James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

Again George was going to refuse, when he suddenly thought of the blond man’s sneering smile He thought of the two Greeks creeping towards him with their razors. With the Luger in his hands, they would have been terrified. A smouldering anger—something he had never before experienced—urged him to seek revenge. Cora’s shrieks still rang in his ears.

He got to his feet. “All right,” he said, “but I’m not loading the gun.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sydney said. “Come and talk to me while I dress.”

George followed him into a tiny bedroom.

“Who is this Crispin?” he asked, leaning against the wall.

“I used to fool around with him,” Sydney returned, slipping his blue shirt over his head. “Keep this under your hat. He knocks off cars in a big way. There’s bags of money in that game.” He glanced quickly at George and went on, “I chucked it after a hit. Got too hot for me. Cora hates the guy. He doesn’t know she’s my sister. He’ll have a surprise when he sees me—and you.” He was dressed now. “You’d better have a wash. Those cuts on your face aren’t deep, but you look a bit of a mess. Those Greeks know how to use a razor all right.”

He took George into the grubby little bathroom. George stared at himself in the mirror. A long strip of plaster ran down the side of his face, and another strip was above his ear. He rinsed his face, getting rid of the blood smears. There was blood, too, on his coat and collar.

“I look a sight,” he said, suddenly secretly proud of himself. He looked tough and frightening: a real gangster.

“I’ll find you a scarf,” Sydney said. “You can change when you get to your place.”

“Where’s Cora?” George asked, drying his face on a grimy towel.

“Asleep,” Sydney said indifferently. “She’s got weals on her hack as thick as my finger.”

George flinched. His anger blazed up.

“Let’s go,” he said.

It was only seven-thirty by the time they reached George’s place, off the Edgware Road. The house was silent: no one was up. George took Sydney to his room and closed the door. While Sydney sat on the bed, whistling softly, George changed his shirt, put on another suit and had a hurried shave.

In the familiar surroundings of his room his anger died down. He was now beginning to realize what it meant to live dangerously. He had read so much about it in the past; had constructed scenes in which he had experienced breathless adventures, fought and killed men, and had gloried in it all. But this was different. This was something out of his control. He knew that if in one of his fantasies he were trapped by desperate men, he would not be killed. He would be able to create a situation that would save him at the last moment. But this business was different. If that Greek, Nick, had wanted to kill him, he could have done so. It was just sheer luck that he hadn’t cut George’s throat.

George suddenly hated the thought of what was going to happen that night. He had been angry, but now, back in his room, the thought of fresh danger gave him a sick, nervous feeling in his stomach. To beat this man Crispin was primitive justice, but it was hound to lead to trouble. If they did succeed in catching Crispin alone, did Sydney really think that Crispin wouldn’t get his own back on them later?

As he rinsed his razor, he considered whether he should refuse to go with them, but immediately saw the impossibility of this If he wished to keep Cora’s regard—and there was no question about that—he would have to go through with it. All he had to do was to threaten Crispin with the gun. Well, that was all right. He could do that. There would be no danger in that, as the gun wasn’t loaded. He was confident that Crispin would obey him if he had the gun in his hand. It was an ugly-looking weapon. It would scare him stiff. Besides, Sydney would be there.

“Getting cold feet?” Sydney asked in a sneering voice.

George started. He had forgotten that Sydney was in the room. He had been so busy with his thoughts that Sydney had gone completely out of his mind. He turned.

“Of course not,” he said. “I’ve been in tighter spots…” and then he stopped.

Sydney was holding the Luger carelessly in his hand.

“Where did you get that from?” George said, suddenly angry. “I’ll trouble you not to go to my drawers without asking me.”

Sydney smiled. “Keep your wool on,” he said, examining the Luger with interest. “I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

“Well, give it here, then,” George demanded, crossing the room. “I suppose Cora told you where I kept it.” He decided that he would hide the gun in another place in the future.

“She did,” Sydney returned, his finger curling round the trigger. “What’s the matter with it? Is it jammed?”

“No,” George said shortly. “It’s stiff, that’s all. The trigger wants adjusting. Here, let me have it.”

Sydney pulled at the trigger, and with an effort managed to snap down the hammer

“With an action like that,” he said, tossing the Luger on the bed, “you don’t have to worry about accidents.”

“That’s why I keep it that way,” George said, picking up the gun and slipping out the magazine. He made sure there was no cartridge in the breech, grunted, and shoved the gun in his hip pocket. It felt bulky and heavy, but it gave him a secret thrill to have it against his hip.

“Well, are you ready?” Sydney asked, getting up. George nodded.

“Let’s go, then,” Sydney said, and they left the room and began to walk downstairs.

George suddenly remembered Leo.

“Just a tick,” he said. “I’ve got to feed my cat.”

“Forget it,” Sydney said shortly. “There are other things to think about besides cats.”

George ignored Sydney’s impatience, ran back to his room, put a saucer of milk and the remains of the sardines on the floor where Leo could find it, and then hurried after Sydney, who was waiting for him in the street.

“Go hack and keep Cora company,” Sydney said. “I’ve got things to do.” He looked at George with a jeering grin. “She thinks you’re quite a hero.”

George went a dull red. “Does she?” he asked eagerly. “Well, I don’t know about that. I couldn’t do much against those razors.” He nursed his aching hand. “If it had been a fair fight…”

“I know, I know,” Sydney said, moving away. “You tell her about it. I’ve got things to do.”

George was delighted that Sydney wasn’t returning to the flat. He hurried to Russell Square, eager to be alone with Cora. He passed a chemist’s shop, and remembering what Sydney had said about the weals on Cora’s hack, he retraced his steps, went in and asked for a bottle of witch-hazel.

It was after nine o’clock when he entered the little flat. Cora was in the bathroom. She shouted through the door that she wouldn’t be long, and he wandered into the sitting-room.

He put the Luger on the mantelpiece, and after looking round the room, he decided that he might as well tidy up a bit. The decision gave him some pleasure. He had nothing to do, and he liked messing in a house.

He went hack to the bathroom and told Cora through the panels of the door what he intended to do.

“Come in,” she shouted. “I can’t hear you.”

He opened the door and looked into the tiny, steam-filled room. Cora was lying in the bath; only the back of her head and white shoulders were visible from where he stood. She glanced over her shoulder. A damp cigarette hung from her mouth.

“What is it?” she asked, a little sharply.

“How—how are you, Cora?”

“I’m all right,” she returned. “God! You look a sight.”

George grinned happily. “I know,” he said. “It’s my hand that’s had. These are only scratches.”