so violently he was scared Sweeting would hear it.

“If you won’t come down, then I must come up,” Sweeting said. “It’s most unkind of you, Leo.”

More stairs creaked, and Ken stepped back hurriedly, holding his breath.

“Come along, Leo. What are you sniffing at?” Sweeting asked.

There was a long agonized silence, then Ken heard soft footfalls just outside the door. Then there was silence again, and Ken had a horrible feeling that Sweeting was listening outside, his ear against the door panel.

The dog had stopped snuffling. Ken could hear now only the thud of his heart and the sound of rain against the window.

Then he heard a sound that sent a chill up his spine. The door handle creaked and began to turn. He remembered he had unlocked the door. Even as the door began to move inwards, he rammed his foot against the bottom of it and jammed it shut. He put his hand on the door and leaned his weight against it while he rumbled desperately to find the catch on the lock.

There was only slight pressure on the door, and after a moment it went away.

“Come along, Leo,” Sweeting said, slightly raising his voice. “We must go down. You will be waking Miss Carson.”

Ken leaned against the door, feeling sweat run down his face. He listened to the soft creaking of the stairs as Sweeting descended, then, just as his nerves were relaxing, the telephone bell just above his head began to ring.

II

The thunder had died away now, and apart from the shrill, nagging sound of the telephone bell the house seemed wrapped in silence.

Everyone in the house must hear the bell, Ken thought frantically. Who could it be calling at this hour?

He waited, his nerves crawling, as the bell continued to ring. It must stop soon, he thought. It can’t go on and on…

But it did go on, insistent and strident, until Ken could bear the sound no longer.

He turned on the light, blundered over to the telephone and lifted the receiver.

“Fay? This is Sam.”

Ken recognized the deep rich voice of Sam Darcy, the big negro he had met at the Blue Rose.

“Listen, honey,” Darcy went on urgently. “Johnny’s been seen in town. He’s looking for you. I got a tip-off he’s been to the Paradise Club asking for you.”

Ken held the receiver tightly against his ear, his mind bewildered.

Johnny? Who was he? Was it Johnny who had killed Fay?

“Fay?” Darcy’s voice sharpened. “Do you hear me?”

With a shaking hand, Ken replaced the receiver.

He was sure Darcy would call back. He must stop the telephone bell ringing again.

He snatched up a newspaper lying in one of the chairs, tore off half a sheet and folded it into a small wedge. This he inserted between the telephone bell and the clapper.

He had scarcely done this when the clapper began to agitate, making a soft buzzing noise.

He took one last look around the apartment, turned off the light, unlocked the front door and opened it a few inches. He peered out on to the landing. It was deserted. He remembered to wipe the door handle with his handkerchief, and then he closed the door after him.

He stood on the landing, listening. The house was silent. Tiptoeing across the landing, he cautiously looked over the banister rail to the landing below. That, too, was deserted, but he saw that Sweeting’s front door stood ajar.

Ken stared at the door, his heart thumping.

That half-open door could mean only one thing. Sweeting was still on the prowl. He was probably sitting in his hall, out of sight, while he watched the landing.

There was no other way of leaving this house except by going down the stairs.

Ken hesitated. Should he wait Sweeting out or should he go down?

He wanted to wait, but he knew the risk of waiting. He could hear the soft continuous buzz of the telephone bell. Darcy might decide to come over and find out why Fay didn’t answer his persistent calling.

Ken had to get as far away from this apartment house as he could before Fay’s body was found.

It might be possible, if he were very quiet, to creep down the stairs and pass the half-open door without Sweeting seeing or hearing him.

It was his only hope.

He started down the stairs, leaning against the wall, keeping away from the banister rail, which he feared might creak if he touched it.

He went down slowly, step by step, not making a sound. As he reached the last step to the landing, he stopped to listen.

He was just out of sight of the half-open door. If Sweeting were sitting in the hall he would see him as Ken crossed the landing. But if Sweeting had dozed off, Ken might be able to reach the next flight of stairs without being seen.

He braced himself, and, just as he moved forward, the fawn Pekinese dog came through the half-open door and stood looking up at him.

Ken remained motionless, more frightened than he had ever been before in his life.

He and the dog stared fixedly at each other for a long, agonizing moment. Then before he could make up his mind what to do, the front door opened wide and Sweeting came out on to the landing.

