1946 - More Deadly than the Male Page 14

“Crispin?”

  “The nice-looking lad who beat Cora. She told me what happened. She was tight, but that doesn’t matter. No one’s going to touch her without getting into trouble. I’d handle him myself, only you and me can do it better.”

  “Do what better?” George asked. He remembered the two Greeks and their razors, and he felt a little sick.

  “We’ll see him tonight. You and me, He’s got a bungalow at a place called Copthorne. It’s not far. He’ll be down there today. Well, we’ll go down, too, and we’ll take a cane. It’s a lonely place, and we won’t be disturbed. We’ll see how he likes a beating. That’s what we’ll do.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to complain to the police?” George asked, in sudden fright. “They’re dangerous. Look what they did to me.”

  “When you were in the States,” Sydney said, cold cruelty in his eyes, “did you go to the police?”

  George waved his hands nervously. “That was different,” he said. “No one went to the cops in those days. It’s different now.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Sydney said. “This is something personal. We’ll be dangerous too. We’ll take your gun.”

  George stiffened. “No, we won’t!” he said. “I’m not doing a thing like that. That’s how accidents happen.”

  “Oh yes, you are, George,” Sydney said, wandering across the room. “You don’t have to load it. Crispin will fall apart just to see the gun. I’m not suggesting you kill him. I don’t like murder myself. Feel like getting the gun now?”

  Again George was going to refuse, when he suddenly thought of the blond man’s sneering smile. He thought of the two Greeks creeping towards him with their razors. With the Luger in his hands, they would have been terrified. A smouldering anger— something he had never before experienced—urged him to seek revenge. Cora’s shrieks still rang in his ears.

  He got to this feet. “All right,” he said, “but I’m not loading the gun.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Sydney said. “Come and talk to me while I dress.”

  George followed him into a tiny bedroom.

  “Who is this Crispin?” he asked, leaning against the wall.

  “I used to fool around with him,” Sydney returned, slipping his blue shirt over his head. “Keep this under your hat. He knocks off cars in a big way. There’s bags of money in that game.” He glanced quickly at George and went on, “I chucked it after a bit. Got too hot for me. Cora hates the guy. He doesn’t know she’s my sister. He’ll have a surprise when he sees me—and you.” He was dressed now. “You’d better have a wash. Those cuts on your face aren’t deep, but you look a bit of a mess. Those Greeks know how to use a razor all right.”

  He took George into the grubby little bathroom. George stared at himself in the mirror. A long strip of plaster ran down the side of his face, and another strip was above his ear. He rinsed his face, getting rid of the blood-smears. There was blood, too, on his coat and collar.

  “I look a sight,” he said, suddenly secretly proud of himself.

  He looked tough and frightening: a real gangster.

  “I’ll find you a scarf,” Sydney said. “You can change when you get to your place.”

  “Where’s Cora?” George asked, drying his face on a grimy towel.

  “Asleep,” Sydney said indifferently. “She’s got weals on her back as thick as my finger.”

  George flinched. His anger blazed up.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  It was only seven-thirty by the time they reached George’s place, off the Edgware Road. The house was silent: no one was up. George took Sydney to his room and closed the door. While Sydney sat on the bed, whistling softly, George changed his shirt, put on another suit and had a hurried shave.

  In the familiar surroundings of his room his anger died down. He was now beginning to realize what it meant to live dangerously. He had read so much about it in the past; had constructed scenes in which he had experienced breathless adventures, fought and killed men, and had gloried in it all. But this was different. This was something out of his control. He knew that if in one of his fantasies he were trapped by desperate men, he would not be killed. He would be able to create a situation that would save him at the last moment. But this business was different. If that Greek, Nick, had wanted to kill him, he could have done so. It was just sheer luck that he hadn’t cut George’s throat.

  George suddenly hated the thought of what was going to happen that night. He had been angry, but now, back in his room, the thought of fresh danger gave him a sick, nervous feeling in his stomach. To beat this man Crispin was primitive justice, but it was bound to lead to trouble. If they did succeed in catching Crispin alone, did Sydney really think that Crispin wouldn’t get his own back on them later?

