“Why should they?” Ken asked, and he suddenly saw the danger he was in. The police were likely to trace the call. If they came here with a description of him from Sweeting, they would catch him red-handed with the blood-stained suit still in his possession!
“Maybe she’s been robbed or assaulted,” Parker said nervously. “Maybe that’s why they are there. Maybe someone’s murdered her.”
Ken felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the side of his face. He didn’t trust his voice to say anything.
“These girls run a hell of a risk,” Parker went on. “They don’t know who they are taking on. She could have been murdered.”
Before he could develop his theme a depositor came in, and then another followed. For some minutes both Ken and Parker were kept busy.
Ken was thinking of the blood-stained suit in his locker downstairs.
Damn Parker! If the police traced that call and came down here…! He looked anxiously at his wrist-watch. He had another hour before he went to lunch. The police might be on their way over now. But before he could make up his mind what to do, a steady flow of customers began, and for the next half-hour he was too rushed to think of himself. Then there was a pause again.
Parker said sharply, “There’s a guy just come in who looks like a cop.”
Ken’s heart stopped, then raced.
“Where?”
He looked around the big hall. Standing, half-concealed by one of the pillars, was a tall, heavily built man in a brown suit and a brown slouch hat.
He did look like a cop. His big fleshy face was brick-red and his small, green eyes had a still, intent quality about them that alarmed Ken.
“He must be a cop,” Parker said, lowering his voice.
Ken didn’t say anything. He watched the big man cross the hall to the pay booth.
“Do you think anyone saw me use the telephone?” Parker muttered.
“I don’t know. It’s out of sight of the door.”
“If he asks me I’ll tell him I called my wife, but I couldn’t get an answer.”
“He may not ask you.”
“I hope to hell he doesn’t.”
They watched the big man come out of the pay booth and go over to speak to the messenger at the door.
The messenger looked startled as Ken saw the big man show him something he carried in his hand. They talked for some minutes, then the big man turned and stared directly at Ken.
Ken felt himself turn hot, then cold. He forced himself to continue to write in his ledger.
“He’s coming over,” Parker said softly.
The big man came up to the counter and his hard eyes went from Parker to Ken and back to Parker again.
“City Police. Sergeant Donovan,” he said, his voice a harsh growl. “I’m making enquiries about a guy who used that pay booth about a half-hour ago. Did either of you see him?”
Ken looked at the hard, brick-red face. Donovan wore a close-clipped ginger moustache. A row of freckles ran across the bridge of his thick, short nose.
“No, I didn’t see anyone,” Ken said.
“I used the telephone a little while ago, sergeant,” Parker said smoothly. “I was calling my wife. You don’t mean me, do you?”
Donovan stared at Parker.
“Not if you called your wife. Did you see anyone else use the booth?”
“Well, there was a girl and an elderly man,” Parker lied glibly. “But that would be about an hour ago, I guess. We’ve been busy, and I didn’t notice anyone recently.”
“Not too busy to call your wife,” Donovan said, his hard little eyes boring into Parker.
“Never too busy to call my wife,” Parker returned, and gave the sergeant a bright, false smile.
Donovan took a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, stuck it on his thin, brutal lower lip and set fire to it with a brass lighter.
“Did you see anyone use the phone?” he asked Ken.
“I’ve just told you: I didn’t.”
The green eyes forced Ken to look away.
“You might have changed your mind.”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
Donovan made a grimace of disgust.
“No one ever sees nothing in this town. No one knows nothing, either.”
He gave the two men a long, hard stare, then walked across the hall to the messenger.
“Phew!” Parker said. “Nice guy. I wouldn’t like to be third-degree’d by him, would you?”
“I guess not,” Ken said, his knees weak.
“I handled him rather well, don’t you think?”
“Isn’t it a little early to talk like that?” Ken returned.
They both watched Donovan as he talked to the messenger, then, nodding curtly, Donovan left the bank.
“It’s a bad business,” Parker said soberly. “They wouldn’t have sent that sergeant here so fast unless there was something serious. My God! What an escape I’ve had!”
III
The City hall clock was striking the half-hour after one as Ken left Gaza’s, the big store on the corner of Central and 4th Streets. Under his arm he carried two brown-paper parcels.