“Come along, Leo,” he said gently. “Time little dogs were in bed.”

He looked slyly at Ken and smiled.

“You have no idea, sir,” he said, “what trouble I have to get this little fellow to go to bed.”

Ken didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His mouth was as dry as dust.

Sweeting picked up the Pekinese. His black eyes scrutinized Ken.

“I believe it has stopped raining,” he went on, gently stroking the Pekinese’s head. “Such a heavy storm.” He looked at the cheap, nickelplated watch he wore on his fat, hairy wrist. “I had no idea it was so late. It’s nearly two.”

Ken made a tremendous effort to control his panic. He moved across the landing to the head of the next flight of stairs.

“I must apologize. I talk too much,” Sweeting went on, moving after Ken. “You will excuse me. It is a lonely man’s failing. If it wasn’t for Leo I should be quite alone.”

Ken kept on, fighting down the increasing urge to rush madly down the stairs and out of the house.

“You wouldn’t care to come in and have a drink with me?” Sweeting asked, catching hold of Ken’s sleeve. “It would be a kindness. It’s not often I have the opportunity to be a host.”

“No, diank you,” Ken managed to get out, pulled his arm free and went on down the stairs.

“You have a stain on your coat, sir,” Sweeting called, leaning over the banister rail. “That brown stain. Do you see it? I have something that will take it out if you would care to have it.”

Widiout looking back, Ken increased his pace. He reached the dhrd-floor landing. The temptation to run was now too much for him, and he went down the next flight of stairs diree at a time.

He bolted across the landing, down the next flight of stairs, across the first-floor landing to the dimly lit hall. He jerked open the front door and cannoned into a girl as she was about to enter the hall.

Ken was so startled, he jumped back.

“No need to knock me over, darling,” the girl said, adjusting her pert little hat. She reached out and flicked down a light switch, flooding the hall with hard light.

She was a plump blonde with granite-hard eyes. Her black dress accentuated her curves.

“Hello,” she said, giving him a bright, professional smile. “What’s your hurry?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Ken said breathlessly. He took a step forward, but she blocked the doorway.

“Well, you do now.” She eyed him over with professional interest. “Want a little fun, baby?” She pointed to a door to the left of the street door. “Just here. Come in and have a drink.”

“Sorry; I’m in a hurry.”

“Come on, baby, don’t be shy.” She sidled up to him.

“Get out of my way!” Ken said desperately. He put his hand on her arm and pushed her aside.

“Hey! Don’t put your hands on me, you cheap bum!” the girl cried, and as Ken ran into the street, she started to yell abuse after him.

III

Rain was still falling as Ken hurried along the glistening sidewalk. The air was cooler, and overhead the black storm clouds were breaking up. From time to time the moon appeared and disappeared as the clouds moved across the sky, driven by the brisk wind.

Ken was thinking: Those two will know me again. They will give the police my description. Every newspaper will carry the description.

But why should anyone connect me with Fay? I had no motive for killing her. It’s the motive that gives the police a lead. Without a motive, they can get nowhere. She was a prostitute. The murder of a prostitute is always the most difficult case to solve. But supposing Sweeting or the girl happens to come to the bank? He turned cold at the thought. Would they recognize me? Would they know me without a hat ? They wouldn’t expect to see me in a bank. But I must watch out. If I see them come in, I can always leave my till and get out of sight.

I must watch out.

He realized the horror of his future. He would always have to be on his guard; always on the look-out for these two. Not for a week or a month, but for as long as he remained at the bank.

The realization of his position brought him to a sudden halt. He stood on the edge of the kerb, staring blankly down the wet street, his mind crawling with alarm.

For as long as he remained in the bank and for as long as he remained in town! The sight of any fat man with a Pekinese or any hard-eyed blonde would now send him scurrying for cover. He wouldn’t be able to relax for a moment. It would be an impossible situation. The only way out would be to get a transfer to another branch in another city. He would have to sell his home. It might not be possible to get a transfer. He might even have to throw up banking and start hunting for some other job.

And what would Ann think? He had never been able to keep anything from her in the past. How could he hope to keep this from her? She always seemed to know when things were going wrong for him. There was that time when he had a forty dollar shortage in his takings. He hadn’t told her. He had drawn the money from his own account to make up the shortage, but she had soon found out about it.

