Everyone in the house must hear the bell, Ken thought frantically. Who could it be calling at this hour?
He waited, his nerves crawling, as the bell continued to ring. It must stop soon, he thought. It can't go on and on . . .
But it did go on, insistent and strident, until Ken could bear the sound no longer.
He turned on the light, blundered over to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
'Fay? This is Sam.'
Ken recognized the deep rich voice of Sam Darcy, the big negro he had met at the Blue Rose.
'Listen, honey,' Darcy went on urgently. 'Johnny's been seen in town. He's looking for you. I got a tip-off he's been to the Paradise Club asking for you.'
Ken held the receiver tightly against his ear, his mind bewildered.
Johnny? Who was he? Was it Johnny who had killed Fay?
'Fay?' Darcy's voice sharpened. 'Do you hear me?'
With a shaking hand, Ken replaced the receiver.
He was sure Darcy would call back. He must stop the telephone bell ringing again.
He snatched up a newspaper lying in one of the chairs, tore off half a sheet and folded it into a small wedge. This he inserted between the telephone bell and the clapper.
He had scarcely done this when the clapper began to agitate, making a soft buzzing noise.
He took one last look around the apartment, turned off the light, unlocked the front door and opened it a few inches. He peered out on to the landing. It was deserted. He remembered to wipe the door handle with his handkerchief, and then he closed the door after him.
He stood on the landing, listening. The house was silent. Tiptoeing across the landing, he cautiously looked over the banister rail to the landing below. That, too, was deserted, but he saw that Sweeting's front door stood ajar.
Ken stared at the door, his heart thumping.
That half-open door could mean only one thing. Sweeting was still on the prowl. He was probably sitting in his hall, out of sight, while he watched the landing.
There was no other way of leaving this house except by going down the stairs.
Ken hesitated. Should he wait Sweeting out or should he go down?
He wanted to wait, but he knew the risk of waiting. He could hear the soft continuous buzz of the telephone bell. Darcy might decide to come over and find out why Fay didn't answer his persistent calling.
Ken had to get as far away from this apartment house as he could before Fay's body was found.
It might be possible, if he were very quiet, to creep down the stairs and pass the half-open door without Sweeting seeing or hearing him.
It was his only hope.
He started down the stairs, leaning against the wall, keeping away from the banister rail, which he feared might creak if he touched it.
He went down slowly, step by step, not making a sound. As he reached the last step to the landing, he stopped to listen.
He was just out of sight of the half-open door. If Sweeting were sitting in the hall he would see him as Ken crossed the landing. But if Sweeting had dozed off, Ken might be able to reach the next flight of stairs without being seen.
He braced himself, and, just as he moved forward, the fawn Pekinese dog came through the half-open door and stood looking up at him.
Ken remained motionless, more frightened than he had ever been before in his life.
He and the dog stared fixedly at each other for a long, agonizing moment. Then before he could make up his mind what to do, the front door opened wide and Sweeting came out on to the landing.
'Come along, Leo,' he said gently. 'Time little dogs were in bed.'
He looked slyly at Ken and smiled.
'You have no idea, sir,' he said, 'what trouble I have to get this little fellow to go to bed.'
Ken didn't say anything. He couldn't. His mouth was as dry as dust.
Sweeting picked up the Pekinese. His black eyes scrutinized Ken.
'I believe it has stopped raining,' he went on, gently stroking the Pekinese's head. 'Such a heavy storm.' He looked at the cheap, nickelplated watch he wore on his fat, hairy wrist. 'I had no idea it was so late. It's nearly two.'
Ken made a tremendous effort to control his panic. He moved across the landing to the head of the next flight of stairs.
'I must apologize. I talk too much,' Sweeting went on, moving after Ken. 'You will excuse me. It is a lonely man's failing. If it wasn't for Leo I should be quite alone.'
Ken kept on, fighting down the increasing urge to rush madly down the stairs and out of the house.
'You wouldn't care to come in and have a drink with me?' Sweeting asked, catching hold of Ken's sleeve. 'It
