streets, until I convinced myself no car was following me, then I headed out to Cannon Avenue.
As I drove up the long, sedate avenue, the lights in the houses I passed told me night life in Tampa City was spent at home. There were cars parked outside most of the houses and the night air was full of the sound of dance music from overworked radio sets.
I reached the end of the avenue, made a U-turn and drove slowly back, passing Hartley’s Swiss chalet. No lights showed from the windows, but that didn’t mean anything. I had noticed on the two occasions I had been in his lounge that the window drapes were thick and heavy.
I stopped the Buick behind a Packard convertible, parked outside the house next to Hartley’s. I got out and walked back, pushed open his gate and walked up the drive-in.
When I came to rest before the front door, I paused to look back over the dark garden. The only sounds I could hear now were from the distant radio sets down the road. I lifted the bear’s head and knocked. I felt the door move. I pushed and the door swung open. I looked into darkness and silence.
Steadying the door, I knocked again. Nothing happened. The darkness moved out towards me. I leaned against it, listening, suddenly uneasy.
‘Anyone in?’ I asked and moved forward, my fingers groping in my pocket for my cigarette lighter.
The busy ticking of a clock nearby was the only sound I could hear. I got my lighter out and snapped it alight. The small yellow flame showed me a light switch near the door and I turned it on. I closed the front door, crossed the hall and peered into the dark lounge. As I reached forward to grope for the light switch I heard a sound that made me spin around: the sound of slow, dragging footfalls that came from above; sounds that made the hair on the nape of my neck bristle and my heart skip a beat.
‘Is that you, Hartley?’ I said, stepping into the light and looking up. My voice sounded little better than a hoarse croak. Only the sound of the dragging footfalls answered me, then I saw a small figure come out of the darkness and stand motionless at the head of the stairs. It was Hartley’s Filipino houseboy. His hand clutched on to the banister rail. A bright red trickle of blood ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth. There was a patch of blood about the size of my fist on the left side of his white coat.
I stared up at him, my mouth turning dry.
His small yellow face tightened, his legs went rubbery, his knees hinged, his hand slid off the banister rail.
Then he fell.
He hit the middle stair with his shoulder and slithered the rest of the way on his back to land at my feet.
I didn’t have to touch him to know he was dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
Outside and nearby a car door slammed and a car engine started up. A man shouted, ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’
I stared down at the dead yellow face. It hadn’t been a wonderful evening for him, I thought, aware that my shirt against my back felt damp and cold.
The car drove away; its noisy roar dwindled into the distance and silence came down on this dark, still house. There was nothing I could do for the Filipino and I backed away from him. My mind jumped to Lennox Hartley: had he been shot too?
I moved across the hall to the lounge, reached for the light switch and turned it down.
For a brief moment I thought the big room was empty, then I saw a foot in an elegant doe skin sandal protruding from behind one of the lounging settees.
I went around the settee.
Lennox Hartley lay on his face, his fingers hooked and sunk into the pile of the carpet, a little patch of blood showing on the gay yellow silk dressing gown he wore: a patch in the centre of his back.
I bent and touched one of his hands: his flesh was still warm. My fingers went to the artery in his neck: there was no pulse beat. He couldn’t have been dead for more than ten minutes or so. My first reaction was to get out of this house of death. If the police found me here I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. As I straightened up I saw the doors of the cupboard in which Hartley kept his files of sketches stood open. One of the files lay open on the floor: some of the sketches spilled out on to the carpet.
To the left of the cupboard was a small wall safe; a key was in the lock and the safe door was half open. I went over to the safe and peered in. A thick packet of fifty-dollar bills lay on top of a pile of papers, neatly tied with white tape. I took out the packet of currency to look at the papers.
‘Don’t move,’ Sergeant Lassiter said from the doorway.
I remained motionless, the bundle of bills clutched in my right hand, my shoulders hunched, my heart hammering.
‘Okay, turn around and keep your hands still.’
I turned very slowly.
Lassiter stood in the doorway of the lounge, a .38 police special dwarfed in his big hand. The black nosed barrel pointed at my chest.
He looked at me and I looked at him. His small, hard eyes opened a trifle as he recognized me and his thin lips came off his teeth in a wolfish grin.
‘Hello, peeper,’ he said. ‘You’ve certainly found yourself some material to write about this time.’ He moved slowly into the lounge, his gun continuing to cover me. ‘Two killings and a robbery: pretty nice going.’
I cursed myself for touching the money. I opened my fingers and the packet of bills dropped with a little thud on the carpet. I was in the worst kind of jam, and I knew I wasn’t going to talk myself out of it.
‘I know it looks bad,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady, but I didn’t kill them. Hartley called me at my hotel. He wanted to see me. I came over and found him dead.’
‘Yeah? I knew he called you. I traced the number and came over to see what was cooking,’ Lassiter said, grinning. ‘Looks like it was a good idea I did. Where’s your gun?’
‘I haven’t got a gun. I didn’t shoot him!’
‘Who’s going to believe you?’ Lassiter said. ‘This is the easiest pinch I’ve ever had. Back up against the wall!’
I did as I was told, keeping my hands above my shoulders. He went to the telephone, bent over it without taking his eyes off me. He lifted the receiver with his left hand.
‘Give me police headquarters,’ he said, ‘and snap it up.’
My shoe touched an electric light plug in the wall. Keeping my eyes on his I cautiously raised my right heel until it rested on top of the plug.
‘This is Lassiter,’ the sergeant barked into the receiver. ‘Get a patrol car out to 246, Cannon Avenue fast. Tell the lieutenant I’ve a guy here who’s just shot Lennox Hartley and his servant. I caught him red handed.’
I shifted the whole of my weight on to the plug. I felt it rip away from the wall. I gave it a quick side kick: there was a flash and the lights went out.
I dropped down on hands and knees as Lassiter’s gun roared, rattling the windows. Plaster came down on top of me as the slug smashed into the wall where I had been standing. Luckily for me the hall lights had gone out too. Thick darkness gave me a brief feeling of security, then Lassiter fired blindly again. The bullet nearly parted my hair.
I threw myself sideways where I knew a settee stood. I was behind it when he fired again. The gun flash showed me he was right by me. I reared up and hit out where his head should be. It wasn’t a bad shot. My fist caught him on the ear and sent him staggering. I dropped on hands and knees as he fired. The slug smashed one of the big windows.
I scrambled away, still on hands and knees, my breath whistling out through clenched teeth. I heard him blunder over to the door. Moving slowly, my hands outstretched for obstacles, I made my way towards the window.
In the distance I could hear the faint sound of a police siren that grew in intensity as the prowl car rushed towards the house. My groping hands must have passed over the top of a low table. My knee caught it and sent it
