But what did that matter? Ken thought. Time was getting on. Satisfied now he had left no finger-prints nor any clue to bring the police after him, he decided to go out.
But before going he had to get rid of the blood on his hands and check his clothes over.
He went into the bathroom. Careful to cover the taps with his handkerchief before turning them on, he washed the dried blood off his hands. He dried them on a towel, and then went to stand before the long mirror to take careful stock of his clothes.
His heart gave a lurch as he saw a small red stain on the inside of his left sleeve. There was also a red stain on the cuff of his left trousers leg.
He stared at the stains, feeling panic grip him. If anyone saw him now!
He ran more water into the toilet basin, took a sponge from the sponge rack and dabbed feverishly at the stains. The colour changed to a dirty brown, but the stains remained.
That would have to do, he thought, as he rinsed but the sponge, grimacing as the water in the basin turned a bright pink. He let out the water and replaced the sponge.
Turning off the light, he walked hurriedly through the bedroom into the sitting-room.
It was time to go.
He looked around once more.
The storm was passing. The thunder was now a distant rumble, but the rain continued to splash against the windows.
He had done all he could to safeguard himself. The time was twenty minutes to two. With any luck he wouldn't meet anyone at this time on the stairs. He crossed to the front door, turned off the light, and reached for the door handle. If he met someone ... He had to make an effort to turn back the catch on the lock. Then he heard a sudden sound outside that turned him into a frozen, panic-stricken statue.
Against the front door, he heard a soft scratching sound.
He held his breath while he listened, his heart hammering.
To his straining ears came the sound of soft snuffling. There was a dog outside, and he immediately remembered the fawn Pekinese, and then he remembered Raphael Sweeting.
He had forgotten Sweeting.
Sweeting had seen him return to the apartment with Fay. Ken remembered how the fat little man had stared at him, as if memorizing every detail about him. When the police discovered Fay's body, Sweeting was certain to come forward with Ken's description.
Ken shut his eyes as he fought down his growing panic.
Pull yourself together, he told himself. There must be thousands of men who look like you. Even if he did tell the police what I look like, how could the police find me ?
He leaned against the door, listening to the dog as it continued to snuffle, its nose hard against the bottom of the door.
Then Ken heard the stairs creak.
'Leo!'
Sweeting's soft effeminate voice made Ken's heart skip a beat.
'Leo! Come here!'
The dog continued to snuffle against the door.
Ken waited. His heart thudded so violently he was scared Sweeting would hear it.
'If you won't come down, then I must come up,' Sweeting said. 'It's most unkind of you, Leo.'
More stairs creaked, and Ken stepped back hurriedly, holding his breath.
'Come along, Leo. What are you sniffing at?' Sweeting asked.
There was a long agonized silence, then Ken heard soft footfalls just outside the door. Then there was silence again, and Ken had a horrible feeling that Sweeting was listening outside, his ear against the door panel.
The dog had stopped snuffling. Ken could hear now only the thud of his heart and the sound of rain against the window.
Then he heard a sound that sent a chill up his spine. The door handle creaked and began to turn. He remembered he had unlocked the door. Even as the door began to move inwards, he rammed his foot against the bottom of it and jammed it shut. He put his hand on the door and leaned his weight against it while he rumbled desperately to find the catch on the lock.
There was only slight pressure on the door, and after a moment it went away.
'Come along, Leo,' Sweeting said, slightly raising his voice. 'We must go down. You will be waking Miss Carson.'
Ken leaned against the door, feeling sweat run down his face. He listened to the soft creaking of the stairs as Sweeting descended, then, just as his nerves were relaxing, the telephone bell just above his head began to ring.
II
The thunder had died away now, and apart from the shrill, nagging sound of the telephone bell the house seemed wrapped in silence.
