“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, star
ing 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.”
Tiger by the Tail Page 2
