James Chase - Tiger by the Tail

“That’s not early,” Parker returned and laughed. “I once called on her at eight o’clock in the morning.”

The thought of Parker going to that top-floor apartment and walking into the police turned Ken cold.

“You’ll telephone her first?”

“Oh, sure. She might have someone there. But lunch-time is usually a good time to catch her in.”

Ken began to breathe again.

“I should have thought it was damned risky to go to a place like that in daylight.”

“Nothing to worry about at all. There’s a parking lot not far from the house, and the street is screened by trees,” Parker said airily. “You should try it one day, if you haven’t tried it already, you sly dog.”

“Keep your mind on your driving,” Ken said, his voice sharp. “You nearly hit that truck.”

Soon after half-past ten, when the first rush of business over, Parker closed his till, and giving Ken a wink, said he was going to call Fay.

“Shan’t be five minutes. Keep an eye on things for me.”

Ken watched him cross the hall of the bank to a pay booth installed for the customers’ convenience.

Ken’s heart beat violently as he watched Parker shut himself in the booth. He waited while minutes dragged by, then the booth door opened and Parker came out.

Parker had lost his cocky, leering expression. He looked white and flustered, and he hurried across the hall as if anxious to gain sanctuary behind the grill protecting his till.

Ken pretended he hadn’t noticed Parker’s agitation. He was entering a pile of cheques into a ledger, and having difficulty, as his band was unsteady. He said as casually as he could: “Did you get fixed up?”

“My God!” Parker gasped, wiping his face with his handkerchief. “The cops are in her place.”

Ken stiffened and dropped his pen.

“The cops?”

“Yes. Must be a raid. Suppose I had gone around there without calling her first?”

“How do you know it was the police?” Ken asked, groping on the floor for his pen.

“The guy who answered the phone said he was Lieutenant Adams of the City Police. He wanted to know who I was.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“Of course not! I hung up on him while he was talking. Phew! What the hell does it mean? I’ve never known the police raid a call-girl’s place before. They might have arrived when I was there.”

“Lucky you called first.”

“I’ll say.” Parker continued to mop his face. “You don’t think they’ll trace my call, do you?”

“Why should they?” Ken asked, and he suddenly saw the danger he was in. The police were likely to trace the call. If they came here with a description of him from Sweeting, they would catch him red-handed with the blood-stained suit still in his possession!

“Maybe she’s been robbed or assaulted,” Parker said nervously. “Maybe that’s why they are there. Maybe someone’s murdered her.”

Ken felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the side of his face. He didn’t trust his voice to say anything.

“These girls run a hell of a risk,” Parker went on. “They don’t know who they are taking on. She could have been murdered.”

Before he could develop his theme a depositor came in, and then another followed. For some minutes both Ken and Parker were kept busy.

Ken was thinking of the blood-stained suit in his locker downstairs.

Damn Parker! If the police traced that call and came down here…! He looked anxiously at his wrist-watch. He had another hour before he went to lunch. The police might be on their way over now. But before he could make up his mind what to do, a steady flow of customers began, and for the next half-hour he was too rushed to think of himself. Then there was a pause again.

Parker said sharply, “There’s a guy just come in who looks like a cop.”

Ken’s heart stopped, then raced.

“Where?”

He looked around the big hall. Standing, half-concealed by one of the pillars, was a tall, heavily built man in a brown suit and a brown slouch hat.

He did look like a cop. His big fleshy face was brick-red and his small, green eyes had a still, intent quality about them that alarmed Ken.

“He must be a cop,” Parker said, lowering his voice.

Ken didn’t say anything. He watched the big man cross the hall to the pay booth.

“Do you think anyone saw me use the telephone?” Parker muttered.

“I don’t know. It’s out of sight of the door.”

“If he asks me I’ll tell him I called my wife, but I couldn’t get an answer.”

“He may not ask you.”

“I hope to hell he doesn’t.”

They watched the big man come out of the pay booth and go over to speak to the messenger at the door.

The messenger looked startled as Ken saw the big man show him something he carried in his hand. They talked for some minutes, then the big man turned and stared directly at Ken.

Ken felt himself turn hot, then cold. He forced himself to continue to write in his ledger.

“He’s coming over,” Parker said softly.

The big man came up to the counter and his hard eyes went from Parker to Ken and back to Parker again.

“City Police. Sergeant Donovan,” he said, his voice a harsh growl. “I’m making enquiries about a guy who used that pay booth about a half-hour ago. Did either of you see him?”

Ken looked at the hard, brick-red face. Donovan wore a close-clipped ginger moustache. A row of freckles ran across the bridge of his thick, short nose.

“No, I didn’t see anyone,” Ken said.

“I used the telephone a little while ago, sergeant,” Parker said smoothly. “I was calling my wife. You don’t mean me, do you?”

Donovan stared at Parker.

“Not if you called your wife. Did you see anyone else use the booth?”

“Well, there was a girl and an elderly man,” Parker lied glibly. “But that would be about an hour ago, I guess. We’ve been busy, and I didn’t notice anyone recently.”

“Not too busy to call your wife,” Donovan said, his hard little eyes boring into Parker.

“Never too busy to call my wife,” Parker returned, and gave the sergeant a bright, false smile.

Donovan took a crumpled cigarette from his pocket, stuck it on his thin, brutal lower lip and set fire to it with a brass lighter.

“Did you see anyone use the phone?” he asked Ken.

“I’ve just told you: I didn’t.”

The green eyes forced Ken to look away.

“You might have changed your mind.”

“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 God! What an escape I’ve had!”

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 blood-stained 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 masses of shoes on the display counter of Gaza’s shoe department.