He walked rapidly along Central Street towards the bank. His plan to get rid of the blood-stained suit and shoes had worked. The suit now hung alongside the other hundreds of suits on display in Gaza’s outfitting department. He hoped the bloodstained shoes were safely lost among the masses of shoes on the display counter of Gaza’s shoe department.
There had been one nerve-shattering moment. The assistant who had sold him the light-grey suit, a replica of the one he had furtively included among the other suits, had asked him if he hadn’t forgotten the parcel he had brought in with him.
Ken had managed to keep his head, and had said he hadn’t been carrying a parcel. The assistant had looked puzzled, but having asked Ken is he was sure, he lost interest. But it had been an unpleasant moment.
Well, at least he had got rid of the suit and the shoes, and he felt safer.
On the other hand, through Parker’s telephone call, the police had visited the bank, and this hard-faced sergeant had had a good look at him.
Would the sergeant link him with the description the police were bound to get once they began asking questions?
There was nothing in the mid-day papers about Fay, and when Ken got back to his till to relieve Parker, he shook his head at Parker’s eager question.
“Nothing at all?” Parker asked. “Are you sure?”
Ken handed the paper over.
“Nothing: look for yourself.”
“Maybe it isn’t as bad as I thought,” Parker said, glancing at the headlines. “She could have pinched something. These girls are always getting into trouble. Well I’m going to give her a wide berth from now on.”
The afternoon dragged by. Ken kept watching the front entrance of the bank, half expecting to see the big sergeant come in again. The sick tension that had hold of him made him feel ill and tired.
When eventually the bank doors closed and he began to cash up, Parker said, “If that cop asks you questions about me, Holland, you’ll keep your mouth shut, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Ken returned, wondering how Parker would react if he knew the truth. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“I wish that were true,” Parker said uneasily. “If they find out it was me who telephoned, the blasted news hounds will get after me. Can you imagine how old Schwartz would like it if he knew I’d been going to see this girl? That old blue-nose would kick me out like a shot. And then there’s my wife: I’d never live it down.”
“Relax,” Ken said, wishing he could relax himself. “I won’t say a thing.”
“This has taught me a lesson,” Parker said. “Never again. From now on I’m going to keep clear of trouble.” He locked his till. “Well, I’ve got to get off. Time to meet ma-in-law. Sorry I can’t drive you home.”
“That’s okay,” Ken said. “I’ve just got these cheques to enter up and I’m through. S
o long.”
He took his time finishing his work to make certain Parker had gone, then he went down to the staff room, put on his hat, collected his two parcels from his locker and went up the steps to the rear exit.
He travelled home by bus, paused at the corner of his road to buy an evening paper and walked towards the bungalow; holding his parcels under one arm, he scanned the headlines of the paper.
There it was in the stop press.
He stopped, his heart hammering, to read the heavy print:
ICE-PICK SLAYING IN LOVE NEST EX-DANCER MURDERED BY UNKNOWN ASSAILANT
He couldn’t bring himself to read further, and folding the newspaper, he continued up the road, sweat on his face.
As he reached his gate, Mrs. Fielding, his next-door neighbour, bobbed up from behind the hedge to beam at him.
Mrs. Fielding was always bobbing up from behind the hedge.
Ann had tried to convince Ken that Mrs. Fielding meant well and that she was lonely, but Ken thought she was an old busybody always on the lookout for a gossip or to stick her nose where it wasn’t wanted.
“Just back from town, Mr. Holland?” she asked, her bright little eyes staring curiously at the two parcels he carried under his arm.
“That’s right,” Ken said, opening the gate.
“I hope you haven’t been extravagant now your wife’s away,” she went on, wagging her finger at him. “I know how my dear husband used to behave as soon as I went away.”
I wonder if you do, you silly old fool, Ken thought. I bet he kicked the can around as soon as he got rid of you.
“And you’re keeping such late hours.” She smiled archly at him. “Didn’t I hear you come last night after two?”
Ken’s heart gave a lurch.
“After two?” he said. “Oh, no. Couldn’t have been me. I was in bed by eleven.”