What a mad, crazy fool I’ve been! he thought. Why did I do it? Why the hell didn’t I leave that girl and go home!

Across the road he caught sight of a moving figure, and he stepped hurriedly back into the shadows. His mouth turned dry when he saw the flat cap and the gleaming buttons of a cop.

Somehow he forced himself into a walk. His heart was thudding as he passed the cop who looked across the road at him, and it seemed to Ken the cop was suspicious. It was as much as he could do not to break into a run.

He kept on, not looking back, expecting to hear the cop shout after him. Nothing happened, and when he had walked twenty yards or so, he looked over his shoulder.

The cop was walking on, swinging his night stick, and Ken drew in a sharp breath of relief.

That meeting underlined again the horror of his future. Every time he saw a cop now he would be scared.

Would it be better to end it right now? Should he go to the police and tell them what had happened?

Pull yourself together, you spineless fool! he told himself angrily. You’ve got to think of Ann. If you keep your nerve you’ll be all right. No one will suspect you. Get clear of here, get home and you’ll be safe.

He stiffened his shoulders and increased his pace. In a minute or so he reached the parking lot.

Then a thought struck him that again stopped him dead in his tracks and filled him with sick panic.

Had the car attendants kept a book in which they entered the registration number of every car parked in the lot.

He was sunk if the attendant had taken his number. The police would be

certain to question the attendant. They would give him Ken’s description, and he must remember him. All he had to do then would be to turn up his book and give the police Ken’s number. They would be at his house in half an hour.

Shaken by this thought, Ken stepped into a dark alley while he tried to think what to do. From where he stood he could see the entrance to the parking lot. He had a clear view of the little hut by the gates. A light burned inside the hut, and he could just make out the bent figure of the attendant as he sat by the window, reading a newspaper.

Ken had to know if there was a registration book in the hut. He daren’t drive away without making certain the attendant hadn’t his number. If the book existed he would have to destroy it.

He leaned against the wall of the alley and watched the hut. Perhaps someone would come for his car and the attendant would leave the hut, giving Ken a chance to slip in and see if the book was there. But it was now quarter-past two. The chances of anyone collecting his car at this hour was remote. Time was running out. He couldn’t afford to wait.

He braced himself and, leaving the alley, he crossed the road and walked into the parking lot.

The door of the hut stood open, and he walked in.

The old attendant glanced up, eyed him over and gave him a surprised nod.

“You’re late, mister.”

“Yes,” Ken said, and his eyes searched the hut.

There was a table near the window. Among the collection of old newspapers, a saucepan and a gas-ring, some dirty china mugs and a still dirtier hand towel, on the table was a dog-eared notebook, opened about half-way.

Ken moved closer.

“Some storm,” he went on. “I’ve been waiting for it to clear.”

His eyes took in the open page of the notebook. It contained a neatly written list of car numbers: third from the bottom was his own number.

“Still raining,” the attendant said, busy lighting a foul-smelling pipe. “Well, I guess we can do with it. Got a garden, mister?”

“Sure,” Ken said, trying to control the shake in his voice. “This must be the first rain we’ve had in ten days.”

“That’s right,” the attendant said. “Do you grow roses, mister?”

“That’s all I do grow: roses and weeds,” Ken returned, moving so his back was now to the table.

“That’s about my limit too,” the old man said, and got stiffly to his feet and went to the door to look up at the rain-swollen clouds.

Ken picked up the book and held it behind him.

“Haven’t you anyone to relieve you?” he asked, joining the old man at the door.

“I go off around eight o’clock. When you get to my age, mister, you don’t need much sleep.”

“Maybe you’re right. Well, so long. I need all the sleep I can get.”

Ken stepped out into the darkness, feeling the rain against his sweating face.

“I’ll just mark you off in my book,” the attendant said. “What’s your number?”

Ken’s heart stopped, then raced.

“My number?” he repeated blankly.

The old man had gone to the table and was pushing the newspapers to one side.

“Now where did I put it?” he muttered. “I had it a moment ago.

Ken shoved the notebook in his hip pocket. He looked across at a Packard, standing near the gates.

“My number’s TXL 3345,” he said, reading off the Packard’s number plate.

“I had that darned book a moment ago. Did you see it, mister?”

“No. I’ve got to be moving.” Ken offered the old man a half-dollar. “So long.”

