James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

George nodded. He was glad to sit down. He took off his hat and began to twirl it round between his sweating fingers.

“Distressing business, sir,” PC White said, settling down in his chair again. “But you’ve nothing to worry about, sir. There won’t be anything unpleasant. Perhaps you’d give me a little information; just to keep our records straight.” He drew a sheet of paper towards him. “Your name, sir?”

George’s mind went blank with fright. He hadn’t thought they’d ask questions about himself. It would be madness to let them know that he had anything to do with Sydney. If they ever found Crispin…

A name jumped into his confused mind. “Thomas Grant,” he blurted out, and then, tightening his control over himself, he volunteered, “247, North Circular Road, Finchley.” He had once stayed at that address, a boardinghouse, when he first came to London.

PC White wrote for a moment, his head on one side, taking pride in his neat, copper-plate handwriting. "And what makes you think you know the deceased?”

“It’s the description,” George said, slowly recovering from his first fright. “The burn. I had a friend once who was fair and had a burn on the right of his face. I haven’t seen him for some months. He used to live at my address—it’s a guest house. Timson was his name. Fred Timson.”

PC White did a little more writing. “You haven’t seen him for some time?” he repeated.

“Well, no. Of course, I may be mistaken. But, I thought…”

“Very good of you, I’m sure. We’re grateful for any help.

The gentleman had no papers nor anything to tell us who he is.” He got slowly to his feet. “Well, sir, if you’ll come along with me.”

George suddenly felt that he couldn’t go through with this ghastly business. PC White noticed how pale he had gone.

“Now, don’t worry, sir,” he said. “We try to make this sad business as pleasant as circumstances allow. You’ll only need to take a quick look at ’is face. You won’t see anything unpleasant.”

George did not trust his legs. He sat still, gripping the arms of his chair, uneasy, frightened that he was going to be sick.

“All right, sir,” PC White said, sitting down again. “Take your time. It takes people like that sometimes. Of course, we’re used to it. I’ve been on this job now for fourteen years. You’d be surprised ’ow some people react. Some of ’em are as callous as can be; others get unnecessarily upset. It depends on their temperament, I always say. Why, only an hour ago we ’ad a young lady in to see the same gentleman wot you’re going to see. She was a cool card all right. I knew I wasn’t going to lave trouble with her, soon as I set eyes on her. Cool as a cucumber; in her trousers and sweater. Don’t ’old with that get-up for a girl myself, but, then, I suppose I’m oldfashioned. A bit too immodest, if you takes me meaning. Well, this young lady comes in, looks at the remains, and although she didn’t know ’im, I had difficulty in getting her away. She stood there staring and staring, and she made me and Joe feel a bit uncomfortable: don’t mind admitting it. But, for all that, she never turned a ’air—not one blessed ’air.”

George licked his dry lips. “Did she say who she was?” he asked in a low, tight voice.

PC White hesitated. “Well, it don’t matter to you, does it, sir?” he said. “I mean we don’t… You see, it wasn’t as if she knew him “

So Cora had already been here. If she didn’t know the dead man, then he wasn’t Sydney. George’s nausea went away.

“I’m all right now,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. “I’m sorry, but this business has upset me.”

“Don’t you worry about that, sir,” PC White assured him “Take your time. Now if you feel like it, just step out into the passage. I’ll be right with you.”

George moved slowly into the white-tiled passage. PC White took his arm and led him to the blind-covered window that George had noticed when he had been waiting to go into the office.

“All right, Joe,” White called. “Now, sir, just a quick look. It’ll be over in a few seconds.”

George braced himself as the white-coated attendant, from behind a partition, pulled up the yellowing blind. A light clicked on. Close against the window, on the other side of the partition, stood a cheap, brown-stained pine coffin on trestles. The lid was drawn back a foot from the head of the coffin. George started hack with a shudder of horror as he recognized Sydney Brant.

A comforting hand gripped his arm, but he was scarcely aware of it. He stared down at the waxen face. There was a sneering halfsmile hovering on the hitter mouth. The eyes were closed. A lock of straw-coloured hair lay across the scarred cheek. Even in death, Sydney Brant seemed to jeer at him.

Almost in a state of collapse, George turned shudderingly away.

“It’s a mistake,” he said in a strangled voice. “I don’t know this man. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

And out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blind come down in silence, slowly, almost regretfully, like the curtain of the final act of an unsuccessful play.

It was growing dusk when George left the Heath. From the mortuary he had walked along the Spaniards Road and had cut across the Heath to parliament Hill. His mind was blank during the walk, and it wasn’t until he reached the deserted handstand perched on Parliament Hill, with its magnificent view of the City of London, that he realized that he had been wandering to no purpose, with no idea where he was going. He sat down on the grass under the shade of a big oak tree and lit a cigarette.

He had sat there brooding for nearly two hours. Sydney was dead. There was no doubt about that. How he met his end was a mystery. George was sure that he hadn’t killed himself. And another thing, why was Sydney in Belsize Park Station? Where had he been going when he met his death? No one seemed to have seen him die. At that time in the morning—George had discovered that Sydney had died at ten-thirty—few if any people used the station. It was a convenient place for murder.

George shuddered. If it had been murder, then Cora and he were in danger. Would Emily and Max and the two Greeks be content with one life? He doubted it.

The obvious thing to do would be to leave London, but he had no intention of doing so, even if they were really hunting for him He would not bring himself to believe that they were. It was all too fantastic. Anyway, he was not going to leave Cora. She might need him.

He thought about her, his mind confused by fear and desire. What was she going to do without Sydney? How was she going to live? He had to see her. Pity stirred in him. He might save her from herself. Without Sydney, surely she would wish to get away from the evil life they had led? George would be only too happy to leave London if she would go with him. All this beastliness could be forgotten in a year or so.

It worried him that she had not identified her brother. What strange, sinister motive prompted her to do that? Didn’t that point to murder?

He went on thinking and brooding for a long time along these lines. Each train of thought always finished at the same place. He must see Cora. If he didn’t see her soon, it might be too late. She might again move somewhere where it would be impossible to find her.

He left the Heath, walking quickly past the Hampstead ponds, and cut through into Haverstock Hill. It was eight-thirty by the time he reached Belsize Park Station. He bought a tuppenny ticket, and only half certain what he had in mind, descended to the platform.

The platform was deserted except for a porter, who glanced at him without interest.