James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

Well, he certainly wasn’t going to mix himself up in Sydney’s racket. He knew instinctively that it was crooked. Sydney was the kind of fellow who’d land up in jail. Jail bait, that’s what he was!

In spite of his instinctive fear of Sydney, George was determined to speak to Cora the next day, Friday. Even if it meant doing no work at all and staying in a telephone box all the evening, he was going to talk to her! He wanted her to spend Saturday evening with him. He planned to take her to a movie and then to dinner somewhere. He had put away the eleven pounds that Sydney had got from Robinson, earmarked for this outing. He was determined to stand treat: he wasn’t going to have any nonsense from Cora about paying for herself. And what was more, when they met he would kiss her: he’d show her he was a man of action.

To be certain of speaking to Cora, he decided not to work that evening. He told Sydney he wasn’t feeling too well. He said he’d drunk some bad beer: it had upset his stomach.

“I think I’ll stay at home,” he said, avoiding Sydney’s probing eyes. “I don’t feel like going out on the job tonight.”

“Please yourself,” Sydney said, shrugging; “it’s your loss. You’d better pull up your socks. You’ve only taken one order this week.”

George didn’t need to be reminded of this unpleasant fact, but he assured himself that once he had seen Cora he would be able to settle down to work again. Selling hooks demanded all your attention. How could he concentrate when he was longing so much to hear Cora’s voice?

As soon as he was sure that Sydney had taken himself off to Wembley, he left his room and hurried to the call-box at the end of his street. At first the line was engaged, then he dialled a wrong number, then he found he hadn’t any more pennies, and he had to go to the newspaper shop across the street to change a shilling. When he got back there was a woman in the box, and she kept him waiting nearly ten minutes. He had ceased to be impatient. He was now obstinately dogged: determined, whatever happened, to speak to Cora. If it took him a hundred years to speak to her, he wouldn’t mind, so long as he succeeded.

At last the woman left the call-box, and George took her place. There was a ghastly smell of cheap scent and stale perspiration in the box: it was like an oven, too. But George didn’t care. He dialled the greengrocer’s number and waited.

“’Ullo?” asked the irritatingly familiar voice.

They went through the same dreary performance: the greengrocer wanting to know “’ow I can leave the bloomin’ shop?” and George coldly determined that the greengrocer should call Cora to the telephone.

“She’s in ’er bawth,” the greengrocer said after a wait of nearly a quarter of an hour, and he hung up before George could leave a message.

There were three people waiting outside the telephone box by now. They were all glaring at George, and when he came out one of the women muttered, “And about time, too. Some people think public telephones are private property!”

George didn’t care what they said or thought. He walked over to the King’s Arins, had a pint, avoided conversation with Gladys— by this time he was almost hysterical with frustrated temper—and returned to the telephone box half an hour later.

Again he had to wait while a man finished his conversation. Watching him through the glass, George guessed he was talking to his girl. There was a fatuous, smug expression on his face, and he talked for a good ten minutes.

When George finally got through to the greengrocer’s again, the rough voice nearly snapped his head off.

“Look ’ere,” he said violently. “I got better things to do than answer bloomin’ telephones like this. I’ll ’ave to complain if this goes on much more. You’ve been ringing up every day this week!”

Complain! That’d mean Sydney would hear about it! He might even guess that it was George making the call. It might give him a clue that it was George who had spent the night with Cora. The memory of the gleaming razor blade became vividly unpleasant.

“But I haven’t even spoken to her,” George protested. “I can’t help it if she’s always out, can I?”

“’Ere, miss, ’ere,” the greengrocer suddenly bawled. “This ’ere bloke’s on the blower again. Every day ’e’s been oil… it’s got to stop.”

“Hullo,” Cora said. “Yes?”

George knew she was in a temper all right, but it was so marvellous to hear her voice—even if it did sound snappy—that he didn’t care.

“This is George,” he said, aware that he had begun to tremble violently.

“Have you been ringing every day?” she harked at him.

“I’m afraid I have,” he returned in studiedly gentle tones, quite sick with fear that she was going to be unkind.

“Well, couldn’t you have been a hit brighter?” she demanded. “You’ve caused a lot of bother as it is.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” George said, “but I did want to speak to you.”

“What do you want?”

In that kind of temper it was quite likely she would refuse to go out with him. But it had to be now or never. Now he had at last caught her. He couldn’t just fawn and cringe and go away.

“I—I was wondering… if you haven’t anything to do tomorrow… I mean, would you like to come out with me?… that is, if you’re not busy or something.”

“What do you mean… or something?” The waspish note was still in her voice.

“Well, you know… if you’re not going out with anyone else.”

“Oh, I see.”

There was a long pause while he waited for her to add anything to this, but she didn’t, so he screwed up his courage, and, knowing that he was inviting a direct snub and refusal, said, “Well, do you think you could?”

She still tried to make him pay for causing a bother on the telephone by appearing to be dense. “Could I… what?”

“Could you come out with me? I—I thought we might do a movie and have dinner somewhere.”

“I can’t waste my money on movies,” she said shortly. “But this is my treat. I—I’m inviting you…”

“Oh.”

There was another long pause, then he said, “What would you like to see? There’s a good movie at the Empire… Spencer Tracy.”

“I don’t think I can go to a movie,” she said, a gentler note in her voice. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

It was his turn to say “Oh” now.

“I could cone to dinner “

He brightened at once.

“Oh, good! That’s fine. Where shall we go?”

“I know a place.”

“All right. Then when shall we meet?”

“Eight o’clock at the pub opposite Joe’s.” Now that she had made up her mind to go out with him she was taking charge of the outing. George didn’t care. He had won his point about paying for the outing or at least he thought it was going to be all right—and if she wanted to say where they were to meet and where they were to dine, it was all right with him.

“That’s fine,” he said. “I say, Cora—I’m looking forward…" but the telephone was dead. She had hung up.

Even that didn’t detract from his happiness. At last!

After all those beastly hours, trying… trying… trying to get her, he had finally succeeded, and she was coming out with him again!

He drew a deep breath and came out into the fresh air, feeling fine.

Cora, with George tagging along a step behind, turned off the main road into a narrow street, lined on one side by hacks of shops, and on the other side by a brick wall, along the top of which bristled pieces of broken glass, set in cement. At the end of this street she turned the corner and walked down an even more sordid street of small, shabby shops. A group of dark-skinned, hare-headed men stood at the corner; they glanced at George, and then concentrated on Cora. They stopped talking and eyed her, their faces expressionless, their eyes hot and intent. Cora went on her way, her small head held high, unaware of their interest.