Her bright smile suddenly became fixed. Into her eyes came an inquisitive, searching look that made Ken’s eyes give ground.
“Oh. I looked out of the window, Mr. Holland. I am quite sure it was you.”
“You were mistaken,” Ken said shortly, caught with the lie and having to
make the best of it. “You’ll excuse me. I have to write to Ann.”
“Yes.” Still the bright eyes stared fixedly at him. “Well, be sure to give her my love.”
“I will,” Ken said, and forcing a smile, he hurried up the path, opened the front door and entered the hall.
He stood for a moment in the quiet hall, listening to the thud of his heart.
If the police took it in their heads to question her, she could give him away. He might have known she wouldn’t have been asleep when he drove back last night. She would have to get of bed to spy.
She had seen the two parcels. If she remembered and if the police questioned her, how was he going to explain them away?
He now had a trapped feeling, and he went into the lounge, opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself out a stiff drink. He went over to the couch and sat down. After a long pull from his glass, he read the short paragraph in the stop press.
Early this morning, Fay Carson, one-time dance hostess at the Blue Rose nightclub, was discovered by her maid, stabbed to death and lying naked across her bed. The murder weapon is believed to be an ice-pick taken from the murdered woman’s ice-Sox.
Sergeant Jack Donovan of the Homicide Department, in charge of the investigation, stated that he had already several important clues, and that an early arrest could be expected. He is anxious to interview a tall, wellbuilt man, wearing a pearl-grey suit and a grey slouch hat who returned with Miss Carson to her apartment last night.
Ken dropped the paper and shut his eyes.
For a long, horrible moment he felt suffocated by the wave of panic that urged him to get in his car and get as far away as he could before they came after him.
A tall, well-built man in a pearl-grey suit and a grey slouch hat.
What a damn fool he had been to buy a suit exactly like the one he had left in the store. He had bought it because Ann would have missed it, but now he realized he would never dare wear it.
He ran his and over his sweating face.
Should he make a bolt for it?
Where would you go, you fool? he thought. And how far do you imagine you’d get? Your one and only chance is to sit tight and keep your nerve. It’s your only hope. You’ve got to sit tight for Ann’s sake as well as your own.
He got to his feet, finished his drink and set the glass down on the table. Then he unpacked the two parcels and carried the shoes and suit into his bedroom. He put them in his wardrobe.
He returned to his sitting-room and poured himself out another drink.
He thanked his stars Ann wasn’t here, and that he could face this business on his own, but in six more days she would be back. He didn’t kid himself this business would be over by then or, if it were, he would be in jail.
He set down his glass to light a cigarette. A movement outside made him look up towards the window.
A car had pulled up outside the bungalow. The car door opened and a massive figure of a man got out.
Ken stood transfixed, his breath coming through his clenched teeth in a little hiss.
Another burly man climbed out of the car, and together the two men moved across the sidewalk towards the gate.
The man who opened the gate wore a brown suit and a brown hat.
Ken recognized him.
It was Sergeant Donovan.
PART TWO
CHAPTER I
I
At five minutes past nine a.m., seven hours after Ken Holland had furtively left 25 Lessington Avenue, a police car pulled up outside the tall, brown-stone building and parked behind two other police cars that had been there for the past fifteen minutes.
A patrolman stiffened to attention as Lieutenant Harry Adams of the Homicide Department got out of the car and came slowly up the steps.
“Top floor, Lieutenant,” he said saluting. “Sergeant Donovan’s up there.”
“Where else would he be — in the basement ?” Adams said softly, and without looking at the patrolman he walked into the hall.
He paused to read the names on the mail boxes, then he gave a snorting grunt.
“A cat house,” he said under his breath. “The first murder in two years, and it’s got to be in a cat house.”
Adams was short, thin and dapper. The wings of his thick chalk-white hair looked dazzling against the black of his hat. His face was long and pinched, with deep hollows in his cheeks. His nose was sharp-pointed and long. When he was in a rage, which was often, his slate-grey eyes lit up as if an electric bulb inside his head had been switched on. His face never gave away what he was thinking. He was known to be a hard, ruthless, bitter man who was as heartily hated by his men as he was by the criminals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.
