James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

“Seems a quiet type of bloke, doesn’t he?” Little Ernie went on regarding George.

“He’s quiet all right,” Cora returned. “Aren’t you, George?”

George mumbled something. He didn’t know what all this was about, but he did feel a sense of pride at the respectful way Little Ernie was regarding him

“Syd said you’d be here. I thought he was joining us. What’s he up to?” Little Ernie asked suddenly.

“He’s busy,” Cora said.

Little Ernie handed round the whiskies again. “Oh, well,” he said, “I expect ’e is, but ’e said ’e’d be ’ere. Seen Crispin lately?” he went on casually, after a pause: too casually.

George started, slopping his whisky He felt Little Ernie’s eyes on him

Cora nodded. Her expression didn’t change. There was a jeering, confident expression in her eyes that obviously impressed Little Ernie.

“I saw him last night: so did George.”

Little Ernie glanced at the sticking plaster and at George’s bandaged hand and whistled. “Impulsive bloke, our Crispin,” he said. “Shouldn’t be surprised if ’e didn’t get ’imself into a spot of trouble one of these days.”

Cora smiled again, her face frozen. “Neither should I.”

The two eyed each other. George, watching them uneasily, had a feeling that a drama was being enacted before his eyes, yet he could not understand what it was all about.

“Funny stories one ’ears,” Little Ernie went on, watching Cora like a hawk. “Gawd knows who puts ’em in circulation. I did ’ear you and Crispin ’ad a little fun together last night.”

Cora sipped her whisky. Her eyebrows lifted.

“I had a little fun,” she said quietly. “Crispin’s share is on ice at the moment, isn’t it, George?”

George grunted. He had no idea why she was talking like this. To him it seemed dangerous. If they were going to get their own back on Crispin, why tell this sordid little man about it? Suppose he warned Crispin?

“Well, well.” Little Ernie studied George, who was scowling down at the floor. He thought George looked a pretty tough hombre.

“He put me over a table and flogged me with a cane,” Cora said calmly. “It hurt like hell… it still hurts like hell.”

Little Ernie’s eyes bulged. “Gawd!” he exclaimed. “’E must lave been barmy to do a thing like that to you.”

Cora nodded. “George thinks so, too. In fact, George got quite annoyed about it. The Greeks had to cool him with razors. Now, of course, George is really mad. Aren’t you, George!”

“Yes,” George said uncomfortably.

He tried to show how angry he was by scowling at little Ernie and tightening his mouth. He had no idea how menacing he looked. He never took into account his great bulk, nor the fact that when he frowned his big, fleshy face was misleadingly hard and coarse. The strips of plaster also added to the effect. It was impressive enough to make Little Ernie whistle again.

“Well, for crying out loud,” he said, “what’s going to ’appen?”

Cora’s eyes went blank. “You want to know a lot, don’t you?” she said, stretching out her leg and looking at her shoe that George had cleaned so industriously. “It mightn’t be healthy to know too much, Ernie.”

He nodded. His eyes, quick as a ferret’s, showed he was startled. “That’s right,” he said. “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know anything about you three. ’Ave another drink?”

Cora shook her head. “You’re not staying, are you, Ernie? Because we’ve got things to talk about.”

“Who, me? No, I’m not staying. I’ve got to get along. You know me, Cora, always on the move. Well, so long.” He grinned at George. “So long, palsy. Glad to ’ave met you,” and he left them.

George finished his beer. The whiskies and the beer gave him rather a pleasant floating feeling. He knew he was just a little tight.

“You told him a lot, didn’t you?” he said, looking at Cora questioningly.

“Ernie’s all right,” she said shortly. “He hates Crispin as much as we do. Besides, it’s as well to let them know we’re a mob now, not just a boy and a girl.”

This continual hinting worried George. What did she mean when she kept saying he was one of them? Now she was talking about a mob.

“I may be a bit dense,” he said slowly, “but I wish you’d explain. What mob? What do you mean by mob?”

She regarded him steadily. He again experienced the disconcerting feeling that she was looking inside his skull, even inside his pockets.

“I shan’t be a moment,” she said, fishing out her little purse from her pocket. “I want to spend a penny.”

He understood then that these hints did mean something, but she had no intention of telling him.

He watched her walk across the room, jaunty and arrogant, to the door marked “Ladies".

It was a good film, and George gave it all his attention. The atmosphere of the cinema soothed him. The darkness, the bright screen, the drama which he could watch as an interested onlooker gave him a feeling that he had escaped into another, more pleasant world. He knew, at the hack of his mind, that outside in the hot sunshine his world waited impatiently for his return; but for the next two hours here was escape.

He had been disappointed that Cora had wished to see a movie. The whiskies had made him amorous, and as soon as they left the pub he began a clumsy manoeuvre to persuade Cora to return to the flat.

He was careful, of course, not to let her know what he had in mind, but his eyes, his flushed face and his incoherent speech gave him away. Not that she let on that she had spotted his little game; she didn’t. She said she felt like a movie, and although he had protested, and even said that it would be nicer if they went hack to the flat together, imploring her with his eyes, she remained adamant.

He was hurt and angry that she could be so hard. What was the sense in wasting the afternoon in a cinema, when they could have been together alone and undisturbed in the flat?

He had sulked, and was determined that when she asked him which of the three cinemas they should choose, he would pointedly show his indifference.

But she didn’t ask him. She walked down the street a step ahead of him, passed the first cinema and went straight to the box office of the second one, a few hundred yards farther down the road.

“Get circle seats,” she said abruptly, and went on towards the stairs. He got the tickets and followed her, seething with frustration and disappointment. And when she pushed one and sixpence into his hand, he snatched the money from her and pocketed it without a word.

But once he had settled down in his seat, the magic of the darkness, the music and the drama on the screen overcame his ill temper.

It was a good picture: the kind of picture he liked. There were beautiful women, tough, well-dressed men, and music. There were long sequences of dimly lit streets and shadowy figures, guns in hand, moving silently from doorway to doorway. There were gun battles in the dark. There was a bedroom scene that titillated his desire for Cora, so that he fumbled for her hand and held it moistly, until she impatiently withdrew it.

As the drama progressed, he became so engrossed that he even forgot Cora was with him, and when the film came to an end he was sorry.

Moving down the stairs, a little dazed by the bright sunlight, he realized that he was a few hours closer to pending danger. Perhaps, after all, he could persuade them not to go; but his courage failed when he saw the cold, distant expression on Cora’s face.

She, too, seemed to realize that time was running out. He could tell that she was uneasy. There was a subtle tension about her which hinted at taut nerves. When he made a comment about the film, she did not seem to hear him. She walked on, moving through the crowds almost as if she were sleepwalking.