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.