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 co
me 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.
Tiger by the Tail Page 4