More Deadly Than The Male (16 page)

Without pausing, Cora pushed open the door and went in. George followed her.

The room in which they found themselves was long and narrow. Tables lined each side of it, and vast mirrors, flyblown and yellowing with age, hung from the walls. Red- shaded lamps stood on each table.

A big woman, her hair straggling and untidy, as if someone had upset custard over her head, sat at the cash desk. Behind the bar near the door was a tall, elderly Hebrew in a dirty white coat. Two waiters stood idly at the end of the room. There were only a few people at the tables: bright-eyed women, hatless and bold; darkskinned men, immaculately dressed, middle-aged and wooden.

Cora sat down at a table with her hack to the wall. George, following her, felt the woman in the cash desk examining him closely. Somehow, he didn't quite know why, the atmosphere in this dimly lit, gaudy room made him uneasy.

He was aware, too, that the men at the tables paused in their eating and watched Cora furtively, under lowered eyelids: their eyes on her slim hips and the shameless movement under her woollen sweater.

She was wearing the same outfit, and the red bone bangle, as she had worn when they first met. Their meeting tonight wasn't at all how George had planned it to be. He had arrived at the pub at a few minutes to eight to find Cora already there. She was drinking a whisky and water, and she seemed peevish. Of course, he hadn't kissed her. Even if they had been in the bar on their own, he wouldn't have had the courage, now that he was once more face to face with her. He really marvelled that he had kissed her the other night. That had, of course, only happened because it had been dark.

As soon as Cora saw him she finished her whisky and came to meet him.

"Come on," she said shortly, without even a smile of greeting, "I'm hungry," and she walked right out of the pub without giving him even a second glance, and went off down the street.

George, bewildered and a little hurt, hurried after her. She kept on, a scowl on her face, and George followed her. He decided not to speak to her. He could not think of anything to say, anyway, that wouldn't irritate her, so he kept behind her until they reached this little Soho restaurant.

He had an uneasy presentiment that the evening wasn't going to be a success.

He sat down opposite her, his hack to the room. She looked past him at the waiter, a bent, elderly man who came over to them with a bored, tired look in his eyes.

George was about to ask her what she would like, but, still ignoring him, she said to the waiter, "Oysters, grilled steaks, salad and ice-cream. Two bottles of yin rouge: and let's have some service."

The waiter went away without saying anything, but by the way he flicked his soiled napkin, he managed to express his contempt for them.

Two bottles of wine! Oysters! My word! George thought, she knows what she wants all right.

Well, he couldn't just sit there and say nothing. He hadn't said a word since they met in the pub.

"It's lovely to see you again, Cora . . ." he began, wondering if he was going to set her off.

She seemed suddenly to realize that he was in the room.

"I'm bad tempered," she said, resting her chin on the back of her hand. "I'll be all right in a moment."

That's better, George thought. As if I didn't know she was in a temper. Well, so long as she admits it, she may get over it soon.

Feeling that he must add something to the meal—Cora ordering everything had rather deflated him—he beckoned a waiter and ordered two large dry martinis.

"Nothing like a cocktail to cheer you up," he said, smiling. "I've been in the dumps myself today."

She didn't say anything. He noticed she was staring across the room at a table in the far corner. There was an intent look of spite in her eyes.

Puzzled, George glanced at the man sitting at the table. He was a slender blond with a complexion like peaches and cream, and big, soft eyes like a deer. He was wearing apple- green trousers, very neat, with pleats at the waist; and his coat was fawn colour.

George turned to Cora. She wasn't looking at the blond man in the corner any longer, but at him. There was that odd expression in her eyes that made George feel like a strange exhibit in a zoo.

The waiter brought the two martinis.

"Here's how," George said. "I've been looking forward to this no end."

She glanced at him, and her lips smiled, but her eyes still remained sulky. They drank. George was surprised at the "kick" the martini had.

