James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

She faced him, her eyes probing and cold. “Well?”

“Oh, Cora,” he said, going to her. He put his arms round her, but she was hard and resisting. She pushed him away.

“Not now, George,” she said impatiently. “All that can come when this business is over.” She glanced up at him. “If you really care for me, you’re not going to let Crispin get away with this. You’ve talked a lot about what you did in the States. I want to see what you can do here. When I’ve seen that, I could be very nice to you.” Her eyes came alive for a moment. “Very nice to you,” she repeated.

This was too important to George for any misunderstanding. He clutched her hands.

“I’ll do anything for you, Cora,” he said, looking wildly into her eyes for her assurance. “If I do that, you will be nice to me? You will be really nice?” He wanted to say, “You’re promising to give yourself to me?” but he hadn’t the courage to come out with it as bluntly as that.

She seemed to know what was in his mind, because she gave him an unmistakable look of promise.

“You won’t he disappointed, George,” she said. “I don’t like men messing me about, but you’re different. You’ll get your reward.”

Later, they went out for a snack. George wanted to take the gun, but Cora wouldn’t let him “Leave it there,” she said, a little sharply. “It won’t run away.”

He walked a step behind her, and glanced from time to time at her with secret pride. The pale blue sweater had shrunk a trifle, but it looked bright. The slacks had a knife- edge crease which he had put in with great care, using an old-fashioned flat-iron he had found in the kitchen. Her hair was sleek and glossy. She had taken pains to put her lipstick on neatly. He thought she looked lovely.

Although she did not complain, she walked stiffly, but she held her head high, and she had lost none of her arrogance.

They went to the pub at the corner of the street and leaned up against the bar. They ordered pints of bitter and sausage rolls.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” George said, in seventh heaven.

She flicked a flake of pastry from her mouth and grimaced. “Think so?” she said, biting into the sausage roll again.

“I suppose it’s nothing to you,” he said, hurt; “only I’ve been lonely for a long time. Having a girl like you for company means a lot to me.”

She raised the beer glass and drank, gazing at him with thoughtful eyes over the top of it. She put the glass down and drew a deep breath.

“You’re a sentimental fool, aren’t you?”

He looked to see if she were jeering at him, but she was serious in an unexpectedly kind way.

“I suppose I am.” He brooded, looking down at his shoes. “But there’s nothing wrong in that. I know people sneer at sentimentality, but they’re usually pretty unhappy themselves.”

She wasn’t listening to him. Her attention was centred on a short man who had just come in. George followed her gaze. He recognized the man. It was Little Ernie.

Little Ernie joined them. “My word!” he said, staring at George, “has she been making love to you?”

George didn’t say anything.

“For Gawd’s sake,” Little Ernie went on to Cora, “what’s ’append to the bloke? Saw ’im a week ago, and ’e was as lovely as an oil painting. Look at ’im now.”

“Dry up, Ernie,” Cora said. “He’s been in the wars.”

“I’ll say ’e ’as,” Little Ernie said, undisguised admiration in his eyes. “Well, well. What’ll you ’ave? He rubbed a dirty finger under his nose and then wiped his finger on his trouser leg.

“We’ve got drinks, thank you,” George said, a little stiffly. He didn’t like this man He didn’t like the way he was eyeing Cora, a lewd look in his small green eyes.

Little Ernie rapped on the bar with a coin. “Hurry up,” he shouted. “I ain’t got all day. Gimme a double Scotch.” He turned to Cora. “Sure you won’t ’ave one?”

“All right,” she said, leaning her hack against the counter. She propped herself on her elbows and thrust her chest at him. “Give George one, too. You’re lousy with money, aren’t you?”

Little Ernie winked. “I get by,” he said, and raising his voice he shouted, “Make it three doubles, Clara, and out of the boss’ bottle!” He looked at Cora again, then he glanced at George. “Fine gel, ain’t she?” he said. “What a dairy! You could make pounds outta ’er if you knew ’ow to ’andle ’er.”

“Shut your dirty trap,” Cora said, her eyes bright with suppressed laughter. “George’s not like you.” She reached round and picked up her glass. “How’s Eva? Still buying your suits?”

Little Ernie’s cruel face darkened. “You don’t ’ave to shout all over the shop, do you?” he said, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. “Old Crockett was down the street not five minutes ago. She’s all right. She’s a good girl. Work! Gawd love me, I’ve never known a girl to work like it!”

Cora sneered. “That’s her trouble, Ernie. She does like it.”

George was listening to this conversation and not understanding a word of it. He wished Little Ernie would go away. He was so repulsive that he embarrassed George.

“Believe she does,” Little Ernie agreed thoughtfully. “You’re a smart gel, Cora. Pity you don’t get wise. I could fix you up in no time. Think of it! A flat of your own, ’undred smackers a week, and a dawg if you wanted one.”

The barmaid planked down the three double whiskies, and Little Ernie parted with a pound.

“Gimme twenty Players and keep the change, ducks,” he said. He turned back to Cora. “Well, I suppose you know what’s good for you,” he went on. “Only if you ever change your mind, give us a ring.” He picked up his whisky. “Well, ’ere’s to better days.” He drank half the whisky, sighed and rested his small foot on the brass rail. “What ’ave you been doing to yourself?” he said, eyeing Cora. “You look or] right; a proper knockout.”

“My new valet,” Cora said, nodding at George. “He washed my pretty clothes and gave me a shampoo.”

Little Ernie stared at George blankly

George turned scarlet under the hitter, green eyes.

“Well, well,” Little Ernie said. “Fancy that.” He picked his nose and moved restlessly. “Hmm, well, well.” He seemed at a loss for words.

“He’s not a cissy,” Cora said, glancing at George as if he were a stranger. “He’s a tough guy, and when I say tough, I mean tough. He was Frank Kelly’s gunman.”

Little Ernie put down his glass. “Is that so?” He stared at George with interest.

George wished that Cora hadn’t brought that up again. He shuffled his feet and fiddled with his tie. “Have another Scotch?” he said, in a desperate attempt to be at his ease.

“’Ave one yourself,” Little Ernie said. “It’s on me.” He snapped his fingers at the barmaid. “Same again, Clara, and don’t drown ’em.” He looked at Cora questioningly, but she only gave him hack a jeering smile. “Kelly’s gunman, eh? Hmm, what are you doing over ’ere?”

“Mind your own business,” Cora snapped, before George could think of anything to say. “He’s one of us now.”

The green eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

“That’s right. Three thugs once took him in a wood. They had ideas about him He walked out on his feet and alone,” Cora said, her eyes, cold and hard, on George’s bewildered face. “But he’s modest. He doesn’t talk about it.” She fished a crumpled packet of cigarettes from her hip pocket. “He’s quite a guy.”

Little Ernie lit her cigarette and then produced two cigars. He offered one to George, who took it, not because he wanted it, but because he was so embarrassed that he wasn’t quite certain what he was doing.