Tiger By The Tail

"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 glass, 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 ice-pick taken from the murdered woman's ice-Sox.

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, wellbuilt 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 damn 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 glass 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 glass 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 massive 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.

PART TWO

CHAPTER I

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, brown-stone 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 basement ?" 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."