James Chase - More Deadly Than the Male

The urge to know the truth forced George forward. He rattled his loose change in his pocket suggestively. The sound caught the porter’s attention.

“Excuse me,” George said. “Perhaps you can help me. It’s about the man who was killed here this morning. He was a friend of mine I’m trying to find out how it happened.” He took out two half crowns and let the porter see them. “Was there anyone on the platform at the time?”

“There wasn’t anyone on the platform when my mate found ’im,” the porter said, eyeing the half crowns with interest.

“You don’t know if anyone bought a ticket about the time he did? I mean someone might have seen what had happened and dodged across to the other platform. They might have done that, mightn’t they?”

The porter turned this idea over thoughtfully. “They could an’ all,” he said, nodding his head. “Never thought of it like that. Might not want to get themselves mixed up with the inquest, like.”

“That’s what I thought. I wonder who could tell me.”

“I was on duty upstairs,” the porter said. “I remember some people. S’matter of fact, I remember the bloke what did ’imself in. I saw ’im come into the hooking ’all and buy a ticket. I noticed ’im because ’e seemed a hit upset like.”

“How do you mean—upset?” George asked sharply.

“Well, I dunno,” the porter said, scowling in an attempt to concentrate. “Sort of worried, kept looking over ’is shoulder like ’e expected someone to meet ’im.”

George went cold. “You say you remember some other people?”

“That’s right. Two foreign-looking blokes came into the station and bought tickets a few minutes before your friend arrived. I particularly noticed them. Little blokes in black, wearing cloth caps.”

“Go on,” George said in a husky whisper.

“Well, your friend came in, and about a couple of minutes after—by the time ’e’d got down on the platform, I should say—a big woman arrived. She ’ad a lot of yellow ’air, and I noticed ’er because she was a bit like my old woman, fair busting out of ’er dress she was.”

“I see.” So it had been murder, after all. “And none of these people were on the platform when he was found?”

“That’s right, but of course they could lave taken the up train on the other platform. It don’t mean because they were down ’ere they saw anything.”

A sudden thought dropped into George’s mind for no apparent reason. “Was my—my friend carrying anything?” he asked.

The porter scratched his head. “Carrying anything?” he repeated. “Well, now you comes to mention it, ’e was. ’E ’ad a black leather case under ’is arm. Now, that’s funny, I don’t believe they found it. Now I come to fink of it, ’e ’ad it with ’im when ’e was getting ’is ticket. I remember that distinctly although it’d gone clean out of me lead until you mentioned it.”

“Oh, I expect the police have got it all right,” George said hurriedly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll ask them.”

He gave the porter the two half crowns and left the station. He was frightened now. For all he knew, they might have got onto him and were planning his death. He thought of his gun. There wasn’t a moment to lose. He must never be without the gun again. He must get it immediately.

Back in his room, he took the gun from under his shirts. It still smelt of gunpowder. What a careless fool he had been! That alone could have hanged him. He spent ten feverish minutes cleaning the gun, and then, without hesitation, he pulled out the magazine and filled it from the box of cartridges. He was careful not to jack a bullet into the breech, and he was careful also to make sure that the safety catch was down. He put the gun into his hip pocket and picked up his hat. All right, he thought, if they start being funny with me, they’ll find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. They weren’t going to scare George Fraser! And they’d better not get ideas about Cora either. Cora was his girl now; she was under his protection. He paused, frowning. This is extraordinary, he thought. I don’t feel frightened any more. He looked at himself in the mirror. He saw a great, bulky figure; the scarred face looked tough and hard, the eyes were cold and steady. It was the gun, of course. It had given him a sudden, quite mysterious confidence in himself. He wasn’t poor old George, the cat- loving lonely book tout any longer. He was George Fraser, millionaire gunman. He had killed a man, hadn’t he? At this moment they were hunting for him, seeking revenge. Why, he was every bit as good as the gangsters he had read and dreamed about. He was better, in fact: he wasn’t frightened; the Fr ont Page Detective had always described the gangste rs as frightened, yellow rats.

Deliberately he took out his battered cigarette case and selected a cigarette. Then he found a match in his pocket and flicked it with his nail. It flared up. That was a trick he had seen on the movies, and which he had tried again and again to imitate, but had never succeeded. He stared at the match, his face lighting up, then he lit the cigarette and tossed the match away.

All right, he thought, buttoning up his coat, I’m ready for them. They’ll be damn sorry they started anything with me. Now for Cora; and he wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from her in the future. She was going to be his girl. “I’m your gun moll,” she had said. Well, that’s just what she was going to be!

It was almost dark by the time he reached the garage mews off Kilburn High Street. He moved cautiously, aware of a feeling of excitement, and that his nerves were steady. As he stepped through the gateway and crossed the builder’s yard, he drew the Luger, holding it down by his side.

The mews was in darkness. It was an ideal place for murder, he thought. The noise of the traffic in the High Street would drown any cry for help. It might even drown the sound of a shot.

He paused outside the flat. At first it seemed in darkness, but a second glance revealed a chink of light coming round the curtain of the front room. There was no bell nor knocker, so he rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. He waited, his ears pricked, his breathing deep and steady. No one answered. He waited, and then rapped again. Perhaps she was out. It would be like her to leave the light on: typical of her indifferent carelessness. He stepped hack so that he could look up at the window. The hair on the nape of his neck bristled. The light had gone out. He stood hesitating. So she was in there. Why had she turned off the light? Why wasn’t she answering the door? He flicked his fingers impatiently. Of course; she was taking precautions. She would have been insane to have cone down and opened the door in such a lonely alley, not knowing who it was who was knocking. He returned to the door and rapped again, then he pushed open the letter-box and called.

“Cora! It’s George. Let me in.”

Almost instantly, as if she had been waiting for this assurance, she jerked the door open.

“You frightened me,” she said. “Come in quickly.”

The sound of her voice, the smell of the sandalwood and the nearness of her presence had an overpowering effect on him. He stumbled forward into the darkness, and the front door closed behind him. He heard her shoot a bolt home.

“Can you find your way up?” she asked. “I don’t want to show a light. They’re watching this place.” Her small, warm hand took his, and she drew him up a steep flight of stairs.

A moment later a light sprang up. He blinked round. The room was large and poorly furnished. A big divan bed stood in one corner. A table and armchair and a cupboard made up the rest of the furniture. A worn carpet covered only the centre of the floor.