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.