The City hall clock was striking the half-hour after one as Ken left Gaza’s, the big store on the corner of Central and 4th Streets. Under his arm he carried two brown-paper parcels.
He walked rapidly along Central Street towards the bank. His plan to get rid of the blood-stained suit and shoes had worked. The suit now hung alongside the other hundreds of suits on display in Gaza’s outfitting department. He hoped the bloodstained shoes were safely lost among the masses of shoes on the display counter of Gaza’s shoe department.
There had been one nerve-shattering moment. The assistant who had sold him the light-grey suit, a replica of the one he had furtively included among the other suits, had asked him if he hadn’t forgotten the parcel he had brought in with him.
Ken had managed to keep his head, and had said he hadn’t been carrying a parcel. The assistant had looked puzzled, but having asked Ken is he was sure, he lost interest. But it had been an unpleasant moment.
Well, at least he had got rid of the suit and the shoes, and he felt safer.
On the other hand, through Parker’s telephone call, the police had visited the bank, and this hard-faced sergeant had had a good look at him.
Would the sergeant link him with the description the police were bound to get once they began asking questions?
There was nothing in the mid-day papers about Fay, and when Ken got back to his till to relieve Parker, he shook his head at Parker’s eager question.
“Nothing at all?” Parker asked. “Are you sure?”
Ken handed the paper over.