lot.
He was sunk if the attendant had taken his number. The police would be
certain to question the attendant. They would give him Ken's description, and he must remember him. All he had to do then would be to turn up his book and give the police Ken's number. They would be at his house in half an hour.
Shaken by this thought, Ken stepped into a dark alley while he tried to think what to do. From where he stood he could see the entrance to the parking lot. He had a clear view of the little hut by the gates. A light burned inside the hut, and he could just make out the bent figure of the attendant as he sat by the window, reading a newspaper.
Ken had to know if there was a registration book in the hut. He daren't drive away without making certain the attendant hadn't his number. If the book existed he would have to destroy it.
He leaned against the wall of the alley and watched the hut. Perhaps someone would come for his car and the attendant would leave the hut, giving Ken a chance to slip in and see if the book was there. But it was now quarter-past two. The chances of anyone collecting his car at this hour was remote. Time was running out. He couldn't afford to wait.
He braced himself and, leaving the alley, he crossed the road and walked into the parking lot.
The door of the hut stood open, and he walked in.
The old attendant glanced up, eyed him over and gave him a surprised nod.
'You're late, mister.'
'Yes,' Ken said, and his eyes searched the hut.
There was a table near the window. Among the collection of old newspapers, a saucepan and a gas-ring, some dirty china mugs and a still dirtier hand towel, on the table was a dog-eared notebook, opened about half- way.
Ken moved closer.
'Some storm,' he went on. 'I've been waiting for it to clear.'
His eyes took in the open page of the notebook. It contained a neatly written list of car numbers: third from the bottom was his own number.
'Still raining,' the attendant said, busy lighting a foul-smelling pipe. 'Well, I guess we can do with it. Got a garden, mister?'
'Sure,' Ken said, trying to control the shake in his voice. 'This must be the first rain we've had in ten days.'
'That's right,' the attendant said. 'Do you grow roses, mister?'
'That's all I do grow: roses and weeds,' Ken returned, moving so his back was now to the table.
'That's about my limit too,' the old man said, and got stiffly to his feet and went to the door to look up at the rain-swollen clouds.
Ken picked up the book and held it behind him.
'Haven't you anyone to relieve you?' he asked, joining the old man at the door.
'I go off around eight o'clock. When you get to my age, mister, you don't need much sleep.'
'Maybe you're right. Well, so long. I need all the sleep I can get.'
Ken stepped out into the darkness, feeling the rain against his sweating face.
'I'll just mark you off in my book,' the attendant said. 'What's your number?'
Ken's heart stopped, then raced.
'My number?' he repeated blankly.
The old man had gone to the table and was pushing the newspapers to one side.
'Now where did I put it?' he muttered. 'I had it a moment ago.
Ken shoved the notebook in his hip pocket. He looked across at a Packard, standing near the gates.
'My number's TXL 3345,' he said, reading off the Packard's number plate.
'I had that darned book a moment ago. Did you see it, mister?'
'No. I've got to be moving.' Ken offered the old man a half-dollar. 'So long.'
'Thanks, mister. What was that number again?'
Ken repeated the number and watched the old man scribble it down on the edge of a newspaper.
'I'm always losing things.'
'So long,' Ken said, and walked quickly across the lot to his car.
He got in the car, started the engine and, using only his parking lights, he sent the car shooting towards the gates.
The old man came out of the hut and waved to him. Ken snapped off the parking lights, trod hard on the gas pedal and drove fast through the gates. He didn't turn on his lights until he reached the main road. Then, driving at a steady pace, he headed for home.
