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.
“No. I’m going further up,” Ken said, hurrying up the stairs.