Tiger by the Tail Read online

  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.

  CHAPTER IV

  I

  The strident clamour of the alarm clock brought Ken out of a heavy sleep. He smothered the alarm, opened his eyes and looked around the bright familiar bedroom. Then into his sleep-heavy mind the events of the previous evening formed a stark picture, and immediately he was awake, a cold, sick feeling of fear laying hold of him.

  He looked at the clock. It was just after seven.

  Throwing his bedclothes aside, he swung his feet to the floor, slid them into his waiting slippers and walked into the bathroom.

  His head ached, and when he looked at himself in the shaving mirror he saw his face was pale and gaunt and his eyes bloodshot and dark-ringed.

  After he had shaved and taken a cold shower, he looked a little better, but his headache persisted.

  He went into the bedroom to dress, and, as he fixed his tie, he wondered how long it would be before Fay’s body was discovered. If she lived alone it might be days. The longer she remained undiscovered, the better it would be for him. People’s memories became uncertain after a few days. The parking lot attendant would be unlikely to give the police a convincing description of him unless the police questioned him fairly soon. The plump blonde might also be a scatterbrain, but Ken had no delusions about Sweeting. His memory, Ken was sure, was dangerously reliable.

  Goddam it! he said aloud, what a hell of a mess I’ve got myself into! What an utter fool I’ve been! Well, I’ve got to behave now as if nothing had happened. I’ve got to keep my nerve. I’m safe as long as Sweeting or that blonde doesn’t run into me and I’ll have to take good care to see them first.

  He went into tile kitchen and put on the kettle. While he was waiting for the water to boil, he wondered ho
w he was going to get rid of his bloodstained suit.

  He had read enough detective stories to know the danger of keeping the suit. Police chemists had methods of discovering blood-stains no matter how carefully they were washed out.

  He was worried sick about the suit. He had only recently bought it, and Ann would know at once if it was missing. But he had to get rid of it: several people had seen him wearing it last night. If the police found it here, he would be sunk. It was easier said than done to get rid of it, but he had to think of a way, and think of it quickly.

  He made the coffee, poured out a cup and carried the cup to the bedroom. Setting the cup down, he went over to the suit he had thrown over the back of a chair when he had stripped it off last night, and examined it carefully in the hard morning sunlight. The two stains showed up alarmingly against the light-grey material.

  Then he remembered his shoes. He had stepped into a puddle of blood at Fay’s apartment. They would also be stained. He picked them up and examined them. The side of the left shoe was stained. He would have to get rid of the shoes too.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and drank the coffee. He wondered if he would ever be free of this empty sick feeling of fear and tension he now had. Finishing the coffee, he lit a cigarette, noticing how unsteady his hand was. For some moments he sat still, concentrating on ways and means of getting rid of the suit.

  Fortunately he had bought the suit from one of the big stores. It had been ready-made, and he had paid cash for it. The same applied to the shoes. In both transactions it was extremely unlikely that the salesman who had served him would remember him.

  He recollected the department where he had brought the suit with its rows of suits hanging in orderly lines, and that recollection gave him an idea.

  He would take the blood-stained suit in a parcel to the stores this morning. He would buy a suit exactly like it. While the assistant was wrapping up his purchase, he would take the blood-stained suit out of the parcel and include it among the suits on the hangers. It might be weeks before the suit was discovered, and then it would be impossible for it to be traced to him.

  His shoes were almost new too. He had bought them at the same store. He could work the same dodge with them. He would then have replaced the suit and shoes so Ann wouldn’t know he had got rid of the original suit and shoes.

  He made a parcel of the suit and another parcel of the shoes and put them in the hall. As he was turning back to the bedroom he saw the newspaper delivery boy coming up the path. As soon as the newspaper came through the letter-box, he grabbed it and took it into the sittingroom. He went through the paper from cover to cover, his heart thumping and his hands clammy.

  He didn’t expect to find any mention of Fay’s murder, and he wasn’t disappointed. If there was anything to report, the evening newspapers would have it.

  It was almost time now for him to leave for the bank. He put on his hat, picked up the two parcels, locked the front door, and left the key under the mat for Carrie to find.

  As he walked down the path to the gate, a car drew up outside the bungalow with a squeal of brakes.

  Ken felt his heart turn a somersault, and for one ghastly moment he had to fight against a mad impulse to turn around and bolt back indoors. But he kept hold of himself with an effort, and stared at the car, his heart thudding.

  Parker, red-faced and cheerful, waved to him from the car.

  “Hello, sport,” he said. “Thought I’d pick you up. One good turn deserves another. Come on — hop in.”

  Ken opened the gate and crossed the sidewalk to the car, aware that his knees felt weak and the muscles in his legs were fluttering. He opened the car door and got in.

  “Thanks,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you were driving up this morning.”

  “I didn’t know myself until I got home,” Parker said gloomily. He took out his cigarette-case and offered it to Ken. “My ma-in-law’s coming to spend a few days with us. Why the old cow can’t take a taxi instead of expecting me to meet her beats me. It’s not as if she’s hard up, although the way she acts you’d think she was on relief. I told Maisie not to invite her, but she never does what I want.”

