James Chase - Tiger by the Tail

Ken’s rising temper exploded. He stepped forward and knocked the glass of whisky out of Sweeting’s hand. His grim, furious expression alarmed Sweeting, who had a horror of violence.

“Mr. Holland!” he gasped, cringing back into the chair. “That was quite unnecessary…”

Leo, as if sensing that his master had failed in his purpose, slunk off the couch and trotted, tail between his legs, to the door.

Ken grabbed hold of Sweeting’s coat front and hauled him to his feet.

“You miserable little rat!” he said furiously. “You’re not getting a dime out of me! I’ve had enough of this! I won’t be shoved around any more by you or the police!”

“Mr. Holland!” Sweeting gasped, his eyes popping out of his head. “Don’t let us have any violence. If you feel that way…”

Ken released him, stepped back and hit Sweeting in his right eye with all his weight behind the punch. He felt an enormous satisfaction as his knuckles thudded against Sweeting’s face.

Sweeting gave a squeal of pain, tripped over the rug and fell on his back with a crash that shook the bungalow.

“Get out!” Ken shouted at him. “If I ever see you again, I’ll beat the hell out of you!”

Sweeting crawled to his feet, still holding his eye. He made a frantic bolt across the room to the front door, pulled it open and clattered down the steps.

Leo was already streaking down the street, and his master went after him.

Breathing heavily, Ken stared through the window until he lost sight of Sweeting. He had no doubt that Sweeting would tell the police. In a few hours he would be arrested. The thought scared him, but he knew it was something he had now to face up to.

It didn’t cross his mind to make a bolt for it. He had been cowardly enough already. He had made a complete fool of himself, and it was now time to face the music. The only possible solution was to give himself up, tell the truth and hope the police believed him. He hadn’t much hope that they would, but anything was better than these past hours.

He had no time to lose. He must get to police headquarters before Sweeting gave him away.

He looked around the lounge and wondered if he would ever see it again. He looked at Ann’s photograph and his heart contracted. What a shock it was going to be for her! What a crazy, irresponsible fool he had been!

He wondered if he should write to her, but there was no time. He had better get down to headquarters at once.

He went quickly into the hall, put on his hat, locked the front door after him and, seeing a taxi crawling past, he waved, ran down the path and jerked open the cab door.

“Police headquarters, and snap it up!” he said to the startled driver.

Detective Dave Duncan glanced at his wrist-watch and sighed. The time was just after nine o’clock. He had hoped to get home for supper, but the hope had long faded. He wondered gloomily what his wife was thinking. Whenever he was late she always accused him of fooling around with some woman. He could never convince her that police officers had to keep irregular hours. Maybe she would be more amenable when he told her he was working with Donovan on a murder case, but he doubted it.

He looked at the rough draft that lay on the desk before him. Sergeant Donovan had told him to prepare a report on the Carson murder for the Commissioner, and Duncan had just finished it. The report would take forty minutes or so to type. Then Donovan had to read it and he would be certain to make a lot of alterations. It would have to be re-typed. Duncan didn’t see any hope of getting home before half-past twelve. There would be another tow waiting for him just when he wanted all the sleep he could get.

He lit a cigarette and settling down in the uncomfortable desk chair he began to read what he had written.

Half-way through the report he made a discovery that snapped him upright and sent a tingle of excitement up his spine. He hadn’t time to consider this discovery before the door kicked open and Sergeant Donovan came in.

“Hey! I’ve got something!” Donovan said, slamming the door and coming to sit on the desk. “We’ve got our guy’s grey suit. There are blood-stains on it! What do you know?”

Restraining his own excitement with difficulty, Duncan pushed the report aside; lit a cigarette before asking, “Where did you find it?”

Donovan grinned.

“I got a break. I was chewing the fat with the desk sergeant; by the merest fluke he mentioned that Gaza’s stores had reported finding a grey suit with stains on it amongst their suits on display. O’Malley went down and took a statement from one of the assistants. While he was there another assistant from the shoe department found a pair of used shoes amongst the shoes on display. One of them was stained. O’Malley made a routine check and found they were blood-stains: on the suit and on the shoes. The assistant remembers a guy who had a parcel with him when he came to buy a grey suit and he hadn’t the parcel with him when he left. His description fits the guy we want for the Carson killing, and the bloodstains belong to Carson’s group.” He tossed a sheaf of papers on to the desk. “That’s O’Malley’s report with the statements. We’ve got to hook it up co our report. You’d better snap it up. The Commissioner expects to hear from me before he leaves tonight.”

Duncan shoved the report aside.

“I’ve got something for you, sergeant. I’ll take a five buck bet I know who the killer is.”

Donovan’s beefy face changed colour. He stared at Duncan, his hard little eyes narrowing.

“What the hell do you mean?”

“That guy Holland killed her!”

“Are you crazy?” Donovan exploded angrily. “Now look, if you can’t talk sense, get down to that report. I want to get home some time tonight.”

Duncan shrugged.

“Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it. If I handle this myself, I’ll get the credit.”

Donovan’s face turned purple.

“If you talk like that to me…!” he began furiously.

“I tell you he’s the guy we want, and I can prove it!”

Donovan controlled himself. He got off the desk and went over to his own desk and sat behind it.

“Go ahead and prove it,” he grated.

“Remember how scared Holland was when we called on him?”

Donovan snorted.

“That doesn’t mean a damn. You know as well as I do when a cop calls unexpectedly whoever answers the door lays an egg. If you can’t do better than that you’d better keep your trap shut!”

“This guy did more than lay an egg. I was watching him while you talked to him,” Duncan said quietly. “He was really scared: like a man with a guilty conscience. That doesn’t prove my case, but it did set me dunking. Doesn’t he fit the description of the guy we want? He’s tall, dark, goodlooking and around thirty. That’s tile exact description of the guy we’re after, isn’t it? But this is the clincher. Do you remember his roses? Nothing but roses in the garden, and good ones? Remember them?”

Donovan drew in a slow, exasperated breath.

“What the hell have his roses got to do with it?”

Duncan picked up the report he had written.

“Listen to this. This is the car attendant’s statement just as he made it. This is what he says: ‘The guy said something about the first rain we’ve had in ten days. I said he was right. I asked him if he grew roses. That’s about all I do grow, he tells me. Roses and weeds.’” Duncan looked across at Donovan, his eyes triumphant. “Sort of hangs together, doesn’t it?”

Donovan sat still while his slow-working brain tried to cope with this unexpected situation.

“You don’t call that proof, do you?” he said finally, glaring at Duncan.