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.

"h.e.l.lo," 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 b.u.m!" 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 prost.i.tute. The murder of a prost.i.tute 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 lookout 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.u.t.tons of a cop.

Somehow he forced himself into a walk. His heart was thudding as he pa.s.sed 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 nightstick, 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 halfway.

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 four.

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.

G.o.ddam it! he said aloud, what a h.e.l.l 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 how 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 bloodstains 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 bloodstained suit in a parcel to the stores this morning. He would buy a suit exactly like it. While the a.s.sistant was wrapping up his purchase, he would take the bloodstained 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 letterbox, he grabbed it and took it into the sitting room. 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.