  As he rinsed his razor, he considered whether he should refuse to go with them, but immediately saw the impossibility of this. If he wished to keep Cora’s regard—and there was no question about that—he would have to go through with it. All he had to do was to threaten Crispin with the gun. Well, that was all right. He could do that. There would be no danger in that, as the gun wasn’t loaded. He was confident that Crispin would obey him if he had the gun in his hand. It was an ugly-looking weapon. It would scare him stiff. Besides, Sydney would be there.

  “Getting cold feet?” Sydney asked in a sneering voice.

  George started. He had forgotten that Sydney was in the room. He had been so busy with his thoughts that Sydney had gone completely out of his mind. He turned.

  “Of course not,” he said. “I’ve been in tighter spots . . .” and then he stopped.

  Sydney was holding the Luger carelessly in his hand.

  “Where did you get that from?” George said, suddenly angry. “I’ll trouble you not to go to my drawers without asking me.”

  Sydney smiled. “Keep your wool on,” he said, examining the Luger with interest. “I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Well, give it here, then,” George demanded, crossing the room. “I suppose Cora told you where I kept it.” He decided that he would hide the gun in another place in the future.

  “She did,” Sydney returned, his finger curling round the trigger. “What’s the matter with it? Is it jammed?”

  “No,” George said shortly. “It’s stiff, that’s all. The trigger wants adjusting. Here, let me have it.”

  Sydney pulled at the trigger, and with an effort managed to snap down the hammer.

  “With an action like that,” he said, tossing the Luger on the bed, “you don’t have to worry about accidents.”

  “That’s why I keep it that way,” George said, picking up the gun and slipping out the magazine. He made sure there was no cartridge in the breech, grunted, and shoved the gun in his hip-pocket. It felt bulky and heavy, but it gave him a secret thrill to have it against his hip.

  “Well, are you ready?” Sydney asked, getting up.

  George nodded.

  “Let’s go, then,” Sydney said, and they left the room and began to walk downstairs.

  George suddenly remembered Leo.

  “Just a tick,” he said. “I’ve got to feed my cat.”

  “Forget it,” Sydney said shortly. “There are other things to think about besides cats.”

  George ignored Sydney’s impatience, ran back to his room, put a saucer of milk and the remains of the sardines on the floor where Leo could find it, and then hurried after Sydney, who was waiting for him in the street.

  “Go back and keep Cora company,” Sydney said. “I’ve got things to do.” He looked at George with a jeering grin. “She thinks you’re quite a hero.”

  George went a dull red. “Does she?” he asked eagerly. “Well, I don’t know about that. I couldn’t do much against those razors.” He nursed his aching hand. “If it had been a fair fight . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Sydney said, moving away. “You tell her about it. I’ve got things to do.”

  George was delighted that Sydney wasn’t returnin
g to the flat. He hurried to Russell Square, eager to be alone with Cora. He passed a chemist’s shop, and remembering what Sydney had said about the weals on Cora’s back, he retraced his steps, went in and asked for a bottle of witch-hazel.

  It was after nine o’clock when he entered the little flat. Cora was in the bathroom. She shouted through the door that she wouldn’t be long, and he wandered into the sitting-room.

  He put the Luger on the mantelpiece, and after looking round the room, he decided that he might as well tidy up a bit. The decision gave him some pleasure. He had nothing to do, and he liked messing in a house.

  He went back to the bathroom and told Cora through the panels of the door what he intended to do.

  “Come in,” she shouted. “I can’t hear you.”

  He opened the door and looked into the tiny, steam-filled room. Cora was lying in the bath; only the back of her head and white shoulders were visible from where he stood. She glanced over her shoulder. A damp cigarette-hung from her mouth.

  “What is it?” she asked, a little sharply.

  “How—how are you, Cora?”