“Thanks, mister. What was that number again?”

Ken repeated the number and watched the old man scribble it down on the edge of a newspaper.

“I’m always losing things.”

“So long,” Ken said, and walked quickly across the lot to his car.

He got in the car, started the engine and, using only his parking lights, he sent the car shooting towards the gates.

The old man came out of the hut and waved to him. Ken snapped off the parking lights, trod hard on the gas pedal and drove fast through the gates. He didn’t turn on his lights until he reached the main road. Then, driving at a steady pace, he headed for home.

I

The strident clamour of the alarm clock brought Ken out of a heavy sleep. He smothered the alarm, opened his eyes and looked around the bright familiar bedroom. Then into his sleep-heavy mind the events of the previous evening formed a stark picture, and immediately he was awake, a cold, sick feeling of fear laying hold of him.

He looked at the clock. It was just after seven.

Throwing his bedclothes aside, he swung his feet to the floor, slid them into his waiting slippers and walked into the bathroom.

His head ached, and when he looked at himself in the shaving mirror he saw his face was pale and gaunt and his eyes bloodshot and dark-ringed.

After he had shaved and taken a cold shower, he looked a little better, but his headache persisted.

He went into the bedroom to dress, and, as he fixed his tie, he wondered how long it would be before Fay’s body was discovered. If she lived alone it might be days. The longer she remained undiscovered, the better it would be for him. People’s memories became uncertain after a few days. The parking lot attendant would be unlikely to give the police a convincing description of him unless the police questioned him fairly soon. The plump blonde might also be a scatterbrain, but Ken had no delusions about Sweeting. His memory, Ken was sure, was dangerously reliable.

Goddam it! he said aloud, what a hell of a mess I’ve got myself into! What an utter fool I’ve been! Well, I’ve got to behave now as if nothing had happened. I’ve got to keep my nerve. I’m safe as long as Sweeting or that blonde doesn’t run into me and I’ll have to take good care to see them first.

He went into tile kitchen and put on the kettle. While he was waiting for the water to boil, he wondered how he was going to get rid of his bloodstained suit.

He had read enough detective stories to know the danger of keeping the suit. Police chemists had methods of discovering blood-stains no matter how carefully they were washed out.

He was worried sick about the suit. He had only recently bought it, and Ann would know at once if it was missing. But he had to get rid of it: several people had seen him wearing it last night. If the police found it here, he would be sunk. It was easier said than done to get rid of it, but he had to think of a way, and think of it quickly.

He made the coffee, poured out a cup and carried the cup to the bedroom. Setting the cup down, he went over to the suit he had thrown over the back of a chair when he had stripped it off last night, and examined it carefully in the hard morning sunlight. The two stains showed up alarmingly against the light-grey material.

Then he remembered his shoes. He had stepped into a puddle of blood at Fay’s apartment. They would also be stained. He picked them up and examined them. The side of the left shoe was stained. He would have to get rid of the shoes too.

He sat on the edge of the bed and drank the coffee. He wondered if he would ever be free of this empty sick feeling of fear and tension he now had. Finishing the coffee, he lit a cigarette, noticing how unsteady his hand was. For some moments he sat still, concentrating on ways and means of getting rid of the suit.

Fortunately he had bought the suit from one of the big stores. It had been ready-made, and he had paid cash for it. The same applied to the shoes. In both transactions it was extremely unlikely that the salesman who had served him would remember him.

He recollected the department where he had brought the suit with its rows of suits hanging in orderly lines, and that recollection gave him an idea.

He would take the blood-stained suit in a parcel to the stores this morning. He would buy a suit exactly like it. While the assistant was wrapping up his purchase, he would take the blood-stained suit out of the parcel and include it among the suits on the hangers. It might be weeks before the suit was discovered, and then it would be impossible for it to be traced to him.

His shoes were almost new too. He had bought them at the same store. He could work the same dodge with them. He would then have replaced the suit and shoes so Ann wouldn’t know he had got rid of the original suit and shoes.

He made a parcel of the suit and another parcel of the shoes and put them in the hall. As he was turning back to the bedroom he saw the newspaper delivery boy coming up the path. As soon as the newspaper came through the letter-box, he grabbed it and took it into the sittingroom. He went through the paper from cover to cover, his heart thumping and his hands clammy.

