Tiger by the Tail

  Tiger by the Tail

  James Hadley Chase

  Kenway Holland is a respectable bank teller who is alone in the city since his wife is visiting her mother. Kenny’s friend Parker convinces him to take advantage of the situation inviting him to phone a “very special” call girl. That’s the worse movement in his life, because the girl will be murdered and Kenny will become the main suspect.

  James Hadley Chase

  TIGER BY THE TAIL

  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 g
lass. 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?”