James Chase: Tiger by the Tail

He poured out a stiff drink and swallowed half of it.

The least he could do now, he told himself, moving slowly about the room, glass in hand, was to go home.

He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed a quarter to one.

Yes, he would go home, he decided, and feeling a little virtuous at making a sacrifice that most men, he felt, wouldn’t have been able to resist, he sat down and waited.

A sudden rumble of thunder not far off startled him.

It was quite a walk from Fay’s apartment to the parking lot. He wished she would hurry. He didn’t want to get wet.

A flash of lightning penetrated the white curtains that were drawn across the window. Then thunder crashed violently overhead.

He got up, pushed aside the curtain and peered down into the street.

In the light of the street lamps he could see the sidewalk was already spotted with rain. Forked lightning lit up the rooftops and again thunder crashed violently.

“Fay!” he called, moving away from the window. “Are you coming?”

There was no answer from the bedroom, and thinking she might have gone into the bathroom, he returned to the window.

It was raining now, and the sidewalk glistened in the lamp light. Rain made patterns on the window, obscuring his view.

Well, he couldn’t walk through this, he told himself. He would have to wait until it cleared a little, and his determination not to spend the night with Fay began to weaken.

The damage was already done, he thought, crushing out his cigarette. No point really in getting soaked. She expected him to stay the night. She would most certainly be offended if he didn’t. Besides, it might be safer to stay here than return home so late. Mrs. Fielding, his next-door neighbour, was certain to hear his car and wonder what he had been up to. She was certain to tell Ann on her return that he hadn’t come home until the small hours.

He finished his whisky and went over to the cabinet to make himself another.

She’s taking her time, he thought, looking towards the bedroom door.

“Hurry up, Fay,” he called. “What are you doing?”

The silence that greeted him puzzled him. What was she up to? he wondered. She had been in there for over ten minutes.

He stood listening. He heard nothing but the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantelpiece and the rain beating against the window.

Then suddenly the lights in the room went out, plunging him into hot, inky darkness.

For a moment he was badly startled, then he realized a fuse must have blown. He groped for the table and set his glass down.

“Fay!” he called, raising his voice. “Where’s the fuse box? I’ll fix it.”

He thought he heard a door creak as if it were stealthily opening.

“Have you got a flashlight?” he asked.

The silence that greeted him sent a sudden chill crawling up his spine.

“Fay! Did you hear me?”

Still no sound but he was sure that someone was in the room. He groped in his pocket for his cigarette lighter. A board creaked near him.

He suddenly felt frightened, and he stepped back hurriedly, cannoning into the table. He heard his glass of whisky crash to the floor.

“Fay! What are you playing at?” he demanded hoarsely.

He distinctly heard a footfall, then a chair moved. The hair on the nape of his neck bristled.

He got out his lighter, but his hand was shaking so badly the lighter slipped out of his grasp and dropped on the floor.

As he bent to grope for it, he heard the sound of a lock click back, then a door creaked.

He looked towards the front door, trying to see through the darkness that enveloped him. He could see nothing.

Then the front door slammed shut, making him start violently, and he distinctly heard the sound of footsteps running down the stairs.

“Fay!”

He was thoroughly alarmed now.

His groping fingers found the lighter and he snapped down the lever.

The flame made a tiny light but enough for him to see the room was empty.

Was it Fay who had just left the apartment or an intruder?

“Fay?”

The uncanny, frightening silence that greeted him stampeded him into a panic.

Shielding the flame of his lighter with his hand, he moved slowly across the room to the bedroom door.

“Are you there, Fay?”

He held the lighter high above his head. The flame was slowly diminishing. In another moment or so it would go out.

He moved forward, peering into the dark room. He looked towards the bed. What he saw there made him catch his breath.

Fay lay across the bed, her arms above her head. A narrow ribbon of blood ran between her breasts, crossing her arched ribs and making a puddle on the floor.

He stood paralysed, staring at her, unable to move.

The flickering flame of the Lighter suddenly went out.

A vivid streak of forked lightning lit up the room with an intense bluewhite light, and the crash of thunder that followed rattled the windows.

In the brief moment of light, Ken saw a flashlight on the bedside table and he snatched it up and turned it on.

The hard circle of light fell directly on Fay as she lay outstretched on the bed.

Ken bent over her. Her half-open eyes stared blankly and fixedly at him. Blood, coming from a small blue-black puncture above her left breast, was now reduced to a trickle. Her lips moved, then a muscular spasm passed over her and she arched her back, her hands closing into tight, knucklewhite fists.

“For God’s sake, Fay!” Ken gasped.

Into her blank eyes came an expression of terror, then as suddenly the terror went away, her eyes rolled back and her muscles relaxed. A quiet, gasping sigh came through her clenched teeth, and she seemed to grow smaller, suddenly doll-like, not human.

Shaking from head to foot, Ken stared stupidly at her. He had trouble in holding the flashlight steady.

He put a shaking hand over her left breast, getting blood from her on his fingers. He could feel no heart beat.

“Fay!”

His voice was a hoarse croak.

He stepped back, wanting to vomit, feeling a rush of saliva come into his mouth. He shut his eyes and fought back the sickness. After a moment he gained control of himself and, unsteadily, moved further away from the bed. As he did so, his foot touched something hard and he looked down, turning the beam of his flashlight on the object.

Lying on the carpet was a blue-handled ice-pick, its short, sharp blade red with blood.

He stared at it, scarcely breathing.

This was murder!

The discovery was almost too much for him. He felt his knees give, and he sat down hurriedly.

Thunder continued to rumble overhead, and the rain increased its violence. He heard a car coming swiftly up the road, its engine noisy and harsh. He held his breath while he listened. The car went on, passing the house, and he began to breathe again.

Murder!

He got to his feet.

I’m wasting time, he thought. I must call the police.

He turned the beam of the flashlight on Fay again. He had to convince himself that she was dead. He bent over her and touched the artery in her neck. He could feel nothing, and he had again to fight down the nauseating sickness.

As he stepped back, his foot slipped into something that made him shudder. He had stepped into a puddle of blood that had formed on the blue and white carpet.

He wiped his shoe on the carpet, and then walked unsteadily into the sitting-room.

The hot, inky darkness, pierced only by the beam of the flashlight, suffocated him. He made his way across the room to the liquor cabinet, poured himself out a stiff whisky and gulped it down. The spirit steadied his shaken nerves.

He swung the beam of light around, trying to locate the telephone. He saw the telephone on a small table by the settee. He made a move towards it, then stopped.