He didn’t expect to find any mention of Fay’s murder, and he wasn’t disappointed. If there was anything to report, the evening newspapers would have it.

It was almost time now for him to leave for the bank. He put on his hat, picked up the two parcels, locked the front door, and left the key under the mat for Carrie to find.

As he walked down the path to the gate, a car drew up outside the bungalow with a squeal of brakes.

Ken felt his heart turn a somersault, and for one ghastly moment he had to fight against a mad impulse to turn around and bolt back indoors. But he kept hold of himself with an effort, and stared at the car, his heart thudding.

Parker, red-faced and cheerful, waved to him from the car.

“Hello, sport,” he said. “Thought I’d pick you up. One good turn deserves another. Come on — hop in.”

Ken opened the gate and crossed the sidewalk to the car, aware that his knees felt weak and the muscles in his legs were fluttering. He opened the car door and got in.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you were driving up this morning.”

“I didn’t know myself until I got home,” Parker said gloomily. He took out his cigarette-case and offered it to Ken. “My ma-in-law’s coming to spend a few days with us. Why the old cow can’t take a taxi instead of expecting me to meet her beats me. It’s not as if she’s hard up, although the way she acts you’d think she was on relief. I told Maisie not to invite her, but she never does what I want.”

Ken took the cigarette and accepted a light from Parker.

“Hello,” Parker said, lifting his eyebrows, “so the lawn didn’t get cut after ai I

Ken had forgotten about the lawn.

“No; it was too hot,” he said hurriedly.

Parker engaged gear and pulled away from the kerb.

“I thought you’d have better sense than to waste your time cutting a lawn.” He gave Ken a dig in the ribs with his elbow. “How did you get on, you dirty dog?”

“I got on very well,” Ken said, trying to sound casual. “I spent the evening weeding and went to bed early.”

Parker gave a hoot of laughter.

“Tell that to your grandma,” he said with a leer. “Have you seen your face this morning? Boy! Do you look washed out! Did you visit my little friend?”

“What little friend?” Ken asked, staring fixedly through the windshield at the line of traffic ahead.

“Come on, Holland, don’t be cagey with me. You know you can trust me to keep my mouth shut. How did you like her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ken said curtly.

“Well damn it! I gave you her telephone number. You called her, didn’t you?”

“I’ve told you already; I stayed at home last night and weeded the rose bed.”

Parker lifted his eyebrows.

“Well, okay, if that’s your story, I guess you’re stuck with it, but you don’t kid me. But since I gave you the introduction you might at least admit she’s a damn fine girl.”

“I wish you’d shut up!” Ken snapped. “I stayed home last night. Can’t you get that bit of information into your thick skull and stop all this nonsense?”

“I was only pulling your leg,” Parker said, a little startled by the anger in Ken’s voice. “I was doing you a good turn. If you’re such a mug not to take advantage of my introduction, that’s your funeral. Fay’s sensational. When Hemingway put me on to her, he saved my life. I admit I took a chance, but I’m damned glad now.”

“I wish you would get off this subject,” Ken said. “Can’t you talk about something else?”

“What else is there to talk about?’ Parker said, and sniggered. “Well, okay, if that’s the way you feel: tell me, what have you got in those two parcels?”

Ken had been expecting Parker to ask that question, and he was ready for it.

“Just some things Ann asked me to take to the cleaners.”

“I don’t know why it is but wives always find some errands for us guys to run. Maisie has given me a shopping list as long as my arm. I guess I’ll have to get one of the girls in the office to handle it for me.” Parker drove a couple of blocks without speaking: his plump red face thoughtful. “You know, I think I’ll drive over to Fay’s place in my lunch hour. It doesn’t look as if I’ll see much of her while my ma-in-law’s with us. She’s a regular old ferret, and if I stayed out late, she’d start putting a flea in Maisie’s ear.”

Ken felt a chill crawl up his spine.

“This afternoon? Is she likely to see you so early?”

“That’s not early,” Parker returned and laughed. “I once called on her at eight o’clock in the morning.”

The thought of Parker going to that top-floor apartment and walking into the police turned Ken cold.

“You’ll telephone her first?”

“Oh, sure. She might have someone there. But lunch-time is usually a good time to catch her in.”

Ken began to breathe again.

“I should have thought it was damned risky to go to a place like that in daylight.”

