PART ONE

CHAPTER I

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.

CHAPTER II

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.