More Deadly Than The Male (17 page)

This frantic appeal stiffened George's courage. He pushed her behind him and faced the two Greeks.

"Now, don't get excited," he said, his voice sounding as if he had a pebble in his mouth. "I'm sorry about this . . . she didn't know what she was doing . . ."

The blond man got to his feet. His face was white now with vicious rage. "Take care of this lout, Nick," he said. "Get the girl away from him "

George thought, desperately, furiously, They won't have her! They'll have to kill me first. If I'd only got my gun! He put his hand behind him and pushed Cora against the wall; he stood in front of her, crouching a little, his left fist extended, his right slightly across his body. Vaguely he remembered seeing James Cagney stand like this, protecting his girl. Cagney had faced a room full of thugs and he'd licked the lot! George eyed the two hard little men, who kept just out of his reach, like two terriers waiting for an opening to jump in. The blond man was still behind his table: he was wiping his face with a napkin.

The blond man suddenly laughed. "Fix the fat fool," he said sharply. "Go for him!"

The Greek called Nick edged closer, and George swung wildly at him. His great fist smashed into empty air, as the Greek shifted his head.

Cora screamed and clutched at George, hampering him

Then suddenly long, thin blades flashed in the shaded light. The sight of the glittering steel shocked George's courage into a frozen ball of terror.

Something flashed, and pain seared him.

They'll kill me! he thought, and like a wounded, terrified bull, he lashed out frantically.

A red curtain of terror hung before George's eyes. He heard Cora scream. Then he found himself on the floor, a rattling, groaning noise in his ears, and he realized that he was making the noise himself.

A solid weight dropped on his shoulders, pushing him flat on the dusty, smelly carpet. Nick knelt on his back.

"Don't move," the Greek said. "She'll be hack in a little while."

George lay still.

Then a sound came from somewhere in the building—a violent scream, which was immediately stifled, as if by a ruthless hand. Every nerve in George's body stiffened.

"Still!" Nick said, breathing garlic and wine fumes in George's face.

Slowly and cautiously George raised his head and looked round the room. The woman at the cash desk, the Hebrew behind the bar and the waiter were all staring at him.

George thought he heard another muffled scream, but he could not be sure. He looked at the others, but they showed no sign that they had heard anything. The woman at the cash desk curled a straggling lock of dyed hair round her fat finger. Her eyes were stony, blank.

What were they doing to Cora? George made a convulsive movement.

"Still!" the Greek warned, pressing a sharp knee into George's hack.

The silence in the room and in the building terrified George. Minutes ticked by slowly. It seemed to him that he had been lying on the dirty, evil-smelling carpet for hours.

Then suddenly the Greek got up. "Right," he said, and kicked George hard in the ribs. "Get up, you."

Somehow George crawled to his feet. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round his bleeding left hand. He swayed unsteadily as the other Greek appeared, pushing Cora through the concealed doorway.

Then somehow they were in the street together, in the darkness and the rain.

George stood gulping in the hot, damp air, unnerved, his limbs trembling.

"What happened?" he said. "What did they do to you?"

Cora, her arms tightly crossed, doubled herself up. Her long wave of hair fell forward, concealing her face. She stood like that for several minutes, and the rain poured down on her.

"Can't I do anything?" George said, forgetting about his own wounds, frightened to touch her, terrified by her behaviour. Her ragged, laboured breathing made a dreadful sound in the rain and the darkness.

She began to walk up and down the street, still doubled up, still holding onto herself.

"Cora! Tell me!" he said, following her. "What is it?"

They were near a street lamp now, and she suddenly straightened. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain. She looked wild. A hissing sound came from her lips, and he could see she was grinding her teeth.

"They crammed a pillow over my face," she gasped, "and then they flogged me with a cane!" She drew her saliva into a ball of fury and spat into the darkness. "They did that to
me!
I'll make them pay! I'll make him pay, too! The treacherous swine! He knew what they'd do! I'll kill them all for this! All of them!" And she began to cry with rage and pain, wriggling her body and stamping her feet.

George stood in the rain, helpless, watching her with dismayed, bewildered pity, the handkerchief round his hand growing soggy with blood.

Suddenly she grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into his muscles. "Don't look at me," she panted, standing first on one leg and then on the other. She contorted her body, arched her back, straightened and bent double again. "Damn You!" She broke away from him and went down the street, only to stop a yard or so farther on. She held her head between her hands and began to walk round in small circles. Then she came back to him and gripped his arm again. He could feel the fever in her, burning through his coat sleeve.

"Take me home," she cried, pulling at him "For God's sake, take me home. Pm hurt! I'm on fire! Don't stand there doing nothing, you stupid, stupid fool! Take me home!"

George never quite knew how they reached the little flat above the greengrocer's shop. He vaguely remembered stopping a taxi, but had no recollection of the actual drive. He remembered the long, painful climb up some stairs, and Cora hammering wildly on a door. He remembered, too, hearing Sydney shout, "All right, all right. I'm coming! Stop banging on that bloody door."

Then he had a dim recollection of Sydney, in a dirty white dressing-gown, staring at him in blank astonishment.

He took a step forward, and his knees gave under him He fell heavily. Before he blacked out he heard Cora scream: "You swine! You said he wouldn't touch me! Oh, I hate you! I hate you!" and then he lost consciousness.

He had no idea how long he remained unconscious. He must have drifted into a heavy sleep before coming round. But when he opened his eyes it was morning and he was lying on the floor, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He sat up slowly and looked round, not quite remembering where he was.

He was aware of pain, and found his hand had been expertly bandaged and sticking plaster covered the cuts on his face. He pushed the blanket aside and stood up. He didn't feel too bad. A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise not bad. He looked round the room with blank astonishment. It was a perfect pigsty of a room. The mantelpiece was thick with dust. The fireplace was full of cigarette ash and butts. A table, pushed against the wall, was piled with old newspapers, unwashed crockery and empty bottles. A dish containing some evil-smelling meat was under an armchair. On all the flat surfaces of the furniture were sticky circles made by wet tumblers. Two bluebottles buzzed angrily against the dirty windows.

"Hello," Sydney said quietly. "How's the bold warrior?"

George blinked at him. Sydney was standing in the doorway, dressed in the dirty white dressing-gown, his lean, hard face cold and expressionless.

"I must have fainted," George said, moving over to an armchair and sitting down. He examined his hand uneasily. "Did you do this?"

Sydney grunted. "Don't worry about that," he said casually. "I shoved a few stitches in it. It'll be all right."

"Stitches? You put stitches in it?"

"Why not? In my racket you get used to razor-cuts. Did you see what they did to Cora?"

"They beat her . . . didn't they?" George went cold. "They certainly did. Nice mob. They'll pay for this, George."

George held his head in his hands. "I don't understand," he said. "Why did she do it? She threw wine in his face."

"Never mind why she did it," Sydney said. "You're in love with her, aren't you?"

"Yes," George said, no longer caring what Sydney would say or do.

"That's fine," Sydney said, his eyes glowing like live coals. "I'm glad about that. You and me are going to fix Mr bloody Crispin."

"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 heating. 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 his feet. "All right," he said, "but I'm not loading the gun."

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 hit. 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 hack 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 hound 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.