James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

It was six o’clock, and George wanted a cup of tea. He suggested they might have one, but she paid no attention. She kept on inexorably, alone in a crowd of people, deep in her secret thoughts.

He felt she was going to a definite place, and as he followed her, he had a premonition of danger. It was so acute that he stopped and caught at her arm.

“Where are we going?” he asked sharply. “Why are you so quiet? Is there something wrong?”

They stood in the middle of the pavement. The crowd broke up, passed them and joined up again. They received angry glances.

“Come on,” she said with equal sharpness. “It’s only round the corner.”

She went on. His uneasiness growing, George followed her. In a few minutes they were in a quiet side street, and this time it was Cora who stopped.

“There’s a shop down there,” she said, pointing and looking at him with a curious intentness. “Go and buy a whip. A horsewhip will do. Something you can hide under your coat.” She thrust a pound note into his hand.

In spite of the sun and the hot pavement, George suddenly went cold. His instinct warned him to have nothing to do with this. It was as if he were being asked to cross a piece of ground which he knew was not solid and into which he was certain he would sink, and then suffocate.

“It’s Sunday,” he said, drawing away from her. “You can’t buy anything today.”

“Why do you think I came here?” she said impatiently. “They are all Jews down here. They closed yesterday.”

His mind darted like a startled mouse for a way of escape.

“I’m not buying it,” he said obstinately. “If you want it, you’ll have to get it yourself. I’m not having anything to do with it. I—I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

She looked at his set, obstinate face and she suddenly smiled. “You’re quite right, George,” she said softly; “it’s stupid to wait. When two people are in love…” She pushed the pound note again into his hand. “Get the whip and let’s go hack. We’ve still time before he returns.”

George stared at her, seeing in her eyes a fainting desire: an unmistakable invitation of receptive, expectant femininity.

“Cora!” he said, his fingers clutching the pound note, “you mean—now? You really mean now? ”

“I said I’d be nice to you, didn’t I? Well, why should we wait?… Only you’ll have to hurry.”

He went down the street with an unsteady, shambling gait, a feverish, incoherent puppet, without a will, without regard to danger, without a thought for anything except what she was offering him.

He blundered into the shop she had indicated. Saddles, rolls of leather, horse blankets, dog collars, trunks, bags and whips overflowed on the counter, the floor and the shelves behind the counter.

An elderly man with a great hooked nose came out of an office at the back of the shop. He looked curiously at George.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Is there something I can show you?”

George looked round the shop, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He saw a whip, a riding switch, whalebone bound in red leather, with an ivory handle. He picked it up with a shudder.

“I’ll have it,” he said, thrusting it at the Jew, and threw down the pound note.

The Jew shook his head. “I think it’s a little more than a pound,” he said, picking up the whip with long, caressing fingers. He turned the price ticket and glanced at it. “It’s a fine piece of workmanship.” He smiled. “It’s fifty-five shillings.”

George gulped. “Give me something for a ’pound, something like this, only for a pound.”

“Certainly.” The Jew did not move, but continued to touch the riding switch with caressing fingers. “I should like to point out, sir, that it would be more economical to buy a better whip while you are about it. Now, this is something that will last a lifetime. It is beautifully made and impossible to wear out. The extra money will be saved over and over again.”

What was the matter with this fool? George thought, feverishly. Didn’t he know he was wasting precious time?

“I don’t want it,” he said violently. “Give me what I want, and for God’s sake stop talking!”

He was not aware of the sudden alarm that jumped into the Jew’s eyes, nor his curious stare at George’s congested face.

George was only aware of the passing time, and when the Jew offered him another whip, saying in a grieved voice that it was a guinea, George threw down a shilling on top of the pound note, snatched up the whip without looking at it, and rushed from the shop.

Cora was waiting at the corner, serene and arrogant. Her hands were thrust deep into her pockets and her eyes watchful.

“I’ve got it,” George said thickly, falling into step beside her. “Let’s go back.”

She allowed herself to be hurried through the streets. They did not speak. George was only conscious of a pounding in his ears and a suffocating desire for her. He almost pushed her up the stairs to the flat, and when she had to search through her pockets and purse for the key, he stood trembling, in an agony of suspense.

Finally she opened the door and they entered the flat. He threw the whip into the armchair and caught hold of her. “Hello, George,” Sydney said from the door.

George didn’t look round. His arms dropped to his sides, and he stood staring down at Cora with glazed eyes. The hateful sound of Sydney’s voice crushed him.

Sydney wandered into the room and regarded him sharply.

“I say, what a state you’re in!” he said in his sneering voice.

George turned away. He caught a cold, jeering look from Cora that sent a stab into his heart. He was sick with disappointment and frustration.

“What have you been up to, Cora?” Sydney went on, flopping into the armchair “What’s this?” he continued, picking up the whip. “Oh, something for Crispin, eh? That’s wonderful.” A quick, cautious note crept into his voice. “Did George buy it?”

“He bought it,” Cora said, wandering across the room and opening a cupboard. “He didn’t want to at first, but I persuaded him; didn’t I, George?” She took from the cupboard a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

George sat down limply and wiped his face and hands on his handkerchief. He didn’t say anything He had a feeling that they had, between them, tricked him in some way. He felt that ever since Sydney had telephoned him, asking him to take the message to Joe’s Club, a series of carefully planned manoeuvres had taken place to trap him.

Cora came over to him with a glass half full of whisky.

“Have a drink, George,” she said, putting the glass in his hand. “You look as if you needed it.”

Then she sat on his lap and slipped an arm round his neck. His suspicions were immediately lulled, and in their place came an overwhelming tenderness and love for her.

She rested her head against his shoulder and gently swung her legs. She, too, had a stiff whisky in her hand.

Sydney was eyeing them with thoughtful interest.

“It seems I came hack a hit too early,” he said, settling more comfortably in his armchair

“You did,” Cora returned, tormenting George by rubbing her face against his. “George and I had made plans, hadn’t we, George?”

He gripped her tightly, but didn’t say anything. His hand trembled so that he slopped a little whisky on her slacks.

“Careful, George,” she said, and suddenly laughed. “You know, our George is quite a lad,” she went on to Sydney. “I believe he’d make one of the world’s greatest lovers.”

“Never mind about George,” Sydney said. “We’ve got other things to think about.”

Cora slipped off George’s lap. She crossed the room and picked up the whip.