James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

He turned the corner of her street. People busied themselves with their weekend shopping. The pavement before the row of small shops was crowded with women, small children and perambulators. He could see the greengrocer’s shop over which was her flat. The greengrocer, elderly, bald and fat, was outside the shop. He was shovelling potatoes onto the scales while a tired- looking woman waited, a string hag ready to receive them. George stood for some time at the corner, unconsciously assuring himself that it would be safe to cross the street.

Finally, he made up his mind and walked towards the greengrocer’s shop with mounting excitement. As he drew near, he looked up at the window of her flat. The drab muslin curtain told him nothing. For all he knew, she might be watching him, and the thought sent his blood racing through his veins.

He slowed down as he reached the shop. A smell of potatoes, fruit and onions hung in the air. He glanced at the door that led to her flat, and then he paused. There was a notice stuck on one of the glass panels of the door, and a sudden feeling of dread came to him

The greengrocer had gone into the shop: there was a momentary lull in trade.

George stepped quickly to the door. He read the sprawling handwriting on the notice:

FURNISHED FLAT TO LET

Two bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen, bath.

42/- weekly.

Apply: Harris & Son. Greengrocer. (Next door.)

So they had gone. They had packed up and bolted. In a way, he wasn’t surprised. It was the obvious thing to do. They were making sure that no one would get on to them; that Emily and Max and the two Greeks wouldn’t get the money from them.

He wondered how long they had been gone. It crossed his mind that they might have left a clue which would lead him to them. While he was hesitating, the greengrocer came out and glanced at him inquiringly. Without stopping to think, George blurted out, “I’m interested in this flat.”

“Flat?” the greengrocer repeated. “Yes, it’s still in the market. It’s a nice little place. ’Ave it meself if it weren’t for the stairs. Can’t manage the stairs now. Not as young as I was.”

“Can I see it?” George asked.

“I’ll get the keys.”

There was a short delay. Then the old man returned.

“It’ll be a month in advance,” he said, a hitter, injured note in his voice. “I’ve ’ad enough of fly-by-nights. If yet want the place, it’ll be a month in advance.”

“Had trouble with the previous tenants?” George asked, taking the keys.

“Done a flit,” the old man said, and spat in the road. “Might ’ave known no good would ’ave come from those two. Wot ’e did for a living I never did find out, and she… My misses said she took men up there, but seeing’s believing. If I’d caught ’er at it, I’d ’ve ’ad ’er out, but I never did. I wish I’d got rid of ’em before.”

George nodded, and turned to the door. “Don’t bother to come up,” he said. “I’ll have a look round and then talk it over with you.”

The old man grunted. “I ain’t coming up,” he assured him. “Can’t manage them stairs. You’ll find the place in a mess. The misses’ been cleaning it up, but it ain’t quite finished. The way those two lived… like pigs.”

George’s heart was thumping as he sank the key into the lock. He pushed open the front door and entered the tiny hall. The flat had obviously been cleaned, but there was still a faint smell of sandalwood in the air. It affected George. He felt alone, miserable.

He went into the sitting-room. Now that the curtains had been washed, the carpet swept and surrounds scrubbed, it looked quite a homely little place. He went through the drawers, looked into the empty waste-paper basket, and the cupboard, but he found nothing He went into Sydney’s bedroom. He found nothing there, nor did the kitchen reveal anything. He purposely left Cora’s room to the last. When he opened the door, a vein in his temple began to pound. The room had not been touched. He could tell that by the dust on the mantelpiece, the rubbish piled in the grate, and the soiled towel with a trace of lipstick that hung over the back of the chair

He entered the room and closed the door. He remained still for a few minutes, trying to sort out the various odours that hung in the stale, stuffy atmosphere. There was sandalwood and tobacco smoke, stale perspiration and dirt. There was an elusive smell which, although scarcely perceptible, excited him It was Cora’s own intimate smell—a heady, slight smell, feminine, yet fleshly.

He pulled open the drawers of the dressing-table. They were filled with empty jars, sticky tubes, cigarette cartons, and bottles. Eye-black mingled with a spilt box of face powder. A tube of toothpaste oozed over a pair of sunglasses. A bottle of witchhazel—the bottle he had given her—had leaked, filling the drawer with a layer of white grease. He had never seen such a disgusting mess.

The second drawer was empty except for a soiled handkerchief. He closed the drawer with a grimace. Then he went to the fireplace and examined the scraps of paper, newspapers, a sheet of greasy brown paper that smelt strongly of decaying fish. He was very patient, and at last he found what he was looking for: a business card of an estate agent in Maida Vale.

He stood up, his eyes bright and excited. Maida Vale! Yes, they would fit in in Maida Vale. It had either to be Russell Square, or Soho, or Maida Vale. He slipped the card into his waistcoat pocket, pleased with himself.

Then he locked the door and went downstairs.

“I’ll think it over,” he said to the greengrocer. “I’d like my wife to see it.”

His wife! He thought of Cora, and there was a hitter taste in his mouth.

From the top of the bus he watched the crowded street. Then suddenly his heart gave a lurch. At the corner of Southampton Row and High Holborn he saw Nick, the Greek. He was standing on the kerb, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, reading a newspaper. George shrank hack.

He remained uneasy and alarmed until the bus began to crawl tip Baker Street, and then his fears quieted. The Greek hadn’t seen him. It was a near thing, of course, but he hadn’t seen him. He got off the bus at Maida Vale and went immediately to the estate agent. It was a small office, and a fat little man, behind a shabby desk, was the only occupant. He seemed startled when George opened the door and entered, as if he seldom had callers. "Good afternoon,” he said, fingering a heavy silver watch chain. “Is there something?”

“I don’t know,” George said, and smiled. He was anxious for the little man to like him “I don’t want to waste your time, but I believe you can help me.” He took out the card and studied it. “It’s Mr Hibbert, isn’t it?”

The little man nodded. “You’re lucky to find me here,” he said. “Most places close on Saturday afternoon, but I thought I’d hang on a little longer…”

“I’m looking for a couple of friends,” George explained. “It’s important I should find them.” He smiled again. “You see, I owe them money.”

Mr Hibbert scratched his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me how I can help…”

“Oh yes,” George said eagerly, taking out a crushed packet of Players. “Will you smoke?”

Mr Hibbert took a cigarette rather doubtfully. “I don’t usually smoke in office hours,” he explained. “But seeing it’s Saturday…” He had a trick of not finishing his sentences.

They lit up.

“You see,” George went on, “they were looking for a place. I’ve been away for some time As a matter of fact, I’ve been in the States. I traced them to a flat near Russell Square, and now I learn they’ve moved to Maida Vale. I think they came to you for a place.”