"These are jolly good, aren't they?" he went on, still too nervous to begin a real conversation.

"They're all right," she said, and again her eyes strayed to the blond man across the room.

This won't do at all, George thought. Why does she keep looking at that horror over the way? She couldn't he interested in that type, surely? Why, anyone with half an eye could see he was a cissy. Perhaps she was just bored. Anyway, he couldn't let her attention wander like this.

"I've been worrying about you," he said leaning towards her. "Did you get into trouble for staying out all night?"

"Trouble?" Her eyebrows went up. "You talk as if I'm a child. I can stay out all night if I want to."

Baffled, George sipped his martini. Not quite the same idea that Sydney had conveyed. He glanced at her thoughtfully.

"From what Sydney said . . ."

George was sure she was lying, but there was no point in telling her so.

"Well, I worried because I wondered if I should have kept 'phoning. I didn't want to get you into trouble."

"I wish you wouldn't keep 'phoning," she said shortly. "Old Harris doesn't like it."

Before he could say anything further, the waiter brought the oysters. When he had gone, George Muttered, "I wanted to speak to you. You said it was all right to 'phone."

"Oh, don't nag!" she said sharply, and forked an oyster into her mouth.

There was no doubt she was in a foul temper. Or was she nervous about something? George studied her. She did look tired and jumpy. There was also an uneasy expression in her eyes.

"What are you staring at?" she demanded, looking up and catching his eyes on her face.

"You," George said simply. He felt an overwhelming love for her suddenly well up inside him "What's wrong, Cora? Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Wrong, what should be wrong?"

"You look nervous . . ."

"Do I?" she suddenly laughed. "I'm in a foul temper, that's all."

He could see the tremendous effort she was making to sound natural. It began to worry him There was something on her mind:something she was anxious that he should know nothing about.

"I got up late," she went on. "Everything's gone wrong today." She finished her cocktail just as the waiter came with the two bottles of wine. He drew the corks and filled their glasses. "I feel like getting tight tonight," she went on.

George was still not satisfied. "Are you sure there isn't something else?"

"Of course not!" she said, the waspish note hack in her voice. "It's just that it's been a hell of a day, and I'm tired."

"Well, never mind," George said, certain now that there was something on her mind. "The wine will make you feel better."

And he began to talk to her about the only subject he was really competent to talk about—crime in America. He didn't want to talk to her about that. He would much rather have talked of his love for her, and even to confide in her that all his stories of violence and adventure were figments of his imagination, and that he was only a simple type of fellow, but very much in love with her. But she was so unsympathetic and hard and nervous that he knew it would be inviting disaster to be sentimental. So he told her more fictitious stories of his adventures in America. He had been reading a lot lately, and was well primed with material. She seemed to welcome these stories, probably because she didn't wish to talk herself. While he talked, she smoked incessantly. The ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, smeared with lipstick. She had scarcely touched her meal, but she had drunk a good deal of the sour red wine. When George asked her if she felt all right, as she had made such a poor dinner, she said abruptly that it was too hot to eat. Remembering that the first words she had greeted him with were, "Come on, I'm hungry", George shrugged hopelessly. Her moods defeated him. 

But she listened to his tales of crime, sitting still, with her chin in her cupped hands, her eyes expressionless.

George soon became engrossed in his own stories, and when the lights in the restaurant began to go out, he realized with a start of surprise that it was half past eleven and he was a little drunk. The restaurant was empty now, except for the blond man at the table opposite, the Hebrew barman, the fat woman at the desk and the waiter who had looked after them.

"We'd better be going, I suppose," he said regretfully. "I'm afraid I've been doing all the talking again. I hope I —haven't bored you."

Cora shook her head. Her face was flushed by the wine, and when she spoke, the sickly smell of the wine was on her breath. "I wanted you to talk," she said. Then she looked again at the blond man at the table across the room. George suddenly realized that all the time he had been talking to her she had been casting glances in this man's direction.

