More Deadly Than The Male (26 page)

She was instantly on her feet.

"How dare you!" she stormed at him. "You cheap, rotten—"

He smacked her again. This time he hit her hard, knocking her onto the divan.

He stood over her. "I don't like doing this, Cora," he said, breathing heavily, "but it's the only way I can show you I've changed. From now on I'm master, do you understand?"

She leaned back on her elbows, one side of her face red, the other side like wax. Then she giggled.

"You?" she sneered. "You haven't the guts of a rabbit."

Confident in his new-found courage and strength, George merely shrugged. He took out a cigarette, found a match, flicked it alight with his thumb nail. He lit the cigarette and forced a stream of smoke down his nostrils.

"Killing a man makes a lot of difference," he said shortly. "You may as well get used to the idea, Cora."

"We'll see," she said, twisting her hands in her lap. "We'll see how brave you are, George my pet. You're big enough to knock me about, but we'll see what you're like against them."

"Yes," George said, and he crossed the room and sat down in the armchair.

"I wonder why they let you come here," she went on, looking towards the window. "I should've thought it'd've been easier for them to have killed you in the darkness."

George stiffened. "Kill me?" he said. "You mean they're out there in the alley?"

"Nick is. I saw him not half an hour ago. Poncho, his brother, is round the hack." She ran her fingers through her hair, and he knew at once why it looked so untidy. She must have been doing that for the past half hour.

"It's silly, isn't it? But I'm scared stiff," she went on. Her flash of temper had been short-lived. He could see she was sick with panic. "When I get frightened my tummy turns to water."

"Here, have a cigarette," George said, going over to her. "I won't let them hurt you."

She lit the cigarette. "I don't fancy going out there," she said, trying to control herself. "Nick's hot stuff with a razor." She shivered.

"Can they get in?" George asked.

She looked up sharply. "I suppose so. They could break a window if they really wanted to get in, couldn't they?" Her inside rumbled loudly and she giggled. "Collywobbles," she said. "I'm a yellow little hitch, aren't I?" And she squeezed her stomach with her crossed arms and scowled down at her feet. "I saw him this afternoon, all tucked up in a coffin. He looked filthy. I hope I don't look like that when I'm dead." A sob jerked in her throat. "I was terribly, terribly fond of him, George, although he was such a rotten bastard."

"I saw him, too," George said, not looking at her.

She sat for a little while as if she hadn't heard, then she said, "You're not such a fool, are you, George? They must have pushed him in front of the train. He was running away from me." She flicked ash onto the carpet and rubbed it in with her foot. "And I loved him so. I never thought he'd do that to me. He wouldn't let me touch the money. And I had helped him. If I hadn't 've helped him he'd 've never got the money. He never gave me a penny of it: not a damn penny. And as soon as he was sure they weren't after him, he skipped. He took the money and left me without even a word." She beat her clenched fists together. "After all I've done for him!"

George crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. He felt a little sick.

A cheap clock ticked excitedly on the mantelpiece. The distant traffic rumbled up the High Street.

"I told him he was playing with fire," she went on, after a pause, "but he wouldn't listen. He thought he was smart. Over and over again I told him they wouldn't stand for it. He never did think they had any brains. He was so pleased with his plan—his stupid, silly little plan. What a fool I've been! I should never have listened to him. But he was mad. I know he was mad. After Crispin burnt him, he was never the same. He brooded all day and half the night; looking at himself in the mirror, his hand to his face, planning revenge. I warned him, I told him it wouldn't succeed. But he wouldn't listen. And now he's dead." She got up and wandered round the room. "And I'll be dead, too, before very long. They won't rest until they've killed me, and they won't rest until they've killed you."

While she had been talking, George had been looking round the sordid little room, his mind listening to her words, his eyes unconsciously seeing the various articles in the room. He found himself looking at a cheap fabric suitcase; from it was hanging a luggage tag, and on the tag, printed in bold letters, was the name
Cora Nichols
.

