"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 G.o.d! 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 bloodstained 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 ma.s.ses of shoes on the display counter of Gaza's shoe department.

There had been one nerve-shattering moment. The a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sistant 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 midday 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. So 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: ICEPICK SLAYING IN LOVE NEST.

EX-DANCER MURDERED BY UNKNOWN a.s.sAILANT.

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 gla.s.s, 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 icepick taken from the murdered woman's icebox.

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, well-built 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 d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 ma.s.sive 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.

chapter five.

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, brownstone 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 bas.e.m.e.nt ?" 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 pa.s.sed 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.