More Deadly Than The Male (22 page)

He floundered in a pit of doubt, turning the facts over in his mind. Then he remembered something she had said to Sydney when they had returned to the flat, just before he had fainted, "You said he wouldn't touch me!" He remembered, too, how nervous she had been, and that after she had thrown the wine in Crispin's face she had begged him not to let Crispin touch her. It looked as if Sydney had also double- crossed Cora. He had trapped her into picking a fight with Crispin, assuring her that she would come to no harm.

The more George thought about it, the calmer he became. It was an utterly fantastic story, but he felt confident that if he kept his head and explained everything very carefully, and in its proper sequence, the police would believe him.

The face of Little Ernie suddenly swam into his mind, blotting out the vision of hope he had so carefully constructed.

Cora had practically told Little Ernie that George was going to get even with Crispin.

"I had a little fun," she had said. "Crispin's share is on ice at the moment, isn't it, George?"

And Little Ernie had looked uneasy. He would remember the conversation, and when he heard about Crispin's death, he would go to the police.

George began to sweat again. What would the police say after they had listened to Little Ernie? And then he thought of the whip. What had happened to the whip? Cora had been diabolically clever in the way she had persuaded him to buy the whip. So much for her promises. Well, he would know another time—if there was another time. If the police found the whip, they would trace it to him. The old Jew would remember him. He had been so anxious to get Cora back to the flat that he had behaved like a madman. He put his hand to the strips of plaster on his face. The Jew would remember those strips. How easy it would be for the police to spot him! The Jew would give the police a full description of him It would tally with the description that Little Ernie would give them. No one had seen Cora. She had kept away from the shop. The whip had been left in the bungalow. It was an obvious clue. He hadn't even removed the price ticket. It wouldn't take them more than a few hours to trace it, and then his description would be in the newspapers.

He lay back in bed, his throat dry and his heart pounding. He felt he could explain everything except the whip. It proved that he was planning revenge. Without the whip it would be Little Ernie's word against his.

What a fool he had been! Why hadn't he taken the whip with him? Why had he run out of the bungalow and pounded down the lane without making sure that he had left no fingerprints or anything that could incriminate him? 

He stumbled out of bed and stood trembling on the cold linoleum. This wouldn't do, he thought, wringing his hands, and he crushed down his fear. It was twenty minutes to seven. Ella would be in with his tea in a little while. He mustn't let her suspect that there was anything wrong. She must find him as she always found him, sleepy and in bed. When she had gone he would get dressed and take a train to Three Bridges, which was the nearest station to Copthorne. It wasn't likely that anyone would discover Crispin's body for some time. With luck, no one ever went to the bungalow except Crispin. He would have to be very careful, of course. He thought of the
Child's Self-Educator.
He could pretend that he thought there was a child in the bungalow, and he would go up to the door and ring the bell. If no one answered, he would break in and get the whip.

He became calm again. It was all right so long as you kept your head and used your brain. Once he had the whip he could go to the police and explain everything, but it wouldn't be safe until he had it.

A soft scratching at the door startled him; then his face softened. He opened the door and let Leo in. He got hack into bed, and the cat jumped up and settled down close to him. It began to purr.

George stroked its long hair. "You're all I've got, Leo," he said softly. "There's no one else, and even you can't help me."

The regular, contented noise the cat made soothed him. Very gently, he stroked the top of its head, and it stretched out a paw and touched his face, as if understanding that he was alone, in need of affection and sympathy.

Later, Ella came in. She put down the cup of tea and walked across the room to pull up the blind.

When she saw his face, she gave a little scream. "Why, Mr George," she said in horror. "What have you done to your poor face?"

"I got into a razor fight," George said after a moment's hesitation. "That's why I stayed out last night. They're only scratches, Ella. Don't look so frightened."

She continued to gape at him. "A razor fight?" she repeated. "Oh, Mr George!"

"It's nothing," he said carelessly. "I've been in tighter jams before. Mark you, I did have an anxious moment, but I taught the fellow a lesson."

"How did it happen?" Ella asked. "Who was he?"

"Be a good girl and don't ask questions," George returned, suddenly cautious. "Promise me you won't tell anyone. The fellow got hurt, and I don't want to get into trouble. Mind you, he started it, but I did give him a terrific hiding. Now don't ask any more questions, and if anyone asks if I was in last night, will you say I was?"

Ella, her eyes like marbles, promised.

"You're a good sort, Ella," George said. "I think I'll go out and get something for my head. It aches like mad. The chemist will be open by the time I get dressed."

Obviously Ella wanted to hear more details, but George seemed so ill and worried that she felt a sudden pity for him.

"Shall I put on your bath, Mr George?" she asked.

"No, I won't wait," he said quickly. "I want to fix this head."

As soon as she had gone, he got up and had a quick, uncertain shave. It was difficult, with the plaster in the way, but he managed somehow. He dressed and gave Leo some milk

"I'll have to get you some food tonight, old chap," he said, rubbing the cat's head. "I've been pretty busy, but I'll bring you something nice tonight."

He picked up his book specimens, slipped them into his pocket, and was ready to go.

He reached Victoria Station a few minutes past eight-thirty. There was a local train that stopped at Three Bridges, due out at eight-forty. He had just time to buy a paper and his ticket before the train left.

He got a corner seat facing the engine, lit a cigarette, and glanced quickly at the other two occupants of the carriage. They did not even glance at him as they settled in their corners.

He searched the newspaper for any hint that Crispin's body had been found, but he found nothing to alarm him. A tiny paragraph tucked away at the back of the paper gave him pause. A green Ford coupe had been stolen from outside a doctor's house the previous afternoon and so far had not been traced.

