James Chase: Tiger by the Tail

Parker’s flat-footed cliche kept going through his mind: what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve about.

He looked at his watch. In another hour it would be dusk. He went over to the whisky bottle. There was only a little left now, and he emptied what there was into the glass. The previous drinks he had had were now affecting him, and he felt in an increasingly reckless mood.

Why stay in tonight? he asked himself. Why not give Parker’s girl a trial? She takes care of lonely guys, Parker had said. That’s what he was, wasn’t he?

He carried his drink into the bedroom, set it down on the dressing-table, pulled off his shirt and took a new one from a drawer.

What was her telephone number?

He closed his eyes while he tried to think, and discovered he had drunk more whisky than he had thought.

Riverside 33344.

Everything depends on her voice he said to himself and what she says. If she sounds awful, I can always hang up. If no one answers, then I will cut the lawn. That’s a bet.

Buttoning up his shirt, he went into the lounge and dialled the number. He listened to the burr-burr-burr on the line, aware that his heart was now beating rapidly.

She’s not there, he said to himself after a few moments and he felt both relieved and disappointed. Well, this lets me out. I’ll skip it and cut the lawn; but he was reluctant to replace the receiver.

Then suddenly there was a click over the line, and his heart missed a beat and then raced.

A girl’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Is that Miss Carson?” he asked cautiously.

“That’s right. Who’s calling?”

He could almost hear a smile in her bright, gay voice.

“I guess you wouldn’t know me. A friend of mine…” He broke off, floundering.

“Oh.” The girl laughed. It was a nice, friendly laugh and Ken felt suddenly at ease. “Well, don’t be shy. Do you want to come on over?”

“That was the idea, but perhaps you are tied up?”

“I’m not. How long will you be?”

“I don’t know where you are.”

The girl laughed again.

“25 Lessington Avenue. Do you know it?”

“That’s off Cranbourne Street, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. I’m on the top floor; only heaven is higher. Have you a car?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t leave it outside. There’s a parking lot at the corner.”

Lessington Avenue was on the other side of the town to where Ken lived. It would take him twenty minutes to get there.

“I could get over by nine,” he said.

“I’ll be waiting. You’ll find the front door open. Just walk up.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Until nine o’clock then. Good-bye for now.”

The line went dead, and he slowly replaced the receiver.

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Even now he hadn’t committed himself, he thought. I needn’t go. I have still time to make up my mind.

He returned to the bedroom and finished dressing. As he knotted his tie, he recalled the sound of her voice. He tried to create a mental picture of her. Was she blonde? Was she tall? She sounded young. Parker said she had everything. She must be pretty good for Parker to say that.

He slipped on his coat. Then leaving the bedroom he went into the lounge. For a long moment, he stood, hesitating.

At least I can look at the place he thought. If it isn’t much I needn’t go in. Damn it! I needn’t feel so shifty about this. It’s not as if I’m going to misbehave myself with the girl. I’ll take her to a show or a night-club.

He took out his billfold and checked his money. He noticed his hands were shaking and he grinned.

As he looked across the room to the front door, he found he couldn’t look at the silver-framed photograph of Ann which stood on the desk.

THERE were only four cars in the big parking lot at the corner of Lessington Avenue.

The attendant, an elderly man wearing a white overall, came out of his little hut and waved Ken to park beside a glittering Buick.

As Ken cut the engine and got out of his car, the attendant said, “Going to be long, mister?”

“I may be. I don’t know. Depends if my friend happens to be in,” Ken said cautiously. “How long can I keep it here?”

The attendant gave him a knowing little smile.

“All night if you want to. Lots of guys leave their cars here all night.”

Ken wondered uneasily if the old man guessed where he was going. He paid for the parking ticket.

“I bet I don’t see those four guys tonight,” the attendant went on, waving his hand towards the four cars. “This is a proper night-out district.”

Ken forced an uneasy smile.

“Is it? I didn’t know.”

The attendant gave him a wink.

“Nor did the other guys,” he said, and walked back to his hut.

By now dusk had fallen, and Ken felt fairly secure as he walked along Lessington Avenue.

It was a quiet street, bordered on either side by shady trees that acted as a screen. The houses looked neat and respectable and he met no one during the short walk to No. 25.

Parker had said it was very discreet, no danger of being seen, and everything taken care of.

So far he was right.

Ken paused to look up and down the street before mounting the steps that led to No. 25. Satisfied no one was watching him, he climbed the steps, turned the door handle and pushed open the door. He stepped quickly into the hall.

Facing him was a flight of stairs. On the wall, by the stairs, was a row of mail boxes. He paused to look at them. Above each was a card, carrying the owner’s name.

He read: May Christie, Gay Hordern. Eve Barclay. Glorie Gold. Fay Carson.

Birds of a feather, he thought uneasily. What was he walking into?

He stood hesitating at the foot of the stairs. For a long moment his nerve failed, and he almost decided to retreat back to his car. He was nuts to come to this house, he told himself, not knowing what this girl even looked like. If it hadn’t been for the whisky he had drunk, he would have turned back, but the whisky still had charge of him and urged him on.

Parker said she was all right. Parker came to see her regularly. She must be all right.

He began to climb the stairs.

On the third landing, the sound of a radio playing swing music came through a red-painted front door. He continued up the stairs, and as he was within four stairs of the fourth landing, he heard a door open and then slam shut.

Before he could make up his mind whether to turn around and bolt down the stairs, footsteps sounded on the landing, and a man appeared at the head of the stairs.

He was short, fat and going bald and he carried a snap-brim hat which he slapped against his thigh as he paused to stare at Ken.

In spite of his baldness, he couldn’t have been much older than Ken. There was something repulsively soft about his appearance. He reminded Ken of a stale cream bun. He had great black, protruding eyes, the whites of which were shot. A thin, ugly mouth, a small hooked nose, and sharply pointed ears that were set tightly against the sides of his head made him one of the most extraordinary looking men Ken had ever seen.

His suit was creased and baggy, and his orange and blue patterned tie was grease-stained.

Under his left arm he carried a fawn-coloured Pekinese dog whose long, silky coat told of hours of careful grooming. The dog was as immaculate as its master was shabby.

The fat man stepped back.

“Come up, sir,” he said in a soft effeminate voice. “I never cross on the stairs. You weren’t by any chance coming to see me?”

The black bloodshot eyes went over Ken, and Ken had an uncomfortable feeling the fat man was memorizing every little detail about him.