  “I’m all right,” she returned. “God! You look a sight.”

  George grinned happily. “I know,” he said. “It’s my hand that’s bad. These are only scratches.”

  “You’ve got guts,” she said. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  It was worth the pain and the terror to hear that.

  “This’ll take the smarting away,” George said, putting the bottle of witch-hazel on the wooden bath surround. “You just rub it in . . .”

  She regarded the bottle, reached out a wet hand and picked it up. She read the label, frowning.

  “Thank you, George. You’re thoughtful. Now run away and tidy up, as you put it. I won’t be long.”

  George worked happily until Cora joined him. She was wearing Sydney’s dirty white dressing-gown.

  “You are a busy little bee, aren’t you?” she jeered, looking round the room, her eyebrows making question marks.

  He had put the old newspapers and empty beer bottles in one corner. He had wiped off all the sticky circles on the furniture and cleared up the mess in the fireplace. The dirty dishes he had taken into the kitchen. Already the room looked cleaner and brighter.

  George grinned sheepishly. “I like doing this,” he said. “I’d like a place of my own.”

  She sat in the armchair, lowering herself cautiously and with a little grimace. She lit a cigarette. “You’re a bit of a dope, aren’t you?” There was an unexpected note of kindness in her voice that George hadn’t heard before. He looked at her quickly, but she was regarding him with far-away, bored eyes, as if she were only half aware of his presence.

  “I say, Cora . . .” he began, and then hesitated.

  She glanced up sharply. “If you’re going to talk about last night, you’d better skip it. I’m in no mood to go over that business now.”

  George scratched his head, embarrassed. “Well, all right,” he said; “but hang it all, Cora, I think you ought to explain. I mean I—well, look at me. And then, you’ve been hurt, too. I think I ought to be told. What I mean to say is—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Cora said, shifting her body in the chair. “We’ll talk about that later. Suppose I was tight? No one’s going to leer at me all the evening without a come-back. And no one’s getting tough with me without damn well paying for it! Now, shut up, George!”

  Baffled, George’s gaze wandered round the room. Then he had an idea. “Where are your clothes, Cora?”

  “In the bedroom. Why?”

  “I’ll wash them for you. They’d look quite smart. I’m a bit of a dab at that kind of thing.”

  She lifted her shoulders helplessly, closed her eyes and didn’t say anything.

  He went into the bedroom and collected the sweater and slacks. He found an unopened packet of Lux in the kitchen and he shut himself in the bathroom.

  When he had hung the garments out of the back window to dry in the sun, he returned to the sitting-room. She was still there, a cigarette dangling from her lips, her eyes brooding.

  “I’ve got some hot water ready,” he said. “I’d like to wash your hair.”

  She giggled suddenly, explosively. “You’re crazy,” she said.

  George shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he said stubbornly. “I want you to look nice.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “You really are in love with me, aren’t you, George?”

  “Of course. You didn’t doubt that, did you?”

  She got to her feet and crossed over to him.

  “All right: wash my hair if you want to.”

  They went into the tiny bathroom together, and Cora sat on a stool before the wash-basin.

  “Have you ever washed any other girl’s head?” she asked, watching George with a thoughtful expression in her eyes.

  George wrapped a bath-towel round her shoulders. “No,” he said. “I’ve never wanted to before.”

  “So there were other girls?”

  He hesitated. “Well, no, there were no other girls,” he said. “You see, until you came along . . .”

  “I think you’re a bit potty.” she said, holding her head down. “Aren’t you, George? Just a little potty?”

  He poured water over her hair, then the shampoo. His hands felt her hard little skull. The water turned a muddy brown.

  “Dirty slut, aren’t I?” Cora said, with a sudden embarrassed laugh. “Does it put you off?”

  “Keep still,” George said. “I’ve nearly finished.” He experienced an overwhelming feeling of love and pity for her: a feeling that he imagined a mother must have for her child. “There. Now you can sit up. Come into the other room and sit in the sun. It’ll dry quickly in the sun.”