So the car had been stolen. Was there no end to the wickedness of these two? They were so callous and calm about everything. Why, driving down to Copthorne, they might easily have been arrested for being in possession of a stolen car, and the loaded gun would have been found. George gritted his teeth. They would all have gone to prison.

He folded the newspaper and put it in his pocket. As he did so, he wondered what Sydney and Cora were doing at this precise moment. They were probably in bed and asleep, secure in mind that they had safely fastened the murder on to him. Or perhaps they had decided to pack up and leave London. With all that money they could go anywhere. Whatever happened to him, George thought grimly, they wouldn't get away with this. If they were still at the flat, he would go and see them. He would have it out with them: threaten them with the police. 

The train began to slow down, and finally pulled into Three Bridges station. He began the long walk to Copthorne. It was a perfect summer morning, the sun was not too hot, the country looked fresh and green.

One or two cars passed him, but he was nervous of asking for a lift. He didn't want anyone to remember him. He had been careful to put on a pair of flannel slacks, a sports shirt and an old tweed jacket. He looked like a City clerk on holiday.

Eventually he arrived at the turning that led to the bungalow. He paused at the top of the lane, listening and watching. Nothing aroused his suspicions. Taking out his book specimens and holding them in his hand, he walked down the lane.

As he approached the bungalow he became nervous and on edge. It was lonely in this country lane. The bungalow seemed to be the only building within sight. The only sounds that came to him were the rustling of leaves in the wind and the twittering of the birds. It was not an atmosphere that should have created fear, but by the time he had reached the wooden gate that led to the bungalow he was terrified.

He paused outside the gate and looked up and down the lane, screwing up his courage to go on.

Suppose the police were waiting for him? Suppose this silent, overgrown garden concealed a trap?

He struggled with his fears. He had to get the whip. It was worth any risk. He would he all right if he kept his head and showed them his book specimens. He would say that he had wanted a day in the country and was canvassing to make his expenses. That was a straightforward story. They would believe him. It wasn't as if he looked like a murderer.

He drew a deep breath and pushed open the gate. It squeaked sharply, setting his teeth on edge. Again he had a powerful urge to turn back, but he forced himself on. 

Cautiously, he moved up the overgrown path. In the shelter of the trees and high hedges, the garden was silent and close. The scent of clover and wallflowers was heavy in the still air.

He reached the bungalow and rapped on the door. Sweat ran down his face as he stood in the hot, sheltered porch, listening, his nerves slowly tightening

And as he stood there, a thought crept into his mind that drove the blood from his heart. Suppose Crispin answered the door? Suppose he got up from the floor and opened the door and stood before George with blood on his dressing-gown?

George hacked away, his mouth open in an idiotic grimace of terror.

He couldn't even run away. He stood paralyzed, waiting. Nothing happened.

He fought down the panic that had seized him, conquered it and returned to the door. He rapped again.

There was no one in the bungalow except Crispin: and Crispin was dead.

George put an unsteady hand on the door-latch, lifted it and pushed upon the door. He braced himself and peered into the room. Then breath whistled between his clenched teeth, and blackness dropped like a curtain before his eyes.

He clung to the doorpost and waited. Evil-tasting bile rose in his mouth; he wanted to be sick.

Except for the furniture, the room was empty. George's heart began slowly to pump blood back to his brain. It was some minutes before he could move again. Then he stepped into the room and stared with unbelieving eyes at the carpet where Crispin had fallen. There was no sign of murder in the room. Fearfully, George looked for the red mess on the wall. That was not there either. Was he going out of his mind? Had all the fantasies of violence that he had created in the past brought him to this? Were Sydney, Cora, Crispin and all the other nightmare people mere figments of a deranged imagination? Was it possible that the murder had happened only in his mind? He looked wildly round the room, and then he stiffened.

He edged forward and picked it up. He stood for several minutes gazing at it, aware that it was the symbol of his sanity.

Then, in the hush of the lonely room, above the drone of the bees and the rustle of the hollyhocks against the window, he heard voices.

Still grasping the whip, he stepped to the door and listened. A man was speaking some way off in the garden behind the bungalow.

Moving silently, in blind panic, George slipped out of the house, crossed the path and sank down on his knees under the overhanging hedge. He found a dry ditch that ran along the side of the garden, and cautiously lowered himself into it. He adjusted the leaves of the hedge so that they formed a screen over him.

He found that he had a good view of the bungalow, and he was confident that he could not be seen. He waited, his hand gripping the whip, his heart fluttering against his side. He heard the sound of feet moving through the long grass. Then round the corner of the bungalow came four people: the Hebrew barman, the two Greeks and the woman with the blonde, untidy hair.

The Hebrew wore a double-breasted, navy-blue suit, shiny at the elbows and knees; on his head was a howler hat. The woman had on a shapeless cotton dress; its pattern of flowers had faded with constant washing. Her thick legs were hare, and blue-black veins crawled up the backs of her calves. Her feet were squeezed into a pair of high-heeled court shoes. The two Greeks were in their black suits and cloth caps. They carried spades on their shoulders, and their boots were heavy with yellow clay.

A cigarette dangled from the blonde woman's lips. Her fat, loose face was expressionless, but the Hebrew was weeping. He did not make a fuss about his grief. Tears welled out of his eyes and ran down the wrinkles in his leathery skin. He made no attempt to wipe them away.

The woman looked at the bungalow, her eyes bleak. "Was he expecting anyone?" she asked.

The Hebrew lifted his shoulders in despair. "I know nothing," he said. "He didn't confide in me. I told him it was dangerous to have a lonely place like this. I told him many times."

The woman sat down abruptly on the grass. She was only a few yards from where George was hiding. She plucked a long piece of coarse grass and began to chew it.