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.