Here's Luck by Lennie Lower — Read

It was a quarter to eleven. Estelle had come in, cooked, cleared up and cleared out. I had dined well and Stanley had been supplied with steak both inside and out, and was lying on his bed with nearly two pounds of perfectly good, cookable meat on his face.

At first, I had thought of barricading the place, but a better idea had suggested itself to me, devilishly effective and childishly simple. I merely knocked the back out of the wardrobe in the front room and left the front door ajar. Nothing more.