“Nothing to worry about at all. There’s a parking lot not far from the house, and the street is screened by trees,” Parker said airily. “You should try it one day, if you haven’t tried it already, you sly dog.”

“Keep your mind on your driving,” Ken said, his voice sharp. “You nearly hit that truck.”

II

Soon after half-past ten, when the first rush of business over, Parker closed his till, and giving Ken a wink, said he was going to call Fay.

“Shan’t be five minutes. Keep an eye on things for me.”

Ken watched him cross the hall of the bank to a pay booth installed for the customers’ convenience.

Ken’s heart beat violently as he watched Parker shut himself in the booth. He waited while minutes dragged by, then the booth door opened and Parker came out.

Parker had lost his cocky, leering expression. He looked white and flustered, and he hurried across the hall as if anxious to gain sanctuary behind the grill protecting his till.

Ken pretended he hadn’t noticed Parker’s agitation. He was entering a pile of cheques into a ledger, and having difficulty, as his band was unsteady. He said as casually as he could: “Did you get fixed up?”

“My God!” Parker gasped, wiping his face with his handkerchief. “The cops are in her place.”

Ken stiffened and dropped his pen.

“The cops?”

“Yes. Must be a raid. Suppose I had gone around there without calling her first?”

“How do you know it was the police?” Ken asked, groping on the floor for his pen.

“The guy who answered the phone said he was Lieutenant Adams of the City Police. He wanted to know who I was.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Of course not! I hung up on him while he was talking. Phew! What the hell does it mean? I’ve never known the police raid a call-girl’s place before. They might have arrived when I was there.”

“Lucky you called first.”

“I’ll say.” Parker continued to mop his face. “You don’t think they’ll trace my call, do you?”

“Why should they?” Ken asked, and he suddenly saw the danger he was in. The police were likely to trace the call. If they came here with a description of him from Sweeting, they would catch him red-handed with the blood-stained suit still in his possession!

“Maybe she’s been robbed or assaulted,” Parker said nervously. “Maybe that’s why they are there. Maybe someone’s murdered her.”

Ken felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the side of his face. He didn’t trust his voice to say anything.

“These girls run a hell of a risk,” Parker went on. “They don’t know who they are taking on. She could have been murdered.”

Before he could develop his theme a depositor came in, and then another followed. For some minutes both Ken and Parker were kept busy.

Ken was thinking of the blood-stained suit in his locker downstairs.

Damn Parker! If the police traced that call and came down here…! He looked anxiously at his wrist-watch. He had another hour before he went to lunch. The police might be on their way over now. But before he could make up his mind what to do, a steady flow of customers began, and for the next half-hour he was too rushed to think of himself. Then there was a pause again.

Parker said sharply, “There’s a guy just come in who looks like a cop.”

Ken’s heart stopped, then raced.

“Where?”

He looked around the big hall. Standing, half-concealed by one of the pillars, was a tall, heavily built man in a brown suit and a brown slouch hat.

He did look like a cop. His big fleshy face was brick-red and his small, green eyes had a still, intent quality about them that alarmed Ken.

“He must be a cop,” Parker said, lowering his voice.

Ken didn’t say anything. He watched the big man cross the hall to the pay booth.

“Do you think anyone saw me use the telephone?” Parker muttered.

“I don’t know. It’s out of sight of the door.”

“If he asks me I’ll tell him I called my wife, but I couldn’t get an answer.”

“He may not ask you.”

“I hope to hell he doesn’t.”

They watched the big man come out of the pay booth and go over to speak to the messenger at the door.

The messenger looked startled as Ken saw the big man show him something he carried in his hand. They talked for some minutes, then the big man turned and stared directly at Ken.

Ken felt himself turn hot, then cold. He forced himself to continue to write in his ledger.

“He’s coming over,” Parker said softly.

The big man came up to the counter and his hard eyes went from Parker to Ken and back to Parker again.

“City Police. Sergeant Donovan,” he said, his voice a harsh growl. “I’m making enquiries about a guy who used that pay booth about a half-hour ago. Did either of you see him?”

Ken looked at the hard, brick-red face. Donovan wore a close-clipped ginger moustache. A row of freckles ran across the bridge of his thick, short nose.

“No, I didn’t see anyone,” Ken said.

“I used the telephone a little while ago, sergeant,” Parker said smoothly. “I was calling my wife. You don’t mean me, do you?”

