James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

They came to a double-fronted shop, the big windows hung with yellow muslin curtains. The glass panel of the door was painted green. Gilt letters, “Restaurant", crawled diagonally across the green expanse.

Without pausing, Cora pushed open the door and went in. George followed her.

The room in which they found themselves was long and narrow. Tables lined each side of it, and vast mirrors, flyblown and yellowing with age, hung from the walls. Red- shaded lamps stood on each table.

A big woman, her hair straggling and untidy, as if someone had upset custard over her head, sat at the cash desk. Behind the bar near the door was a tall, elderly Hebrew in a dirty white coat. Two waiters stood idly at the end of the room. There were only a few people at the tables: bright-eyed women, hatless and bold; darkskinned men, immaculately dressed, middle-aged and wooden.

Cora sat down at a table with her hack to the wall. George, following her, felt the woman in the cash desk examining him closely. Somehow, he didn’t quite know why, the atmosphere in this dimly lit, gaudy room made him uneasy.

He was aware, too, that the men at the tables paused in their eating and watched Cora furtively, under lowered eyelids: their eyes on her slim hips and the shameless movement under her woollen sweater.

She was wearing the same outfit, and the red bone bangle, as she had worn when they first met. Their meeting tonight wasn’t at all how George had planned it to be. He had arrived at the pub at a few minutes to eight to find Cora already there. She was drinking a whisky and water, and she seemed peevish. Of course, he hadn’t kissed her. Even if they had been in the bar on their own, he wouldn’t have had the courage, now that he was once more face to face with her. He really marvelled that he had kissed her the other night. That had, of course, only happened because it had been dark.

As soon as Cora saw him she finished her whisky and came to meet him.

“Come on,” she said shortly, without even a smile of greeting, “I’m hungry,” and she walked right out of the pub without giving him even a second glance, and went off down the street.

George, bewildered and a little hurt, hurried after her. She kept on, a scowl on her face, and George followed her. He decided not to speak to her. He could not think of anything to say, anyway, that wouldn’t irritate her, so he kept behind her until they reached this little Soho restaurant.

He had an uneasy presentiment that the evening wasn’t going to be a success.

He sat down opposite her, his hack to the room. She looked past him at the waiter, a bent, elderly man who came over to them with a bored, tired look in his eyes.

George was about to ask her what she would like, but, still ignoring him, she said to the waiter, “Oysters, grilled steaks, salad and ice-cream. Two bottles of yin rouge: and let’s have some service.”

The waiter went away without saying anything, but by the way he flicked his soiled napkin, he managed to express his contempt for them.

Two bottles of wine! Oysters! My word! George thought, she knows what she wants all right.

Well, he couldn’t just sit there and say nothing. He hadn’t said a word since they met in the pub.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Cora…” he began, wondering if he was going to set her off.

She seemed suddenly to realize that he was in the room.

“I’m bad tempered,” she said, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

That’s better, George thought. As if I didn’t know she was in a temper. Well, so long as she admits it, she may get over it soon.

Feeling that he must add something to the meal—Cora ordering everything had rather deflated him—he beckoned a waiter and ordered two large dry martinis.

“Nothing like a cocktail to cheer you up,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been in the dumps myself today.”

She didn’t say anything. He noticed she was staring across the room at a table in the far corner. There was an intent look of spite in her eyes.

Puzzled, George glanced at the man sitting at the table. He was a slender blond with a complexion like peaches and cream, and big, soft eyes like a deer. He was wearing apple- green trousers, very neat, with pleats at the waist; and his coat was fawn colour.

George turned to Cora. She wasn’t looking at the blond man in the corner any longer, but at him. There was that odd expression in her eyes that made George feel like a strange exhibit in a zoo.

The waiter brought the two martinis.

“Here’s how,” George said. “I’ve been looking forward to this no end.”

She glanced at him, and her lips smiled, but her eyes still remained sulky. They drank. George was surprised at the “kick” the martini had.

“These are jolly good, aren’t they?” he went on, still too nervous to begin a real conversation.

“They’re all right,” she said, and again her eyes strayed to the blond man across the room.

This won’t do at all, George thought. Why does she keep looking at that horror over the way? She couldn’t he interested in that type, surely? Why, anyone with half an eye could see he was a cissy. Perhaps she was just bored. Anyway, he couldn’t let her attention wander like this.

“I’ve been worrying about you,” he said leaning towards her. “Did you get into trouble for staying out all night?”

“Trouble?” Her eyebrows went up. “You talk as if I’m a child. I can stay out all night if I want to.”

Baffled, George sipped his martini. Not quite the same idea that Sydney had conveyed. He glanced at her thoughtfully.

“From what Sydney said…”

“Oh, don’t listen to him. He’s always bragging about how he treats me. I go my way, and he goes his.”

George was sure she was lying, but there was no point in telling her so.

“Well, I worried because I wondered if I should have kept ’phoning. I didn’t want to get you into trouble.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep ’phoning,” she said shortly. “Old Harris doesn’t like it.”

Before he could say anything further, the waiter brought the oysters. When he had gone, George Muttered, “I wanted to speak to you. You said it was all right to ’phone.”

“Oh, don’t nag!” she said sharply, and forked an oyster into her mouth.

There was no doubt she was in a foul temper. Or was she nervous about something? George studied her. She did look tired and jumpy. There was also an uneasy expression in her eyes.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded, looking up and catching his eyes on her face.

“You,” George said simply. He felt an overwhelming love for her suddenly well up inside him “What’s wrong, Cora? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Wrong, what should be wrong?”

“You look nervous…”

“Do I?” she suddenly laughed. “I’m in a foul temper, that’s all.”

He could see the tremendous effort she was making to sound natural. It began to worry him There was something on her mind:something she was anxious that he should know nothing about.

“I got up late,” she went on. “Everything’s gone wrong today.” She finished her cocktail just as the waiter came with the two bottles of wine. He drew the corks and filled their glasses. “I feel like getting tight tonight,” she went on.

George was still not satisfied. “Are you sure there isn’t something else?”

“Of course not!” she said, the waspish note hack in her voice. “It’s just that it’s been a hell of a day, and I’m tired.”

“Well, never mind,” George said, certain now that there was something on her mind. “The wine will make you feel better.”

And he began to talk to her about the only subject he was really competent to talk about—crime in America. He didn’t want to talk to her about that. He would much rather have talked of his love for her, and even to confide in her that all his stories of violence and adventure were figments of his imagination, and that he was only a simple type of fellow, but very much in love with her. But she was so unsympathetic and hard and nervous that he knew it would be inviting disaster to be sentimental. So he told her more fictitious stories of his adventures in America. He had been reading a lot lately, and was well primed with material. She seemed to welcome these stories, probably because she didn’t wish to talk herself. While he talked, she smoked incessantly. The ashtray was piled high with cigarette butts, smeared with lipstick. She had scarcely touched her meal, but she had drunk a good deal of the sour red wine. When George asked her if she felt all right, as she had made such a poor dinner, she said abruptly that it was too hot to eat. Remembering that the first words she had greeted him with were, “Come on, I’m hungry", George shrugged hopelessly. Her moods defeated him.