“I will,” Ken said, and forcing a smile, he hurried up the path, opened the front door and entered the hall.
He stood for a moment in the quiet hall, listening to the thud of his heart.
If the police took it in their heads to question her, she could give him away. He might have known she wouldn’t have been asleep when he drove back last night. She would have to get of bed to spy.
She had seen the two parcels. If she remembered and if the police questioned her, how was he going to explain them away?
He now had a trapped feeling, and he went into the lounge, opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself out a stiff drink. He went over to the couch and sat down. After a long pull from his glass, he read the short paragraph in the stop press.
Early this morning, Fay Carson, one-time dance hostess at the Blue Rose nightclub, was discovered by her maid, stabbed to death and lying naked across her bed. The murder weapon is believed to be an ice-pick taken from the murdered woman’s ice-Sox.
Sergeant Jack Donovan of the Homicide Department, in charge of the investigation, stated that he had already several important clues, and that an early arrest could be expected. He is anxious to interview a tall, wellbuilt man, wearing a pearl-grey suit and a grey slouch hat who returned with Miss Carson to her apartment last night.
Ken dropped the paper and shut his eyes.
For a long, horrible moment he felt suffocated by the wave of panic that urged him to get in his car and get as far away as he could before they came after him.
A tall, well-built man in a pearl-grey suit and a grey slouch hat.