Donovan stared at Parker.

“Not if you called your wife. Did you see anyone else use the booth?”

“Well, there was a girl and an elderly man,” Parker lied glibly. “But that would be about an hour ago, I guess. We’ve been busy, and I didn’t notice anyone recently.”

“Not too busy to call your wife,” Donovan said, his hard little eyes boring into Parker.

“Never too busy to call my wife,” Parker returned, and gave the sergeant a bright, false smile.

Donovan took a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, stuck it on his thin, brutal lower lip and set fire to it with a brass lighter.

“Did you see anyone use the phone?” he asked Ken.

“I’ve just told you: I didn’t.”

The green eyes forced Ken to look away.

“You might have changed your mind.”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

Donovan made a grimace of disgust.

“No one ever sees nothing in this town. No one knows nothing, either.”

He gave the two men a long, hard stare, then walked across the hall to the messenger.

“Phew!” Parker said. “Nice guy. I wouldn’t like to be third-degree’d by him, would you?”

“I guess not,” Ken said, his knees weak.

“I handled him rather well, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t it a little early to talk like that?” Ken returned.

They both watched Donovan as he talked to the messenger, then, nodding curtly, Donovan left the bank.

“It’s a bad business,” Parker said soberly. “They wouldn’t have sent that sergeant here so fast unless there was something serious. My God! What an escape I’ve had!”

III

The City hall clock was striking the half-hour after one as Ken left Gaza’s, the big store on the corner of Central and 4th Streets. Under his arm he carried two brown-paper parcels.

He walked rapidly along Central Street towards the bank. His plan to get rid of the blood-stained suit and shoes had worked. The suit now hung alongside the other hundreds of suits on display in Gaza’s outfitting department. He hoped the bloodstained shoes were safely lost among the masses of shoes on the display counter of Gaza’s shoe department.

There had been one nerve-shattering moment. The assistant who had sold him the light-grey suit, a replica of the one he had furtively included among the other suits, had asked him if he hadn’t forgotten the parcel he had brought in with him.

Ken had managed to keep his head, and had said he hadn’t been carrying a parcel. The assistant had looked puzzled, but having asked Ken is he was sure, he lost interest. But it had been an unpleasant moment.

Well, at least he had got rid of the suit and the shoes, and he felt safer.

On the other hand, through Parker’s telephone call, the police had visited the bank, and this hard-faced sergeant had had a good look at him.

Would the sergeant link him with the description the police were bound to get once they began asking questions?

There was nothing in the mid-day papers about Fay, and when Ken got back to his till to relieve Parker, he shook his head at Parker’s eager question.

“Nothing at all?” Parker asked. “Are you sure?”

Ken handed the paper over.

“Nothing: look for yourself.”

“Maybe it isn’t as bad as I thought,” Parker said, glancing at the headlines. “She could have pinched something. These girls are always getting into trouble. Well I’m going to give her a wide berth from now on.”

The afternoon dragged by. Ken kept watching the front entrance of the bank, half expecting to see the big sergeant come in again. The sick tension that had hold of him made him feel ill and tired.

When eventually the bank doors closed and he began to cash up, Parker said, “If that cop asks you questions about me, Holland, you’ll keep your mouth shut, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Ken returned, wondering how Parker would react if he knew the truth. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“I wish that were true,” Parker said uneasily. “If they find out it was me who telephoned, the blasted news hounds will get after me. Can you imagine how old Schwartz would like it if he knew I’d been going to see this girl? That old blue-nose would kick me out like a shot. And then there’s my wife: I’d never live it down.”

“Relax,” Ken said, wishing he could relax himself. “I won’t say a thing.”

“This has taught me a lesson,” Parker said. “Never again. From now on I’m going to keep clear of trouble.” He locked his till. “Well, I’ve got to get off. Time to meet ma-in-law. Sorry I can’t drive you home.”

“That’s okay,” Ken said. “I’ve just got these cheques to enter up and I’m through. So long.”

He took his time finishing his work to make certain Parker had gone, then he went down to the staff room, put on his hat, collected his two parcels from his locker and went up the steps to the rear exit.

He travelled home by bus, paused at the corner of his road to buy an evening paper and walked towards the bungalow; holding his parcels under one arm, he scanned the headlines of the paper.

