Ken tried to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

"I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Holland," Sweeting went on. "You are Mr. Holland? There were some letters in the hall I glanced at: they were addressed to you, or have I made a mistake?"

Ken was in no state to attempt to bluff. His mind was paralysed with panic.

"What do you want?" he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Just a few minutes with you," Sweeting said, stroking Leo's head with his fingertip. "Perhaps we could sit down? I have had a very tiring day. I won't keep you long. It's a business matter." He looked into the lounge. "That looks most comfortable. Shall we go in there?"

Without waiting, he walked into the lounge.

"How very nice!" he said, looking around. "How very pleasant ! I envy you, Mr. Holland, having such a delightful home." His beady little eyes went to the silver-framed photograph of Ann. "Is that your wife? What a charming girl ! How pretty ! She isn't in, is she?"

Ken watched this fat, oily little man walking around his lounge as if he owned it. He was slowly recovering from the shock of finding him in his home. How had Sweeting found him? What was going to happen? Was he going to blackmail him?

"Oh, and I see you keep whisky in your house," Sweeting said, pausing beside the liquor cabinet. "How pleasant! You know, Mr. Holland, I have always wanted to own one of these cabinets. They are so useful, and they do establish a standard, don't they? I'm afraid I haven't been a great success in my life. Some people are a lot more fortunate than others. Would it be discourteous of me if I had a drink? With a whisky and a comfortable chair one can always discuss a business proposition more congenially, don't you think?"

He set Leo down on the couch, poured himself a big shot of whisky, carried the gla.s.s to an armchair and sat down. He took off his hat, which he placed on the floor at his side and drank of the whisky.

"Most refreshing," he said, looking up at Ken. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Holland?"

Ken came slowly into the room and sat down.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"It's about last night. A young woman was murdered in the apartment above mine. I have some information that would be of interest to the police." Sweeting paused to smile knowingly.

"I'm not anxious to become a police informer, Mr. Holland. I realize it is my duty to tell them what I know, but they seldom show any appreciation. After all, one has to consider one's own interests first, I always think."

So it was to be blackmail. Ken reached for a cigarette and lit it with an unsteady hand.

"I had nothing to do with the murder," he said steadily.

Sweeting inclined his head.

"I am quite sure of that. If I thought you had I wouldn't be here. I am a cautious man. I wouldn't allow myself to become an accessory to murder. No, of course you had nothing to do with the murder, but you were in Miss Carson's apartment when it happened, weren't you?"

Ken didn't say anything.

"I'm sure you're too sensible to deny it, Mr. Holland," Sweeting went on after a pause. "I saw you leave. I noted the time." He shook his head sorrowfully. "You are in an awkward position. You must realize that it is almost impossible for you to convince the police that you didn't murder the girl. They are always so anxious to make an arrest."

Ken began to feel a rising anger against this fat hypocrite who was so obviously enjoying his power.

"All right, I admit all that," he said curtly. "Suppose we get to the point. What do you intend to do about it?"

Sweeting lifted his fat shoulders.

"That depends entirely on you, Mr. Holland."

"It's blackmail, is that it?"

Sweeting smiled.

"Some people might call it that," he said, shaking his head. "It's a nasty word. I would prefer to say that in return for keeping my information to myself you will give me a small pecuniary reward."

"What do you want?"

Sweeting couldn't conceal his satisfaction. The interview was going along splendidly: exactly how he had planned it to go.

"I am a poor man, Mr. Holland. In fact, to be frank with you, I am in urgent need of funds right now. I thought you might let me have two hundred dollars as a first payment and a small sum each month."

"How small?" Ken said, an edge to his voice.

"Well, perhaps thirty dollars, perhaps thirty-five."

Ken realized that if he agreed to pay Sweeting, there would be no end to it. He would be bled white. He had to take a stand. He had to think of Ann. He would probably need every dime he could lay hands on for his defence.

"I should only be buying time," he said quietly. "The police could find me without your help. You had better tell them what you know. You're getting nothing out of me."

