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.
Suppose the police refused to accept his story? Suppose they accused him of killing Fay?
He turned cold at the thought.
Even if they did accept his story, and if they caught the killer, he would be chief witness in a murder trial. How was he going to explain being in the apartment when the murder happened? The truth would come out. Ann would know. The bank would know. All his friends would know.
His mouth turned dry.
He would be front-page news. Everyone would know that, while Ann was away, he had gone to a call-girl’s place.
Get out of this, he told himself. You can’t do anything for her. She’s dead. You’ve got to think of yourself. Get out quick!
He crossed the room to the front door; then he stopped short.
Had he left any clue in this dark apartment that would lead the police to him? He mustn’t rush away like this in a blind panic. There were sure to be some clues he had left.
He stood there in the darkness, fighting his panic, trying to think.
His finger-prints were on the glasses he had used. He was taking away Fay’s flashlight: that might be traced to him. His prints were also on the whisky bottle.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.
Only the killer and himself knew Fay was dead. He had time. He mustn’t panic. Before he left, he must check over this room and the bedroom to make absolutely certain he hadn’t left anything to bring the police after him.
Before he could do that he must have light to see what he was doing.
He began a systematic search for the fuse-box, and finally found it in the kitchen. On the top of the fuse-box was a packet of fuse wire. He replaced the fuse, turned down the mains switch. The lights went up in the kitchen.
Using his handkerchief he wiped the fuse-box carefully, then returned to the sitting-room.
His heart was thumping as he looked around the room. His hat lay on the chair where he had dropped it. He had forgotten his hat. Suppose he had given way to panic and had gone, leaving it there? It had his name in it!
To make certain he didn’t forget it, he put it on.
He then collected the broken pieces of the smashed tumbler, put them in a newspaper and crushed the pieces into fine particles with his heel. He carried them in the newspaper into the kitchen and dropped them into the trash basket.
He found a swab in the kitchen sink and returned to the sitting-room. He wiped the glass he had just used and also the whisky bottle.
In the ash-tray were four stubs of cigarettes he had smoked. He collected these and put them in his pocket, then wiped the ash-tray.
He tried to remember if he had touched anything else in the room. There was the telephone. He crossed the room and carefully wiped the receiver.
There didn’t seem anything else in the room that needed his attention.
He was scared to go back into the bedroom, but he knew he had to. He braced himself, slowly crossed the room and turned on the bedroom lights. Keeping his eyes averted from Fay’s dead and naked body, he put the flashlight, after carefully wiping it, on the bedside table where he had found it. Then he paused to look around the room.
He had touched nothing in the room except the flashlight. He was sure of that. He looked down at the blue-handled ice-pick, lying on the carpet. Where had it come from? Had the killer brought it with him? He didn’t think- that likely. If he had brought it with him, he would have taken it away with him. And how had the killer got into the apartment? Certainly not by climbing up to a window. He must have had a key or picked the lock of the front door.
But what did that matter? Ken thought. Time was getting on. Satisfied now he had left no finger-prints nor any clue to bring the police after him, he decided to go out.
But before going he had to get rid of the blood on his hands and check his clothes over.
He went into the bathroom. Careful to cover the taps with his handkerchief before turning them on, he washed the dried blood off his hands. He dried them on a towel, and then went to stand before the long mirror to take careful stock of his clothes.
His heart gave a lurch as he saw a small red stain on the inside of his left sleeve. There was also a red stain on the cuff of his left trousers leg.
He stared at the stains, feeling panic grip him. If anyone saw him now!
He ran more water into the toilet basin, took a sponge from the sponge rack and dabbed feverishly at the stains. The colour changed to a dirty brown, but the stains remained.
That would have to do, he thought, as he rinsed but the sponge, grimacing as the water in the basin turned a bright pink. He let out the water and replaced the sponge.
Turning off the light, he walked hurriedly through the bedroom into the sitting-room.
It was time to go.
He looked around once more.
The storm was passing. The thunder was now a distant rumble, but the rain continued to splash against the windows.
He had done all he could to safeguard himself. The time was twenty minutes to two. With any luck he wouldn’t meet anyone at this time on the stairs. He crossed to the front door, turned off the light, and reached for the door handle. If he met someone… He had to make an effort to turn back the catch on the lock. Then he heard a sudden sound outside that turned him into a frozen, panic-stricken statue.
Against the front door, he heard a soft scratching sound.
He held his breath while he listened, his heart hammering.
To his straining ears came the sound of soft snuffling. There was a dog outside, and he immediately remembered the fawn Pekinese, and then he remembered Raphael Sweeting.
He had forgotten Sweeting.
Sweeting had seen him return to the apartment with Fay. Ken remembered how the fat little man had stared at him, as if memorizing every detail about him. When the police discovered Fay’s body, Sweeting was certain to come forward with Ken’s description.
Ken shut his eyes as he fought down his growing panic.
Pull yourself together, he told himself. There must be thousands of men who look like you. Even if he did tell the police what I look like, how could the police find me ?