  Ken took the cigarette and accepted a light from Parker.

  “Hello,” Parker said, lifting his eyebrows, “so the lawn didn’t get cut after ai I

  Ken had forgotten about the lawn.

  “No; it was too hot,” he said hurriedly.

  Parker engaged gear and pulled away from the kerb.

  “I thought you’d have better sense than to waste your time cutting a lawn.” He gave Ken a dig in the ribs with his elbow. “How did you get on, you dirty dog?”

  “I got on very well,” Ken said, trying to sound casual. “I spent the evening weeding and went to bed early.”

  Parker gave a hoot of laughter.

  “Tell that to your grandma,” he said with a leer. “Have you seen your face this morning? Boy! Do you look washed out! Did you visit my little friend?”

  “What little friend?” Ken asked, staring fixedly through the windshield at the line of traffic ahead.

  “Come on, Holland, don’t be cagey with me. You know you can trust me to keep my mouth shut. How did you like her?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ken said curtly.

  “Well damn it! I gave you her telephone number. You called her, didn’t you?”

  “I’ve told you already; I stayed at home last night and weeded the rose bed.”

  Parker lifted his eyebrows.

  “Well, okay, if that’s your story, I guess you’re stuck with it, but you don’t kid me. But since I gave you the introduction you might at least admit she’s a damn fine girl.”

  “I wish you’d shut up!” Ken snapped. “I stayed home last night. Can’t you get that bit of information into your thick skull and stop all this nonsense?”

  “I was only pulling your leg,” Parker said, a little startled by the anger in Ken’s voice. “I was doing you a good turn. If you’re such a mug not to take advantage of my introduction, that’s your funeral. Fay’s sensational. When Hemingway put me on to her, he saved my life. I admit I took a chance, but I’m damned glad now.”

  “I wish you would get off this subject,” Ken said. “Can’t you talk about something else?”

  “What else is there to talk about?’ Parker said, and sniggered. “Well, okay, if that’s the way you feel: tell me, what have you got in those two parcels?”

  Ken had been expecting Parker to ask that question, and he was ready for it.

  “Just some things Ann asked me to take to the cleaners.”

  “I don’t know why it is but wives always find some errands for us guys to run. Maisie has given me a shopping list as long as my arm. I guess I’ll have to get one of the girls in the office to handle it for me.” Parker drove a couple of blocks without speaking: his plump red face thoughtful. “You know, I think I’ll drive over to Fay’s place in my lunch hour. It doesn’t look as if I’ll see much of her while my ma-in-law’s with us. She’s a regular old ferret, and if I stayed out late, she’d start putting a flea in Maisie’s ear.”

  Ken felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  “This afternoon? Is she likely to see you so early?”

  “That’s not early,” Parker returned and laughed. “I once called on her at eight o’clock in the morning.”

  The thought of Parker going to that top-floor apartment and walking into the police turned Ken cold.

  “You’ll telephone her first?”

  “Oh, sure. She might have someone there. But lunch-time is usually a good time to catch her in.”

  Ken began to breathe again.

  “I should have thought it was damned risky to go to a place like that in daylight.”

  “Nothing to worry about at all. There’s a parking lot not far from the house, and the street is screened by trees,” Parker said airily. “You should try it one day, if you haven’t tried it already, you sly dog.”

/>   “Keep your mind on your driving,” Ken said, his voice sharp. “You nearly hit that truck.”

  II

  Soon after half-past ten, when the first rush of business over, Parker closed his till, and giving Ken a wink, said he was going to call Fay.

  “Shan’t be five minutes. Keep an eye on things for me.”

  Ken watched him cross the hall of the bank to a pay booth installed for the customers’ convenience.

  Ken’s heart beat violently as he watched Parker shut himself in the booth. He waited while minutes dragged by, then the booth door opened and Parker came out.

  Parker had lost his cocky, leering expression. He looked white and flustered, and he hurried across the hall as if anxious to gain sanctuary behind the grill protecting his till.

  Ken pretended he hadn’t noticed Parker’s agitation. He was entering a pile of cheques into a ledger, and having difficulty, as his band was unsteady. He said as casually as he could: “Did you get fixed up?”

  “My God!” Parker gasped, wiping his face with his handkerchief. “The cops are in her place.”

  Ken stiffened and dropped his pen.

  “The cops?”

  “Yes. Must be a raid. Suppose I had gone around there without calling her first?”

  “How do you know it was the police?” Ken asked, groping on the floor for his pen.

  “The guy who answered the phone said he was Lieutenant Adams of the City Police. He wanted to know who I was.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “Of course not! I hung up on him while he was talking. Phew! What the hell does it mean? I’ve never known the police raid a call-girl’s place before. They might have arrived when I was there.”

  “Lucky you called first.”

  “I’ll say.” Parker continued to mop his face. “You don’t think they’ll trace my call, do you?”