James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

“Still!” Nick said, breathing garlic and wine fumes in George’s face.

Slowly and cautiously George raised his head and looked round the room. The woman at the cash desk, the Hebrew behind the bar and the waiter were all staring at him.

George thought he heard another muffled scream, but he could not be sure. He looked at the others, but they showed no sign that they had heard anything. The woman at the cash desk curled a straggling lock of dyed hair round her fat finger. Her eyes were stony, blank.

What were they doing to Cora? George made a convulsive movement.

“Still!” the Greek warned, pressing a sharp knee into George’s hack.

The silence in the room and in the building terrified George. Minutes ticked by slowly. It seemed to him that he had been lying on the dirty, evil-smelling carpet for hours.

Then suddenly the Greek got up. “Right,” he said, and kicked George hard in the ribs. “Get up, you.”

Somehow George crawled to his feet. Without quite knowing what he was doing, he took out his handkerchief and wrapped it round his bleeding left hand. He swayed unsteadily as the other Greek appeared, pushing Cora through the concealed doorway.

Then somehow they were in the street together, in the darkness and the rain.

George stood gulping in the hot, damp air, unnerved, his limbs trembling.

“What happened?” he said. “What did they do to you?”

Cora, her arms tightly crossed, doubled herself up. Her long wave of hair fell forward, concealing her face. She stood like that for several minutes, and the rain poured down on her.

“Can’t I do anything?” George said, forgetting about his own wounds, frightened to touch her, terrified by her behaviour. Her ragged, laboured breathing made a dreadful sound in the rain and the darkness.

She began to walk up and down the street, still doubled up, still holding onto herself.

“Cora! Tell me!” he said, following her. “What is it?”

They were near a street lamp now, and she suddenly straightened. Her hair was plastered to her head by the rain. She looked wild. A hissing sound came from her lips, and he could see she was grinding her teeth.

“They crammed a pillow over my face,” she gasped, “and then they flogged me with a cane!” She drew her saliva into a ball of fury and spat into the darkness. “They did that to me! I’ll make them pay! I’ll make him pay, too! The treacherous swine! He knew what they’d do! I’ll kill them all for this! All of them!” And she began to cry with rage and pain, wriggling her body and stamping her feet.

George stood in the rain, helpless, watching her with dismayed, bewildered pity, the handkerchief round his hand growing soggy with blood.

Suddenly she grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into his muscles. “Don’t look at me,” she panted, standing first on one leg and then on the other. She contorted her body, arched her back, straightened and bent double again. “Damn You!” She broke away from him and went down the street, only to stop a yard or so farther on. She held her head between her hands and began to walk round in small circles. Then she came back to him and gripped his arm again. He could feel the fever in her, burning through his coat sleeve.

“Take me home,” she cried, pulling at him “For God’s sake, take me home. Pm hurt! I’m on fire! Don’t stand there doing nothing, you stupid, stupid fool! Take me home!”

George never quite knew how they reached the little flat above the greengrocer’s shop. He vaguely remembered stopping a taxi, but had no recollection of the actual drive. He remembered the long, painful climb up some stairs, and Cora hammering wildly on a door. He remembered, too, hearing Sydney shout, “All right, all right. I’m coming! Stop banging on that bloody door.”

Then he had a dim recollection of Sydney, in a dirty white dressing-gown, staring at him in blank astonishment.

He took a step forward, and his knees gave under him He fell heavily. Before he blacked out he heard Cora scream: “You swine! You said he wouldn’t touch me! Oh, I hate you! I hate you!” and then he lost consciousness.

He had no idea how long he remained unconscious. He must have drifted into a heavy sleep before coming round. But when he opened his eyes it was morning and he was lying on the floor, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He sat up slowly and looked round, not quite remembering where he was.

He was aware of pain, and found his hand had been expertly bandaged and sticking plaster covered the cuts on his face. He pushed the blanket aside and stood up. He didn’t feel too bad. A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise not bad. He looked round the room with blank astonishment. It was a perfect pigsty of a room. The mantelpiece was thick with dust. The fireplace was full of cigarette ash and butts. A table, pushed against the wall, was piled with old newspapers, unwashed crockery and empty bottles. A dish containing some evil-smelling meat was under an armchair. On all the flat surfaces of the furniture were sticky circles made by wet tumblers. Two bluebottles buzzed angrily against the dirty windows.

“Hello,” Sydney said quietly. “How’s the bold warrior?”

George blinked at him. Sydney was standing in the doorway, dressed in the dirty white dressing-gown, his lean, hard face cold and expressionless.

“I must have fainted,” George said, moving over to an armchair and sitting down. He examined his hand uneasily. “Did you do this?”

Sydney grunted. “Don’t worry about that,” he said casually. “I shoved a few stitches in it. It’ll be all right.”

“Stitches? You put stitches in it?”

“Why not? In my racket you get used to razor-cuts. Did you see what they did to Cora?”

“They beat her… didn’t they?” George went cold. “They certainly did. Nice mob. They’ll pay for this, George.”

George held his head in his hands. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did she do it? She threw wine in his face.”

“Never mind why she did it,” Sydney said. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” George said, no longer caring what Sydney would say or do.

“That’s fine,” Sydney said, his eyes glowing like live coals. “I’m glad about that. You and me are going to fix Mr bloody Crispin.”

“Crispin?”

“The nice looking lad who beat Cora. She told me what happened. She was tight, but that doesn’t matter. No one’s going to touch her without getting into trouble. I’d handle him myself, only you and me can do it better.”

“Do what better?” George asked. He remembered the two Greeks and their razors, and he felt a little sick.

“We’ll see him tonight. You and me. He’s got a bungalow at a place called Copthorne. It’s not far. He’ll be down there today. Well, we’ll go down, too, and we’ll take a cane. It’s a lonely place, and we won’t be disturbed. We’ll see how he likes a heating. That’s what we’ll do.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to complain to the police?” George asked, in sudden fright. “They’re dangerous. Look what they did to me.”

“When you were in the States,” Sydney said, cold cruelty in his eyes, “did you go to the police?”

George waved his hands nervously. “That was different,” he said. “No one went to the cops in those days. It’s different now.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sydney said. “This is something personal. We’ll be dangerous too. We’ll take your gun.”

George stiffened. “No, we won’t!” he said. “I’m not doing a thing like that. That’s how accidents happen.”

“Oh yes, you are, George,” Sydney said, wandering across the room. “You don’t have to load it. Crispin will fall apart just to see the gun. I’m not suggesting you kill him. I don’t like murder myself. Feel like getting the gun now?”