  When Cora was sitting by the window, George turned his attention to the room.

  “Maybe I could sell these newspapers for you,” he said.

  “You’re the giddy limit,” Cora returned, laughing. “Try if you want to. I’ve been too lazy to bother with them. There’s a sheeney across the way who buys junk. He keeps open on Sundays.”

  George nodded. “I’ll try him. There’s such a lot of rubbish here. You can hardly move for falling over it. And the bottles, too. Can I clear them all out?”

  “Go ahead, if it amuses you,” she said, regarding him with a puzzled expression in her eyes.

  It took George a long time to shift the rubbish, but it pleased him to do so. He made four journeys to the junk shop, and finally, hot and a little exhausted, he presented her with five shillings.

  “There!” he said. “A clear flat and five bob. It’s funny, isn’t it, that even rubbish is worth money?”

  She nodded. “You’re an awful dope, George,” she said. “Why don’t you think big? Look at the effort you’ve just made to get five bob. With that effort you could have made five pounds.”

  He thought about this seriously. “I don’t think so,” he said at last. “You see, no one can make five pounds quickly unless he has specialized knowledge. Even if it’s only backing a horse, you have to know the right horse to back. You can’t make money unless you’ve been properly trained.” He shrugged uneasily. “Perhaps that’s why I’ve never had any real money.”

  She flicked the cigarette-butt into the empty fireplace. “If I liked to go on the streets,” she said, “I could earn a hundred pounds a week. I don’t have to have specialized knowledge to do that.”

  “Why don’t you?” George asked, interested to hear what she would say.

  She smiled secretly. “Because it’s too easy.”

  “I wonder.”

  “All right. Because I’m too proud. I’ve got other ideas.”

  “I don’t understand how you two live. Does Sydney keep you?”

  “You’re curious, aren’t you?”

  George nodded. “I suppose I am. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t ask.”

  “We get along. We’ve been getting along like this for a hel
l of a time . . . getting nowhere.”

  George stood over her. “You can’t go on like this, Cora,” he said. “I can’t go on the way I’m going on now much longer. Couldn’t we get together? You and me might do well if we stuck together.”

  “Think so?” she said, looking out of the window. “Well, there’re things to do first. I’ve got other things on my mind . . . important things,” and her hands closed into tight little fists.

  She’s thinking about tonight, George decided uneasily. In his burst of activity he had forgotten about Crispin and the two Greeks. Instantly his old fears returned.

  “I say, Cora,” he said, moving over to the fireplace, “shouldn’t we leave bad alone? I mean there might be more trouble.” He glanced in the mirror at the plaster strips on his face. “They’re a pretty rough crowd.”

  “If you expect us to stick together,” Cora said slowly, “you’ll have to show a little more guts. I don’t like men without spine.” She stood up and, turning her back, she pulled her dressing-gown aside. “Take a look, George.”

  He had one momentary glimpse of the red and black marks on her white flesh before she jerked the dressing-gown into place: a sight that sickened him, angered him and embarrassed him.

  She faced him, her eyes probing and cold. “Well?”

  “Oh, Cora,” he said, going to her. He put his arms round her, but she was hard and resisting. She pushed him away.

  “Not now, George,” she said impatiently. “All that can come when this business is over.” She glanced up at him. “If you really care for me, you’re not going to let Crispin get away with this. You’ve talked a lot about what you did in the States. I want to see what you can do here. When I’ve seen that, I could be very nice to you.” Her eyes came alive for a moment. “Very nice to you,” she repeated.

  This was too important to George for any misunderstanding. He clutched her hands.

  “I’ll do anything for you, Cora,” he said, looking wildly into her eyes for her assurance. “If I do that, you will be nice to me? You will be really nice?” He wanted to say, “You’re promising to give yourself to me?” but he hadn’t the courage to come out with it as bluntly as that.

  She seemed to know what was in his mind, because she gave him an unmistakable look of promise.