But he was a first-rate police officer. His brain was four times as sharp as Donovan’s and Donovan knew it. The big man lived in perpetual fear of Adams, knowing that if he gave Adams the slightest excuse, Adams had enough influence to have Donovan thrown back on a beat.
Walking slowly, Adams commenced the long climb to the top floor.
The house was silent. He met no one. It was as if the occupant of each apartment as he passed knew he was in the house and was crouching behind the shut door, breathless and frightened.
Jackson, a red-faced cop, was standing on the top-floor landing as Adams came slowly up. He saluted and waited. He knew Adams well enough not to speak to him unless he was spoken to.
Adams walked into the big, airy sitting-room where Fletcher, the fingerprint expert, was already at work.
Donovan was prowling around the room, his set, heavy face dark with concentration.
Adams walked across the room and into the bedroom as if he knew instinctively that was where the body was. He went over to the bed and stared down at Fay’s body. For several minutes he looked at her; then, still keeping his
eyes on her, he took out a cigarette, lit it and blew a cloud of smoke down his thin nostrils.
Donovan stood in the doorway, tense and silent, watching him.
“Doc coming?” Adams asked, without turning.
“On his way now, Lieutenant,” Donovan said.
Adams leaned forward and put his hand on Fay’s arm.
“Been dead about six hours at a guess.”
“That ice-pick, Lieutenant…”
Adams looked at the ice-pick lying on the floor and then turned to stare at Donovan.
“What about it?”
The big man flushed.
“I guess it’s the murder weapon,” he said, wishing he hadn’t spoken.
Adams raised his thin, white eyebrows.
“That’s smart of you. I was thinking it was something she took to bed with her to pare her nails. So you think it’s the murder weapon?” His eyes lit up. “What else could it be, you fool? Keep your goddamn mouth shut!”
He turned away and began to move about the room while Donovan watched him, his eyes dark with hate.
“What have you found out about her?” Adams snapped.
“She’s only been on the game for a year,” Donovan told him. “She used to dance at the Blue Rose. She had no record, and she didn’t work the streets.”
Adams turned.
“Come in and shut the door.”
Donovan did as he was told. He knew from past experience, and by Adams’ quiet stillness, that something unpleasant was coming, and inwardly he braced himself.
“The press haven’t got on to this yet, have they?” Adams asked mildly. He sat on the edge of the bed, moving Fay’s foot to give himself more room. The body so close to him might not have been there for all the feeling he showed.
“No, Lieutenant.” Donovan had a horror of the press. In the past he had had a lot of adverse criticism in the two local papers. They were always calling for better police action, and had singled him out for their more caustic remarks.
“They’ll have to be told, but not until this afternoon. Give it to them in time for a stop press,” Adams went on. “You’ll have all day to-day and most of the night to get something for the morning’s papers. This is the first killing we have had recently. They’ll go to town it. The Herald’s been picking on the Administration now for months. This will give them a club to beat us with unless we crack it fast.” He reached out a thin, dry hand and patted Fay’s knee. “She didn’t amount to a damn while she was alive, but dead, Donovan, she becomes a very important person. You don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes at this moment, and you don’t need to know, but this killing could be dynamite: a lot of people in the Administration could lose their jobs. It only wanted this to happen to set off the spark. Lindsay Burt has the backing of the press; the voters love him. He’s been after the big boys for years, and in case you don’t know, the Commissioner is a big boy, and Burt hates his guts. Burt’s got a lot of ammunition. This killing could be his gun. Here in Lessington Avenue, less than a hundred yards from City Hall, is an apartment house full of tarts. Won’t that make juicy reading after the Commissioner has stated again and again that this town is as clean as a whistle?” He stubbed out his cigarette into the ash bowl on the bedside table and fixed his eyes on Donovan’s face. “I’m telling you all this so you don’t kid yourself this case doesn’t mean much. It does. It’ll be headline news for as long as the case is unsolved, and you, Donovan, are going to solve. You can have all the help you want. You can have my advice for what it’s worth, but the work, the credit or the discredit, is yours. Do you understand?”
Tiger by the Tail Page 6
