James Chase - Tiger by the Tail

At the moment Sweeting was worth exactly two dollars and sixty cents, and in spite of his inflexible optimism, he saw no possibilities of increasing his assets during the present week.

That morning, in spite of interruptions, the excitement of the police visit

and the removal of Fay’s body which he had watched with morbid interest from behind his window curtain, he had prepared and mailed his usual quota of fifty carefully written begging letters. He knew from experience it would take at least ten days before he had any returns, and he wasn’t sure if the returns would amount to much when he did receive them.

For years now, Sweeting had relied on people’s charity and gullibility for an income. It gave him tremendous satisfaction to be his own master. His beautifully written letters to anyone who happened to be in the news, especially those who had inherited money or who had had a spectacular success, explaining his distressed circumstances and asking them to send him a few dollars, thereby casting their bread upon the waters, brought him in enough to keep him in mild comfort. When the returns were bad, he resorted to blackmail or picking pockets, and in this sideline he had been unfortunate to come up against the police. He had already served, over a period of twenty years, eight years in jail, and he had no wish to go inside again.

As he stood on the edge of the kerb, he was thinking that he would have to pick a pocket if he was to pay his rent, due at the end of the week.

The events of the morning and the visit from Sergeant Donovan had badly shaken his nerve, and he tried to think of a less risky method to raise the money.

Then as he was about to step off the kerb, he saw a tall man come striding out of the side entrance of the Eastern National Bank.

Sweeting recognized him immediately. Here was the man who had brought Fay Carson home last night!

His mind in a flutter of excitement, Sweeting bolted across the road and set off after him.

Sweeting had long ago learned that it was fatal to his own interests to give information to the police. So when Donovan had asked him if he had seen anyone with Fay, he had kept his mouth shut.

If he had liked, Sweeting could have given Donovan a lot of useful information. He had seen Ken leave Fay’s apartment; but some twenty minutes before Ken had left, Sweeting had heard someone bolt down the stairs from Fay’s apartment.

He had rushed to his half-open door, but whoever it was who had come down the stairs had moved too fast for him, and he didn’t catch a glimpse of the retreating person. He had at first assumed that it had been Ken leaving, but when he had heard Ken creep down the stairs later, and when he had gone to his door and had seen Ken, he realized that someone had been up in Fay’s apartment besides Fay and Ken. When he had learned from Donovan that Fay had been murdered, he realized the person who had come down the stairs so quickly might easily have been the killer, and he was furious with himself for missing the chance of seeing who it was.

However, he wasn’t going to lose by his mistake. This young fellow striding ahead of him must have also been in the apartment at the time of Fay’s death. He must be worried sick that the police would assume he had killed Fay. Anyone with a guilty conscience was a potential source of income to Sweeting, and he happily stretched his short, fat legs to keep the young fellow in sight.

This was obviously his lucky day, Sweeting thought. The business would have to be handled carefully, but he had no doubt that he would be able to persuade this guy to part with a handsome sum in return for a promise of silence.

He had come from the side entrance of the Eastern National Bank, Sweeting thought, as he scurried along the sidewalk, clutching on to Leo; that must mean he worked at the bank. He wouldn’t be a rich man, but he would have a good, steady income. Perhaps it would be better to ask for thirty dollars a month rather than put the bite on him for a large sum. But a guy in his position, Sweeting argued, was certain to have some savings. The best thing would be to ask for a lump sum; say a couple of hundred dollars, and then a regular payment of thirty dollars a month.

He followed Ken on to a bus, and, concealing himself behind a newspaper, he gave himself up to the excitement of the hunt.

Leo seemed to know what was taking place. He curled up on his master’s ample lap and remained motionless, panting a little, his goggle eyes alert and interested.

After a twenty-minute ride, Ken got off the bus, brushing past Sweeting without noticing him.

Sweeting followed him, watched him buy a newspaper at the corner and

pause to read the Stop Press while he struggled to hold two parcels under one arm.

Sweeting had already read the Stop Press announcement, and knew what it contained. He watched Ken’s white, scared face with interest.

No wonder he looked scared, Sweeting thought, stroking Leo’s silky head with the tip of a grubby finger. This should be easy: nothing more simple when they have had a good fright. This could be the most profitable job he had ever pulled off.

He watched Ken walk up the path to a small bungalow and pause to speak to a fat old woman who bobbed up from behind the next-door hedge. Then when he had gone into the bungalow, Sweeting crossed the road to a bench seat under the trees from where he had a good view of the bungalow and sat down.

There was no hurry, he told himself, setting Leo on the seat at his side. He removed his hat and wiped his glistening forehead. The next move was to find out who the young fellow was, and more important still, if he was married and had children.

A wife and children were very useful levers in the game Sweeting played.

He crossed one fat leg over the other, and sighed contentedly. He would watch the bungalow for an hour or so. It was a pleasant evening now, and with any luck the wife, if there was a wife, might come out into the garden.

Sweeting had infinite patience. All his life he had been content to wait for things to come to him, never attempting to make an effort himself, and he sat in the evening sunshine, his mind cloudy, his fat, dirty fingers gently stroking Leo’s silky coat while he waited.

Then, after perhaps a quarter of an hour, he saw a car swing around the corner and come down the road fast.

Immediately he stiffened to attention when he recognized the driver.

The police!

He hurriedly opened his newspaper and concealed himself behind it.

His dream of a steady income exploded as he watched Sergeant Donovan climb out of the car.

Of all the filthy luck! he thought bitterly. How could they have got on to this guy so fast? What a bit of luck that he had waited instead of tackling him at once. He would have been in plenty of trouble if Donovan had found him inside the bungalow.

He watched the two detectives walk up the path and ring on the bell. He saw the door open and the young fellow come out on the step. The three men stood talking for some minutes, then to Sweeting’s surprise, the two detectives turned abruptly away and walked back to their car.

What did it mean? he asked himself, peering around the edge of his newspaper. Why hadn’t they arrested him ?

He watched the police car disappear around the corner, and, getting to his feet, he picked up Leo and walked hurriedly to the corner of the street to make sure the police car had left the district.

He saw the car slow down and pull up outside a house, and the two detectives get out. He watched them speak to a fat, heavily built man who was in the garden.

After some minutes Donovan went on to the house while the fat man and the other detective remained in the garden.

All this intrigued Sweeting. He leaned against a tree, watching, but being careful to keep out of sight.