It only wanted that to confirm his suspicions. Very quietly, suppressing the sick dismay that rose inside him, he said, "Then you're not his sister?"

"Sister?" she said bitterly. "Do I look like anyone's sister? I wasn't even his wife."

George shivered. So all the time he had been dreaming about Cora, all the time she had promised to be very nice to him, she had been sleeping with Sydney.

"I see," he said, clenching his fists. "Well, that accounts for it, I suppose."

"I loved him!" Cora exclaimed, "and he treated me like a dog. I love him still. If he came back to me this very moment, I'd forgive him. I'd forgive him taking the money; I'd forgive him leaving me without a word, if only he'd come hack." She sat down, holding her head in her hands, her eyes like holes cut in a sheet.

"Who was he?" George asked, after a long pause.

"Sydney?" Cora said. "Who was he? A cheap thief. That's who he was. He stole cars for Crispin. Then one day he found a car with a case of jewellery in the back. He turned the car over to Crispin, but kept the jewellery. He thought he was being smart. The things he promised me when he had sold the jewellery! And then he was stupid enough to try to sell them to the fence who worked for Crispin. That's how smart he was! And the Greeks came after him. They got him in the end, and they took him down to Copthorne, and Crispin put a mark on his face. He said if he ever saw him again, he'd mark him again." She went back to the divan and sat down. "They didn't know about me, so I was the one to watch them. Sydney kept out of the way. That's why he took up selling those silly hooks. He had to earn money somehow, and he had to keep out of the West End. I fooled them all right. I found out that the fence was going down to Copthorne with seven hundred pounds to buy a collection of stuff from the various cars Crispin had stolen. So Sydney made his plans."

George listened grimly to all this. "Well, go on," he said bitterly. "When he met me he decided I was to be the stooge?"

"Yes," Cora said listlessly. "He saw his chance to kill Crispin and pin it onto you. I believed in him because I loved him, but I knew it wouldn't come off. I knew they'd be too smart for him. But he wouldn't listen."

"It meant nothing to you that I should be trapped into killing a man? You didn't care what happened to me, did you?"

She frowned. "Why should I? You meant nothing to me."

George flinched; then, stung to anger by her brutal callousness, he said furiously, "Well, I'm going to mean something to you now! And the sooner you realize it the better!"

But she wasn't 'listening "Did you hear?" she said, a white ring suddenly appearing round her lips.

Somewhere in the building came the faint tinkle of breaking glass.

"They're getting impatient," she said, and ran her fingers through her hair. "I hope I don't start screaming, George. I'm in an awful funk."

George sprang to his feet. "Barricade the door," he said, his voice quivering with excitement. "We ought to have thought of that before. Help me with the cupboard."

She did not move.

Without waiting for her, he pulled the cupboard towards him and began to drag it across the room. It was heavy, but with a tremendous effort he managed to wedge it against the door.

She giggled. "Not unless they've got wings," she said. "You are a scream, George. Why don't you go down and kill them, like you killed Wineinger, Barrow and Banghart?"

He stared at her, not understanding for a moment what she was saying. Then he flinched. He had forgotten about Wineinger, Clyde Barrow and Gustave Banghart. It seemed a long time, another age, since Cora and he had sat in that restaurant together and he had told her all those stupid lies.

"I thought you liked tough spots," she went on, watching him with frightened, jeering eyes. "I thought you were out for excitement, and you didn't care which side you were on, so long as you got into a scrap." Her inside rumbled again. "Well, there's a juicy scrap waiting for you downstairs. Why don't you get into it? You're not scared of two little Greeks and a fat old woman, are you?"

"Stop it!" George said, sharply. "I was lying. You may as well know now. I've never been to the States. I've never seen a gangster. I was a fool. A vain, stupid fool."

She beat her fists together. "Poor old George: as if we didn't know. It was easy, George: easy as falling off a log. As soon as you started bragging, Sydney saw how he could use you. Pretend you love him, he said to me, and he's ours."

George couldn't look at her. He wanted to hate her, but shame and desire seemed to be his only emotions.