Sweeting had had many years' experience of petty blackmailing. He was a little surprised that Ken should attempt to bluff, considering the dangerous position he was in, but he was quite prepared to accept Ken's att.i.tude for the moment. So many of his past victims had tried to bluff, but they had always toed the line in the end.

"Let's be sensible about this, Mr. Holland. My evidence would send you to the chair. After all, I am the only witness who saw you leave the house at the time the police say she died. If I kept quiet. . ."

"You're mistaken," Ken said, getting to his feet. "Someone else saw me: the woman who lives on the ground floor. Your evidence is not so exclusive as you think."

Sweeting stared up at him, taken aback.

"Now wait a moment, Mr. Holland. We mustn't be too hasty about this. This woman doesn't know who you are: I do. It would be stupid of you to sacrifice your life for a few dollars. Besides, you must think of your wife. Think how hurt she will be to learn what you have done."

"We'll leave my wife out of this!" Ken said savagely. "I'm not paying you a dime. Get out!"

Sweeting lost his genial smile. His face became hard and spiteful.

"You mustn't talk like that to me, Mr. Holland. You are in no position to be discourteous. I shan't hesitate to go to the police if we can't come to terms. I tell you what I will do. I'll settle for two hundred dollars. I won't press you for any monthly payments. I can't be fairer than that, can I ? Two hundred dollars in cash."

Ken's rising temper exploded. He stepped forward and knocked the gla.s.s of whisky out of Sweeting's hand. His grim, furious expression alarmed Sweeting, who had a horror of violence.

"Mr. Holland!" he gasped, cringing back into the chair. "That was quite unnecessary ..."

Leo, as if sensing that his master had failed in his purpose, slunk off the couch and trotted, tail between his legs, to the door.

Ken grabbed hold of Sweeting's coat front and hauled him to his feet.

"You miserable little rat!" he said furiously. "You're not getting a dime out of me! I've had enough of this! I won't be shoved around anymore by you or the police!"

"Mr. Holland!" Sweeting gasped, his eyes popping out of his head. "Don't let us have any violence. If you feel that way ..."

Ken released him, stepped back and hit Sweeting in his right eye with all his weight behind the punch. He felt an enormous satisfaction as his knuckles thudded against Sweeting's face.

Sweeting gave a squeal of pain, tripped over the rug and fell on his back with a crash that shook the bungalow.

"Get out!" Ken shouted at him. "If I ever see you again, I'll beat the h.e.l.l out of you!"

Sweeting crawled to his feet, still holding his eye. He made a frantic bolt across the room to the front door, pulled it open and clattered down the steps.

Leo was already streaking down the street, and his master went after him.

Breathing heavily, Ken stared through the window until he lost sight of Sweeting. He had no doubt that Sweeting would tell the police. In a few hours he would be arrested. The thought scared him, but he knew it was something he had now to face up to.

It didn't cross his mind to make a bolt for it. He had been cowardly enough already. He had made a complete fool of himself, and it was now time to face the music. The only possible solution was to give himself up, tell the truth and hope the police believed him. He hadn't much hope that they would, but anything was better than these past hours.

He had no time to lose. He must get to police headquarters before Sweeting gave him away.

He looked around the lounge and wondered if he would ever see it again. He looked at Ann's photograph and his heart contracted. What a shock it was going to be for her! What a crazy, irresponsible fool he had been!

He wondered if he should write to her, but there was no time. He had better get down to headquarters at once.

He went quickly into the hall, put on his hat, locked the front door after him and, seeing a taxi crawling past, he waved, ran down the path and jerked open the cab door.

"Police headquarters, and snap it up!" he said to the startled driver.

II.

Detective Dave Duncan glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch and sighed. The time was just after nine o'clock. He had hoped to get home for supper, but the hope had long faded. He wondered gloomily what his wife was thinking. Whenever he was late she always accused him of fooling around with some woman. He could never convince her that police officers had to keep irregular hours. Maybe she would be more amenable when he told her he was working with Donovan on a murder case, but he doubted it.

