Tiger By The Tail

He then collected the broken pieces of the smashed tumbler, put them in a newspaper and crushed the pieces into fine particles with his heel. He carried them in the newspaper into the kitchen and dropped them into the trash basket.

He found a swab in the kitchen sink and returned to the sitting-room. He wiped the glass he had just used and also the whisky bottle.

In the ash-tray were four stubs of cigarettes he had smoked. He collected these and put them in his pocket, then wiped the ash-tray.

He tried to remember if he had touched anything else in the room. There was the telephone. He crossed the room and carefully wiped the receiver.

There didn't seem anything else in the room that needed his attention.

He was scared to go back into the bedroom, but he knew he had to. He braced himself, slowly crossed the room and turned on the bedroom lights. Keeping his eyes averted from Fay's dead and naked body, he put the flashlight, after carefully wiping it, on the bedside table where he had found it. Then he paused to look around the room.

He had touched nothing in the room except the flashlight. He was sure of that. He looked down at the blue-handled ice-pick, lying on the carpet. Where had it come from? Had the killer brought it with him? He didn't think- that likely. If he had brought it with him, he would have taken it away with him. And how had the killer got into the apartment? Certainly not by climbing up to a window. He must have had a key or picked the lock of the front door.

But what did that matter? Ken thought. Time was getting on. Satisfied now he had left no finger-prints nor any clue to bring the police after him, he decided to go out.

But before going he had to get rid of the blood on his hands and check his clothes over.

He went into the bathroom. Careful to cover the taps with his handkerchief before turning them on, he washed the dried blood off his hands. He dried them on a towel, and then went to stand before the long mirror to take careful stock of his clothes.

His heart gave a lurch as he saw a small red stain on the inside of his left sleeve. There was also a red stain on the cuff of his left trousers leg.

He stared at the stains, feeling panic grip him. If anyone saw him now!

He ran more water into the toilet basin, took a sponge from the sponge rack and dabbed feverishly at the stains. The colour changed to a dirty brown, but the stains remained.

That would have to do, he thought, as he rinsed but the sponge, grimacing as the water in the basin turned a bright pink. He let out the water and replaced the sponge.

Turning off the light, he walked hurriedly through the bedroom into the sitting-room.

It was time to go.

He looked around once more.

The storm was passing. The thunder was now a distant rumble, but the rain continued to splash against the windows.

He had done all he could to safeguard himself. The time was twenty minutes to two. With any luck he wouldn't meet anyone at this time on the stairs. He crossed to the front door, turned off the light, and reached for the door handle. If he met someone ... He had to make an effort to turn back the catch on the lock. Then he heard a sudden sound outside that turned him into a frozen, panic-stricken statue.

Against the front door, he heard a soft scratching sound.

He held his breath while he listened, his heart hammering.

To his straining ears came the sound of soft snuffling. There was a dog outside, and he immediately remembered the fawn Pekinese, and then he remembered Raphael Sweeting.

He had forgotten Sweeting.

Sweeting had seen him return to the apartment with Fay. Ken remembered how the fat little man had stared at him, as if memorizing every detail about him. When the police discovered Fay's body, Sweeting was certain to come forward with Ken's description.

Ken shut his eyes as he fought down his growing panic.

Pull yourself together, he told himself. There must be thousands of men who look like you. Even if he did tell the police what I look like, how could the police find me ?

He leaned against the door, listening to the dog as it continued to snuffle, its nose hard against the bottom of the door.

Then Ken heard the stairs creak.

"Leo!"

Sweeting's soft effeminate voice made Ken's heart skip a beat.

"Leo! Come here!"

The dog continued to snuffle against the door.

Ken waited. His heart thudded so violently he was scared Sweeting would hear it.

"If you won't come down, then I must come up," Sweeting said. "It's most unkind of you, Leo."

More stairs creaked, and Ken stepped back hurriedly, holding his breath.

"Come along, Leo. What are you sniffing at?" Sweeting asked.

There was a long agonized silence, then Ken heard soft footfalls just outside the door. Then there was silence again, and Ken had a horrible feeling that Sweeting was listening outside, his ear against the door panel.

The dog had stopped snuffling. Ken could hear now only the thud of his heart and the sound of rain against the window.