There it was in the stop press.

He stopped, his heart hammering, to read the heavy print:

ICE-PICK SLAYING IN LOVE NEST EX-DANCER MURDERED BY UNKNOWN ASSAILANT

He couldn’t bring himself to read further, and folding the newspaper, he continued up the road, sweat on his face.

As he reached his gate, Mrs. Fielding, his next-door neighbour, bobbed up from behind the hedge to beam at him.

Mrs. Fielding was always bobbing up from behind the hedge.

Ann had tried to convince Ken that Mrs. Fielding meant well and that she was lonely, but Ken thought she was an old busybody always on the lookout for a gossip or to stick her nose where it wasn’t wanted.

“Just back from town, Mr. Holland?” she asked, her bright little eyes staring curiously at the two parcels he carried under his arm.

“That’s right,” Ken said, opening the gate.

“I hope you haven’t been extravagant now your wife’s away,” she went on, wagging her finger at him. “I know how my dear husband used to behave as soon as I went away.”

I wonder if you do, you silly old fool, Ken thought. I bet he kicked the can around as soon as he got rid of you.

“And you’re keeping such late hours.” She smiled archly at him. “Didn’t I hear you come last night after two?”

Ken’s heart gave a lurch.

“After two?” he said. “Oh, no. Couldn’t have been me. I was in bed by eleven.”

Her bright smile suddenly became fixed. Into her eyes came an inquisitive, searching look that made Ken’s eyes give ground.

“Oh. I looked out of the window, Mr. Holland. I am quite sure it was you.”

“You were mistaken,” Ken said shortly, caught with the lie and having to

make the best of it. “You’ll excuse me. I have to write to Ann.”

“Yes.” Still the bright eyes stared fixedly at him. “Well, be sure to give her my love.”

“I will,” Ken said, and forcing a smile, he hurried up the path, opened the front door and entered the hall.

He stood for a moment in the quiet hall, listening to the thud of his heart.

If the police took it in their heads to question her, she could give him away. He might have known she wouldn’t have been asleep when he drove back last night. She would have to get of bed to spy.

She had seen the two parcels. If she remembered and if the police questioned her, how was he going to explain them away?

He now had a trapped feeling, and he went into the lounge, opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself out a stiff drink. He went over to the couch and sat down. After a long pull from his glass, he read the short paragraph in the stop press.

Early this morning, Fay Carson, one-time dance hostess at the Blue Rose nightclub, was discovered by her maid, stabbed to death and lying naked across her bed. The murder weapon is believed to be an ice-pick taken from the murdered woman’s ice-Sox.

Sergeant Jack Donovan of the Homicide Department, in charge of the investigation, stated that he had already several important clues, and that an early arrest could be expected. He is anxious to interview a tall, wellbuilt man, wearing a pearl-grey suit and a grey slouch hat who returned with Miss Carson to her apartment last night.

Ken dropped the paper and shut his eyes.

For a long, horrible moment he felt suffocated by the wave of panic that urged him to get in his car and get as far away as he could before they came after him.

A tall, well-built man in a pearl-grey suit and a grey slouch hat.

What a damn fool he had been to buy a suit exactly like the one he had left in the store. He had bought it because Ann would have missed it, but now he realized he would never dare wear it.

He ran his and over his sweating face.

Should he make a bolt for it?

Where would you go, you fool? he thought. And how far do you imagine you’d get? Your one and only chance is to sit tight and keep your nerve. It’s your only hope. You’ve got to sit tight for Ann’s sake as well as your own.

He got to his feet, finished his drink and set the glass down on the table. Then he unpacked the two parcels and carried the shoes and suit into his bedroom. He put them in his wardrobe.

He returned to his sitting-room and poured himself out another drink.

He thanked his stars Ann wasn’t here, and that he could face this business on his own, but in six more days she would be back. He didn’t kid himself this business would be over by then or, if it were, he would be in jail.

He set down his glass to light a cigarette. A movement outside made him look up towards the window.

A car had pulled up outside the bungalow. The car door opened and a massive figure of a man got out.

Ken stood transfixed, his breath coming through his clenched teeth in a little hiss.

Another burly man climbed out of the car, and together the two men moved across the sidewalk towards the gate.

The man who opened the gate wore a brown suit and a brown hat.

Ken recognized him.

It was Sergeant Donovan.