He looked at the rough draft that lay on the desk before him. Sergeant Donovan had told him to prepare a report on the Carson murder for the Commissioner, and Duncan had just finished it. The report would take forty minutes or so to type. Then Donovan had to read it and he would be certain to make a lot of alterations. It would have to be retyped. Duncan didn't see any hope of getting home before half-past twelve. There would be another tow waiting for him just when he wanted all the sleep he could get.

He lit a cigarette and settling down in the uncomfortable desk chair he began to read what he had written.

Halfway through the report he made a discovery that snapped him upright and sent a tingle of excitement up his spine. He hadn't time to consider this discovery before the door kicked open and Sergeant Donovan came in.

"Hey! I've got something!" Donovan said, slamming the door and coming to sit on the desk. "We've got our guy's grey suit. There are bloodstains on it! What do you know?"

Restraining his own excitement with difficulty, Duncan pushed the report aside; lit a cigarette before asking, "Where did you find it?"

Donovan grinned.

"I got a break. I was chewing the fat with the desk sergeant; by the merest fluke he mentioned that Gaza's stores had reported finding a grey suit with stains on it amongst their suits on display. O'Malley went down and took a statement from one of the a.s.sistants. While he was there another a.s.sistant from the shoe department found a pair of used shoes amongst the shoes on display. One of them was stained. O'Malley made a routine check and found they were bloodstains: on the suit and on the shoes. The a.s.sistant remembers a guy who had a parcel with him when he came to buy a grey suit and he hadn't the parcel with him when he left. His description fits the guy we want for the Carson killing, and the bloodstains belong to Carson's group." He tossed a sheaf of papers on to the desk. "That's O'Malley's report with the statements. We've got to hook it up co our report. You'd better snap it up. The Commissioner expects to hear from me before he leaves tonight."

Duncan shoved the report aside.

"I've got something for you, sergeant. I'll take a five buck bet I know who the killer is."

Donovan's beefy face changed colour. He stared at Duncan, his hard little eyes narrowing.

"What the h.e.l.l do you mean?"

"That guy Holland killed her!"

"Are you crazy?" Donovan exploded angrily. "Now look, if you can't talk sense, get down to that report. I want to get home some time tonight."

Duncan shrugged.

"Okay, if that's the way you feel about it. If I handle this myself, I'll get the credit."

Donovan's face turned purple.

"If you talk like that to me . . .!" he began furiously.

"I tell you he's the guy we want, and I can prove it!"

Donovan controlled himself. He got off the desk and went over to his own desk and sat behind it.

"Go ahead and prove it," he grated.

"Remember how scared Holland was when we called on him?"

Donovan snorted.

"That doesn't mean a d.a.m.n. You know as well as I do when a cop calls unexpectedly whoever answers the door lays an egg. If you can't do better than that you'd better keep your trap shut!"

"This guy did more than lay an egg. I was watching him while you talked to him," Duncan said quietly. "He was really scared: like a man with a guilty conscience. That doesn't prove my case, but it did set me dunking. Doesn't he fit the description of the guy we want? He's tall, dark, good-looking and around thirty. That's tile exact description of the guy we're after, isn't it? But this is the clincher. Do you remember his roses? Nothing but roses in the garden, and good ones? Remember them?"

Donovan drew in a slow, exasperated breath.

"What the h.e.l.l have his roses got to do with it?"

Duncan picked up the report he had written.

"Listen to this. This is the car attendant's statement just as he made it. This is what he says: 'The guy said something about the first rain we've had in ten days. I said he was right. I asked him if he grew roses. That's about all I do grow, he tells me. Roses and weeds.' " Duncan looked across at Donovan, his eyes triumphant. " Sort of hangs together, doesn't it?"

Donovan sat still while his slow-working brain tried to cope with this unexpected situation.

"You don't call that proof, do you?" he said finally, glaring at Duncan.

Duncan refused to be intimidated. He knew if Donovan had made the discovery himself he would be crowing his head off.

"The guy is scared stiff; the description matches and he grows roses," he said quietly. "It's enough for me to dig further. I want to know what make of car he runs. If it's a green Lincoln I know I won't have to look further for the guy we want."

"If he runs a green Lincoln then he is our guy," Donovan said, shrugging, "but I'll bet he doesn't run one."