She was listening again. Her eyes darted like those of a frightened animal.

The stairs creaked outside as someone moved cautiously up them.

"It's Poncho," she whispered, bending forward. "He's got in from the hack."

George started up. The heavy Luger humped against his hip. He had forgotten the gun. Instantly he had it in his hand, and he thumbed back the safety catch.

"I'll kill him if he tries to get in here," he muttered.

"They'll be sure of you if they know you have a gun," she said, watching him intently. "They'll know for certain you killed—"

"Shut up!" he said. "I don't care. They know enough as it is." He faced the door, waiting.

There was a long pause, then they heard the handle of the door turn. The door opened an inch or so and then stopped, blocked by the cupboard.

George raised the Luger. His hand was steady. He pressed the trigger, lifting the cartridge from the magazine into the breech. Then he waited, tense, sweating.

There was another long, ghastly pause. Cora was holding her head between her hands, her mouth was open, and her smeared lips formed a soundless scream. Someone outside was breathing softly, making a faint, whistling sound. Then footsteps went away. The stairs creaked. Once more there was silence except for the hum of distant traffic along the High Street and the excited ticking of the clock.

"He's gone," George whispered, lowering the gun.

Cora lit another cigarette. "Not far. They're used to waiting."

"Let them wait," George said. "We'll see who gets sick of waiting."

She lay back across the divan. "I didn't think you had the nerve," she said, a new note in her voice. "You looked fine standing up to him."

George scarcely heard her. He was staring up at the ceiling. "We could get out that way," he said. "You can't live here any more, Cora. We'll have to find some place where they'll never find us."

"We?" she said, rolling over on her stomach and looking at him. "So you're not going to desert me?"

"Did you think I would? I may be a fool, but I love you. I don't know why, because you've always been rotten to me. But I love you, and I'm going to look after you."

She held up her hand. "What's that?" she asked, her eyes dilating. He listened. A murmur of voices floated up from the alley: whispering, hushed voices of people in church. He went over to the window, and without moving the blind, he listened. He heard a woman's voice and then a mutter of men's voices.

"Turn out the light," he said. "It's Emily "

Cora stiffened; she remained where she was. She heat on the pillow with her clenched fists. 

George crossed the room and snapped off the light. Then he returned to the window and cautiously lifted the curtain.

The moon was rising above the roofs of the buildings, and part of the alley was no longer in darkness. Immediately below him he could see Emily, Max and Nick. They were standing before the front door. As he watched them he heard a bolt slam back and heard the front door open Emily said something, and then they all entered and the front door closed.

As George put on the light again, they could hear footsteps moving about in the garage below. They made no attempt to conceal their presence now. They talked. They opened and shut doors. Once Nick laughed. The noise they made was more menacing than their previous stealth. They were confident that they would be undisturbed, and that they had George and Cora in a trap.

"We've got to get out," George said. "They're up to something. We can't stay here any longer."

Cora sat up. She was shivering, and she chewed her knuckles until one of them bled.

George went over to the window and opened it. He leaned out. The gutter above him was out of reach; the ground below was too far away. There was no escape through the window. He turned and looked up at the ceiling.

Footsteps came up the stairs and along the passage. The door handle turned and the door was opened until it was stopped by the cupboard. There was a fumbling sound at the door that sent a cold shiver of excitement down George's spine. He sprang across to the fireplace and snatched up a poker. Then he climbed up on the table and began to hack at the plaster of the ceiling.

"Turn it on," Nick's voice called.

A hissing sound filled the room.

Cora screamed.

The sharp point of the poker sank into the plaster, and a large part of the ceiling came down with a crash. George was choked with fine white dust, and almost blinded. He went on hacking at the ceiling, tearing at the wooden laths with his hands.

A strong smell of gas filled the room. So that was what they were up to, he thought, not pausing in his efforts to make a hole in the ceiling. Well, they were too late. The window was open, and it would not he possible to build up a strong enough concentration of gas to suffocate them. But suppose they set the place on fire? It'd go up like a powder barrel!