James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

He thought it odd that she should take him straight up to her bedroom. He had never seen such a beautiful room. But before he could appreciate it, the refined lady seemed to take leave of her senses. George never quite knew how he got out of the house. It was like a nightmare, and he dreamed for many years about running down long passages and opening and shutting many doors with someone screaming names after him as he ran.

That experience kept cropping up at the back of his mind when he had anything to do with women. He never quite got over it. It made him shy and suspicious of women. Of course, sometimes he needed a woman, but his need was not as strong as his nervousness, so he never did anything about it. Once or twice, when he had been a little tight, he had ventured as far as Maddox Street. But the waiting women he found there seemed so unlike any other women he had seen that he had abruptly turned back and caught a bus home.

Now, in the solitude of the bathroom, he only felt the excitement and not the fright that women raised in him.

It was after four o’clock before he left the house. In high spirits he walked briskly down the street. It was a grand afternoon, and he found a secret pleasure in mingling with the crowds moving along the Edgware Road. He was now one of the crowd; he had somewhere to go, someone to meet. It gave him a feeling of security and confidence. He must do this more often, he told himself. It was absurd to bury himself away in his bedroom as he had been doing.

Mortimer Street consisted of a row of small shops, three or four hawkers’ barrows and a public house. George had to walk the length of the street before he discovered Joe’s Club. It was over a second-hand bookshop. The open door revealed a flight of uncarpeted stairs that rose steeply into darkness, and through the doorway cane the smell of stale scent, spirits and tobacco smoke.

He hesitated for several minutes before climbing the stairs. Finally he went up, his hand on the rickety banister, his feet treading cautiously, the stairs creaking under his weight.

There was a dimly lit passage at the top of the stairs, and at the end of the passage there was a door on which was a dirty card with “Joe’s Club” printed in uneven, illiterate letters.

George turned the door knob and pushed open the door. He found himself in a long, narrow room, which, he guessed, must stretch the width of the two shops below. At the far end of the room was a bar. Rows of bottles stood on shelves within reach of the bartender’s hands. All round the room stood tables on which chairs were stacked, their legs pointing to the dirty, grey-white ceiling. Opposite the bar, at the other end of the room, was a dais containing a piano, three battered music stands and a drummer’s outfit. The walls of the room were covered with large reproductions of nudes from La Vie Parisie nne a nd Es quire. A public telephone box stood just inside the door.

“The joint’s closed,” a man’s voice said at his elbow.

George jumped. He looked round, took a step back and stared at the little man who had come silently into the room. His flat, broad face was unpleasant; his complexion was shiny white, the texture of a slug’s body. Reddish hair like steel wool grew far back on his head and gave him a great deal of domed white forehead. His small, hitter, green eyes probed at George inquisitively.

“Besides, you’re not a member,” the little man went on. His voice seemed to come from the back of his throat, like that of a ventriloquist. His bloodless lips hung open, but did not move as he spoke.

“Yes,” George said. “I know.” He fingered his tie uneasily. “I really came to leave a message…”

“Why should I bother with messages?” the little man asked curtly. “Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do?”

That settled it, George thought, delighted. He would have to wait for Brant’s sister. You couldn’t rely on this nasty little specimen to pass on any message.

“All right,” he said, shrugging. “Perhaps you can tell me when Miss Brant will be here? I’ll tell her myself.”

“Who?” asked the little man “Miss Brant? Never ’eard of ’er.”

“Never mind,” George said firmly. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come back later.”

The green eyes probed his face.

“Do you mean Cora?”

George was startled. “Yes,” he said. “Miss Cora Brant.”

A sly, sneering smile came into the green eyes.

“Gawd Almighty! We’re putting on side, ain’t we?” the little man said. “Okay, palsy, leave your message. I’ll take care of it.”

George’s growing dislike for the little man suddenly turned to suspicion. He looked a real had lot: a shady character: a gangster. He could have been anything—a racing tout with a razor, a pimp with a knife

Abruptly he turned to the door. “I’ll see her,” he said shortly. “Don’t you bother.”

He went downstairs. The little man watched him all the way down. As he reached the street door, the little man called after him, “Now wait. Don’t be so ’asty,” but George did not stop. He walked rapidly away, his face hot and red.

At the end of the street he paused and tried to make up his mind what he was to do. Obviously the club wouldn’t open until the evening. But what time in the evening? He’d have to find that out. He crossed the road and entered a shabby little tobacconist’s. He bought a packet of Player’s, and as he was waiting for his change he asked, “When does Joe’s Club open?”

The old woman who had served him shook her head. “You want to keep away from that place,” she said. “No good’s ever come out of it.”

George opened the packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Oh?” he said, feeling a stab of excitement. “What do you know about it?”

“Enough,” the old woman answered shortly, and put the odd coppers on the counter.

George lowered his voice, “I’m interested,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me.”

“A den of thieves,” the old woman said, her thin, yellow face creasing in disgust. “The police ought to lave closed it down long ago. I wish I was the mother of some of those little sluts ’oo go there: I’d warm their backsides for ’em!”

“I’m supposed to meet someone there,” George said, looking at her a little helplessly. “I don’t want to get mixed up in anything. Who’s the little bloke with the red hair?”

“You’ll get mixed up all right,” the old woman said contemptuously. “You keep away from that ’ole.”

“Thanks for the tip,” George returned, smiling at her. “But who is the little bloke with the red hair?”

“That’s Little Ernie; everyone knows ’im and his women.”

“What time does the Club open?” George asked again.

“Seven, and take my advice, keep clear of the place. They might take you for a copper, like I nearly did.” The old woman smiled secretly. “It ain’t healthy being taken for a copper in Joe’s Club.”

George raised his hat and went out into the sunshine. Dark with a red hone bangle; a den of thieves; Little Ernie and his women. What a wonderful Saturday afternoon!

He caught a bus at the corner of the street and travelled to Hyde Park. There he lost himself in the crowds, listening to the speakers, walking along the Serpentine, sitting on the grass. He didn’t mind waiting, because the evening was so full of promise. This was the world that fascinated him: the world he had read about and dreamed about.

At half past six he walked back to Mortimer Street. It had a forlorn, deserted appearance now that the hawkers’ barrows had gone and the shops were shut. He went into the public house which was opposite Joe’s Club and ordered a pint of bitter. He took his glass to the window, where he could see the club entrance. From the window he had an uninterrupted view of the street. He lit a cigarette and waited.