James Chase: Tiger by the Tail

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 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.

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.