He couldn't resist saying, "Do you know that man?"

She looked through him, her eyes drawn curtains, "That isn't rain, is it?"

George frowned. "I hope not." He glanced over his shoulder Rain marks showed on the windows. "It Is, I' m afraid. Aren't we unlucky? It always rains for us."

"Oh, damn! I hope we can get a cab." 

George signalled to the waiter, who brought the bill. It was for twenty-five shillings. Cheap, and jolly good, George thought. We must come here again. Only perhaps she'll be less worried and jumpy next time. He had to admit that the evening hadn't been a success. Cora had behaved—was behaving now—like someone awaiting a major operation. She had not been concentrating, and George was prepared to swear that she couldn't have repeated to him anything of what he had said to her during the whole evening. Her eyes were never still, and she continually moistened her lips with her tongue. She had all the symptoms of acute nervousness.

George waved away the change which the waiter brought him "Shall we go, or shall we wait a hit?" he asked Cora.

"We're closed now," the waiter said as he moved away.

"Oh, well," George said, pushing hack his chair, "I suppose we'd better go, then."

Cora drew a deep breath and got to her feet. George was surprised to see that she swayed unsteadily. It dawned on him that he was feeling comfortably tight. The martinis and the two bottles of wine had found their way to his head. He grinned a little foolishly. They certainly seemed to have found their way to Cora's legs.

"Steady," he said, taking her arm; "careful how you go."

She pushed him away. "Shut up, you fool!" she said in a low, furious whisper. Her eyes blazed, and George was so astounded by her vehemence that he gaped at her. She lurched unsteadily down the aisle between the tables, and he heard her muttering furiously to herself. The sudden change in her mood stupefied him. She had seemed sober enough while she had been at the table, but now she seemed as tight as a tick.

What was she up to now? What was she doing at the blond man's table? George stood watching her, unable to make up his mind to follow her. She had paused, her arms folded across her breasts, facing the blond man, who looked at her with curious, bored eyes.

"Well?" she said loudly. "You'll know me again, won't you?"

The blond man eyed her up and down and looked away, a sneering little smile on his face.

"You heard what I said, you cheap masher," Cora went on, her voice high pitched. "You've been trying to make me all the evening!"

George wanted to sink through the floor. How could she behave like this? Had she suddenly gone mad?

The blond man flicked his cigarette ash on the carpet. He continued to smile, but he was regarding Cora now with a frozen look in his eyes.

"Run away, little girl," he said, "or I shall get annoyed with you."

"Keep your filthy eyes off me in the future!" Cora suddenly screamed, and, leaning forward, she spat a stream of obscene vituperation at him.

Although George was shocked into a stupefied immobility, he was aware that the woman with the blonde hair, the Hebrew behind the bar and the waiter were standing tense and angry, looking at Cora.

The blond man ceased to smile. "You're drunk," he said. "Get out before I have you thrown out!"

Cora snatched up a glass of wine that the blond man had scarcely touched, and with one swift movement threw the wine in his face.

Somewhere in the building a bell began to ring. George was conscious of the bell more than he was conscious of the stillness of the blonde woman, the Hebrew and the waiter, although they were menacing enough. He was more scared of the hell than he was of the blond man, who sat staring at Cora, wine running down his face into his shirt and coat. 

Then a concealed door half way down the room opened, and two men came into the restaurant. They looked like Greeks—hard little men with flat, squashed features, dressed in black, with black cloth caps on their bullet heads.

The blond man said in a drawling voice, "Well, you'll certainly pay for that, you drunken bitch."

George rushed to Cora's side. He was sick with fright, but he wasn't going to let anything happen to her.

"Cora!" he said, taking her arm. "My God! Cora!"

He could feel her trembling, and he realized that she was as terrified as he was.

"Don't let them do anything to me!" she said wildly, clinging to him "George! Get me out of here. Don't let them touch me!"